Pursual

Chapter 3: Trailing the Ashes

Edit from the chapter 30 future- I'm cleaning up the pursual arc. My writing has improved a lot from these days and I'm making edits to reflect that. This chapter should now read like it was written by a human.


Consciousness reluctantly returned in waves to Yamcha; cautiously, he began to probe outwards. Judging from the comfy feeling running up and down his back, Yamcha could tell he was lying down in a bed. He inhaled- air fllowed through his nose, filling it with a harsh, pungent odor. That's familiar. This is my bed. How did I get here?... Sounds that were at first unrecognizable slowly started coalescing into Yamcha's mind.

"...and there I was, standing there, dumbfounded by these two. They're so bad at fighting they can't even give us a clear winner and loser…"

The voice sounded familiar to Yamcha.

"I was so mad at him. He made me come out and help him when I hadn't even perfected my clone of him… panics every time."

Hmm. Rude. Wait. That's Puar! And she's talking to… oh! The woman from the jeep. Hold on a second. Why is she in our house? What's going on!?

Yamcha was about to give them both a piece of his mind when a third voice spoke, halting him from breaking out of his unconscious act.

"C'mon, don't be so hard on him. In one move he was able to totally outclass me! Give the guy some credit!"

What! HIM!? My opponent? Why is he here! Yamcha was fuming. I'm going to throw them out of here, right now! I'll just wait until they're distracted, and then BOOM! They won't even see it coming!

"Uh, Yamcha," Puar interrupted Yamcha's thoughts, "you do know we can see you shaking, right?"

Startled, Yamcha quickly sat up in bed and faced the others."Well? I want to hear it now! Out with it!"

Krillin tilted his head. "Hear what?"

"The explanation! The explanation for why you're here!"

"Yamcha," Puar spoke up, "let me explain. When you and Krillin got knocked out, Bulma ran over and grabbed me. We soon realized, however, that we weren't really enemies. These two aren't some rich party riding through the desert; they're two adventurers on an important quest. From what Bulma and Krillin told me about it, they definitely don't need trouble from us."

"Adventure? Quest? What are you talking about?"

"They're trying to revive a man who died with something called the dragonballs. He apparently died a horrible death in battle that he didn't deserve.

"Oh? What's so great about this man? Can he fly? Bend metal? Can he steal better than me?"

"Yamcha," Puar said, grimacing, "This man is Master Roshi!"

A silence settled over the air. Yamcha's angry demeanor quickly subsided. He furrowed his brow, turning away from the group to face the room's wall.

"You know," he finally began, "For the longest time, I didn't think the guy existed. In the village where I'm from, he was talked about like any other legend, like the tale of the evil King Piccolo's rise and defeat, or the great heroes of ages long past."

"I was a young kid, you know," Yamcha resumed after a pause, "and I loved those type of stories. I'd be the one to defeat the evil King Piccolo when he returned, or I'd be the one to save the world. And I dreamed that I would be the one to be trained under the legendary Turtle Hermit, Master Roshi. A few years back, I left my village, pursuing those dreams. My quest led me here, where I found something that convinced me that I was a misguided, delusional kid. So I'll be honest; I don't believe you when you say you're trying to bring back Master Roshi." Yamcha fell silent.

"Ahem," Krillin cleared his throat, "excuse me for asking, but what exactly did you find?"

0o0o0

The wind had died down, giving the desert a picturesque quality hard to appreciate when choked by sand. They exited the small house Yamcha and Puar called home, which was haphazardly built into the side of a mesa, and walked away from the road into the desert. Thankfully, only after a handful of minutes walking, they reached a small cave that poked out of the ground at a 45-degree angle, parting the sand too well to be natural. Cautiously, the group descended into it, Yamcha taking care to light and keep lit a wooden torch he had brought with him.

The tunnel descended and made a sharp turn left, opening up into a small chamber. Walls of rough-hewn limestone nearly formed a perfect rectangular chamber. Huh. Definitely not natural then… thought Krillin, as Yamcha finished lighting the torches in the small chamber. Eyes adjusting to the light, Krillin could finally make out the central feature of the room. A simple adorned table. Wait no, that's...

"A grave," Bulma remarked.

Yamcha nodded. "I found this here maybe half a year ago. I was scouring the desert around here on the thinnest lead that the Turtle Hermit had been seen around these parts, when I practically stumbled into this cave looking for shelter during a bad sandstorm. Feeling my way through the cave in the darkness, I eventually fumbled my way to this grave, and," he gestured, "to these."

His eyes following where Yamcha's was pointing to, Krillin could now make out some shapes lying against the back wall of the chamber. What looked like to be a walking stick and a- turtle shell? That thing is huge!- were propped against the wall. It was obvious from the dust on them that they hadn't been used in a long time.

"Krillin, you recognize the significance of these artifacts, right?"

"I mean, yea, everyone at the temple knows about the Turtle Hermit and his calling cards..." Krillin trailed off, eyes still processing what was in front of him. "'With a shell on his back and a stick in his hand, the turtle hermit destroyed many an enemy', or something along those lines. Hmm..." He approached the grave, moving up to the side of it, rubbing his hands over the stone slabs of the grave and looking more closely at the two items.

After a few seconds, Krillin straightened and faced the others. "I'm not convinced this is Master Roshi. And that's not because of what I saw, but based on the evidence here."

Yamcha raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? Why's that?"

"Well, here's how I see it. We need to think about why this grave was constructed in the first place. Someone clearly spent a lot of time and effort building this grave, so they were motivated by admiration, or love, or respect- anything positive, I guess- for the person they were building the grave for. That means there are," he paused, holding up his fingers, "two possibilities. Either one, a student of Master Roshi buried him here, or two, Master Roshi buried a student here. Did you ever consider the second option before Yamcha?"

Yamcha pouted. "Not really. I always thought the shell and the stick spoke for itself. That the person building the grave brought Master Roshi's favored items in life here to lay down with him."

"That's definitely a possibility, but at the same time those artifacts weren't just tools of Master Roshi; they were symbolic of the whole Turtle School of martial arts. From the stories I heard any mention of Master Roshi always included tales of his school and the students he trained. For a student to leave these items here means they had no interest in continuing the legacy of the Turtle School after Master Roshi's death. If a student cared enough for Master Roshi to build a grave for him, they wouldn't have let his legacy die out."

"Okay," Yamcha said, "but that raises the question; why would Master Roshi leave his stick and shell here with his student's grave?"

"I can really only think of one reason." Krillin's tone lapsed into sad disinterest as he finished his thought. "Master Roshi thought the Turtle School died with this student."

No one spoke for a while after that. Yamcha and Puar stared at Krillin, who still lingered near the grave.

Bulma, who was at the back of the cave, suddenly spoke up. "Uh guys, hate to break up this thinkfest, but there's something you guys should know." Three heads turned. "There's a dragonball in the grave."

Silence. Without making a sound, Krillin slowly walked over to the grave and beckoned the three others over. He made a motion to the others to help him lift the top stone lid.

"Krillin," Puar chimed in, unease in his voice, "You can't possibly be thinking of -"

"Please!" Krillin looked frantic. "Just trust me!"

Hesitantly, the three relented and moved over the to grave to help Krillin lift it. After a good minute of testing and grip adjustment, the four made a final push and cleared the lid from the grave, moving it to lay against the tomb on its right side. Dust was thrown up into the air, making breathing difficult. While everyone was coughing, Krillin poked his head forward and looked down into the grave.

"It's what I thought," he said, his hands now bringing out something from the grave. He pulled out an orange orb, one inlaid star shining in the dull light of the cave. "No body. Just this dragonball."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

A group of boots splashed through mud as they walked down the main road of a village. Or, the main road of what was left of a village. Rubble and rock were strewn across the road, splayed out in haphazard patterns that threatened to make the passage through town totally impassable. Houses on the left and right looked squashed, as if a giant hand had come down and flattened them. Among the ruin, there were no signs of life being present.

Slowly, the five of them advanced, taking care to step around the detritus in the road and while carefully scanning the devastated landscape around them. Dressed in dark green camo military fatigues and armed with assault rifles, they walked through in silence.

The lead figure lifted her arm, bringing everyone to a stop. The four others halted behind her, guns raised towards the outline of a building in front of them. After pausing to take one last look around, she walked up to building's rubble, put down her pack and gun, and started sifting through the debris.

"Lieutenant," one of the men spoke up, "I know I'm not supposed to talk during missions-"

A pause from the woman temporarily startled him, before she resumed her searching. He ventured on. "But uh… shouldn't we have more… back-up? Only something real nasty could have done this…"

When the lieutenant replied, her tone was decidedly disinterested. "Soldier, use your reason, not your fear. We received information that this village was attacked and destroyed four days ago. Furthermore, there was a similar village to the east that was destroyed eight days before that. There's a clear…" she grunted as she lifted a large chunk of rock, "pattern to these events. An attack. Destruction. Move on. By now, whatever or whoever has done this is long gone. Besides, we've found what we're looking for." She withdrew her hands from the pile in front of her, pulling out a black box, scuffed and scraped by the rubble but still intact.

She flung back the lid and checked the container's contents. Pulling out a piece of paper from her back pocket, she scanned it and checked off some items with a pen. Reaching the end, she folded the paper back up and placed it back into her pocket, closing the lid on the box as she did.

"We have what we came for," she announced, stuffing the box into her camo-green backpack. "Let's move."

She was greeted by telling silence.

The lack of response to her command angered her, and she spun around, ready to reprimand her soldiers for what felt like the hundredth time today. However, she was surprised to see no one was in sight.

"Commander!" a voice rang out from nearby, "Over here! We've found something- err, someone!"

Interested, the lieutenant padded over to a wall still standing from which behind the voice came from. Rounding its corner, she saw her four soldiers standing over something in the rubble. She moved forward and parted between the two nearest and peered down. A boy, probably somewhere between 10 and 13, was on his back, unconscious. Scars and dried blood covered his naked form from head to toe, inviting the imagination to speculate what he had seen during the attack on the village. Curiously enough, a small brown tail was pinned under his body, the very edge resting to the right of him.

Her second-in-command, a man named Pako, moved up to her side. "Commander, as far as you know, does our army have a policy towards orphaned, nearly dead children?", he delivered as monotone as possible given the circumstances.

The lieutenant's face was unreadable. This kid, horror, war, seen it all, dead, everyone dead, father dead, mother dead, brother dead, sister dead, dead dead dead - the lieutenant shook her head, dispelling her thoughts. Not here. Not now.

"There's one path in front of us, Sergeant Pako. We take the boy." Ignoring his surprised facial expression, she stepped forward and collected the boy in her arms, carrying him back to the parked jeep on the outskirts of the town. Her squad silently fell in tow behind her.

A single thought raced through the lieutenant's head, drowning any reason or emotion that surfaced. Not again!...

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

After carefully repositioning the lid over the grave and paying their last respects to the unknown warrior the cave was dedicated to, the four exited into the surrounding desert. The wind had picked up during their time beneath the surface, and as a result, their return back to Yamcha and Puar's house was far longer than their trip out. While struggling through the newly intensified sandstorm, Yamcha had time to think.

So I guess Master Roshi… didn't die here. He was probably still alive. And I… I gave up on him. No, I gave up on what he represented. I gave up on my dream. I thought Master Roshi was the only path to glory. My only chance to rise above. But that wasn't true; if I wanted to succeed, to do better than all who came before me, I had to work for it, Master Roshi or not. I had to keep dreaming. Soon enough the group finally came to Yamcha and Puar's house, and hurried inside, out of the sand. And I think I know how to do that.

"Puar," Yamcha called to the flying cat once they were inside, "can I talk to you for a minute in private?"

The flying cat glanced at Yamcha, then nodded. The two entered their bedroom and closed the door behind them. Sheets and clothes were sprinkled across the room in a disorganized mess.

"Puar," Yamcha began as he moved to sit down on his bed, "I've been thinking. Do you think we're cut out for banditing?"

Puar hesitated, then shook her head no.

Grimacing, Yamcha closed his eyes. "That's what I thought too. Preparing for this, learning the ropes, then actually trying to rob from someone… it was never satisfying. I always felt like I was settling for something worse than what we could be doing."

He paused. "Puar, another question. What do you want to do in life?"

"To be honest, I couldn't answer that off the top of my head. Maybe have a fulfilling life? Whatever that means."

"Right. So this is what I'm thinking. I think we can both agree our present arrangement isn't the best. So, if there's a way out from what we're currently doing, I saw we take it. Do you understand?

"Not sure I see what you mean."

"All I'm saying is that on the off chance that those two… give us an out, I guess, we should take it. We should leave this life behind and do something we both want to do."

"So you're saying that you want to help revive an old martial arts master? You believe everything they said about the dragonballs is true, magic and all?"

"No! All I'm saying…" Yamcha rubbed his fingers into his temple. "...is that we should join them on the road. The world is a big place, and we're bound to run into a few opportunities along the way while we're tagging along with them. Let's try to help them out, and if that doesn't work out, we leave."

Puar stared at the opposite end of the room, apparently thinking. "Okay. That sounds like a plan. We're a team, right? In it 'til the end?"

Yamcha nodded. "Right. Let's return before they think we're planning to rob them again." The two walked over to the door and opened it, to see Krillin and Bulma facing them smiling.

"So," Krillin spoke, smiling, "We have a question for the two of you."

On that day, in that small, windswept abode in the desert, the beginning of something special started.

0o0o0o0

Far away, in a blooming, colorful forest, a girl sat in a glade, grass and leaves still wet from a rainstorm that had moved over the area an hour past. She knelt before a level stump, items laid out on a cloth wrap on top of it. Her eyes were closed, left hand resting on her left leg and right hand on the grip of a gigantic ax flat on the ground next to her. Two candles flanked her, flames flickering in the wind that brushed across the forest. A particularly strong wind blew across the glade, threatening to extinguish the candle flames. Slowly, the girl opened her eyes and extinguished the two candles to the left and right of her. Grabbing both of them, one in each hand, she suddenly clenched her hands, squishing the candles into clumps, letting them patter down onto the ground below her. She crouched down, collected most of the crushed wax, and packed up the items on the stump. Slinger her ax over her back, she paused to take one more look around. After that, she left the grove as silently as she came, winding in between the trees as she entered the forest. A few minutes after she left, a piece of candle wax left behind inexplicably lit up, almost pushing the grass away from it, forming a small dirt circle around a stoic burning candle. It started to rain once more; the candle burned on indifferent.