Hey, ya'll! ...Yeah, I've decided to completely revamp the first chapter (and parts of the following chapters) of this story. Looking back, I wasn't happy with the initial execution, and while the story itself remains the same, I'm changing how it's starting. Plus, I just wanted this to feel more like a canon-esque story

This now takes place four months after the events of Namek

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball, Silent Hill, or Siren Head; they belong to Akira Toriyama, Konami, and Trevor Henderson! I only wrote this fic and I own any original characters in that appear! Please leave a review letting me know what you think! Enjoy!~

Chapter 1: Manifest

Is my fate silver-lined?

I always was the optimist

But I never thought of this

Stuck in this state

Misaligned

Trapped inside the looking glass

Tell me, when will all this pass?

Death had been an…interesting experience, to say the least. It had all happened so quickly. One second, he had felt the intense flash of heat as that monstrous cabbage thing self-destructed. And the next, it all faded into nothingness. He remembered opening his eyes and finding himself at the Afterlife's Check-In Station with Kami standing next to him.

He hadn't been in any pain. It had happened so quickly; he was more surprised than anything. But nevertheless, Kami had instructed him to follow Snake Way to get to King Kai's planet, just like Goku had done nearly a year prior. It made sense in his head. He wasn't going to be revive until the Dragon Balls were reactivated, so he might as well make the most of it.

His journey was soon accompanied by Chiaotzu, Tien Shinhan, and Piccolo. The last one felt like a slap to the face. With Piccolo gone, the Dragon Balls were forever inactive. They could never be revived.

But then they arrived on King Kai's planet, and received the word that their friends were on their way to Planet Namek, in hopes of finding another set of Dragon Balls.

Everything after that was honestly a blur. King Kai's training wasn't anything like he had done before.

But during those months on that tiny planet, one small detail stuck out to him. Both his body and his mind had felt rejuvenated. Every moment in the Afterlife had seemed smooth and painless, and he couldn't remember a time he ran out of energy. Of course, it had disappeared the moment the Namekian Dragon Balls brought him back to life, but it truly had felt like he hit the reset button on his mind and body.

And looking back, maybe that was the domino effect that caused this…

OoOoOoO

Yamcha cheerfully hummed along to the song blasting from the radio. He loved every moment of this. The revving of the car engine, the blaring music, the feeling of the warm midsummer breeze in his hair, the beautiful sunset sky before him. He didn't realize how much he missed all of it.

It was good to be back.

Bulma smiled at him from her place in the driver's seat. Her boyfriend had been revived by Porunga only hours before, and they had celebrated his return by going out, just the two of them for the whole day. They needed to make up for lost time, after all.

It didn't take long before they pulled into the driveway of the Capsule Corp. mansion. Yamcha practically jumped out of the car the moment Bulma put it in park, stretching his limbs with a satisfied grin. "Alright, wolf boy," Bulma teased, turning the car off and stepping out. After capsulizing the vehicle, the two of them headed inside.

The past few months had been a surreal experience. Ever since the events that led up to Planet Namek's destruction, the surviving Namekians had taken refuge at Capsule Corp., each of them currently staying in the guesthouse that Dr. Brief had so generously provided. Vegeta, for his part, had stolen the backup space ship that the Briefs had built and gone off to search for Goku.

But regardless of the current 'houseguest' situations, it honestly felt good to be back on Earth, for both of them.

"So, what do you wanna do tomorrow?" Yamcha found himself asking his long-term girlfriend a few hours later, as the two of them got ready for bed. The former bandit ran the brush through his hair, which was still damp from his shower.

"Hmm…" Bulma hummed to herself, though it was hard to tell if it was a hum with the toothbrush in her mouth. The bluenette spat out the foamy contents and rinsed her mouth before answering, "First things first, you're making pancakes. I need those." Yamcha had to bite back a chuckle. "Secondly, I was thinking we could see a movie or something. Y'know," she shot him a playful smirk. "Something that isn't garbage?"

Yamcha allowed himself to chuckle this time. He finished with his hair and set the brush back down. "Sounds good to me," he said softly.

What happened next was like a warm blur. But it wasn't long before the two of them found themselves under the covers, their bodies bare of any clothing and wrapped in each other's embrace. Yamcha couldn't help the smile that came to his face as Bulma rested her head against his chest.

During quiet moments like this, it was easy to forget the event that led them here. After all the chaos, it was nice to just have a little bit of peace.

He wasn't sure how long he laid there, watching Bulma's slumbering form in the moonlight, before fatigue completely overtook his mind and he closed his eyes, falling into the warm, inviting darkness for the first time in months.

OoOoOoO

He tried to run. He went as fast as his legs could carry him. He was exhausted, and it felt like his lungs were on fire with each breath he took. But there was nowhere to go. And it didn't matter how fast he ran or how long.

It was always right behind him.

"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" The scream left his throat feeling raw, his face hot and sticky with tears. But alas, his efforts were fruitless. The shrieking noises of a radio overloaded him, forcing him to his knees as his hands covered his ears, his facial features contorted in agony. If his ears were bleeding, he wouldn't be surprised.

In the darkness, he could hear it getting closer. Its footsteps were light, but each step might as well be an explosion to him. The shrill, static noises grew in intensity with each passing second. He barely had enough time to open his eyes and look up—to see the tall, bony creature standing above him, the rusty-colored skin with the silver wires stitched into it, the pair of dark, bloodstained megaphone speakers that replaced its head—before the deafening wail of a siren hit him, white-hot pain deluging his mind in an instant.

OoOoOoO

Yamcha shot up in the bed, the sheets pooling around his naked waist, dark eyes wide open as sweat dripped down his brow. His heart pounded in his chest, the ex-bandit panting heavily as he rapidly scanned the dark room. He felt the contents of his stomach churn suddenly and violently, and slapped a hand over his mouth as he bolted for the bathroom. He practically kicked the door open and barely had time to kneel at the toilet before hurling into the porcelain.

He didn't register the approaching footsteps after a minute, currently preoccupied with his stomach forcing up everything he had for dinner. He did, however, feel the hands that reached down and held his hair back. A few more minutes passed, and once it seemed there was nothing left to throw up, he panted, shivering, and spat the last of the disgusting taste out before flushing and shakily standing up.

Whoever was behind him let go of his hair. He turned to see that it was Bulma, just as naked as he was and a concerned look on her face, visible thanks to the moonlight streaming through the windows. He wasn't sure what to say as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still a little shaken up from what had occurred.

"Are you okay?" Bulma broke the silence between them. Yamcha shrugged once in lieu of a verbal response. He wasn't sure.

Bulma placed a hand over his shoulder, yanking him out of his thoughts. "Why don't you come back to bed?" it was more of an order than a suggestion. A part of Yamcha wanted to argue. But the previous adrenaline from waking up was fading away, and not to mention getting sick had drained him as well.

Again, no verbal response, just a single nod of the head this time. That was all the confirmation Bulma needed to guide him back to the bed. As Yamcha climbed onto the mattress, Bulma fetched the trashcan that had previously been on the opposite end of her bedroom. "Just in case," she said softly, placing the can next to the bed on Yamcha's side.

He shot her a grateful smile as she made her way under the covers with him. Once everything settled down, Bulma had fallen back asleep. But Yamcha couldn't bring himself to do the same. His body was tired, but his mind was racing.

That nightmare he had just woken up from…He couldn't remember ever having a dream that vivid. The agony, the raw fear, that…Siren Head creature…Everything felt so real. And he didn't want to go back to sleep if it meant reentering a nightmare.

In the end, the perturbed emotions running through him kept Yamcha awake for the rest of the night. Bulma didn't stir until the sun had already risen into the sky. Yamcha expected a worried scolding the moment she saw the bags under his eyes and the exhausted look on his face, and he received exactly that. He tried to wave away her concerns, saying that he was fine and they could still spend the day together.

After all, that nightmare had to be just a one-time thing, right?

OoOoOoO

Everything hurt. Everything was pain. His skin felt like it was on fire, the agonizing feeling sinking into his flesh and searing his bones. He couldn't move, his limbs unresponsive. It felt as if invisible robes tightly secured him to the freezing ground. He was so exhausted. He wanted to sleep, even if it was only for a few minutes, but the darkness wouldn't let him, mercilessly forcing him to stay awake and feel everything.

There was a bit of movement out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to look over and see what it was, but he couldn't even move his head. He only saw a figure, dark and lanky, once they got close enough. "You've been so good," they said, their voice whisper-like and raspy, making it impossible to tell if the voice was male or female. "Shall we continue?" the figure asked, and that's when he realized that they had a syringe in their hand, filled to the brim with a dark liquid.

Without even waiting for a response, they jammed the needle into the side of his neck and forced the scalding liquids into his veins. He wanted to scream, but it seemed that even his voice box was paralyzed, not a single sound escaping his mouth. "Perfect," the figure's voice sounded cheerful, and he didn't need to look at them to know that they were smiling. They grabbed his right forearm with one hand, lifting it up so that it was well within his field of view.

"Let's get started," the whisper came again, and the figure was suddenly holding a scalpel in their free hand, slowly slicing down his forearm as red liquids pooled out. The pain was intense. He prayed that he would pass out, or that death would at least show him compassion, but every second dragged on for what felt like an eternity, and he was wide awake for each one.

OoOoOoO

He was trapped in some kind of jail cell.

He scanned the room, taking in his surroundings. It was a bit dark, but he could tell that it was a small room with four solid walls, each of them coated in grime, and the same could be said about the floor and ceiling. There was a single door on one side of the room, but no matter how much or how hard he pushed and pulled on it, it wouldn't budge an inch.

He cursed under his breath and slammed a fist against the grimy door, wanting nothing more than to get out of here. That's when he noticed there was a rectangular opening near the top of the door, though it had a few vertical bars going through it. Curious, he looked through the bars of the opening, but could only see darkness outside of the room.

A sudden click nearly made him jump, and he could tell that something had lit up behind him. He turned around. It looked as if someone had turned on a spotlight in the room—from where, he had no idea—and was shining it directly at the bottom of the wall on the other side of the room. On the wall was the word 'GORDON' written in dried, dark red liquids. And that's when he saw it.

There was a doll on the ground, resting against the opposite wall just below the dark red words.

It was small and dirty, a plush toy that had clearly been ripped apart and stitched back together in several places—arms, legs, neck, torso, even the head. Its form held no color, looking as if someone had taken it straight out of an old black and white film. Whatever clothing it had was torn to shreds, barely clinging to its body. Parts of the hair were missing, as was one of the eyes. And a creepy, ear-to-ear grin had been stitched onto its face with black thread.

A deafening bang suddenly filled the air, making him flinch, and within that split second, the doll suddenly changed, its form bubbling and mutating horribly. It turned into a young girl, not quite a child but not quite an adult. The first thing he noticed was that she had wings. Angel wings, to be exact, but what were once ivory feathers were now filthy and stained red. Her skin was an icy shade of blue, her entire being littered in bloodstained stitches, and her white hair was a disheveled mess.

But her eyes…Her eyes had been ripped out of her head, leaving only pitch-black sockets behind, empty sockets that seemed to stare into his very soul. A look of horror was etched permanently onto her face. And even though the silence was deafening, he swore he could hear a scream coming from her open mouth as she slowly crawled towards him…

His eyes widened at the sight and he quickly tried to back away, terror practically filling his nerves. He backed into the door, and as soon as he made contact with it, it swung open with a loud creak. He stepped through the door without a second thought, only to find out too late that there was nothing outside the room, falling into empty, endless darkness.

OoOoOoO

It felt like pain was trying to course through him, but his entire being was numb to it. His gaze was transfixed onto the darkness. For several minutes, everything was still and peaceful, nothing happening around him.

The sound of a rusty, metallic shriek nearby reached his ears, and he chose to look around for the first time. The peaceful feeling was shattered in an instant.

He was hanging upside down from the ceiling. All around him, bodies were hanging from butcher's hooks, chunks of their flesh having been ripped away and blood dripping to the floor. Some of them had their abdomens sliced open, with their internal organs either spilling out or removed entirely. And now that he was really looking at the bodies…in what little lighting the room had…he recognized their hair colors, their clothing, their faces…

They were the bodies of his friends and family.

He looked up at himself, full expecting to see his own body hanging upside down from a butcher's hook as well. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of only his upper half. It looked as if his body had been bisected at the waist, with his lower half nowhere to be seen. His upper body seemed to lack any muscle or even fat; he was nothing more than bones and skin, as if he had suffered from a wasting disease or starvation. In lieu of a butcher's hook, several rusty chains connected his upper half to the ceiling; as if they had a mind of their own, his entrails were snaked up and around the chains, vaguely reminding him of vines.

The metallic shriek from before came again, this one louder than the last. He tore his gaze away from what was left of his body and looked down, trying to find the source. It didn't take him long.

There was a figure on the floor, slowly walking towards him. Once they were close enough, he got a good look at them.

The figure was male, he could tell; and based on what he could see, the man was tall and muscular. His clothing consisted of a white butcher's smock and black pants; both articles of clothing were bloodstained. He was barefoot as well. A faceless metal mask hid his identity, and was just as bloodstained as his clothing. From here, he could see that the man had messy, shoulder-length black hair. And in his right hand, he gripped the handle of an enormous axe, slowly dragging it along the ground as he walked, each step eliciting a shriek from the sharp metal as it was scraped along the ground.

The man stopped underneath him and slowly looked up directly at him. Then, the chains suddenly lowered him downwards with a piercing shriek, bringing him closer and closer to the man. The chains finally grinded to a halt once he was eye-level with the man, who was barely a foot away from him. Even though there were no holes on the mask, he could tell that the man was staring directly into his eyes.

The man suddenly laughed, quiet and amused. "It's been too long," he said. His voice…it sounded eerily familiar…

The man raised his left hand to the mask and slowly removed it from his head, revealing the face he knew all too well. A face with tan skin, onyx-black eyes, a scar over his right eye and another on his left cheek, and a grin reminiscent of a Cheshire cat.

It was almost like looking into a mirror.

The man released his grip on the metal mask, letting it fall to the ground and gripped the axe handle with both hands. And the moment the mask hit the ground with a loud clutter, with the grin remaining on his face the whole time, the man with his face swung the axe at his head.

OoOoOoO

The world around him was a dark shade of crimson, looking as if someone had painted everything in blood. A sickeningly sweet odor assaulted his nose, forcing him to cover it in a desperate attempt to block it out. But it was all for naught. It wasn't just a scent. The taste of it was in his mouth. He wanted to vomit.

A strange sound played all around him, echoing within his ears and refusing to leave him, even as he covered his ears. It was reminiscent of a music box, but it sounded…twisted and wrong, sounding more akin to a song of death than a soothing lullaby. He wanted it to stop, but his silent pleas were not answered, the song growing in intensity with each passing second.

He removed his hands from his face and dared to look down at them. There were dark scarlet stains on his hands. Blood stains, as if evidence of a horrendous crime he had committed. Where from, he had no idea, but he had a horrible feeling that he didn't want to know.

Without even thinking, he backed away, watery eyes shut tight, and suddenly tripped over something that sent him to the ground with a thud. After several long seconds, he reopened his eyes, and as soon as he did, he was greeted with a sight of a mutilated body at his feet.

He couldn't make out if the body was male or female, couldn't see how old they were, what color their skin was, or even their facial features. All he saw on this body were the deep green eyes and the chestnut-brown hair.

OoOoOoO

Dark eyes shot open, their owner rapidly scanning the room as he sat up. A wave of nausea rippled across his body, forcing him to cover his mouth with one hand as he tried to will away the feeling. It took a few minutes, but thankfully, his heartrate managed to come down and the nausea dissipated into nothing. But the feelings of disquiet still lingered.

He was safe. He was here in the Capsule Corp. mansion with Bulma. It was just another stupid nightmare. He should have no reason to feel this way. And yet…

Yamcha removed his hand from his mouth and turned to look at Bulma. The bluenette was still fast asleep. He gave her slumbering form a sad smile. Poor Bulma, she had been so exhausted from her work that not even him waking up like that had disturbed her.

Yamcha turned his gaze to the clock resting on Bulma's nightstand, the neon numbers displaying the time 4:09 AM. He sighed inwardly. There was no way he was going back to sleep, not after what his mind forced him to go through.

He thought the nightmare would've just been a one-time thing, but the nights following it quickly shattered that hope. Every night since he came back to life…

It was a new one every night. The first one had been that…Siren Head creature, attacking him. Yamcha hadn't given that one much thought; nightmares about being attacked by a monster weren't uncommon. But the next one…it made him sick just thinking about it, being mercilessly experimented on and dissected, unable to do anything to stop it. The third…the images of that doll and that angel girl had haunted him throughout the day. And then the fourth…Yamcha wanted to vomit…his friends and family, the people he loved…he knew it was just a nightmare, but the fact that his imagination made him responsible for such things…

But the one he just woke up from…Everything had been replayed, the cruel mistress that was imagination tormenting him with those vivid images, and just when he thought it was over with, he was hit with that odor and taste, the sound of that music box, the feeling of his bloodstained hands…and the sight of that body didn't help at all…

Yamcha shivered, pushing back a wave of disgust. Careful to be as quiet as possible, the former bandit removed the covers from his body and stood up from the bed. He swiftly but silently left the room, hearing his footsteps against the cold floors of the empty hallway. If he was going to stay up, he might as well get something to eat.

Sure enough, he found himself in the kitchen a few minutes later, heating up some water for tea as he pulled out some leftovers from the fridge. Once the teabag was in the cup of hot water, Yamcha placed the plate of food in the microwave and turned it on, watching as the inside was basked in a warm yellow glow.

As he did so, Yamcha couldn't help but take note of his appearance in the microwave's reflection. He looked relatively the same, messy hair and scars and all, but it was now accompanied by dark circles under his eyes that stood out brazenly against his pallid skin. It made sense, given how sleepless and frightening the past few nights had been—at least in his mind—but he still groaned and ran a hand through his hair.

He made sure to stop the microwave right before it could let out that loud, annoying beep and pulled the hot food out, placing it on the counter next to his tea. He sighed heavily. He was certainly no psychologist, but he knew for a fact that reoccurring nightmares weren't normal.

Was it thanks to all the craziness in the past year-and-a-half? Him dying during the battle for Earth? The intense training King Kai put him through? Each one of those seemed like a valid excuse, but at the same time…something didn't feel right, something lingered in the back of his mind, but he had no idea what…

For a minute or so, he found himself silently watching the steam rise from his meal as his thoughts rushed around in his head. What was going on? Just what was causing these damn nightmares? A feeling of dread clawed at his gut whenever he thought about it, but he couldn't explain why. All it did was leave him confused, perturbed, and…another emotion he couldn't quite identify. Paranoia? Trepidation, maybe? He was never able to pinpoint it.

Maybe he should talk to Bulma about this once she was up. Maybe he should talk to a doctor or some other professional about it.

Yamcha let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh. He just wanted an explanation more than anything. "Why is this happening?" he whispered to himself.

Shaking his head, Yamcha picked his meal up and headed into the empty living room. Perhaps a bit of television would take his mind off of all this. He placed the plate and cup on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, turning on a nearby lamp. And the moment he did so, he saw a piece of paper sitting atop the coffee table.

He was going to ignore it at first—probably one of the Briefs' many work documents or something—but then his eyes caught his name on the paper. Raising a brow slightly, he reached over to pick it up. It looked to be some kind of letter, though he didn't recognize the handwriting at all.

Yamcha,

In our restless dreams, we both see our old hometown. Kioku Town.

It's been too long, Yamcha. Won't you come visit us? We'd love to see you again. We'll be waiting for you there.

Sencha and Tenshi

Yamcha swore he felt his heart skip a beat the moment he saw the two names at the bottom of the letter, a sudden nostalgic feeling washing over him. Sencha…Tenshi…His sister and his childhood best friend…He hadn't seen them since…since…

He furrowed his brow. Come to think of it…When was the last time he even thought of either of them?

Yamcha shook his head, silently berating himself. What kind of brother/friend was he?! How could he forget his own sister and best friend?!

But then a new thought creeped into his mind, making him pause. How…How did the letter get in the Capsule Corp. mansion, let alone on the coffee table? How did Sencha and Tenshi figure out where he lived? How long had the letter just been sitting there?

Yamcha looked over the letter one more time, feeling the nostalgia grow in intensity as his eyes scanned the words 'Kioku Town'. His hometown. The place where he, Sencha and Tenshi had all been born and raised. Come to think of it, he hadn't thought about Kioku Town in ages, either.

Maybe he should wait until morning to head there…

As soon as that thought entered his mind, doubt began to creep in. He couldn't explain the sudden feeling, but…Something in the back of his mind told him that he needed to head there now. It wasn't going to let him stay until morning…

Deciding to follow his instincts, Yamcha placed the letter on the coffee table, abandoning it along with the now forgotten meal, and headed back up to Bulma's bedroom. He poked his head in the doorway, seeing his girlfriend still in a deep slumber.

Taking that as his cue, Yamcha made his way across the room and into the closet, focusing on his half of the many clothes in there. He quickly removed his pajamas and opted to wear a pair of gray trousers with black shoes and white socks, and a white tank top underneath a long-sleeved, button-up white martial arts jacket. Sure, it might seem like a stupid idea to wear such long clothing in the middle of summer, but it had honestly never bothered Yamcha.

Once that was done with, with him running his fingers through his long hair in an attempt to comb through it, Yamcha headed back downstairs. He quickly found another piece of paper and a pen, hurriedly writing down a note for Bulma or whoever found this first when they woke up, as to not worry them about the lack of his presence, and placed it next to the letter on the coffee table, knowing that they'd read it and understand.

He first thought of just flying there, but after giving it some thought, he decided against it, instead opting to find the capsule that held his personal hover car. Sure, he could get there much quicker if he flew, but he honestly just wanted some time alone with his thoughts before he got to Kioku Town, wanting to process everything running through his mind. After a few minutes, he finally found the capsule and headed outside, quietly shutting the front door behind him.

As soon as he made it to the driveway, he clicked the capsule and threw it onto the driveway, and with a puff of smoke, his red hover car, the one that Bulma had gotten him for his birthday a few years ago, appeared. Wordlessly, he climbed inside and turned the car on, switching on the light and opening the glovebox to dig through it. Sure enough, he found what he was looking for: a paper map. Some might scoff at the idea of having one, seeing as how advanced technology was that they now had digital maps, but Yamcha still liked using them.

He opened it up, searching for Kioku Town. There. Yamcha looked at the route had could take to get there, and quickly calculated that the fastest route would only take a couple of hours to drive there. He smiled despite himself and put the map down on the passenger seat, backing the car out of the driveway and heading off into the night.

Sencha…Tenshi…After all this time, he was finally going to see them again.

'Cause you fall in and fall away

This love is in retrograde

Fall in and fall away

I kinda think you like this

Regress

Fall in and fall away

There's something in the hate we make

Fall in and fall away

I can see the darkness

Manifest

Have you ever wondered what Yamcha's past was like? Where his love for martial arts came from? Why he refuses to kill? Why he's always been so protective of Bulma since he met her? Why he didn't hesitate to go after the Red Ribbon Army?