Piccolo tilted his head back as he watched his eldest brother come in to land. Impatient as always, the other didn't even slow his descent for an easier landing, choosing instead to hit the ground at a run. Three strides had him slowed enough to stop...and a mere arm's length from his somewhat battered brother.

"You're late," Piccolo growled after a moment.

"And you're insolent," Cymbal growled in return, glaring down his nose at him as if he were some sort of insect.

A long silence stretched after that...which, for Piccolo, was possibly the worst thing that could have happened. He was still half-choked on adrenaline from the earlier fight; that, combined with the certain possibility of death here, was making his head buzz.

The namekseijin would have welcomed a battle then and there if it meant that he wouldn't have to stand another minute, holding his breath.

He felt like screaming when, after several seconds...Cymbal broke their staring standoff, turning his head to look at the body sprawled out on the ground...all that would remain of Raditsu. "You killed him."

"Yeah."

"And he killed Son Goku?"

Piccolo snorted. "You don't see him, do you?"

For a moment, he thought that his brother actually WAS about to attack him. Cymbal's head snapped around so that he could glare at him anew...his talons flexing and unflexing in a ritual that Piccolo knew well. It usually came right before someone started bleeding. "If he's dead," the older demon began, one corner of his lips curling up in a decidedly unfriendly way, "then I have absolutely no use for you anymore, boy. Remember that."

Piccolo could feel a snarl twisting his face – he did nothing to stop it. "All I need to remember is that you left me for dead once...brother."

At that, Cymbal actually laughed...an insult that set Piccolo's teeth on edge. "If you'd been me – you tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing."

"Look," Piccolo hissed after a moment – in which he realized that he indeed WOULD have left his brother, had circumstances been reversed – "I don't have time to stand around and argue with the likes of you. If you're going to fight me, do it."

"Little brother – you're not worth my time," Cymbal answered with a casual, two-fingered wave. "You come find me...when you're ready. I have things to do."

The force of Cymbal's takeoff was enough to blow Piccolo's antennae back, though he wouldn't give the other the satisfaction of turning his head away. He merely slitted his eyes against the blowing dust, watching the crimson spark of his brother's chi vanish into the clouds.

Piccolo would have no way of knowing that his brother had, in that moment, been almost afraid of him. He only knew that it was one more grain of sand in the hourglass that marked how long the two of them would be able to live in the same space, during the same time.

It'll happen soon, he thought, rolling the taste of blood around on his tongue, and wondering where it had come from. To tell the truth – he wasn't looking forward to it. The worst kind of fight that a man can have is against an opponent that he knows very well...and who knows him just as well if not better. There are no surprises. Just a very great deal of pain.

At the sudden, explosive sound of a curse, Piccolo very nearly jumped out of his skin. It took him more than a few moments to realize that the voice had been Son Goku's...because he had heard the man actually USE profanity perhaps once or twice in his life.

Which meant that whatever was wrong was probably VERY wrong. "What is it NOW?" he snapped over one shoulder. And when there was no response, he turned on his heel and limped...very heavily...over to the sound of his partner of sorts.

Son had apparently come to at some point during the discussion, because he was certainly conscious and, to Piccolo's eyes, as coherent as the man could ever be said to be in the first place. He was also, the onetime demon noted wryly, starting to positively GLOW with anger. Son Goku wasn't saying a word. He was merely standing, bolt-still and quivering, eyes fixed in a stone-melting glare on the invader's space pod. It was at once very amusing and very...disquieting to see his onetime rival in such a state. For once, Son Goku looked positively murderous. Dangerous.

Piccolo stood silently behind him – perhaps an arm's length behind, so that the Saiyajin's shadow fell across the fronts of his shoes. The sun was in his left eye, leaving burning highlights of flame on his cheeks, over his shoulders, down his arm, matching the blood-spatters on Son Goku's arms, matching the deep purple of his uniform to the sunset orange of the Kamesennin gi. It gave him an eerie, unsettled feeling, as if he were missing some message that the gods were trying to give him...

And then he saw the pod door, wide open – marked with a small scrap of midnight-hued cloth, caught on the door's latch, waving like a snake's tail. Wordlessly, he reached out and took that single, black slip of cloth in his hand. It was warm from the sun, warm and velvety, and yet inexplicably light...

"Ah, hell," he muttered.

"I'm going after him," Son Goku growled. When Piccolo glanced at him to see whether he could possibly be serious, he noticed that the man's tail was bristling as if he'd just stuck his finger in an electrical outlet. Even gentle-tempered, softhearted fools had a limit to how much frustration they could absorb at one time, he decided wryly.

"Son, for the gods' sakes, can't you just have another kid?" he asked.

Son Goku shot him a dire look. "I hope that wasn't supposed to be funny."

"I was serious," the namekseijin growled in return.

Goku was quiet at that for a long moment. "You know, Piccolo, there are times when I think you're almost getting there, and then..." but he trailed off, and he shook his head. And began walking away, toward a more open space.

Piccolo felt his nose wrinkle slightly. "And just where do you think you're going?"

"I already told you – I'm going after him. You can come if you want."

Piccolo picked his jaw back up, staring after the other incredulously...from the ragged clothing...to the limp...to the blood still pouring from a cut on his cheek. "Like that? You won't even get through the damned door, you idiot. Not to mention that everyone in the whole stronghold'd give his left arm to kill you..."

"I don't care, Pic," Goku responded, moving toward a more level spot – for an easier takeoff. He didn't even pause.

"Five minutes," Piccolo snapped. "I give you five minutes before you get yourself killed."

"You...could come too, Pic."

It was sad, the onetime demon reflected, that the other's completely inane comments didn't even surprise him anymore. "On a cold day in..."

"...Hell," Piccolo growled under his breath, crouching on top of one of the many great battlements of his family's stronghold. He could feel already-injured muscles tightening in the cold like soaked leather, and found himself hoping that he was only imagining the ache in his joints.

How did I let myself get conned into this, he wondered sourly, heaving a frustrated sigh, and watching the mist spill from between his clenched fangs like smoke from a long cigar...drifting away on the frigid air. Gods, he didn't even remember agreeing to it...

That freak of a monkey's doing something to me, he decided after a moment or two...turning his head as a particularly strong gust of wind blew a fistful of diamond-hard snow into his face. I don't know what it is. But as soon as this is over, I'm getting as far away from him as I possibly can...at least, until I remember what...what I think.

But not right then, Right then...he had to watch the skies...and make sure that neither Cymbal nor Piano nor Drum happened on to that tower before Son Goku had had a chance to seek out his child there.

For some reason...Piccolo was very glad that it was the Saiyajin, not he, who would be climbing down to the bottom of that tower. The bottom part of that thing was unearthly cold...and close...and he had a sick feeling somewhere between his heart and his gut whenever he went near it.

Not that he was afraid. Just...leery. Wary. And repulsed in a way that he could never have hoped to explain. Especially not to an idiot like Son Goku.

"You'd better be back out here in fifteen minutes," he snarled at the stone beneath him. "I'm not waiting any longer than that."

And, drawing his cloak around him, he settled in for a very long wait.