Night had always come to the fortress quickly. The peaks of the great mountains blocked the sun's rays long before evening would fall in happier regions, casting the dark, snow-blasted walls into their shadows.

Piccolo had taken as his position a spot on one of the towers…where he crouched like some form of gargoyle, with the pure white of his cape cascading over one shoulder, looking blue-gray in the darkening eve. It whipped and twisted like a living thing in the constant wind, as if to express its wearer's agitation.

He had not expected the silence to last so long.

Admittedly, he hadn't been sure what to expect – several massive chi blasts might have been appropriate. At the very least, someone should have come flying through a wall by now. But no, there had been nothing.

Which was making Piccolo very, very nervous.

He had warned Son Goku, before watching him go down into the forbidding corridors of that fortress. "Don't talk to him, Son," he'd growled, glaring down into the man's eyes with every ounce of stern intimidation that he could muster. "You go in there, you take your kid back, and you get out. If he says anything, you ignore it. Clear?" He STILL wasn't sure that he'd made any sort of impression on the man's rather impenetrable good nature…but at least he'd tried.

The more he thought about it, the worse an idea it seemed to have allowed the man to go down there on his own. Physically…yes, the Saiyan was a little bit stronger than he was. Maybe even a lot stronger than he was. But when it came to things like…oh, knowing when he was being conned, for example…not for the first time, Piccolo wondered how the man had even SURVIVED before he'd been around to kick his ass into survival mode.

Piccolo pinched the bridge of his nose. He knew that he really hadn't had a choice. Frankly, he probably couldn't have prevented Goku from going down there if he'd tried…at least, not without making enough noise to alert anyone within five hundred miles of the place to their presence. Of course, he could always have gone with him – but if Cymbal had come back to find his little brother and his worst enemy and the spawn of said enemy all together and friendly in what he considered his stronghold, there would be no avoiding a very, very nasty confrontation.

And in a small, suspicious corner of his mind, Piccolo wondered if that hadn't been exactly what Tambourine had been planning all along.

Which was why he was waiting out on the roof. Watching for certain death from either above or below. And, very slowly, going out of his mind.

"Sometime this year would be good, monkey," he growled, drumming his talons irritably on the stone.

As if on cue, a little flare of orange popped out a window, reminding Piccolo very briefly of a butterfly. A moment later, the little flare of orange had grown, and landed beside him in the form of Son Goku.

Piccolo did not stand immediately – he merely turned his head to look at the man. He was battered. That gaudy orange gi had been ripped from one shoulder to reveal the darker blue underneath; the brightness of the fabric had been dulled by dust, ash, and blood to the color of gouged clay. His skin was pale from the cold, where the cold hit it – and where it was not purpling with bruises on their way to forming. His normally-cheerful eyes were a bit dull with exhaustion, maybe even a little dazed…he reminded Piccolo of a deer he had once seen with the sun-sickness, wandering in an almost blind search for water.

But, curled safely in one arm was the sleeping figure of his son.

Piccolo raised an eyeridge as he stood, ignoring a little twinge of pain in his side as he did so. Opening a conversation, hinting…these were things that he had never learned, so he decided simply to cut to the point. "What happened," he asked, tone gruff, eyes narrowed.

"Nothing," Son answered a little dazedly.

"Nothing?" Piccolo returned, crossing his arms.

"Yeah. He just gave him to me, that's all."

"He gave him to you," Piccolo repeated incredulously.

"Yeah."

"And you didn't talk to him?"

At that, Goku looked decidedly evasive – which Piccolo had learned to interpret as an affirmative. With a frustrated growl, he said, "Son, for the love of…I TOLD you not to say a word to him! That meant NOTHING! No sound! What about that could POSSIBLY have been so…"

Looking more and more uncomfortable, Goku answered, "Aw, Pic, he didn't seem so bad. A little weird, yeah, but not so bad."

"Not so bad!" Piccolo hissed, breaking with his usual stoic stance long enough to sweep an arm irritably in the direction of that fortress. "Son, he's the devil!"

"Um, I…thought that was you," the Saiyan interjected a bit sheepishly.

Piccolo could think of no response to that but to glare – which he did with a bit more gusto than usual.

His mood was not noticeably helped when Goku grinned at him placatingly. "You know what your problem is, Pic?" he asked after a moment.

Piccolo ground his teeth together. "You want me to give you his name and address?"

"Your problem is that you just don't know how to relax. I mean, I don't know if you've noticed, but every little thing sets you off. Maybe you should look into…I dunno, meditation or…"

As the Saiyan droned on, Piccolo wondered rather dismally if the two of them were ever actually having the same conversation at the same time. After a moment's deliberation, he just sighed heavily, bringing up two fingers to rub his temple. Talking with Son Goku seemed more and more often to leave him with a headache. "Let's just leave already," he interrupted tiredly.

He was rather alarmed to see Son's face light up – albeit tiredly – at that statement. "What?" he growled a little apprehensively.

"So you're coming with us?"

Piccolo just looked at him blankly. "I didn't say…"

"That's great, Pic. I mean – really."

"But I'm not…"

Grinning wider, Goku continued, "I was gonna ask you to, you know – since it's not like you can come back here ever again, and…"

"But…"

"…love living with people, I promise – once you get used to it, anyway, which…"

Feeling oddly defeated, Piccolo dropped the hand that he'd raised in protest, and just let his shoulders slump for a moment. "I give up," he growled. "Let's just GO before my brothers decide to show up and put you out of your trusting misery."

And that statement…triggered a very, very uncomfortable thought.

Cymbal should have been back hours ago.

Piccolo should have been gloating.

Every instinct that Cymbal possessed had screamed such at him. The younger demon had finally either seen directly or seen indirectly to the death of Son Goku…or at least, he had if his account was to be believed. He'd also seemingly single-handedly defeated the radical power that had been Son Goku's brother. All in the span of a single afternoon.

Wounded or not, the rightful heir of the demon king should have wanted to rub his elder brother's face in his victories very, very thoroughly.

Instead, he'd been…evasive. He'd never actually confirmed what had happened, never said for certain that Son Goku was dead. In fact, everything about him had projected, in a none-to-subtle way…that he was wanting very much for his elder brother to just go away. Quickly.

Cymbal was no psychiatrist…but he'd been around Tambourine long enough to find such behavior very suspicious indeed. "Keeping secrets, little brother?" he murmured to himself, even as the fight-winds flew by him, forcing his antennae back, and causing his dark gi to ripple around him like water before a gale. "We'll fix that."

"We'll fix it permanently."

He could see his destination approaching in the distance… and in spite of the potential danger of the situation, he couldn't fight back a rising sense of exhilaration – the wonderful patter of "rush" flooding his senses.

It was time to see whether or not Son Goku was at home.