*Quickie from the author

            I can't help but notice that my reviewers are yelling at me for not producing faster– and to tell you the truth, while I find it hilarious and quite flattering, I'm also a little bit aggravated. What you guys have to try to understand is that I intentionally halted this fic at a relatively "down" moment – free of terrible cliffhangers – because I knew I would be starting college. The whole experience has been nothing short of insane, and while I apologize for having been absent for so long, I can assure you that nothing kills an author's drive to write like a, "Well, it's about friggin time" response to a chapter.

Please keep in mind that I'm not angry with any of you, and I'm grateful for the response – I swear. Just know that I'm writing as fast as my little fingers can go, and I refuse to post anything until I'm satisfied with it – also, chapters end where it feels right to end them, so that's my shortness excuse ~.^ (geesh, guys, that last chapter was longer than some of the one-shots I've posted.)

Okay, so much for my pseudo rants. Enjoy the rest of the chapter.

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He had forgotten the feeling of the fortress, even in such a short time.

But now, with it staring at him with its snarling portcullis and empty-eyed windows…he could remember. And he could remember how it had been during its peak, alive with the sounds of a small army mobilizing for war. There were never many – a few trained mercs, a few sell-out humans willing to turn against their race in order to be on the winning side. And among them, walking with the cool, confident strides of a born conqueror, had been his sire.

Through those eyes, he saw so much that would otherwise have been lost to the misty words "before you were born." He saw Cymbal, enjoying the militant buzz with the air of one born to it, wine-colored eyes reflecting the light from the makeshift furnaces that were forging weapons. He saw the two massive warriors, almost twins in appearance – Piano and Drum. Lifting, carrying…..always present on the outskirts, though rarely in the center compound.

The buzz, he recalled through the ears of his sire, had been intoxicating. The pulse of weapons – old fashioned swords and spears, for chi wielders had no use for guns – being wrought from silver….for silver, as a conductor, would channel chi. User's strength to the blade. Blade's strength to the user. All set to the all-encompassing thrum of the forges, the baritone voices of men and low contraltos of the rare female joiner…  the dance of a major movement upcoming, to which everyone unconsciously swayed….

Or almost everyone.

Only one being seemed untouched by the strange music of war. He was tall and imperially slim….demon. The mercenaries tended to give all of them a wide berth, occasionally looking at them with the sort of amazed fascination one would devote to a crouched viper.

They looked at this one only from the corners of their eyes.

Through his father's eyes, Piccolo saw his most reclusive brother leaning coolly against the rough-hewn stone of the wall…emptily taking on the proceedings with an expression that was utterly unreadable. Even his eyes failed to glint with the battle lust that fairly glowed from the onlookers, infecting everything and everyone else in the compound – the only thing they gleamed with was twin pinpricks of red, reflection from the forges. Only his thinly pressed lips gave a sign as to his thoughts on the proceedings, which may have been disgust, scorn, or thin-lipped amusement.

And Daimao wondered, not for the first time, what was wrong with this one…

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All that had disappeared before Piccolo's birth.

The mercenaries had gone home. The fires no longer burned. Here and there, battlements crumbled, sullen and silent, rather like the oppressive sense of destiny that seemed to hover in his own mind most of the time.

This dead place held no answers now…perhaps it never had.

His information, if he was to get any, would have to come from the being who had, throughout both of Piccolo's lives, hovered on the sidelines: a sarcastic gargoyle, silent and distant and invariably objective.

Now the trick was going to be getting in to see him.

Hoping fervently that his other three brothers were out doing something else, Piccolo drew the stark white of his cape closed before him. He began walking down the hill, turban drawn low, knowing that no one would be set on watch – but with the family's sharp eyes, someone might spot him anyway. With luck, they would mistake him for a trick of the eyes…the sunlight on snow.

As he drew closer, he tried not to breathe too heavily – to keep the puffs of fog on his breath to a minimum. It took so very long to reach the castle, especially to one used to flying, that he allowed a break of discipline once he reached the wall – and aggravated sigh.

The next question – would it be safe to fly up to that window? He looked up, glittering eyes measuring the distance. Not far. Perhaps three seconds. But would that use of chi attract someone's attention? Cymbal rarely checked…he preferred to rely on his ears and his eyes….but that did not mean he would not notice a blatant use of chi this close.

With a soft snarl, he decided to risk it – and fight his way out if it came to that. He bent his knees and launched himself, flying through the open window of the tower to which Tambourine had laid claim. It was a claim that no one, even in the old days, seemed to begrudge him. Far better to have those too-penetrating eyes locked up somewhere, behind walls as cold as they were.

He could tell in the instant of that his older brother was brooding – the heavy silence in the room was like a fog, hanging stagnant in the air. There were no lights in the tower, no carpets, no tapestries – in other words, nothing of comfort. Only an ancient, stone chair, a stone table that looked as though it could once have been used in some elaborate, sacrificial ritual, and the window that he had come from. No, wait, there was one more thing….stretched out on the table was a chessboard. The pieces – not white and black, but gray and darker gray – lay arranged in the starting positions.

Tambourine lounged said chair, a massive tome lying open on his lap, his back to Piccolo. For the longest time, he did not move. Then, without starting, looking up, or even raising his voice, he said, "Piccolo. What a pleasant surprise."

His flat tone indicated neither pleasure nor surprise, but Piccolo had not expected either. "I've something to tell you," he stated coolly.

Tambourine turned a page; the crinkle of old parchment was like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. "If it's that you aren't dead, then I'd already noticed."

Piccolo snorted. "When?" In spite of himself, he felt a prickle of anger budding in his chest.

There was another long delay before Tambourine answered; Piccolo had the distinct impression that he was finishing the page. Which, of course, was far more important than the present conversation. "Oh…a while ago," he answered absently. Piccolo could not see his face, but he noticed that the muscles on his brother's neck didn't even tighten – he was still perfectly at ease. "No one else knows. Not here, at least." The dry amusement in that last sentence was impossible to miss.

Piccolo had no words to describe the tangle of emotions that he'd felt then. He knew! And he had done nothing. Had left him in the presence of an enemy, had…

 "Well, what would you have done?" Tambourine asked rhetorically. And he turned another page. "I told you – you and that great idiot downstairs – that the tournament was a preposterously stupid idea."

He shivered, profoundly glad that his brother couldn't see it. Tambourine was right, of course – he had warned them. But how had he known what he was thinking?

"If you've something to proclaim besides the fact that you're alive, I wish you would. I have…other matters to attend to."  

            Piccolo narrowed his eyes. He had hated all of his brothers at some point in his life, but rarely so strongly as he did at that moment. "Are you going to listen, or not?"

His brother executed a graceful, one-shouldered shrug. "When have I ever not listened to you, brother-mine? Now stop glaring so – it disturbs my concentration." With that, the older demon stood up, turning his chair to face the table. "I tell you what…you can tell me over a game…that should relax both of us."

The youngest of Daimao's sons felt his skin crawl and told himself irritably that it was just the chill of the castle in the oncoming night.  He eased into the opposite chair, staring down at the pieces with the usual irritation. He'd often played this game with his brother, and was not looking forward to losing for the sixteenth straight time. "I ran into someone this afternoon…"

            "And you're absolutely certain that he had a tail," Tambourine mused, wiping out yet another pawn with a knight. Twilight had long since fallen in the mountains, casting the room into eerie half-shadows that clung like cobwebs to his slight form.

Piccolo growled softly, more to convince himself that he wasn't the least bit intimidated than to express aggravation. "You've asked me twice. I'm sure"

Tambourine curled long fingers around his angular face in thought. "Another planet – that's not altogether impossible."

"What do you think?" Piccolo asked, much as he hated to. He had always preferred to make his own decisions…but he had no idea what to make of the afternoon's events, and his older brother had not been wrong yet. And, a bit morbidly, he edged a rook forward.

The rook disappeared to a rather nonchalant slash with a bishop. "I think that if you stick your neck out too far, it's likely to be severed, brother mine."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked, falling back in a futile attempt to protect his king.

"Exactly what I intend it to, Piccolo."

"Oh, well thank you. That's so helpful and all…" the younger demon growled, watching in something close to disbelief as his brother cut easily through his line…again.

"Did you ask me for help, brother?" Down goes the queen. "Or for advice?"

In lieu of admitting that Tambourine had a point, he instead demanded, "Okay, tell me this, then. WHY do you insist on this chess thing when you always win?"

"Because the look on your face is always so utterly priceless….much as though you'd just eaten a lemon." And down goes the king.

Refraining from comment, Piccolo slumped back in his chair. "Okay, great, you win. Do you have any parting words?"

Tambourine uncoiled from the chair. His voice, when he spoke, was like wind over snow. "I think you should stay out of this, brother…at least for now. If he looks as much like Son Goku as you say he does, then it's quite an odd coincidence."

Piccolo crossed his arms, glaring into his brother's empty eyes. "I thought that you didn't believe in coincidences."

           "I don't. All the more reason to let the matter lie."

For a surreal moment, staring into those dead pools, Piccolo felt as though he were a child again, listening to his quietest brother's lessons – but that moment passed quickly. Piccolo nodded. "I suppose you're right – for now. But if you breathe one word of this, particularly to Cymbal…"

Tambourine smirked, and his lightless eyes became slightly arched with dry amusement. "Really. You know me better than that."

Indeed he did. Piccolo couldn't think of a time when Tambourine had shared any information with Cymbal voluntarily. He nodded once and, deciding that his visit was over, he turned and leaped from the window.

Tambourine watched him go, his smirk growing marginally wider. He closed his eyes, focusing inward on the vision he had seen that morning – red and purple blood mixing together on golden blades of uncut barley. He had no doubt that, because he had told Piccolo to do otherwise, his younger brother would find a way to get mixed up in current events. Piccolo had always been strange that way. Predictably strange, but strange nonetheless: he never took advice. Not even when he fully intended to.

Oh well. Predictability could be used, so he wasn't complaining.

He settled again into his chair, stretched once like a cat, and prepared to continue his reading. However, when he picked up the book…he noticed that there was something inside of him that had not been there earlier in the afternoon. It was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach…very strange, almost a tugging. He wondered what could have caused it, deciding finally that he needed a drink.

            Piccolo realized after a few moments of flight that he was headed almost directly toward the dwelling-place of Son Goku. He stopped in mid-air as though he had skidded into a brick wall, his eyes wide. What had he been thinking? He should have known better than to fly about randomly…it was foolish, dangerous even. Particularly with tall, hairy, and bloodthirsty lurking around somewhere…

Pointedly, he changed direction, but noticed after a few seconds of flight that he was drifting back in the direction of Son. Snarling at his own idiocy, he pulled up again, hovering in angry contemplation. He was still distracted by that fight, he decided. That was his problem. He certainly hadn't been planning on asking Son what he knew about the situation. That would have been ludicrous.

And yet…it would provide a good opportunity to check up on the man, feel the increase in his power up close. And he'd be able to get a better look at the child…see what sort of danger he would pose. And…

Piccolo slapped himself sharply on the forehead. Gods, what was he thinking? Some sort of psychopath was flying about causing who-knew-what-sort of havoc, and he had actually been considering going off to have a little chat with his mortal enemy? "It's official," he muttered under his breath. "I've lost my mind."

But if Son knew something that he didn't…

            He cursed under his breath once, softly. Pressing his back against the rough, unyielding trunk of a pine tree, he stared into the cleared expanse that marked the Son house as he would at an unfamiliar fortress. The house itself was small, domed like an igloo. The light from the windows was yellow-gold, seeping into the night like the sun through clouds. It was strangely warm and inviting, and Piccolo unconsciously shrank from it.

The child was in the yard, running around sporadically like a moth around a lantern. It took Piccolo a few moments to decide what the boy was doing, for he had certainly never done anything of the sort. Son Gohan was chasing fireflies.

Piccolo couldn't help but wonder why the boy found those insects so fascinating. Gohan wasn't even doing anything with them once he caught them. He would simply cup them in his hands, the light leaking from between his fingers like a budding chi blast…and then he would let them go and chase them again.

How utterly pointless. Piccolo shook his head. What had he expected, after all? Humans were insane.

Glancing at the yard once more, he decided that this was no trap...and he was tired of waiting. He took a deep breath to steel himself against who-knew-what, and strode into the clearing as if he were a king entering his throne room. 

He was certain that he had made no noise, yet the boy looked at him anyway. For a moment, Son Gohan's eyes grew terribly wide…but then recognition dawned, and he grinned. "Piccolo-san!" he chirped, obviously excited, and ran toward the demon. The boy stopped perhaps an arm's length from him, beaming up at him earnestly. "Hello, sir! What're you doing here?"

Piccolo blinked once, keeping his face studiously blank. He had certainly not expected such an enthusiastic welcome and, on some level that he didn't quite understand, it was making him uncomfortable. He didn't know whether to react with anger or indifference, so he finally decided to ignore the situation entirely. He spoke softly, a slight rumble to his words, "Is your father home?"

The boy's expression fell instantly. "Uh-oh. You two aren't gonna fight, are you?"

Smart kid. Piccolo smirked in spite of himself. "More than likely."

Gohan drooped visibly. "Oh. I thought maybe you came to see me."

The demon snorted. "What on Kami's green earth would prompt me to do that?"

The boy looked as though he was about to answer, but at that point the door opened. Son Goku strolled out, stretching, utterly relaxed. "Gohan, it's time to…" he trailed off, his tail ramrod straight, when he saw whom his son was with. His eyes darkened dangerously, and the very, very tip of his tail began to twitch.

Piccolo felt one corner of his mouth lifting, and he made no move to stop it. Now this could be fun. "Is something…bothering you, Son?" he asked with exaggerated casualness, surreptitiously moving a step closer to the boy.

Son shifted as well, obviously agitated. "What are you doing here?"

The demon shrugged, crossing his arms. "I just have a little something to discuss with you."

The man nodded, his eyes darting from Piccolo to his son, who was staring back at him confusedly. "What's wrong, daddy?" the boy asked innocently, his head tilting like a bird's.

Son swallowed. "Nothing, Gohan," he said in a reassuring tone of voice that, to his credit, shook only once. "Just…come inside, alright?"

Gohan grinned. "Okay…but can Piccolo-san come too if he promises not to blow anything up?" He walked over to the demon, wrapping an arm around one of his legs. Piccolo somehow managed not to flinch – it was well worth the effort when he saw the look of near panic cross Son's face, saw the man fighting to hold his position.

Piccolo kept his eyes firmly on Goku when he next spoke. "That's alright, kid – your father and I need to talk out here for a while. You go ahead."

Though the boy looked vaguely disappointed, he released his hold on Piccolo's leg and walked toward the house. Neither Piccolo nor Son Goku moved until he had shut the door behind him – and then, Son crossed the clearing with brisk, purposeful, angry strides. "You leave him out of this," he virtually hissed.

Piccolo smirked, more amused than he had been in a long while. "Really, Son – didn't it ever occur to you that your enemies might just figure out that they can use that child of yours against you? You'd think that once would have taught you…"

Son's eyes narrowed, and his tail wound itself around his waist. "If it's a fight you want…"

The demon couldn't help it – he laughed. "Family life agrees with you – you've almost grown a backbone."

"I'm going to ask you one more time, Piccolo. Why did you come here?"

Piccolo tilted his head a bit, eyeing his rival critically. He hadn't seen Son this angry in a long while and, though he was spoiling for a fight, now wasn't the time. Maybe afterward… "I saw someone this afternoon who reminded me of you. He said he came from another planet…and he was looking for someone by the name of Kakkarotto."

Son blinked, confusion replacing the anger that had previously dominated his expression. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Piccolo felt his own expression turn into one of wry puzzlement. "He had a tail – like yours. He had hair that looked more like a rat's nest than anything else – like yours, but longer."

He could tell by the shock that was written plainly in Son's posture that he was more surprised by the news than Piccolo had been – the man's jaw dropped so low that it was a wonder it didn't hit the ground. The demon shook his head. "I suppose that answers my question," he muttered. Then, he turned sharply, heading back into the woods.

"Wait!" Son was in front of him, blocking his way. "What's so important about this guy that you'd come to talk to me about him?"

Piccolo crossed his arms, pondering. Did he have anything to lose by telling the man? Probably not. Anything to gain? He didn't know. Oh well. "He came upon me while I was sparring, told me that he sensed my energy and thought that I was Kakkarotto. He picked a fight with me when he found that I wasn't…" the demon rolled his eyes at Son's skeptical expression, "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. He wanted to fight."

"How was he?"

Piccolo narrowed his eyes. "Good. Real good. Stronger than you." He held up one forearm, watched Son's eyes widen when he saw the bruises there, obviously from a simple block. "We never got to finish – he started talking to someone through a little lens that he wore over one eye, then he just took off."

Son nodded once. "I'll keep an eye out, but I really don't know if…" He looked over his shoulder suddenly, his eyes wide and staring. Piccolo was about to ask what was wrong when he felt it too – the same dark, bloodstained, insanely potent aura that he'd run across earlier that day.

"That's him, isn't it," Son murmured unnecessarily. Piccolo didn't bother to confirm. The man shook himself out of his stupor, rounded on Piccolo so suddenly that the demon had no time to respond.

"He must have followed you," Goku growled, his face thunderous. "If you've led him here…"

Piccolo shook his head. "Impossible. He wasn't behind me earlier – I do have enough presence of mind to check local chi signatures occasionally, unlike some people I could mention…"

Son had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry, Piccolo… 'guess I wasn't thinking.."

"Not an unusual state for you," Piccolo replied evenly, looking up into the sky. Peripherally, he could see Son biting back a retort by biting his lip. He hoped that the man would draw blood.

Strangely enough, it didn't occur to Piccolo that he should have left until the massive stranger appeared in the sky above them.

The man landed calmly, as if it was an everyday occurrence for him to visit this exact yard. He even yawned once as though to make his point. Then, his eyes found Son Goku, and even Piccolo flinched inwardly at the look of triumph that pooled in them. "Kakkarotto," he stated, a bit of mockery fluttering around in his voice like a butterfly trapped in a jar. "My, how you've grown."