In the days before Gohan had been born…before even Piccolo had been born…Daimaou no Cymbal had not been noted for his stealth. He had on more occasions than he could count come into cities or villages in a blaze of chi energy, leaving little but smoking remains in his wake. In those days, they had been conquering the world…and trying to flush out those few small, irritating, and persistent fighters who still managed to dodge them. It had been different then. The objectives had been different. The methods were different. He missed those days.

Cymbal could land quietly when he wanted to. When his father – his lord – had been alive and just beginning to reassert his strength on the world, the younger demon had often flown reconnaissance for him. He had learned, through a series of training exercises and a healthy dose of trial and error, how best to move, how best to keep to the ground. He had learned how to be silent, unnoticed. It was knowledge that he was not pleased to revisit, but he remembered it, and that was what was important.

He chose as his landing site a copse of pines well downwind of Son Goku's home, forming a straight line with his body as he fell through the grasping branches, landing in a low crouch on the soft needles with barely a rustle, one leg extended, one beneath him. He did not move immediately, but closed his eyes, tuning out the smell of pine and the rough, earthy smell of the dirt, catching instead the familiar odors of ozone and burnt wood.

Something's happened here, he thought, absently running the tip of his tongue over his fangs. He smirked. That's interesting. With one hand, he removed the crimson sash that he wore, dropping it to the ground and brushing gold-colored needles over it with the back of his hand. It would have been too noticeable. Beside it, he left his tunic with the red insignia marking him as Daimaou, as a demon. In a dense forest such as this, his skin and the near-black gi pants he wore would serve as far better camouflage.

He moved down the slope with uncharacteristic patience. He did not dart from cover to cover; his method was more a slow, even creep – so that even one looking right at him might not see him. It seemed an eternity was required to move from those pines to the smaller, denser Japanese maples and low bushes – and finally, to within view of Son Goku's home.

It was a home that Cymbal had watched him build in the days leading up to that tournament – days immediately following the death of his lord. He had known better to attack the monkey-tailed warrior there, at first…not out of some sense of honor, but rather because a warrior fighting on home territory that he knows well, fighting to defend what is most important to him, is far more dangerous than a warrior met on a simple field of battle.

Never make your opponent more dangerous than he is, his lord had said. Thus, not even after his death, when rage and grief had made Cymbal more reckless than even he had been before, was he foolish enough to throw his life away on THAT sort of battle.

Obviously, not everyone followed this line of logic. He couldn't help a pleased, low growl – almost a purr – at the sight of the great gouges in the ground left by some battle. The field that lay in front of the house was ripe with trenches, the rich brown of the earth poking through like flesh exposed through a cut. In swaths, grass had been burned black by chi…and some fallen trees, still dripping sap, lay in clear testament to flung bodies. There was even, faint underneath the other smells, the heady scent of copper and salt, still fresh.

Blood yes, but I don't smell death, he thought. He closed his eyes, held his breath…and heard it, the subdued sound of voices. One male, one female – the other side of the house. Two or three silent running strides put him AT the house, and one controlled leap put him on top of it, crouching low on the domed surface, pressing his palms flat against the surface to hold on. All soundless. Clean. He liked clean. To make too much noise now would be an insult to himself and to his training. He couldn't have that.

"Chichi, I'm sure he'll be back soon," said a voice – a high, trembling tenor that immediately made Cymbal want to stomp on the speaker.

The woman – Chichi? – did not answer. She was far too busy crying. He slunk a bit farther along the dome, careful…until he could see.

The woman was dark-haired, and would have looked sturdy had she not been sitting on the stoop, huddled, and apparently crying her eyes out. "My poor Gohan," she seemed to be saying over and over. "Goku…" One arm, Cymbal noticed, was in a sling. Must be the monkey's woman, he thought. For a moment, he contemplated blasting her just to spite his longtime enemy…but no, not yet, not until he was dead. He turned his eyes to her companion.

The man….thing….he recognized more readily. He felt his lips curl up further, revealing a white line of fangs. Well, whattaya know…the little shit isn't dead yet. Trust it to Tambourine to fuck something like that up…

Right at that moment, the monk looked as if he WISHED very much to be dead. He shifted and fidgeted uncomfortably, his face flushed with the awkwardness of what he was trying to do. "Goku knows what he's doing, Chichi…he and Gohan'll be fine, you'll see."

"How can you say that," she asked, wiping a hand furiously across her eyes as if to clear away tears by means of sheer violence. "You saw him leave with that…monster…and that THING that took my Gohan, I…" she became incoherent again, sobbing all the harder.

Cymbal rocked back a bit…digesting this. Slowly, an idea was beginning to form…now the question was…which one. He looked between them. The monk was very small, probably easily subdued, but he couldn't imagine that the annoying little baldie could be as valuable to the monkey as his wife. Then again, being around a woman in hysterics for even as long as this was beginning to annoy him. He certainly didn't want to be dragging her all over creation kicking and screaming and sobbing like some sort of dying cow. It'd be downright unbefitting a warrior.

The runt it is, he thought, a rare grin sliding across his features. It had been entirely too long since he'd actually gotten to HIT anything.

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Krillen would not have been able to say how it happened. One moment, he was doing his level best to comfort his best friend's wife…although admittedly, his best was fairly pathetic…and then the next, he was staring up…and up…and up at a very familiar face, one that he'd occasionally had nightmares about. His eyes went wide as he took in the familiar, upswept scars on the jaw, a pair of them, perfectly parallel and stopping just below the crimson eyes. The distinctive fangs that were showing more than he would have liked… "Cymbal," he said, entirely unnecessarily, cringing internally when he heard himself stutter.

"Yo," Cymbal said, rough tone alarmingly cheerful. Then he punted him like a football.

Krillen felt his body assume a C-shape at the initial blow. He tried desperately to uncurl himself and gain control of his trajectory – he almost had it before he slammed into an oak tree. The air left his body in a woosh as his back curled around it. He slid down, shaking his head, wondering how he could possibly be feeling woozy already…Damn it! He only hit me once…And then, of course, there was the gut-wrenching thought: Oh no, Chichi! What if he's after her?

The small human scrambled to his feet, hoping to get back to the yard before anything could happen, but he didn't even have an opportunity to get a chi blast ready before he was hit again. The demon just…appeared over him, delivering a bone-jarring downward punch. Krillen sidestepped frantically, managing to miss the next, and making an effort to clip the demon on the hip with a side-kick.

Krillen succeeded, but his triumph was short-lived as he realized that the demon had not made any effort to try to avoid it. Instead, he plowed forward, throwing his superior weight into the kick – Krillen had to fall back, stepping to keep his feet under him. He leaped into the air as the demon continued to come forward, aiming a roundhouse at his chin…blinking in shock as the other pulled his head back in time to avoid…and yet again, Krillen found himself flying through the air on the wrong end of a kick. Oh, man, this is bad…when'd he get so fast? Krillen thought from the air, managing to get his feet between himself and the next tree. He rebounded off it, hit the ground, felt the wind. Only a quick dive saved him from the energy blast that followed…slicing the tree he'd just left in half.

I'm gonna die, Krillen thought gloomily, backpedaling. Squashed to death by a freight train of a demon. Wouldn't mom be proud. Ack! He ducked under a knifehand, made an effort to blast the other, took a backhand across the face for his trouble. His ears rang as he sank to one knee, feeling another two or three blows land…and then a jerk as he was hauled up by the front of his gi.

Dazed, he looked down at the massive, clawed hand in the front of his uniform…following it all the way up to those eyes, pitiless, arched with definite mirth. "Too easy," Cymbal said, his smirk growing wider still.

At least…until the cast-iron frying pan bounced off his head.

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Cymbal blinked. He looked down on the grass at the now-bent kitchen utensil. Rubbed the back of his head with his free hand. Ow, he thought, bemusedly. Where the Hell did THAT come from?

"You leave him alone, you beast!" A voice – a female voice – snapped from the side of the clearing. Another pot came flying his way, which Cymbal sidestepped neatly. He turned his head to look her way, incredulously.

"Hey, do you mind?" he asked of the woman who was apparently assuming a fighting stance, a deep one…tai chi? "I'm sorta in the middle of something here."

"You leave him alone," she said. "You should be ashamed of yourself, picking on someone smaller than you are…"

"Everyone's smaller than I am."

"That's no excuse!"

Cymbal rolled his eyes. "Why don't you go do laundry or something, alright? I got no time for this…" his eyes widened as a spoon came flying his way, the stick-end pointed directly at his eyes. He swatted it aside irritably.

"Chichi!" the monk cried, still dangling from his fist. "Run! Don't make him mad!" The human began kicking frantically, trying to get down, or at the very least, distract the demon. Cymbal could have told him that he was wasting his time.

"He's nothing but a bully," the woman shouted back. "I'm certainly not going to cater to him!"

Cymbal, on the other hand, was just beginning to become really irritated…and his good mood from bashing the monk around was beginning to fade. "Will you cut that out?" he snapped as a broom came flying his way. He deflected it with a forearm; it snapped in two as it flew by him.

"When you put him down!" she said.

Cymbal looked at her…and looked at the monk dangling in his hand. He grinned. "Sure," he said…and dashed the small human's body against a nearby tree. Hard. He dropped the limp…but still breathing…form to the ground. "Happy now?"

By means of answer, the woman shrieked at him, launching herself across the clearing, good fist pulled back. "Guess not," the demon quipped, sidestepping her attack at the last possible moment, letting her shoot past him.

"Monster!" she shouted, aiming a kick or two at his face. "Beast! Go back where you came from!"

Cymbal rolled his eyes. "Like that's gonna work," he said. "Look. You're hilarious, I'll give you that…but there's not a damn thing you can do here. I want to take him, I'll take him…I want to kill him, I'll kill him. That's it."

The woman ignored him, taking a shot at his knee…which he tucked his legs under himself in time to avoid. "You wanna die, too?" he asked sourly. Then, much to his surprise, a kick actually connected, dead to his ribs. It didn't hurt much, but it DID surprise him enough that he took a step back.

"I'm not afraid of you," she snapped. Again, her fist flew at his face. This time, he caught it easily with one of his own, powerful fingers curling around her wrist. He was startled at how small it was – which was often true of his interaction with humans. A simple squeeze would snap it. He was careful not to squeeze…yet.

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Chichi stared for a moment at her hand, looking particularly small and breakable in his, in pure shock. She pulled hard, twisting it in a technique that she had used before to get out of similar grips. His hand didn't so much as twitch, tensing around hers until it felt like steel. Her next effort was to pull her other arm from the sling and attempt to jab him in the eyes with that one, hand flat, nails extended. He caught it with equal ease.

Glaring at him, she next made an effort to kick him squarely in the groin…which he blocked with a knee. She leaned back, pulling hard…but immediately felt the pain in her shoulder and stopped, trying to catch her breath.

"Done?" the demon asked, smirking, leaning down a little. "I got nothin' but time." She headbutted him, the top of her head impacting his chin. It hurt her, and it shouldn't have. She shook her head dazedly, tried not to fall. What do I do now? She thought, looking up at him from under her hair, which was beginning to come a little loose around her face. She couldn't help but notice the scars across his torso, deep ones from claws, the size of him – he must easily have outweighed her by 150 pounds…and further up, at his face. He looked surprised, as if still trying to get over the fact that she'd headbutted him…but he didn't seem dazed. Just…irritated. Very irritated, and maybe as if he wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of THAT effort. "Now." He said, voice low and growling. "What am I going to do with you?"

It suddenly occurred to Chichi that she might be in very serious trouble. "Let me go," she snapped, aiming another kick at him. "That'd be a start!"

Cymbal smirked. "And let you hit me some more. Sure, that seems like a great idea." He did release one arm – her bad one – but only so he could step to the side and twist her good arm, moving around behind her. Her eyes widened, and she tried to bolt – but his grip was steely, and she couldn't break it. "Maybe I should take YOU with me," he said, sounding amused…though in a decidedly less-than-altruistic way. "You'd be more interesting than midget-boy over there. Louder, too."

"I am NOT going ANYWHERE with YOU!"

By way of answer, the demon twisted her arm JUST a bit more. Her vision blurred briefly with the pain of it, and she shook her head, inadvertently slapping one of her side locks across his face. "You ever just do as you're told?" he asked sourly.

She stomped on his foot as hard as she could…and was disconcerted to hear the demon actually laugh. She gasped as she felt his arm go around her waist, picking her up off the ground easily – it felt like being in the coils of some constricting snake, warm and thick and unbreakable. "I've decided," he said. Chichi suddenly remembered every story she'd ever seen on the news about women left alone and met with some attacker. She began struggling frantically, trying to kick at him, trying to do anything…

And, without prelude, she found herself flung onto her own kitchen floor. She landed ungracefully, sliding along the wooden floor to land half under the table. Twisting so that she was sitting up, she scrabbled backward, looking up at the demon in shock.

Cymbal was lounging in the doorway, leaning with one arm on the jamb…looking highly entertained. The light from outside caught him down one side, outlining old scars and new ones, the marks of a long history of harsher battles than she could ever give him. With morbid fascination, she realized that his eyes actually GLOWED…

The demon smirked still wider. "Scared yet?" he asked.

She lay hand to another unidentified pot and hurled it at him. He caught it as easily as the others. And laughed again. "I could kill you," he said with a fanged grin. "I could break you. But then, I almost think I'd be doing the monkey a favor." He offered her a two-fingered wave. "Ciao."

He disappeared from her doorway. By the time she got outside again, both the demon and Krillen were gone. She looked around, turning circles frantically, unable to believe that it had happened again, in such a short time – that someone else had been taken. Finally, exhausted and feeling sick, she dropped to her knees, hands limp in lap, staring up at the sky. "Goku," she said. "Goku where are you?" tears brimmed over her eyes, poured down her cheeks. "Where are you when I need you?"

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"Something's not right," Goku said, his voice unusually quiet, serious.

Piccolo looked over at him, noting idly that he'd never really seen his companion looking THAT rough around the edges. Granted, they'd had a long day, but the human…er…Saiyan…MONKEY looked terrible. His eyes were purple around the edges from too little sleep, his body was battered from so many fights in so little time. Even his aura was dimmer than it should have been; it seemed dusty and tired as it flickered around him. The one thing that remained strong was his grip around his sleeping child ,who was curled into the scorched, muddied top of Son's gi.

"Something's always wrong," the demon grumbled. "It can wait until tomorrow."

Goku shook his head. "No," he said, "something's REALLY wrong…let's go faster, hai?"

Piccolo rolled his eyes. "If you burn yourself out, I'm not carrying you."

Goku seemed not to notice his words at all, merely doubled his speed.

The demon shrugged, redoubling his own speed – noticing something odd as he did so. He was not so strong as Son Goku, but from the looks of it, he could heal from great harm much faster. After all, while his partner was obviously dragging, Piccolo was beginning to feel normal again. Tired, but normal. Good to know, he thought.

Still, he didn't have too much time to dedicate to that line of thinking – he was far too preoccupied with what had happened to his eldest brother. It wasn't like Cymbal to be gone that long, and frankly, it was making Piccolo nervous. I just wish I knew…he blinked, cutting off that thought, when he smelled ozone. Fresher than it should have been. And close. Ah, Hell.

Goku smelled it a moment later. His tail bristled, even as his eyes narrowed, and he flew all the faster. Piccolo was able to catch up, but he didn't pass him…he let the other take point. He didn't know what they would find there, but he knew that he wanted nothing LESS than to be between Son Goku and whatever else had harmed his family.

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It did not take Son long to find his wife. She was kneeling in the middle of the yard like a beacon, head in her hands, rocking slightly. He landed a few feet away, stumbling more than a little, managing to kneel in front of her. "Chichi?" He asked. "Chichi-san, what happened?"

The woman did not answer. She merely curled closer to herself. "Chichi," he said, gently. "I brought Gohan back, see? He's okay. Just sleeping. He's okay, Chichi…please don't cry."

Piccolo landed a few yards away, keeping well back of this little family scene. He felt horribly awkward in watching it, and he would not have stayed save out of some misplaced sense that he needed to be there.

Chichi, meanwhile, looked up at her husband, then down at her son. She smiled, weakly, taking the boy to herself…then looked up at Goku, obviously trying to collect herself. Accidentally, though, she looked past him, caught sight of Piccolo. Her eyes widened, and the blood drained to her face. She put a hand to her mouth, curling it slightly.

Goku blinked, looking back over his shoulder, then to Chichi. "Chichi-san," he said, drawing the name out. "It's okay. That's only Piccolo – he won't hurt you any. He helped me get Gohan back."

"You look like your brother," she said to Piccolo in a hushed voice. "A lot like him. Has anyone ever told you that? You do. Must be family resemblance. You could be his twin. Except for the eyes, of course, but then we'd never tell you apart." She laughed nervously.

Piccolo noticed that it was very, very disturbing to see this woman near hysterics. Then, he blinked. His brother?

"What is it?" Goku was asking in the meantime. "What happened…Chichi, what's wrong?"

"Goku," she said, voice shaky, eyes still on Piccolo – looking at him the way almost every human that he'd ever met had. "There's something I have to tell you. About Krillen."

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"Did you ever hear that old wive's tale about how to catch a dragon?" Daimao no Cymbal asked conversationally as he reversed his grip on a knife and drove it into one of the monk's feet, pinning him to the ground. Bone crunched audibly as the blade sank fully in, wedging its serrated edges between two rocks.

Krillen cried out, half-doubling over, giving up on his efforts to crawl away. "Drop dead, you freak," he choked. Blood flecked his lips.

Cymbal ignored him entirely…continuing on as he stood up, slipping that tunic back on. "The best way, of course, is to get a bigger, stronger dragon to do it for you, but I don't have one of those." He picked up the sash next, that he had brought with him…taking great care to tie it as ritual would prescribe. "The next best thing, though, is you get a nice little goat, and you rough it up a little so it'll make some noise. Then, you take this goat…" here, he inserted an absent kick to Krillen's ribs… "and you stake it to the ground where the dragon can find it. After that, you wait."

"Coward," Krillen spat at him. "You afraid to face him in the open? Afraid he'll beat you again?"

Cymbal chuckled. "A win's a win – doesn't matter how you come by it. You good guys should look that up sometime. It'd save you a lot of grief."

Krillen let his head fall back against the grass. "He'll still kick your ass," he said. "He always does."

"S'a first time for everything, runt," Cymbal answered, flexing his talons.

"I'll yell to him," Krillen threatened. "I'll tell him not to come."

"You do that," Cymbal answered with a shrug, "and I'll leave from right here, go back and see his wife. By the time he gets turned around, there'll be no saving her."

Krillen bit his lip.

"You'll keep quiet," Cymbal said, offering the bleeding monk a smirk.

Krillen nodded.

"Thought you'd see it my way," Cymbal said, making his way to the boulders beside the small, open place where Krillen would lie. "Now…why don't you try to act hurt…or I'll give you some better motivation."

Krillen lay fully back, eyes clenched…wishing, just once, he could manage to spare his friend this kind of thing…wishing he were strong enough.

He winced when he heard the demon sharpening his claws on a nearby rock. "Stay away, Goku," he thought. "Please."

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"You're insane," Piccolo snapped. "You're fucking insane!"

Goku closed the door to his house, turning to Piccolo. "C'mon, Pic, if it were you out there…"

"You'd STILL be insane," the demon snapped, crossing his arms. "You're in no condition to go out there and fight again – and neither am I."

Goku turned big, worried eyes to Piccolo. "But Pic…I can't just leave him out there. Not after all we've been through. He needs me."

"YOU need you," Piccolo growled.

Son blinked. "What?" he asked.

Piccolo huffed, turning his back on him, arms still crossed. "Forget it. Just don't come whining to me when Cymbal rips your heart out and stomps on it."

"S'okay, Pic," Goku said, walking to the yard where he could take off. "I understand."

"I'm not coming with you," Piccolo snapped. "S'a damn stupid idea, and if you insist on going, you go by yourself."

Goku offered him a slight smile. "I know. I understand. I'll be back soon, Pic"

The demon looked over his shoulder, one eyeridge raised incredulously. "You're still going to do this?"

"I told you. I can't just not go. He needs me."

"You're hopeless."

Goku grinned. "I've heard that before. Look, Pic…keep an eye on them while I'm gone, hai? This might take a little while." He bent his knees, and he was gone.

Piccolo growled under his breath, started to turn to walk back toward that house…paused. Tilted his head back. Glared at the sky. "FINE, damnit," he snapped at last, turning on his heel, and taking off after his rather unfortunate partner. After all…someone had to do damage control.

"Should just let you die, you tailed pain in my ass," he muttered…even as he redoubled his speed. "It'd serve you right." Though that statement didn't stop him from racing through the sky in an effort to catch up with him.

Besides…anything was better than sitting outside that house, hearing that woman cry over her son. She was not wailing, no – that would have been better than the silent, steady sobs that she had fallen into. He could not help but wonder what had happened.

And he wondered what had EVER possessed Cymbal to let her live to tell her husband whatever had happened.