It was all Son Goku's fault somehow. Piccolo wasn't sure how that logic worked, exactly, but he was pretty sure it did. And since he was probably going to have all eternity to smooth out the particulars, he didn't worry about it too much.
For the moment, he was content to drift in and out of lucidity. He felt like he'd earned a break; after all, so far that day, he'd had a minor existential crisis, gotten into a fight with three competent warriors, and gotten blown to smithereens by his own student. He seriously doubted it was even midday yet. It was, he decided, a crappy way to die. But it could also have been a lot worse; at least it had been quick.
He wondered how it would go in the afterlife, when he got there. Whether he'd have to stand in line with his brothers, if they'd wind up pointing fingers and blaming each other the whole way to the check-in station. Dear gods, he could see it now – he could imagine it in his head as clearly as if it were happening right before his eyes.
For the first several seconds, no one would say anything. They would all just stand stiffly, arms crossed, glaring in any direction except at each other, except for Piano, who would probably be staring at all the pretty clouds, or watching the little winged secretary-demons flitting around like stupid, nerdy hummingbirds.
Cymbal would break the silence first. Because Cymbal, of them all, was by far the shortest on patience. He would turn his head very slowly for effect, and he would fix Piccolo with the angriest red-eyed glare in the world. "Well," he'd say, "I HOPE you're pleased with yourself."
Piccolo would strive with every fiber of his being to project 'unimpressed.' "I don't remember inviting you to come out and start hitting me, asshole. This one's on you."
Drum would look between them for a second, think about it. "It WAS your stupid idea," he would growl.
Cymbal would roll his eyes. "The IDEA was fine. I'M not the idiot who let the kid run off to start with!"
Drum would growl deeper. "Oh, because keeping ahold of the kid would have been a great idea! He was a little time bomb!"
"Well, how the Hell was I supposed to know that? Do I have "Miss Cleo the Fucking Psychic" tattooed on my forehead?!"
And it would go on like that, for however many hours it took for judgment to be passed upon them.
Oh yes, that's right. There was going to be a judgment. That wonderful time of life and death where you get to stand in a crummy office and listen to the long list of wrongs you had done. For the first time, Piccolo found cause to regret not living a more meritous life. The kind where you drop money in salvation army bins, go to temple, and be nice to people. Because Son Goku was almost certainly through the line already and on his merry way to heaven, and damn it, Piccolo really, really wanted to track him down and punch him square in the face. Because it was all his fault Piccolo wasn't ruling the world by now and torturing millions, instead of getting blown to pieces by the son of his arch-enemy in the middle of a family dispute that even Jerry Springer wouldn't have touched.
But of course, it wouldn't happen that way. Both of them would stay dead, sure, but Son would stay dead in heaven, and Piccolo would stay dead in Hell, probably with his three brothers, who were probably about as ready to punch him in the face as he was ready to punch Son Goku.
Life, he decided, was simply not fair. Especially not since he was dead.
"Piccolo" a voice said nearby.
Piccolo opened his eyes, and squinted up. Immediately, he closed them again. Damn. The light at the end of the tunnel was a Hell of a lot brighter than he thought good taste really called for. Theatrics were one thing, but damn, he WOULD like to spend the rest of eternity able to see more than basic outlines.
"What," he growled. And, he thought, how come I get a gravelly old voice instead of, I dunno, singing angels or something?
"We don't have much time."
It was Kami's voice. Piccolo kept his wrist over his eyes, forced himself to squint up at the wizened face.
"Oh, great," he said. "Just who I wanted to see."
Kami rolled his eyes. Which beneficient deities should not do, as far as Piccolo was concerned. "You're not dead," he said.
"What the Hell do you mean I'm not dead?" Piccolo asked. He turned his head to one side, pointed. "You see that? Yellow clouds. There are NO yellow clouds in the desert."
"You're having a near death experience," Kami conceded, a little too archly.
Piccolo sat up slowly. "Okay," he said. "Shouldn't I be able to look down on my body and see it getting smaller and smaller or something?"
"We really don't have time for that," Kami said.
"What the Hell is this," Piccolo said. "Did you get us the economy package, or what?"
"Piccolo, honestly. We have no time for sarcasm, either."
"There is ALWAYS time for sarcasm," Piccolo growled. "Now what's the rush."
Kami looked, well, nervous. "We're in a lot of trouble," he said.
Piccolo gave him his very best "no shit" look.
"Oh. No, not with the near-death issue. You see, to make this quick, the Saiyan that you and Goku fought was not the only one of his kind. There are two more. And they're very annoyed at both you and Goku for killing one of their number. They are also interested in Earth, from a purely…ah…economic standpoint."
Piccolo flopped back onto his back. "What you're telling me," he said, "is that intergalactic nutjob had backup."
"Yes."
"And they're as strong as he was?"
"Well, no."
Piccolo nodded. It was good to hear good news once in a while.
"They're…actually much stronger."
Piccolo really hated Kami, sometimes. "Alright," he said. "So if I'm not hallucinating this whole mess, which is possible, what do you expect me to do about it?"
"You won't be alone," he said. "Goku has already begun his journey to train under King Kai, a legendary master of the martial arts. He'll help you. And so will Gohan, if you can teach him to control himself."
"See, I have this really great idea," Piccolo said. "I'm going to just close my eyes, and think real hard about not breathing."
Kami smiled wryly, and shook his head. "I know it's hard," he said. "But you'll thank the fates for this someday, I promise."
"No, you're not listening," Piccolo said. "I'm not doing it. There's no way this can possibly be my job."
Kami sighed. "That is your prerogative," he said. "But I, for one, intend to live and do what I can."
Piccolo smirked. "Don't you kind of need me for that?" he asked.
Kami nodded.
"Well, then, it sucks to be…" Piccolo was brought up short as Kami pulled a bucket of water from behind his robes. "What the Hell are you…"
Kami heaved the bucket of water squarely into his face.
Piccolo choked, flailed his right arm (the left one just hurt a lot). He couldn't see, had to roll onto his side to spit out water from his nose and mouth. That damned old man was going to learn the MEANING of pain just as soon as he could see straight aga…
"Mr. Piccolo!!!" a familiar, if hoarse and sniffly, voice cried from beside him.
Piccolo opened one bleary eye.
Son Gohan was standing half-over him, a hollowed-out gourd empy in his hands. He'd very obviously just used it to carry water over to him and splash him with it.
The kid, Piccolo thought, looked like absolute Hell. His eyes were rimmed around with purple and swollen, his clothes were torn and bloody, so that the orange uniform Piccolo gave him looked like it had been tie-dyed with purple. The worst, though, was the look on his dirt-smeared face; like he'd accidentally run over his own cat.
With an effort, Piccolo spoke. "Yeah," he managed to breathe out, by way of answer.
That fast, the kid was on him, both arms encircling his neck, and just sobbing a lot of incoherent words together. Which mostly kept coming back to "are you okay," and, "I'm so, so sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it."
Piccolo was so taken aback by this that he couldn't say anything at first. Reflexively, he brought his good arm up, and gave the boy an awkward pat on the back. "It's fine," he said, at last.
Gohan pulled back a little. "It is NOT," he said fiercely. But then that moment of aggression was over; his bottom lip came out. "I hurt you bad," he said. "Really…bad." His little white hands were soaked up to the forearms in purple blood.
Piccolo chuckled in spite of himself. "It's not that bad," he said. Even though a million aches were welling up to tell him that this was very much not the case. It WAS bad. But he was very definitely going to live through it.
The boy didn't even seem to acknowledge that comment, though he did seem to be trying to catch his breath and get his sobbing under control. This kind of emotional turmoil, Piccolo decided, was out of his league. Finally, he spoke again. "Enough of that," he said. "You did the right thing."
Piccolo's charge looked up at him again, his face even more tear-streaked than it had been before. "Really?"
Piccolo started to shrug, then thought better of it. "They would have killed you," he said. "And probably me right after, if we're being completely honest here."
The kid didn't look like he bought a word of it. "But…"
Damnit. Desperate times called for desperate measures. "I owe you, kid," he said.
"And you're really gonna be okay?"
Piccolo snorted. "Don't be so eager to get your ass kicked in another sparring match," he said. "I'll be up and around again in a couple of days."
For the first time, Gohan looked hopeful. "You promise?"
"Sure," Piccolo said. Then he collapsed back on one elbow, realizing he was already spent.
Much to his surprise, the kid actually put both hands on his chest and pushed him down. "You better rest," he said. "Stay put – I know something that'll help." And then he was running off to who-knew-where, probably to nearly get himself killed again.
If so, Piccolo thought, Kami better deal with it. You hear that, old man? You owe me that much.
He closed his eyes, content with this line of reasoning, and counted the seconds until Gohan's return.
"Hey, Pic," said a voice – an impossibly cheerful voice – from beside him.
Piccolo forced that left eye back open. And looked straight up at Son Goku. The Saiyan was apparently kneeling over him; his features were hard to make out, as the sun was bright behind his head, almost like a halo.
Piccolo closed his eye, then opened it again. Squinted. Damn, he thought. I'm finally losing it.
The Saiyan didn't look the way he had the last time Piccolo had seen him – used up, tired, wounded. He looked…bright. He smiled at him with that weird smile of his, tilted his head a little to the left. "You look rough," he said after a moment's assessment.
Piccolo decided he might as well talk to the hallucination. "Yeah," he said. "No shit."
"I guess it's been pretty hard on you, huh?"
"I'll live," Piccolo said, turning his eyes to the sky. The man had been dead for how long now, and he still couldn't stand to look at him. "Which is more'n I can say for you."
Goku chuckled. "Yeah. I guess that's true."
"You realize," Piccolo said, "that I blame you for this. Entirely."
Goku blinked. Piccolo couldn't see him. But he knew he'd blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, Son. You. You got me into this whole…you…and your damned…" he paused. Took a deep breath. Admitted it. "Fine," he said. "So it's not all your fault."
"But you're still gonna blame me, huh?"
"Damn straight."
"I guess I can live with that. Figuratively speaking, I mean."
Piccolo smirked, still with his eyes closed. "Now I know you're a hallucination," he said. "The real Son Goku couldn't even spell that."
Goku sounded offended. "Hey! I can too."
"Prove it."
"…okay, you got me there."
"Thought so. And while we're on the subject, why'm I hallucinating you instead of…I dunno, purple dinosaurs or something."
"Um…Pic…do you usually hallucinate purple dinosaurs?"
Piccolo rolled his eyes, mentally. "That was not the point," he said. "The point is, why am I talking to you when you're very obviously not here?"
"Well, I dunno – why are you?"
"Because," Piccolo said. "I can't think of a good reason not to."
"No offense, Pic," Goku said, shifting to sit lotus-style beside him. "But you have got to be the weirdest person in the entire world. That doesn't make any kind of sense."
"Look who's talking," Piccolo said, opening his eyes to look over at him. "The monkey-boy who rides around on a little yellow cloud."
"At least I'm not a green guy in a turban."
"Oh, ha ha," he grumbled. "Would you like to make fun of my ears next?"
Goku put his elbow on his knee, his chin in his palm, and chuckled. "What I'd like is for you to get some rest. Seriously, Pic, You look like you've been hit by a bus. A really big one. With mud on the tires."
"I was resting just fine until you showed up," Piccolo said.
Goku grinned. "You mean you were sulking. Again."
"I was not s…"
"Shh." And the Saiyan put a light hand on his shoulder – hesitant, as if afraid of hurting him. Just like before, years ago…the onetime demon felt his throat constrict, suddenly. "You can yell at me when I'm alive again. Right now, you need sleep."
Piccolo started to put a hand under himself to get up. "But the kid's…"
"I'll keep an eye on Gohan." Son's eyes crinkled just slightly around the edges. "You too, while I'm at it. Don't worry about a thing."
Piccolo thought about arguing with the hallucination some more about the logistics of a nonexistent Son Goku watching over much of anything – but that seemed like a level of crazy he just wasn't comfortable with entering yet. "Fine," he said.
He felt the back of his head lifted, felt it come to rest on the soft fabric over the other's leg. It felt real. And for once, he didn't protest the treatment, or even the idea of having someone else take care of him. Instead, he let his eyes close again, this time without planning to open them.
Sleep had never felt so good.
It took Gohan a while to find the right kind of plant. He thought it should have stuck out more: a big, flat leaf shaped like a lemon drop. Especially among all the browns and reds of the sand and the clay, it should have been easy to find.
Unless maybe it didn't grow in the desert. He guessed that was always possible, but he didn't want to believe it – darting in between the large rocks, looking at all of the shady places where the plant would usually be. It didn't take long, on brittle shale, for him to skin up his knees or his hands, but for once, that was the farthest thing from his mind.
He was trying not to think at all, past the idea of finding the plant. Every time he let his brain open up to other things, it filled up with terrible things: the mixed up, dusty fighting, the feeling of burning inside his skin, the brief look of disbelief on Cymbal's face as the white light spread up and out like a breaking wave, the smell of skin burning, which was like meat cooked too long – the way he'd found Piccolo after, half against the rocks, body flung up like the survivor of a shipwreck once the wave was gone. How first, he'd found two bodies, scorched to the texture of charcoal. How their burnt hands looked, blackened into claws that seemed to reach…
No, just the plant. The plant was important.
And he couldn't find it.
Close to tears again, Gohan sat down heavily at the bottom of the canyon, and pressed his hand to his forehead as he willed himself to keep from crying. He couldn't be a crybaby now; Mr. Piccolo needed him.
"Now think, Gohan," he said to himself. "Think. What would your father do?"
That was an easy one. His father would've beaten the snot out of all three of the other fighters, and not blown Mr. Piccolo up, and this would never have happened to him at all.
But if it hadhappened…if it had happened, he'd know exactly where to find the stupid plant, or he'd fly until he knew where some was, or something like that. He sure wouldn't be sitting on his butt at the bottom of a canyon wondering what someone else would have done.
Gohan closed his eyes. Which didn't help a whole lot in the desert; it was so bright that the light shone right through his eyelids sometimes. But he did it anyway, and he tried hard to picture the few camping trips he'd been on, when he'd inevitably scrape an arm or an elbow, and his father would find something to put on it. Taking deep breaths, the boy tried to picture his father, tried to remember every word…
He could almost see him. Bright and orange, smiling in a way that seemed stuck between gentle and sad. It's alright, Gohan – I know it hurts. Come on, down here in the shady places by the water. It only grows where there's water.
His imagined-father pointed, like he would have at home…down past the yard, to where a stream ran through the trees. Gohan knew it wasn't real, but something urged him to follow anyway; he stood up slowly, and started to walk the way that the mirage-Goku had pointed. .
At the side of the bluff, water trickled down the side into a shallow, muddy puddle. It was brackish and thick, nothing like the clear stream behind the house, but it was wet. And right next to it was a small cluster of teardrop-shaped leaves.
Gohan reached out a trembling hand, half afraid that the leaves were imaginary too; but he could feel the satiny edges of them under his fingertips. Then he was plucking them by the handful, disregarding the thorns on the stem. And then as he rocked back, and stared down at the mass of green cradled in his forearms, he began to think that things might be okay, after all. Eventually.
He stood up as soon as he felt like he could, and started the hard climb back to where Piccolo was. If he had looked up, he might have seen a hazy orange form hanging in the air behind him, perhaps a reflection of sand on heat-distorted air, perhaps his imagination.
But Gohan was concentrating hard on climbing the rocks. He did not look up.
