Hello, loyal readers (however few of you may still remain). If you're new to my work, I welcome you with open arms. To all those who have stuck with me over this very, very long hiatus, your continued interest in my stories means the world to me. And for those who have written me off due to far too long of a gap in updates, I get it. I don't blame you for a second. I came out the gate consistently posting chapters of a not insignificant length fairly regularly, then abruptly stopped as I was starting to pick up momentum. I want you all to know this was not a calculated decision, nor circumstance born of laziness. The fact of the matter is, these last few years have been some of the hardest of my life. Normally, writing serves as an excellent means of catharsis and working through whatever problems I usually have. That said, its been an absolute gauntlet; so much so that I've written barely anything outside of what you're about to read since I last posted. Not to bore you all or give you a sob story, but it is worth mentioning the sheer magnitude of bullshit heaped upon me in order to better explain (though not excuse) my extended absence and leaving everyone hanging:
The first big hit came in the form of losing my father to suicide. Then came the death of Chester Bennington, lead singer of Linkin Park, also due to suicide. Might seem strange to lump in a celebrity with the loss of a parent, but LP is one of the single biggest influences on my life. I wouldn't be who I am without their music, and their songs have gotten me through many a dark day. Considering the band's place in early 2000's culture, including anime, I'm sure numerous DBZ fans can sympathize.
Next was the loss of my then-fiancé and I's apartment. This was a calculated decision, as we needed to begin saving money for our eventual wedding. Unfortunately, we made the ill-fated decision to move in with my mother and stepfather, who had a dog violently opposed to the existence of our cat. Having to keep her cooped up in our room plus the dog's constant barking plus my mother's alcoholism and overall acerbic demeanor made this situation a living nightmare. We barely got any sleep for a solid two months, and were forced to make the hard decision to move again, this time into my wife's parents' home. This was better, though still not ideal. If you've never moved twice in less than six months, I don't recommend it.
While our living situation improved marginally, we were in a highly conservative household. Her parents and brother would get worked up over the news and fight constantly. Obviously, not the best place to quarantine when a highly-politicized global pandemic starts up. They also had a large dog that, while cat-friendly, was still very high energy. Then one of her childhood cats needed to be put down. The other disappeared, likely having met her untimely end to a coyote. Then her uncle died.
On the upside, pandemic aid and unemployment finally helped us save up enough for our wedding! It was beautiful and everything we ever wanted it to be. Sadly, it was one of the few bright spots in an otherwise tumultuous and trying period in our lives. Mental health struggles compounded with our new mission to find our own apartment. Due to the pandemic, I reluctantly left a job I was happy in for over nine years (notably, one that offered me a lot of downtime in which to get writing done). I replaced it with what seemed like a perfect job, only to be unceremoniously fired after three months due to a mistake I made on duty. My wife also changed jobs, which tends to be far more stressful on her than me.
Flash forward to the last few months. We finally have a house we're comfortable in, though the timing could not be worse. Not long after we moved in, my wife was laid off from her job which she loved and was very easy on her stress levels and anxiety. This led to a soul-sucking job hunt on top of financial troubles, then finding about as perfect a replacement job as one could want, only to be let go after less than three weeks because the position was eliminated. This has wreaked havoc on both our mental wellbeing, and the job hunt continues, amidst trying our luck to see if she can qualify for disability.
Then my mom died and nine of our friends all got COVID within a seven-day stretch. Sometimes, God feels like a kid burning ants with a magnifying glass.
All that said, I'm alive. I'm surviving. And somehow, despite all of this, I managed to finally finish a new chapter! Hopefully the fact this is my longest one yet makes up for the wait in some small way. Luckily, my current job which I'm very happy at gives me time to write via dictation to my phone, so silver linings wherever I can find 'em.
This chapter also took me an especially long time to finish because I put an undue amount of pressure on myself, since I'd been thinking about the events this one covers literally since I began this endeavor. I also knew it would have some of my biggest deviations from Dragon Ball canon yet, and I wanted to make sure said changes felt good and justified. I'll let you all be the judge on how I did.
I feel it would be disingenuous to promise more frequent updates from here on out, though I will try my best. Hopefully life decides to cooperate a little bit. Let it be known I was not lying whenever I told someone in the comments I had not abandoned this story.
Without further ado...
Last Time on…
Dragon Ball: Reborn
Scattered across the Earth, the separate factions of the Dragon Team prepared for the imminent invasion of the Saiyans.
Off in the frozen wastelands of the Tsumisumbri Mountains, Bulma, Chi-Chi, Ox, Oolong, and Puar risked life and limb to secure another Dragon Ball. With only one left to collect, the goal of wishing Goku back to life at last seemed attainable.
Meanwhile, Krillin and Yamcha focused their efforts on locating Tien and Chiaotzu in order to draft them into the conflict. A fierce sparring match ensued, after which Krillin regaled to the pair the events concerning Raditz's arrival, as well as its aftermath. Eager to lend aid and do right by their fallen friend, Tien and Chiaotzu agreed to meet with the others at Kami's Lookout for special training.
As old friends reunited, Gohan continued to push himself in mastering control of his energy. Convinced the child was ready for a more intense lesson, Piccolo unleashed a surprise attack. Gohan was woefully unprepared for the assault, and was nearly felled by the explosion of Piccolo's pent-up anger.
When Piccolo regained composure, they feared they had done the boy in. On the contrary, Gohan survived the barrage, thus revealing a glimpse of his hidden potential. Student and teacher did battle, and Gohan's strength was such that Piccolo was forced to end the fight in a draw.
In the afterlife, Goku narrowly avoided injuring a check-in station worker, though tumbled off Snake Way in the process. Now trapped in Hell, Goku must not only find a way out, but also contend with the wayward spirit haunting him—his brother…
Season 1, Episode 7 -
"Come Forth"
Piccolo and Gohan soared above the clouds at a steady, relaxed clip. An ocean of trees rushed by beneath them. The sight transfixed the boy, as he neglected to look up from it since their flight commenced. Piccolo knew there were other reasons than the wonders of the scenery, however.
Something had changed in Gohan. Shifted. Ever since Piccolo's attack during their training, the child was sullen, withdrawn. Gone was his peppy attitude, his eagerness to learn and impress. He now approached every exercise with trepidation and a note of fear. He was no longer trusting, no longer willing. Even this—his first time flying across a vast distance with no safety net, feeling the air whip around him, seeing the size and scope of the world in a way most never did—should've been thrilling. Instead, he seemed nonplussed. Numb. Resigned to his fate.
Congratulations. You traumatized the kid. Way to go.
"Why are we going to my house? It isn't the weekend yet, is it?" Gohan asked. He must've recognized the route they took each week when training was complete and was understandably puzzled.
Good eyes.
Getting the lay of the land was an important skill in the air. It would serve him well in the coming battle. That is, if he ever saw combat with anyone besides his teacher. As the days grew on, Piccolo was becoming less and less convinced Gohan was long for the life of a martial artist.
The boy kept his distance, electing to fly slightly behind. It didn't go unnoticed. Were it not for their advanced hearing, Piccolo would've had no idea Gohan even spoke in the first place. He was mumbling, as if afraid to address them directly, fearful his words would be met with harsh backlash.
"We're not headed to your mother's, though we are going to Mt. Paozu."
"Why?"
"There's something in the woods I'd like to find," answered Piccolo.
Gohan didn't persist. A week ago, he would've been nothing but questions. Not the incessant parade of whys typical from most children. Queries which were well thought-out, born of a thirst for knowledge. The budding mind of an academic. Instead, the green one was only met with continued silence.
Piccolo initiated their gradual descent. Gohan followed suit. Despite the kid's mood, Piccolo was impressed how well he took to flying. He was a natural, making subtleties which many in his shoes spent years mastering look like second nature. Precise banks, effortless changes in elevation, smooth braking. He had it all down. If his early progress was any indication, evasive maneuvers in the air would be a piece of cake, should he get that far.
Soon, they were coasting mere inches above the treetops. Once they reached an area less dense with vegetation, the duo left the sky and touched onto the bed of mulch at the forest's floor.
"Let's see…your great-grandfather happened upon Goku while on a hike through these woods. Even a spry old man like him wouldn't have gone more than a few miles from home. Your father was no older than three when he was found. He couldn't have gotten far, even with his tail," Piccolo said under their breath, more to themselves than anyone else.
"If you told me what we're looking for, I could be of more use," said Gohan.
Piccolo noted the peculiar phrasing. Of more use. Not of more help. As if any value he brought to the proceedings was purely utilitarian. The boy saw himself as a tool, an object, a thing. Piccolo frowned.
"We're looking for the pod your father came to Earth in. Since him being an alien was such a shock to his friends and family, I'm assuming no one ever found it. If it's still here somewhere, it could be of great use to us."
Gohan digested the information, considered it.
"All right."
All right. Not why. Not how come. It was said dispassionately and with averted eyes, devoid of feeling or emotion. Piccolo couldn't fathom why this bothered them so, why their chest seemed to ache with the notion the boy was in pain and afraid of them.
The guilt plaguing Piccolo was rearing its ugly head once again. Guilt they shouldn't be having, as they knew they were above shallow human morality. Guilt for attacking Gohan, even though it was essential to his training. Guilt for having earned Goku's trust, only to betray him, to murder him in cold blood. Goku obviously planned ahead for such an occurrence, meaning there wasn't an ounce of trust there to begin with. And yet the guilt still remained.
No, he trusted you. Trusted you to do exactly what you did.
It made their blood boil for anyone to presume to know them so intimately. To predict their thoughts, their actions. And to do so in such a way as to manipulate them.
Maybe the idea it was premeditated gave the orange buffoon too much credit. All the same, the results spoke for themselves. It almost made Piccolo wish they hadn't killed him, if for no other reason than to prove him wrong. Instead, they played right into Goku's hand, did the deceitful thing he expected they'd do. Now they were on the hook to train his son, somehow having been enlisted in this struggle to save the world without stopping for a moment to question why.
If they only refrained from killing the poor sap. If only they ignored their baser instincts, their self-serving nature. In one fell swoop, they would've spited Goku and got to continue being the ruthless villain they believed themselves to be.
You'd also probably be dead.
No matter how many times they replayed the clash with Raditz in their head, there was no winning, no matter the outcome, no matter the could'ves and should've-beens. Not really. After all, survival and winning aren't always the same thing.
Backed into a corner, Piccolo was forced to make an impossible choice that day without ever realizing it. Spare the life of the man who took everything from them and die for it, or fall into Goku's trap. Spill blood and pay for it by becoming an unwitting defender of the planet they wanted to rule with an iron fist. Again, perhaps not a calculated plot on the Saiyan's part, though one he would've known was on the table. And Piccolo took the bait hook, line, and sinker.
All you needed to do was not be a monster for once in the two lives you've lived. Then you would've been right. And died for it. Sometimes that's worth it. Instead, you made the correct tactical move. Even Goku agreed. And you happened to survive and get what you wanted in doing so. Win-win on paper, right?
But did you really want it?
"Yes," Piccolo seethed. Gohan didn't reply.
The more I think about it, the less sense it makes Goku could've orchestrated all this. He may have more wits and intuition than others give him credit for. He's no evil genius.
There was also the notion of Goku being right about another thing. The idea introduced to them by Kami the other night on the beach. That Goku believed there was some hidden good within them, able to be brought out with a little coaxing. This concept was thoroughly screwing with them, challenging their whole worldview. If it were true, it meant they weren't simply the rearranged, reborn genetic material of Lord Piccolo, all the relevant thoughts and memories intact. It would mean they were their own person, a completely separate being with some coincidental leftover gray matter. If so, they could do anything, be anything. No longer slave to a legacy they wondered why they upheld for so long, so blindly. The fact they were even questioning it now caused them to lean towards the possibility, almost yearn for it.
Damn you, Goku. Damn you, Kami. My life was simple until you two started mucking everything up.
"Found it," Gohan called out from somewhere Piccolo couldn't see.
They shook their head, banished their daze. They wondered when the boy left their side to go looking on his own. They wondered how obvious it was they were rooted to one spot, lost in a tumult of circular thought and introspection.
Gohan wandered enough of a distance that Piccolo needed to rely on his energy signature to find him. Fortunately, the thick netting of tree limbs, leaves, and vines woven in a tapestry above them allowed the boy's voice to carry quite a way. It pointed them in the right direction. The green one followed the echo and the energy until they rediscovered their pupil on the edge of what barely remained of a crater.
The pod made landfall more than two decades earlier. It was no wonder the hole it punched in the forest's canopy was since grown over. Even the depression it created in the earth was more or less filled in. Rain, landslides, dirt kicked up by passing animals, and numerous layers of detritus must've hid the presence of the Attack Ball almost entirely. Only a two-foot mound of silver and domed purple stuck out from the underbrush.
"Good job, kid. Now stand back," Piccolo barked. Gohan got up from his kneeling position and retreated behind his teacher.
Piccolo raised one hand and funneled their energy into it. They concentrated, pictured the power flowing from their fingertips, imagined it elongating into a clawed shape. They adjusted the position of their hand and visualized gripping the spacecraft before telekinetically lifting it from the ground. Soil and caked debris sloughed off in chunks, carrying with it a robust churning noise. Once the craft was fully unearthed, they relaxed their mental hold and set the ship back down with its hatch facing forward.
The front of the Attack Ball was still open from when Goku exited all those years ago. Piccolo was hoping being nearly buried underground would've forced the thing closed. Instead, the pit seemed to have caved in around it, causing most of the ship's interior to become lined with dirt and grime. Not ideal. Most of the instruments were more than likely compromised. This errand would probably end up being a massive waste of time. A small part of Piccolo silently hoped for such an outcome.
Once it became obvious they were hesitating to volunteer any information, Gohan sighed and spoke up.
"So, what're we doing with it?"
Piccolo turned their head and eyed the child. It took a while for them to muster up a response.
"Your uncle—"
"—He wasn't my uncle. He's not family to me," Gohan interrupted. There was no anger, no resentment in the correction.
Piccolo blinked in rapid succession. While they didn't begrudge the boy the sentiment, it was a train of thought well beyond his years. It displayed an adeptness at compartmentalization most adults didn't possess. They envied it.
Maybe there's a thing or two you can learn from him yet.
"Duly noted. Raditz," Piccolo amended, "mentioned something about mental conditioning technology coming equipped with Saiyan space pods. The Saiyans would use it to teach their infants while travelling to a planet they were sent to raze. Teach them about their race, their history, their mission. Most importantly, it would've taught them how to fight."
Piccolo waited for Gohan to question the last bit, to ask why they weren't keen on teaching him how to fight themselves. When the boy declined to ask, the green one rubbed their scalp and growled with mild frustration. The silent treatment was really starting to irritate them.
"Look. This undertaking? Me training you to help stop the Saiyans? It's not realistic. It simply isn't possible. Your father's friends and I have been working at attaining our respective levels of strength all our lives. I can do little things to help you. Help get your energy under control, teach you basic survival tactics, learn you how to fly. But in order to be an effective asset in the battle to come, you need to have a fairly comprehensive foundational knowledge of martial arts, preferably in multiple disciplines. At the very least, grappling and brawling techniques. Such a thing doesn't come easy. Moreover, it takes an immense amount of practice and due diligence to get right. Trial and error the likes of which would make our spat the other day seem like a cakewalk. Otherwise, your weaknesses would be exploited and you'd be overwhelmed in an instant. Less than a year simply is not enough time."
"We're going to try the conditioning tech on me, then," Gohan said flatly, a vacant stare on his face. It wasn't a question.
Piccolo mulled it over, made absolutely sure it was what they wanted to do. They weren't convinced. But it was the best shot they had.
"It's an attractive option, assuming everything goes perfectly. Though, even if the tech is in working order, I don't know if it's the right decision."
"Why?" Gohan droned.
Excellent question.
"I'm no scientist. That much is obvious. I don't claim to know if this is a viable plan, and if it is, what the results will be. You're a smart kid. Hell, you're a smart person. And yet your mind is still growing, evolving. If we're lucky, the tech will simply add to your repository of knowledge. Endow you with skills you would normally have to spend a decade mastering. On the other hand, rather than add, it could subtract. Overwrite. You may not be the same you when all is said and done. It could erase something vital. An integral piece of what makes you who you are."
"Let's just get it over with," Gohan uttered, cold and indifferent to the dangers of this proposition. Piccolo was stunned.
The boy trotted forward and sifted through the soil clotting the ship's machinery. He did this silently, robotically. Piccolo was frozen, unable to move, unable to think.
"Gohan, wait!" they yelled.
Gohan flinched and stopped what he was doing. He turned his head without leaving the spot where he was working.
"You. You don't have to do this," Piccolo said automatically without any conscious input from their brain. "In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think it's the wrong call. We can find another way. We'll have to work harder—"
"—You said it yourself. It's impossible, otherwise. You're not one to mince words. If you didn't mean it, you wouldn't have said it."
Gohan stood to face them, squared up. For the first time in days, a bit of his old fire seemed to be returning. It was entirely directed at his master. Bland, terrified obedience and distrust were replaced with bitterness, anger, defiance.
You really did a number on him.
Piccolo rolled their eyes and threw their arms up in exasperation.
"I don't know how many times I have to say it for it to sink in. I'm sorry, kid. Okay? I went too far when we were training. It was wrong. I shouldn't have done that to you. But what choice did I have? I needed to! How else are you going to get better? To get stronger? Believe me when I tell you the Saiyans will not be as kind as I was," Piccolo spoke on the verge of losing it, desperately trying to keep a lid on their temper.
Gohan stared them down.
"Y'know, you're really bad at apologizing. Kinda negates the point if you try to justify yourself during it," the boy said dismissively, then crouched and resumed his work. Piccolo was flabbergasted.
Fine. Guess we're doing this.
After another moment of simmering, Piccolo acquiesced and joined Gohan in front of the ship. They knelt and helped the boy remove heaps of brown sludge from the craft's insides. It took nearly an hour to clear enough room to maneuver around within, as well as to find the crucial piece of machinery they needed.
Where this Attack Ball differed from Raditz's was in the existence of a once-gleaming white headset attached to the ship's on-board computer via a metal braided cord. The headset was different from a Scouter, missing the tinted glass eyepiece and providing nearly full cranial coverage, save for a T-shaped viewing window where one's face would be.
"This must be it. I can see a bunch of contact points where it's supposed to meet skin. Probably interfaces directly with the central nervous system," Gohan muttered. Piccolo nodded, unsure exactly what that meant.
"Last chance to back out, kid. Sure you're up for this?" asked Piccolo.
They didn't know why they were still trying to dissuade him, why his choice even mattered to them so. If this worked, it would be a tremendous leg up for them. Why should they care about the boy's preference?
Why indeed?
Gohan said nothing and put the helmet on. He adjusted its position to maximize comfort. It wasn't easy, as the device was built for a child smaller than him, though not much so. It was a little tight, but it would suffice. It occurred to him the headset would certainly be too big on a newborn or even an infant, yet must somehow still function if only a certain number of the contact points are met. This would mean as a Saiyan child matured while journeying through space, they wouldn't outgrow the device until the conditioning was complete, and thus not miss out on any essential programming. Then again, maybe there was some built-in mechanism by which the headset could expand he couldn't see.
"Nothing's happening," Gohan spoke as he tapped the side of the helmet, then the base of the pod. He twisted and coiled the accompanying wire, checking it for kinks, frays, or tears.
"Figures. Probably not operational after being in disuse for so long," Piccolo trailed off. Gohan shook his head.
"I think it needs an energy boost. There doesn't seem to be any juice going to or coming from it. Maybe if I power up a little?"
"Your energy doesn't work like that. You can't convert it to electricity or solar power. Not by any means I'm aware of, in any case. Perhaps Bulma could fashion a way. You can generate some electricity with a big enough power-up. Doing so would decimate the pod entirely. The volume and magnitude we're talking about isn't useable."
"I know they're not the same thing," Gohan exhaled. "Also, we should come up with another word for our energy besides…well, energy. Since there are different types. Especially if you refuse to call it gravity. It's starting to get confusing. I'm surprised you guys haven't done it already."
Piccolo didn't like Gohan's acerbic tone, though couldn't argue the point. They supposed they never really thought about the potential semantic conundrum.
"Such as?" Piccolo queried, humoring the boy.
"I dunno. Like, Spirit? Or something. It's not the best name, since you claim we all have spirits which travel to the afterlife and stuff. We could call those souls. Most of the rest of the world does. Not saying I necessarily believe in souls—"
"—Is any of this," grumbled Piccolo, becoming impatient, "truly important right now?"
Gohan shrugged.
"Anyway, I know electricity and energy…Spirit, what have you, are not the same thing. What I mean is, maybe the ship needs a Spirit boost, not an electrical one."
Piccolo placed their chin between a thumb and index finger, contemplating.
"Go on."
"I've been thinking about it for a while, now. The Saiyans must've known about Spirit, even if they couldn't sense it. After all, they were able to manipulate it, otherwise they would need to fly by some other means, and Raditz might not've stood a chance against you and my dad. Physical bodies have limitations, right? There's only so much you can work out a muscle before you have to augment it. To have the kind of power Saiyans would need to destroy planets, it's obvious they would need Spirit."
Piccolo rocked their head from side to side.
"Stands to reason. You could chalk up their inability to perceive energy as a cultural difference. Based on you and your father, Saiyans seem to be born with a baseline of strength far beyond what your average human is capable of. As a society, they likely viewed strength as an end all be all, the most important aspect of life. This could've led to an accidental discovery of energy…Spirit, followed by a usage of it mostly governed by brute force. Here, we philosophize it, tune it, make it our own. It's an advantage we must exploit at every possible opportunity."
"Right. So, if they had a very rudimentary understanding of Spirit, they would've guessed it's present in most, if not all things. A spaceship isn't always close to a star or near an electrical source. I think the conditioning equipment, Scouters, and ships in general must've been powered by a Saiyan's inherent Spirit. I bet all their technology relied on it to some degree."
"Would yield tremendous differences in development compared to Earth. Advanced in many ways Earthlings couldn't imagine. Practically Stone Age in others."
"Exactly. I'm gonna give it a try."
Gohan placed both hands on the ship and dug his feet into the soil. Piccolo took half a step away.
"Just. Be careful, all right? Start off small. Little bit of energy at first."
"It's not like I can put out much anyway," Gohan spoke under his breath. Piccolo raised a brow.
Yeah, you underestimate yourself, kid. Still got the bruises to prove it.
Gohan closed his eyes and started to focus. His breathing grew heavy, metered. The formerly still forest breathed along with him, tree branches curling and uncurling in the boy's direction. The pressure in the air rose, as did minute particles of dirt and dust surrounding them. Soon, the boy's theory proved correct. Bit by bit, machinery within the ship blinked on momentarily before browning out again.
"Well done. I think we can risk a bit more. Did you notice anything happening with the headset?"
Gohan didn't respond. Piccolo eyed him more closely, pointed their ears in the child's direction. They heard a low sort of grinding noise (what they thought were his teeth), a hard thumping of his heart, his respiration becoming labored.
"Gohan?"
"I see…I see a planet," the boy croaked. His eyes were tightly shut, his jaw clenched. Sweat was beading on his forehead, spilling over the rim of the device cradling his skull. Something was happening all right.
"Describe it," Piccolo commanded, mesmerized.
"It's red. No, more pink. It's huge. Way bigger than Earth. I think it's Planet Vegeta."
"The Saiyan homeworld," Piccolo replied. "Larger planet, stronger gravity. Helps explain the higher baseline strength. How do you feel?"
Gohan groaned and moved his palms to his temples. He looked distressed, though not to an alarming degree. He tried to get his breathing under control, to maintain mastery over the situation.
"My. My head hurts. I'm okay, though. I can handle it," said Gohan. With great effort, the boy opened one eye, smirked, and nodded at his teacher. He meant the gesture to look like a wink. He wasn't sure if his body language and mannerisms telegraphed as much.
"Go on, then. Tell me what you see."
Gohan hunkered down. He closed both eyes again and let the visions of the conditioning tech take him, guide him. He saw images of a proud warrior race. A people who dragged themselves out of the mud and out of their caves to lay dominion over their world. Yes, their world. But it wasn't always. He could see a different race now, smaller and slimmer than their brutish cousins, not terribly unlike humans. The oddest thing about them was their slimy-looking skin that ranged from mustard to teal.
"There was a civil war. The Saiyans shared Planet Plant with another species. The Tuffles," said the boy. "The Tuffles lost. The Saiyans took their technology and meshed it with their own. They renamed the planet. This was thousands of years ago."
Piccolo had no reason to distrust the information, despite never having heard bits of it before. Either the kid possessed a very active imagination and was great at improv, or the helmet was doing exactly what it was supposed to. What they needed it to.
"I feel like this would go faster if I gave it more power," Gohan huffed. "A Saiyan baby is meant to spend years in this thing. We don't have that kind of time. A Saiyan baby would only have been able to put out so much Spirit—probably enough to power the ship and the machine and nothing else. Maybe giving it more would make it fast-forward or something."
"Then go ahead. I leave it in your hands," Piccolo said. They weren't sure if it came off sounding like an order or encouragement. They weren't sure why it mattered.
Gohan increased his Spirit tremendously. He gave it everything he had. The forest and the trees and surrounding greenery no longer swayed with his breath, instead blew outward away from him. The visible natural light dimmed as the Attack Ball's internals all whirred to glorious life, bathing the duo in neon pinks and blues. Piccolo's ears popped from the increase in atmospheric pressure.
So far, so good. Gohan's demeanor changed little. He looked to be in something of a trance, processing a vast amount of audio, visual, and mental stimuli. He didn't appear to be in any more pain than he already was, which even the boy himself said was bearable. Piccolo dared themselves to hope, to think maybe this predicament wasn't so bleak after all.
This could work. Would work. The amount of grueling, back-breaking labor they'd be skipping would be a tremendous boon, allowing them to jump headfirst into combat tactics which would suit them best for winning the day against the Saiyan invaders. Gohan's might combined with their own, as well as the rest of Goku's gang might just be all they'd need. For the first time in Kami knew how long, Piccolo smiled a broad, confident smile, satisfied with their efforts and the results the sweat of their brow produced.
Then Gohan started screaming.
High above the earth, at the bluest point in the sky—the dividing line where clouds gave way to the infinite expanse of space—was Kami. Their legs were crossed with Their hands resting atop Their knees, palms upward, eyes closed. They were in a marble dome-like structure, hovering six feet off the platform below. Large archways lined the ancient observatory at each cardinal direction, giving the Guardian a mostly unobstructed view of the world around Them.
The vision They were born with—the vision given to Them naturally only allowed Them to see so far. For just such a reason, this place was constructed to amplify the Guardian's mental energies, to expand Their psychic reach. All of Earth's separate air currents met and flowed from this one spot. Beyond the meditation area were powerful gusts of wind which could pull a grown person off their feet. In the center where Kami floated, there was a serene calmness which could be attained nowhere else on the planet. It was here the Guardian chose to watch over the myriad species designated as Their children, as well as answer prayers, and when necessary, reach out and touch someone. Which was precisely what They needed to do.
"Master Roshi. Can you hear me?" the Guardian spoke. Their voice echoed and reverberated throughout the chamber, truly making it sound like it was extending across the globe. After a few moments a high, pinched voice uttered a reply in the Guardian's mind.
That You, Kami?
"It is. How are you faring, old friend?"
Eh, Y'know. Managing. Healing. Was actually gettin' ready to head over to Yer neck of the woods pretty soon. Nice of Ya to check up on me, though.
The Guardian emitted an uncomfortable chuckle. "I wish this were merely a call for pleasantries. Unfortunately, our plans have hit something of a snag and must be accelerated."
Uh-oh. That don't sound too good, Roshi replied. The Turtle Hermit sounded much better, healthier than the last time they talked. Hopefully this boded well for his upcoming training sessions.
"True enough. There has been an accident on Goku's quest in the afterlife. I will not bore you with details. Suffice it to say his soul is temporarily trapped in a place neither he nor I can liberate it from. It is beyond My power; a fundamental law of existence governing the other world. Only transubstantiation can put him on the correct path."
Not gonna pretend I understand much of that, but I'll take Yer word for it. How do we help 'im?
"Transubstantiation is the process by which the soul changes states from inhabiting a living body to being dead, and vice-versa. To resume its journey, his soul must transubstantiate. In order for this to happen, he must be brought back to life with the Dragon Balls. I understand Bulma Brief has collected all but one of them?"
Yes indeedy. I managed to get my hands on the last one a couple days ago. Was waitin' on Yer go-ahead to do the deed like Ya told me.
"Excellent. You should pass West City on your way to the Lookout. If you would, please visit Bulma and deliver the ball to her before coming here. Let her know I will be contacting her for further instructions and to try not to have a heart attack when she suddenly hears a voice in her head."
Will do. What kinda timetable we lookin' at here? Wouldn't it be faster fer You to teleport to me, then bring the ball to her?
"I would prefer Goku resurrected by day's end. That should give him plenty of time to accomplish what he needs to while trapped in the place he is. And what you have mistaken for teleportation in the past has actually been a projection of My essence and will onto the earth's surface. My ability to physically interact with My environment when doing so is limited. Truth be told, you have only met Me once in the flesh."
Roshi took a moment to catalogue this new information.
Y'mean at the World Martial Arts Tournament? Against Piccolo?
"Precisely."
All right, think I get it. I'll make sure Bulma gets the Dragon Ball right quick. I'll tell 'er to expect Ya. Anything else?
"That should be all for now. Thank you, Master Roshi."
Hang on, Roshi thought, new questions suddenly occurring to him. If Goku's brought back to life, won't he return here? How's he gonna get his training in the other world?
"If used for the purposes of raising the dead, My Dragon Balls do not revive a person in the same place they died. Do you remember when you, Chiaotzu, and Krillin received the same treatment? Your souls simply rushed into your lifeless bodies, regardless where they were, healing all your wounds in the process. The same would normally happen to Goku, which is why I disintegrated his body on Earth. When he transubstantiates, his soul will simply be made flesh, and he will not move locations. This will free him from the place he is trapped and allow him to continue his long trek."
Gotcha. Makes sense…I s'pose.
"As I said, the details matter little at this juncture."
Loud and clear. Dunno what came over me, questionin' the word of God and what-have-Ya. I'll get the ball to Bulma and see Ya in a jiffy.
"Safe travels, my friend."
Kami severed their telepathic link and opened Their eyes. They unfurled Their arms and legs and shifted Their orientation just enough to be taken off balance and pulled from the center of the chamber by converging winds. They used the powerful gusts to guide Them out the tower and over the rest of the Lookout. It was a practiced maneuver, graceful as a crane coasting to a landing atop a riverbed.
The Temple of the Guardian, better known to the Z-Warriors as the Lookout, was a sprawling sanctuary suspended high above the clouds. It was a bowl-shaped burgundy structure possessing a flat top paved with more gleaming white marble, flecked with veins of black and gray. A massive garden snaked around the base of the central palace atop which Kami's meditation dome sat, populated with myriad species of tree, wildflower, and vegetable. Tending to the lush flora was Kami's right hand and confidant, Popo.
"Ah, Kami! How did it go?" the squat being asked as Kami landed gently beside him, his voice a booming jovial baritone. He set his watering can on the ground and stood from his crouched position over a bed of daisies. Motes of pollen swirled through the air, spreading a pleasant aroma.
"Swimmingly, Mr. Popo. The final Dragon Ball is on its way to Ms. Brief as we speak. Without any further hiccups, the Eternal Dragon should be summoned in a matter of hours."
"This is excellent news, Kami!" Popo chortled as he performed a little dance of celebration. Kami chuckled.
Popo was barely over four feet tall with shiny obsidian skin possessing a texture not unlike that of an orca. Lighter charcoal-colored patches adorned the palms of his hands, the pads of his fingers, as well as his bare chest and stomach. His body was always smooth and cool to the touch, adding a new dimension to his already alien appearance. He had elven ears which hung lower and came to a straighter, sharper point than Kami's or Piccolo's. His iridescent white eyes showed no pupils, so it was often difficult to tell where exactly he was looking. His only articles of clothing consisted of a set of maroon boots, baggy white pants, a thick red cummerbund, and a matching vest which glittered and sparkled in the sunlight. The direct center of his forehead contained a fist-sized cobalt gem surrounded by a gold ring, flanked by two white dorsal-like protrusions which covered the circumference of his skull. No one (not even Kami) possessed any clue as to whether the jewel was decorative or somehow part of his anatomy.
The Guardian's attendant certainly held an aura some considered disconcerting. Many members of the Dragon Team were less than totally comfortable when alone in his presence. Yet none could deny Popo was a kind-hearted soul, gentle and caring by nature. He also held mysterious, strange power within him. This was by design, as he was not strictly speaking a natural being. He was a construct—an archivist and lesser deity given shape and brought to life by the first Guardian of Earth with the express purpose of looking after whomever was chosen to hold the mantle of godhood. It was precisely for this reason Popo could never enter the line of succession, much to Kami's chagrin.
The concept of legacy weighed heavily on the Guardian's mind as of late. It was no secret They were becoming somewhat long in the tooth. Eventually, Their powers would wane; the desire for some much-needed rest would win out over Their sense of duty. Supposing They ever reached such a point. Sadly, They were starting to believe the time to choose a worthy successor was already behind Them. Dark days were on the horizon, and any focus diverted away from quelling the oncoming storm might spell doom for the people of Earth.
"What troubles You, Kami?" Popo asked, a note of trepidation creeping into his tone.
Lost in thought, Kami shook away Their daze and closed Their eyes.
"You know Me too well, old friend. I have seen things…visions torment Me in the night. Ultimately, I believe this is a battle we can win. However, I have less confidence in emerging from it unscathed."
Popo frowned and tilted his head.
"I don't mean to contradict You, but I don't think we have anything to worry about. Earth's Special Forces are all doing everything possible to amass strength. At this rate, we should be more than prepared for the Saiyans' arrival."
Kami chewed Their lower lip and strode past him, Their dragon-headed staff emitting a wooden picking noise with each step.
"Powers are converging," Kami spoke low. "The warriors gather, soon to meet us here. We will do all we can to train them. Still, I fear it may not be quite enough. We may yet win the day. It might come at a heavy cost."
"What makes You think so?" Popo called as he trotted to catch up with his master, now standing at the edge of the Lookout, overlooking the cumulus and continents below.
Kami tried to stall uttering Their thoughts on the matter as long as possible. Speaking them would make them real, tangible. More than simple paranoia or errant conjecture. Though if any sort of preparation was to be made, now would be the time.
"I sense my demise is imminent, Mr. Popo. Make no mistake, I do not plan to join in the upcoming battle. Even now, the defenders of Earth have far exceeded Me in sheer ability. I can provide no viable aid to them, aside from passing on wisdom and doing everything in my power to prepare them for what is coming. If I shall not be fighting, and if My premonitions are as accurate as they have always been, then this leaves only one alternative."
"Piccolo is going to die," Popo uttered, his stare vacant, horror and realization dawning on him.
"I am afraid so. And with him, Me. And with Me, the Dragon Balls. Their mystical energies cannot subsist without their creator."
A long silence rended the stratus.
"That means anyone who meets their end in the battle against the Saiyans…may not be wished back? They'll be dead. Gone for good," Popo stammered, utterly crestfallen by the news his master and best friend may soon perish, as well as the ramifications going forward. "How…how sure are You this will come to pass?"
"Reasonably. When I catch a glimpse of a future event once, it is enough of a sign to take heed, to be on guard. Twice, and I would do well to take serious action. I have dreamed this dream every night for the past month."
Popo was speechless. Kami gave him a tight-lipped, sad sort of smile.
"I only recently dared to wonder whom I might choose to succeed Me once the time for a new Guardian arrives. It seems I have squandered the chance to vet some new blood. If only it could be you! You have the heart and mind of a Guardian, Popo. You would serve the people of Earth well. Alas, I know it is an impossibility."
"Were I able, I would not be unwilling," Popo mumbled.
This was too much too soon. It was bad enough wrestling with the notion they might all die a gruesome, horrible death at the hands of the celestial interlopers. Only a few of them being martyrs for the cause—cut down in their prime—seemed worse in an abstract way. It felt lonelier. More tragic. Maybe thinking as much was selfish. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was precisely the type of feeling which made Popo ill-suited to ascend, incapable of accepting full deification.
"I will rely on you to guide our friends and allies when the day ultimately comes. I was hoping given another chance, Goku might reconsider my offer to make him the next Guardian. Fate seems to have stepped in and nipped said possibility in the bud. And although he is Earth's greatest champion, he is not its greatest weapon. That distinction lies solely with the Dragon Balls. Without them, we lose a vital piece to our defenses. We forfeit our place on the galactic chessboard."
"What are we to do, then?" Popo questioned. He had a feeling Kami was up to something, brewing some sort of plan. The air around Them grew thick with intrigue and mystery.
Kami turned Their attention not down but up. They looked off into the nigh-endless vacuum of the cosmos. Puzzle pieces started to fall into place. A decision was being made.
Goku…I wish you luck in this latest trial placed before you. I pray you achieve the closure you need and soon. We are all of us counting on you.
"Mr. Popo. With the exception of Master Roshi's early arrival, we are due to receive Earth's fighters tomorrow. I believe that leaves us long enough to do a little research. In order to ease My departure from this world, I must confront My past. I must stop running from whence I came."
The Guardian turned to Their friend, wearing a face painted over with resolve and determination.
"I think it is time we took a trip to Yunzabit Heights."
Goku wanted to vomit. He was still confused why he felt such sensations, despite no longer possessing what could strictly be considered a physical body. Nothing about the mechanics of being dead, the nature of the soul, nor the physicality of the afterlife made any sense to him. Though he supposed if anything could make him experience a deep, guttural pain on a spiritual level, it would be his brother's knee, imbedded like a stone pillar firmly between his lungs and large intestine. He gasped for oxygen he wasn't sure he needed, most of it driven out by the patella grinding deeper into his flesh, his organs.
"H-hey, bro," Goku coughed as he tensed his stomach muscles, desperate to keep the protrusion of bone from moving further into his abdomen. "I'm, uh…sensing you're mad about something?"
Raditz clasped a hand around Goku's throat and pulled until their faces were mere inches apart. He reeked of death.
"Now whatever gave you that idea?" Raditz seethed. Goku could feel his ribs folding. "Would it be you yanked out my tail, then allowed your green friend to murder us both? Perhaps it's the utter ruination you've brought to all our plans? Or could it be I've waited so many years, wondering who you were, how you were, and you've turned out to be such a disappointment!?"
Raditz pivoted and tossed Goku by the neck a hundred yards away. He hit the ground like a meteor, leaving a trail of upended boulders and disturbed earth in his wake.
"It's all of the above," Raditz mused as he leisurely followed the path of the new trench in the hellish landscape. "But it seems we now have an eternity to hash it all out."
Goku rolled onto his stomach and managed to get up just as Raditz was fifty feet way. It took much less effort than he imagined it would. He was suddenly realizing the strike to his gut only felt so severe because it surprised him, and thus he wasn't using his energy to protect himself. He found he was still full of pep and vigor. Maybe it was because there existed the prospect of an enticing battle on the horizon. Maybe it was because, for all intents and purposes, he was a ghost. All the same, when next his brother attacked, he was ready.
Raditz closed the gap between them with a gliding rush, barely touching the ground as he skimmed through the air. The billowing of his dust-colored cloak combined with his wild mane of hair made him look like a wraith. Goku pirouetted out of the way and used his spinning inertia to deliver a brutal axe kick to his sibling as he soared past. The hit was good, and Raditz went careening into the rock wall behind them with a deafening crash. There was only a moment's delay before he was springing back, flaring with energy and roaring with rage.
The two collided, causing a concussive impact which vibrated the terrain for miles in every direction. The two circled each other and traded blows for a while, each strike met with an appropriate block or an attempt to counter. Most punches glanced off forearms or were dodged entirely. Kicks whiffed past heads or were otherwise caught at full extension.
For the moment, the pair seemed equally matched.
"You've gotten stronger," Goku complimented as they sparred. "We don't need to fight, y'know. We're both dead. It's not like it's gonna accomplish anything."
Raditz practically foamed at the mouth.
"You make me sick, Kakarot! This sycophantic, cloying nature of yours. Where's your Saiyan pride? Your honor!?"
Raditz threaded fingers with him and increased his power. A white-hot aura of light and energy swirled around him. He put all his strength into his hands and attempted to bend Goku's fingers back and break them. His brother wouldn't budge, instead raised his power in kind. They planted themselves and growled at one another like rabid dogs as they struggled for dominant footing, their commingled fighting spirit decimating the landscape and widening a crater beneath them.
At last, one of them started to buckle. Raditz bent a knee and was suddenly on the defensive against Goku baring down on him. His cloak and hair flapped wildly in the wind created by their clash. The area somehow grew even darker around them as the light of their auras grew brighter like flames in the night.
"How—h-how have you gotten this much stronger!?" the elder Saiyan screamed as his spine curved further backward, his grip and Goku's hands moving above him rather than in front. He was being driven into the ground. He was losing this grapple, badly. Cracks appeared in his armor from the pressure surrounding. His tail unfurled from his midsection and undulated, momentarily distracting Goku.
I thought I ripped it out…
"Give up! You can't win," the younger Saiyan hollered over the roar of convulsing, billowing spiritual dynamism enveloping them both.
Two opposing energy signatures, more alike than they were different. Goku felt an odd sensation of closeness, of kinship with his brother then, as if they were beginning to understand and know one another purely through the zest of battle. He wondered if this was how it was for Saiyans; their true natures could only be expressed and understood in the heat of a fight.
"N-never! I will never yield!" Raditz shrieked and diverted all the power he had left into his fingertips, which took on a hot pink, crackling vivacity. Goku's eyes widened as his digits and knuckles went ablaze with radiant fire. Soon, it was too much for him to hold, and Goku's grip loosened just enough for Raditz to capitalize and blast a beam of pure, undiluted Spirit from his hands, sending his kin rocketing away. It only overpowered him briefly, for Goku was quickly able to twist out of the attack's path before it could do any serious damage. He landed in a crouch, still within earshot as the magenta energy continued on to a distant mountaintop where it finally exploded and dispersed.
Silence permeated the improvised arena as the Saiyans regained their composure. The only audible sounds were their breathing and the howl of the warm wind.
"How…how did you attain such power since we died? It couldn't have merely been your Restoration, even if you did shuffle the mortal coil," Raditz spat, demanding answers. Goku only stared on quizzically.
"Restoration? What do you mean?"
Raditz thought he was going to burst a blood vessel. His eye twitched as a long breath slowly hissed out of him.
"You absolute moron. Restoration. It's a trait unique to Saiyan biology. Haven't you ever wondered why your power level doubles, triples, sometimes more after suffering major injuries?"
Come to think of it, Goku certainly noticed when that happened, and yet he never questioned if there was any deeper meaning to it.
"I always figured it was part of the learning process. Fighting's the only thing I've ever been good at. And y'know what they say. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
Raditz snorted with derision.
"Most intelligent thing I've heard out of your mouth since we met. Still. I'm easily five times the warrior I was since we died, thanks to my own Restoration. In addition, I've been here slaying demons for…Gods, how long has it been? Months, at least. I'm not sure. Time's screwy in this place."
Raditz grew a little cagey as he ruminated on the passage of time, or lack thereof. Perhaps subconsciously, his attack stance relaxed. Goku let his do the same, dared himself to gradually, cautiously approach his brother. He noticed this, though didn't protest, didn't bring his guard up again. What was the point? At this juncture, he wanted answers more than revenge.
"You're right. I guess I have been busy since my…Restoration," Goku spoke, committing the term to memory. Raditz squinted and folded his arms as his posture straightened.
"How, then? I imagine you couldn't have died long after I did. And yet you didn't arrive here until just a little while ago. What've you been up to, Kakarot?" he snarled.
Goku stopped in his slow march forward when they were within spitting distance of each other. Probably close enough, he wagered. For now, at least.
"I understand your buddies are on their way to Earth to finish what you started. I'm not one to leave my family, my friends, my home undefended. So, my planet's Guardian secured training for me with this guy called King Kai."
At this, Raditz recoiled.
"You…you're training with a Kai?"
"Yeah! You know 'im?" Goku questioned like a curious infant. Raditz rolled his eyes.
"I know of the Kais. Never imagined they were real. Myths and legends pieced together from the various cultures we wiped off the map for the Planet Trade. All-knowing, all-seeing deities who watch over their respective parts of the cosmos. Always struck me as nothing more than childrens' bedtime stories. Then again, I never believed in a Hell either until I found myself in one."
"Yeah, well, I guess they're real. Kami only told me about the one, so I dunno if there are others. Anyway, I was on my way to go meet 'Im. Traveled across Snake Way for a long, long while. Eventually, I hit a bit of a snag, fell off, ended up here. I guess the journey's been doing more for me than I thought. I bet it's what made me so much stronger."
Raditz balked, though was clearly interested, based on his change in demeanor. He wondered how he could use this new information to his advantage. Maybe there was some logic in a temporary truce with his wayward brother. Who knew what helpful tidbits he could gleam from the buffoon if buttered up a little? Not to mention there was still the very real, ever-present danger of what lied beyond the horizon. That more than anything weighed on Raditz as he at last made up his mind.
"I suppose we should get moving. Demons are never far away here. Staying at least one step ahead of them is the only way to keep from getting swarmed."
Goku tilted his head like a curious animal. Raditz found this to be an apt comparison, for he saw the same vacuous, vacant quality in his sibling's stare he might from a canine or similar creature.
"Does this mean you're done trying to kill the already-dead guy?" Goku questioned optimistically. Raditz narrowed his eyes and emitted a grumble, the expression on his face somewhere between annoyance and begrudging amusement.
"For the moment. Though I reserve the right to change my mind. After all, you are on my turf."
Goku chuckled and shrugged in agreement. With that, the Saiyan brothers started to walk, and for the first and last time, truly talk with one another.
To say Gohan's scream was ear-piercing was to say nothing of ear-piercing screams. Earth-shattering was more accurate. The entirety of the forest floor beneath him rumbled then splintered, giving way to a series of fissures radiating in a circle around the boy. Piccolo pitched backwards and clutched their ears in sudden, sharp agony. The atmospheric pressure intensified as the child's voice and Spirit intermingled, became one.
For a millisecond, Piccolo thought they caught a glimpse of the extent of Gohan's true power. It was like peering into a well—one whose cobblestones and moss created a rich tapestry of shadows, each dark corner and crevice a further hint at the scale and magnitude of the strength hidden within. Except this well seemed bottomless. Endless. It was like staring into a yawning chasm, awe-inspiring as it was terrifying.
In terms of training, virtually no time passed between their sparring match and now. And yet the difference was undeniable, almost unbelievable. Either Goku's son was the greatest prodigy to ever live, greater even than his father, or the boy's raw, untapped ability could only be harnessed in moments of immense stress, anger, or despair. Further refinement would prove which was true. Maybe both.
One thing was certain: if Gohan continued to hone his abilities after today, he would eclipse Piccolo before long. They weren't sure whether such a development would elicit in them a sense of burgeoning pride or indignant rage.
Momentarily sidetracked by the breadth of possibilities laid before them, Piccolo was violently brought back to the immediacy of the situation as Gohan's outburst somehow reached a new crescendo. The topsoil and impacted dirt continued to buckle as the surrounding trees splintered at their trunks. They needed to put a stop to this and fast. For all they knew, the kid was dying.
With great effort, Piccolo opened their eyes. They realized they had been blown further away by the shockwave than they originally thought. They took one hand from their ears and immediately felt a bursting sensation in their skull. They could feel liquid oozing from their ear lobe, trickling across their neck. Thinking quickly, they reached out their free hand and willed all their Spirit into elongating their arm at the elbow. The limb sprang forward and cut through the waves of energy like a bullet moving through a body of water until their long-nailed fingers clutched the braided cables on the back of Gohan's helmet. They gripped and yanked with all the force they could muster. There was resistance, followed by a rip, a tear. The headset came away smoking and sizzling. They knew there had to be some hair and flesh left behind, adhered to the device. It was a small price to pay for getting it off him.
The added layer of pain must've sent Gohan over the edge. He collapsed on all fours and let loose one final bellow multitudes louder, more intense than the ones before. The former crater beneath them widened anew as trees and branches and foliage shot away in every direction like missiles of greenery.
A series of hairline fractures appeared on the purple dome and off-white surface of the Attack Ball before the entire thing exploded in a hail of rapidly-immolating machine parts. Piccolo was taken off their feet by the blast and tumbled away until their spine impacted squarely with the base of a massive oak tree which would not yield to the young half-Saiyan's cries.
After what seemed like minutes, the whine in the air finally abated. Dim light slowly returned to the area as the violent rustling of the forest canopy gradually came to a rest. Now that the woods were calm once more, there was a booming sort of echo all around like the brief respite between claps of thunder in a storm.
Getting their bearings, Piccolo made their way to their feet and approached the boy. Miraculously, Gohan hadn't lost consciousness, instead remained in the same four-legged position in the dirt, sobbing hysterically. Piccolo didn't have much of a choice except to proceed cautiously, as they were still unsure of the sort of damage done to their eardrum, as well as the boy's mental state. They wobbled on their feet; their equilibrium thoroughly messed up.
What's done is done. All that's left is to pick up the pieces.
"Gohan? Are you okay? Can you move?"
He didn't respond; he only continued to cry. This was new and uncharted territory for Piccolo. They possessed no concept of how to soothe a distraught child. Moreover, they weren't sure why the responsibility should fall on their shoulders. And yet, amidst the indignation and the affronted pride, there was something else. A feeling bubbling up inside them. Something that wasn't there before, wholly unconnected to their progenitor, whose words still buzzed in their head from time to time. To this day, they didn't know if the voice was real, an auditory hallucination, or a self-imposed sense of duty and guilt. Nevertheless, it was quiet now, pushed into the background. All that remained were the same instincts which took them over after Gohan's previous outburst. A desire to console, to make amends, to protect. Feelings they previously didn't think they were capable of.
They fell to their knees in front of Gohan and scooped him up into their arms.
"I'm sorry. You can talk to me. Let it out. You're safe."
"I saw it. Oh, Kami—I saw it all. The people they killed. The civilizations the Saiyans destroyed. All the pain, all the fear, all the death…they're monsters."
Piccolo nodded grimly. They pressed Gohan's cheek to their chest while stroking his hair. They felt a wet spot blooming in front of their breastbone, a commingling of tears, sweat, and blood. As soon as he was relaxed enough, Piccolo would need to check him over for any serious injuries. Though they wagered, given his genetic pedigree, any wounds which weren't life-threatening would already be on their way to healing. Even if there were ones requiring immediate attention, a simple lesson in channeling one's Spirit towards recuperating would vastly hasten the process. That is, if there were any lessons after today. Mending the boy's psyche was another matter entirely.
"I never should've let you get in that thing. I shouldn't have even suggested it. It was reckless and foolhardy. I'm sorry, Gohan."
"I don't wanna do this anymore. I can't! I'm just a kid! I don't know what I was thinking," he blubbered.
So, that's it then.
Piccolo sighed with resignation. They were afraid of such an outcome, yet were prepared for it. In the back of their mind, they knew the boy wasn't long for battle, wasn't bred for the world of combat and power struggles, despite his lineage. Maybe his mother was to blame. Maybe it was the fact half of him was human, thus creating a weaker constitution. It was also possible said dichotomy was the key to his vast untapped strength.
Intermingled with Piccolo's attempts to regroup—to form new plans and strategies in the wake of this turn of events was an odd sense of relief they hadn't expected. Not of being free of the shackles of training his enemy's son, but at the sheer prospect the child would no longer be in danger, no longer forcing himself to do something he didn't have his heart in. Piccolo couldn't for the life of them theorize where those feelings came from.
"It's okay. You don't have to. I understand. This was far too much far too soon. This isn't your fight and it needn't be."
Gohan wrapped his tiny hands around Piccolo and cried harder. The green one hugged him tighter, shocked how good it felt, the warmth of the gesture. Moreover, they found themselves euphoric Gohan didn't seem afraid or resentful of them anymore, though they rationalized it was likely due to them being the only person nearby who remotely cared for him.
They expected the voice of Lord Piccolo to fly to the forefront of their consciousness and chastise them for giving in to such insipid, petty human feelings. For reasons they couldn't begin to explain, it didn't occur. Instead, for the first time they could remember, Lord Piccolo's voice and influence were totally absent, leaving behind nothing save concern for the well-being of their student. The student who, in defiance of their best efforts to deny as much, had come to mean a great deal to them.
Briefly, they wondered if this was what having a child felt like, at last experiencing true remorse. For once, they lamented—not for the parent and innocence Goku stole from them, but the father and innocence they stole from Gohan.
An hour later, the two of them were in the living room of the Son family home further up Mt. Paozu. Gohan sat at the kitchen table with a towel around his shoulders, a cold compress on his forehead, and a mug of piping hot tea in front of him. Piccolo stood a few feet away holding a cordless phone some distance from their ear, the receiver angled towards their mouth. Goku's son still bore a fierce headache, bloody nose, and sore throat from all the screaming. Luckily, that was the extent of his physical injuries. Piccolo indeed blew an eardrum, which was still regenerating, hence why they held the phone so far from their head. The electronic hum alone of such devices was exceptionally painful at the moment.
"You're sure this is the right number? And she'll be able to hear me on this…'speaker phone'?" the green one asked after several rings. Technology was far from their forte.
Gohan nodded without saying anything. Piccolo didn't take it personally. They knew the boy was still terribly shaken from their trial in the woods.
"Bulma Brief," came a light, bubbly voice from the other end. Even as far away from their damaged ear as the phone was, the blue-haired scientist was still much too loud for their liking.
"Hello, uh. Yes. Bulma? This is Piccolo."
There was a long pause before Bulma replied.
"Oh, umm…hi, Piccolo. How's it going? What's up?" she asked awkwardly. It was rare for anything to catch her so off guard. Had the heiress to the Capsule Corporation been asked previous what her top five most unexpected occurrences could possibly be, receiving a phone call from Piccolo would've sat comfortably at number four, right between discovering she was pregnant and Yamcha receiving a doctorate in clinical psychology.
"There's been something of an incident. I need to speak with Chi-Chi. Gohan's fine, it's just—"
"—Speak up or talk closer to the phone, I can barely hear you!" Bulma interrupted. Piccolo grit their teeth and growled. Gohan couldn't help smirking at the exchange.
"I said put Chi-Chi on the phone, damn it! I need to talk to her about Gohan."
"All right, all right! No need to be such a grouch. Is he okay?"
Piccolo took a beat to observe the kid, which must've spooked Bulma, because even sans an ear, they could still hear her yell in the distance for the boy's mother with perfect clarity. A few seconds later, Chi-Chi picked up the phone.
"Piccolo? Is Gohan all right?" she asked somewhat frantically.
"He's fine," they replied much more calmly. "He's a little worse for wear and could use his mother. We've come to the mutual decision I will not be training him anymore. It's for the best. I'll explain in greater detail when you get here."
There was another pause, this time on Chi-Chi's part.
"Okay. I'll pack up and head home right away. Bulma will give me a ride; shouldn't be more than an hour."
Piccolo nodded, perhaps unaware Chi-Chi could not see it, then clicked off the phone and placed it on the table.
Silence permeated the Son household.
Piccolo recounted recent events in their memory. They weren't batting a thousand with their decisions as of late, but they didn't know when or if they might see Gohan again after this, and there was something pressing on their mind. They took a seat at the table across from the boy and steepled their fingers.
"Gohan. I know you're still recovering, and I don't relish having to do this. Judging by the state of you, you must've seen and learned quite a bit whilst in the ship. You don't want to fight and I don't want to make you. However, what you saw in there could be of great importance. You may have discovered information which could be vital to stopping the Saiyans. If you're feeling up to it, I would appreciate some insight into what you experienced."
Gohan stared at the table, listless. Unresponsive. Piccolo sighed.
"Right. Seems I can't resist the urge to be self-serving even for ten minutes. You've endured enough unfairness on my behalf."
Piccolo made to get up, then stopped when Gohan began speaking.
"We were right. About our hypothesis."
Piccolo stared for an instant before settling back into their chair.
"Our hypothesis?" they questioned. They had an inkling what the boy was referring to and considered it highly charitable to call it "their" hypothesis. The young one did all the mental heavy-lifting. Piccolo merely extrapolated on the idea.
Gohan took a sip of his tea, then continued.
"The Saiyans had a very crude, basic understanding of Spirit and how it works. Enough to perform feats of strength like flying, energy projection, bolstering their bodily defenses, harnessed it for some of their tech. But they couldn't sense it in others, nor could they use it to its fullest potential."
"Sounds good for us," Piccolo noted. Gohan lolled his head from side to side.
"The problem is, while a Saiyan can pass for human if their tail's been removed or concealed, they possess a number of genetic advantages, regardless of Spirit. They're bigger, stronger, faster, have keener senses…you get the point. This means any training they do multiplies their physical prowess at a far more exponential rate. What might take years for anyone else to achieve, they probably could in months, if even."
"Which explains why your father was such a natural, even at your age."
"Right. Even if they have comparatively little control over their Spirit than we do, they're able to accomplish much more with less. A Saiyan like my dad who knows the ins and outs of it is truly dangerous."
Piccolo blinked rapidly, processing.
Or you.
"I see. Their handicap of being unable to sense us will only be exploitable in very specific situations, and their raw power will likely make up the difference. We may be able to craft more elaborate, complex attacks with our Spirit, though it'll still be difficult to capitalize on our greater mastery of it. Not quite the advantage I hoped it would be," they exhaled, an air of defeat surrounding them. Gohan shrugged.
"Better to know it than not. In any case, we—well, humans at least, have an edge over them in brainpower. Generally speaking. I'm sure there are—or were—smart Saiyans. As a whole, the species isn't terribly bright. They've come a long way, for sure. Though it's why their war with the Tuffles lasted so long. The Tuffles had the edge in strategy and technology, while the Saiyans' forte was their resilience and tenacity. It was a war of attrition the Tuffles slowly lost. Their fate was sealed once the Saiyans started attacking during full moons."
At this last point, Gohan locked eyes with Piccolo. The boy looked positively haunted.
"You know all about that, then."
Gohan nodded solemnly.
"Neither my mom, nor my dad ever told me exactly what happened to my great-grandpa. My namesake. Just that he had an accident when my dad was a kid. I know my dad grew up with a tail, and mine was removed not long after I was born. There are some baby pictures around the house where I still have it. I guess my mom just couldn't bear to get rid of them. She told me the tail was a birth defect; that I was her perfect little boy, but removing it would make me healthier. I guess it wasn't exactly a lie. Anyway, I can put two and two together about what happened to my great-grandpa. My dad was young, neither of them would've had any way of knowing what was coming or how to prepare for it when a full moon appeared. I bet they got lucky and missed at least a few of them. Maybe my dad was asleep and unable to see it for a while. I know he lived alone after the age of five or so. So…" Gohan trailed off.
Piccolo frowned and lowered their head.
"I won't lie to you. You're not wrong. How does it make you feel?" Again, more questions Piccolo wasn't sure why they cared about the answer to. Gohan merely shrugged again.
"I never knew my great-grandpa, so it's not like I ever really had a chance to miss him. I don't hold it against my dad. It wasn't his fault. He probably did the right thing having Kami purify him, he and my mom getting rid of my tail. They couldn't have foreseen it would be a tactical advantage now. If there's a full moon when the Saiyans arrive, we are in deep trouble."
"Agreed. It won't be easy to attack or remove their tails to nullify that possibility and even the playing field a bit. Nevertheless, it's the only true weakness they have, so we need to try."
"There's one other," said Gohan between gulps of tea. "They are a very proud, very honor-driven species. I'm sure some would call them egotistical. If they perceive enough of a power gap between us and them, maybe we can get them to take us on one at a time for sport. For the challenge. If they attack us in unison, we stand virtually no chance. All of us against one, however, could be the edge we'd need to eke out a victory."
Piccolo took note of the fact Gohan kept using the word "we", as if he were still in this fight.
Something definitely changed in the boy since being in the Saiyan space pod. Piccolo knew when they first met Gohan he was uncommonly intelligent and mature for his age. Whether those were natural gifts or due to his mother's tutelage was up to guesswork. Having one of the smartest people on Earth as a godmother couldn't have hurt. Maybe the Saiyan instinct for self-improvement combined with the human thirst for knowledge played some role. Either way, the shift between then and now was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it was certainly there. His silences no longer carried a note of anxiety or the sense of being in over one's head. Now, his long bouts of quiet seemed filled to the brim with contemplation, consideration, purpose. So many shifts in personality in such a short while must've been wreaking havoc on his psyche.
Or maybe the brainwash did exactly what you wanted it to.
"You speak as if you'll still be joining us on the battlefield. I meant what I said, Gohan. Regardless of circumstance, this is not your burden. It's my fault your father isn't here right now to fight alongside us. I own that. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I genuinely hope all goes according to plan with the Dragon Balls and he does get here in time. If for no other reason than the increased chances of my own survival. That said, his battles are not your own simply by virtue of blood," said Piccolo. They noted the irony of them being the one to communicate such a thing, wondered how long it would take to internalize and subscribe to their own message.
Gohan nodded. He broke eye contact when doing so. Piccolo could sense much conflict in him.
"I know. I'm only a kid. I'd be a liability out there."
"That is far from the truth," Piccolo chastised. "You've come a tremendous way since we started training together. You have every bit of your father's fire. And who knows? Perhaps your hybrid lineage provides some type of strength unknowable to a full-blooded human or Saiyan. The power you tap into when enraged seems to indicate as much. Do not mistake me releasing you from responsibility as me deeming you incapable."
Gohan responded with a curt, sharp nod and a tight frown, yet his eyes told another story. There was moisture, warmth, pride. Piccolo could tell he appreciated the acknowledgment of his abilities. It made them feel good to bolster the kid's self-esteem for whatever reason. They wondered, despite his parents' unconditional love and support, how often either one of them actually told him he was doing a good job and they were proud of him. They wondered if they should broach the subject with Chi-Chi.
"Your mother will be here soon. Do you feel there's anything else I should know before I leave?" Piccolo asked.
Gohan spent a moment concentrating. Sifting through his thoughts. He looked to be wrestling with something.
"The Saiyans have an ability. I can't begin to tell you how the mechanics of it all works. I think they call it 'Restoration'? Basically, whenever one of them heals from near-death or being beaten within an inch of their life, their power level skyrockets. We're talking like, anywhere from double to quadruple what it was prior. Might go further to explain your claim I'm making steady progress. I dunno. I can't foresee how or why we'd let them get a chance to heal in the coming fight. Suffice it to say if we do, we're dead."
Piccolo stared off into space for a while before attempting to massage away the steadily increasing pain in their temples. They couldn't tell if it was from their eardrum regenerating, thus them acclimating once again to their hypersensitive hearing, or simply all this new unsavory information bringing with it the onset of a migraine. In any case, they felt their threshold for bad news was at a limit for the day.
"Great. So, shoot to kill. Got it. Of course, fate couldn't stop at throwing two insurmountable threats at us. It had to ensure they would also be some of the best natural killing machines in the universe."
Gohan said nothing. In the distance, they both could hear the telltale electronic hum and whirring blades of a Capsule Copter fast approaching. Piccolo took this as their cue to leave.
"Well, kid. Take care of yourself. Take care of your mother."
Without thinking, Piccolo stuck out their hand. After a brief hesitation, Gohan gave the tiniest of smiles and shook it. Their green skin was almost tacky, cool to the touch, a sharp contrast to the smoothness and warmth of his own. Neither could explain—or perhaps didn't want to admit—the sadness that welled up in them both once their hands separated and student and teacher were no more.
"It was the third World Martial Arts Tournament I competed in and the first I've actually won! Trophies and stuff have never really mattered much to me. I know it would've made my grandpa proud, though. Man, my battle against Piccolo was the hardest I've ever fought…I mean, you were pretty close, don't get me wrong! The fight with Piccolo was much longer. Like, almost half a day!"
Goku tried to save face at the end, yet knew he overshared, based on Raditz's irritated expression. To his credit, he paid the unintended slight little attention and merely rolled his eyes.
"Piccolo. You are referring to your green friend who killed us, yes?"
Goku laughed nervously and rubbed his head. He almost corrected him and said it was technically Gohan who dealt the finishing blow, instead found the sense to stop himself from doing additional damage to his brother's self-worth. It might've also happened so quickly Raditz was unable to remember or perceive the particular detail.
"I don't know if I would necessarily call us friends. I don't think we're exactly enemies anymore. They have helped me save my son's life twice now. Who knows? We might become friends in the future! I like to think I can see good in people even when they can't."
Raditz spat on the ground as they continued their hike.
"For the record, I was never going to kill your son. I thought I made as much perfectly clear, hence why I still find your actions against me rash, to say the least."
"You did threaten to kill everyone else on Earth. I feel our actions were justified," Goku replied matter-of-factly.
"Mostly everyone else. And again, not because I wanted to. Because I had to. My leader's plan necessitates us staying under the Planet Trade's radar until the time is right. I swear to you I am not exaggerating when I say there is literally no other way. No other path to success."
If Raditz was capable of being convinced otherwise, Goku certainly didn't have the drive to do so right now. He decided to try and let it go. He found it difficult.
"Your leader. Not the head of the Planet Trade, right?"
"Correct. One of the two Saiyans on their way to Earth."
"Well, who is he? Tell me about 'im."
"Why? So you might have an edge against him? I don't think so, little brother. I am his loyal servant. Moreover, he is my friend. I will not betray him, even in death."
Goku stopped in his tracks and placed a firm hand on Raditz's shoulder, halting him. The brothers faced each other with steely expressions atop the hellish plane. The silence between them was palpable, interrupted only by the howl of the wind and crackle of red lightning on the horizon.
"You said it yourself. You don't even believe the Dragon Balls I told you about are real and that I'm gonna come back to life. What's the harm?"
"On the off chance you are not delusional, I refuse to do or say anything which might help you kill my true master," Raditz sneered.
"Then give me any reason at all not to! Please. We're an endangered species, right? Can't your friend be reasoned with? Can we reach any sort of compromise? If there's any common ground we can find or any road which doesn't lead to a fight to the death or my planet destroyed, I'm willing to pursue it!"
"That is the least Saiyan thing I've ever heard uttered from the mouth of one of our own!"
Goku thought Raditz was about to take a swing at him, yet he never did. The long-haired, cloaked Saiyan stood in place, curling and uncurling his fists, gnashing his teeth.
"Common ground…you mean aside from the fact we all share an enemy? Aside from the fact, regardless of my leader's intervention, our enemy will eventually come to do the job himself and finish what he started, so long as there is a single Saiyan left alive who doesn't bend the knee? Aside from the fact he killed all but a handful of us with his bare hands, laughing as he did so!?" Raditz shouted.
Goku shook his head. "Not good enough. You're proof I've never met a foe I couldn't defeat in the end. Or bring over to my side. Depending what you tell me, I might even be willing to help your friend with his cause. But the destruction of Earth is NOT something I will let happen."
"What bargaining chips do you possess, Kakarot? Hm? What do you have to offer for this information? I'm a spirit in Hell! I need do nothing except sit back and relax while my compatriots flatten your comrades and your world without breaking a sweat."
At this, Goku dared himself to square up to Raditz. He locked eyes with his sibling, matched his ferocity, refused to knuckle under. For a long while, neither of them spoke. Neither of them made a sound. In the end, it was Raditz who broke, though not in the way Goku imagined he might.
Goku caught a glimpse of something behind his brother's weary expression, behind the posturing and bravado. A flash of emotion, however brief. The unfettered optimism which ruled most of Goku's outlook on life beckoned him to believe it was a shred of remorse for the things his brother had done, the path what led him here. His small, ever-growing pragmatic side told him otherwise. Told him there was an amount of mental calculus at play the gentler Saiyan couldn't begin to fathom. He noticed his hand was still on Raditz's shoulder, and Raditz hadn't made any effort to break the physical contact. He wondered if it meant anything.
With great effort, and by all appearances some amount of pain, Raditz began to speak.
"My master is Prince Vegeta, son of King Vegeta, 32nd of his name, last scion of the royal bloodline and our one true leader. Well, 'last' isn't entirely true. He has a younger brother, Tarble. He was born with a much lower power level and the king didn't want his sons vying for the throne, so he exiled him to a remote corner of the galaxy for training. No one's seen or heard from him since. For better and worse, Prince Vegeta was also off-planet when his namesake—our home, along with nearly every living Saiyan—was eradicated."
"What do you mean by better and worse? He survived, didn't he?" Goku questioned.
Raditz closed his eyes, a mournful look on his face. His heart (or its afterlife equivalent) ached. What he said next was barely above a whisper.
"To truly understand the plight of our people, you must understand those who became our benefactors, and later our backstabbers."
Raditz took a step away and turned, arms folded, lost in memory.
"The Planet Trade is ruled by a family, three strong. Each of them wields power the likes of which you could scarcely comprehend, as well as dominion over a third of their empire. Thousands of planets have been subjugated under their rule, tens of thousands more cleansed and sold. We have always been a violent, exacting species, no doubt. Their barbarism makes ours look like child's play."
Goku squinted, intently focused, trying his absolute best to follow. It was a lot of information to digest.
"In our efforts to transcend our intellectual shortcomings and become a more advanced civilization, we broke bread with monsters and thus became monsters ourselves. They gave us the means to travel the stars, gave us new sandboxes in which to test the limits of our innate brutality. We were very good at what we did, and not many of us could see what we were doing was sowing the seeds of our demise.
"Eventually, the head of the three-pronged family who rules the Planet Trade ceded control of Planet Vegeta to his more sadistic, unhinged son. This creature is the one who committed genocide against us. This thing saw us as mere monkeys until the day he didn't. He was spooked by one of our old legends, convinced a Saiyan would be born with strength equal to or greater than his own. It was then he saw fit to kill us. Unceremoniously, without bargain or mercy. And yet, his arrogance remains boundless."
"Sounds like a real charmer," Goku breathed. He could definitely understand the hate his brother harbored for such a being. Raditz either didn't hear the comment or felt it wasn't worth acknowledging.
"He knows he is the most powerful thing in existence, rivaled only by his brother and father, though is terrified of it not being true, is obsessed with maintaining an air of ultimate supremacy. It's not enough for him to instill servitude through fear. He also enjoys breaking the will of his subordinates. Thus, in his hubris, he took in Prince Vegeta when he was just a boy, shortly before blowing up our planet. Less as an heir and more a pet. Less a ward and more a slave. The abuse and torture and horrors he's endured his entire life at that tyrant's hands are details to which I am not privy, nor do I believe I would want to be. Vegeta has bled and suffered to keep that monster at bay and stay his hand from hunting down the last few stragglers who escaped his warpath. And right under his nose, Vegeta endeavors to undo him with the very same legend he once feared."
"Why did his father give him up?" asked Goku. Raditz shrugged.
"I haven't the slightest. I wasn't around when it happened. I, too, was a victim of the Infiltration Protocol. Judging by what he did with Tarble, it seems evident King Vegeta was a less than sentimental individual. It's also very possible he didn't have a choice."
"Okay. So, what's this legend?" Goku wondered aloud.
Raditz looked at him pointedly. It felt wrong to divulge such sensitive plans to someone who might have the potential to undo them. At the same time, he'd already given so much away. What was the real point in secrecy anymore?
"Vegeta plays the details of the ritual fairly close to the chest. From what I've gathered, in ancient times, when our people were threatened with extinction by an invading force, six Saiyans banded together and combined their power, creating a single unstoppable warrior. Vegeta plans to fulfill this prophecy with himself as the conduit in hopes his resulting strength will finally be enough to topple our oppressors and free what remains of our people, as well as every other race the Planet Trade has enslaved or decimated.
"We can only confirm there were seven survivors of Planet Vegeta's destruction, of which we've been able to locate four. The prince, his attendant Nappa—who will be coming to Earth with him—you, and myself. Before I died," Raditz shot daggers at Goku with his eyes, "we had one extra Saiyan worth of wiggle room in case we couldn't find someone on our list or something permanent happened to them. Now, with my death, only six remain, providing nothing else goes wrong. We also don't know if the ritual requires a Saiyan to be full-blooded and in possession of their tail. Many variables and unknowns. What is known is this plan cannot happen without your participation, willing or otherwise."
"Say I agree. Say I join 'im. Do you think he'd leave Earth and its people alone?"
Raditz pondered for a second, then shook his head.
"Unfortunately, I think not. Do not mistake him as bloodthirsty. I simply see no scenario where sparing Earth doesn't force the Planet Trade's hand. If it is razed, then their foot soldiers and terraformers move in almost immediately to prepare the planet for sale. If Vegeta were to lie and say it was razed without actually doing so, the same thing occurs, except the Planet Trade will simply do the job when they get there. The process will be much longer, more drawn-out. Everyone involved in trying to deceive our 'superiors' will be labeled insurrectionists. Mutineers. At such a point, Nappa will likely be slain, followed by a directive to comb every planet in every solar system for any more Saiyans. Either Vegeta will meet the same fate, or worse. I can't really say. His plan requires time and resources to find the rest of our kin; time we will not be allotted if we start openly defying our overlords to their faces."
Goku understood. He blew out a long breath, then wrapped a strap of his blue belt around each fist and pulled, tightening it. His face was a tapestry of complex emotions. Worry. Resolve. Regret. And yet, not a trace of indecision.
"I see. I can't in good conscience favor a handful of lives against billions. But I get it. You're not just arguing for the lives of your comrades. There's a lot more at stake here. Untold devastation and destruction, so long as the Planet Trade is allowed to continue operating. Sounds like your friends and I coming to blows is inevitable. Still, I hope I can convince Vegeta we have a better chance at taking on your company together than not."
Raditz stared at Goku, for once being the one lacking comprehension.
"Take them on? You mean to stand against them, regardless of everything I've told you?" Raditz balked.
"Well, yeah. I think your buddy's plan is pretty solid on paper, though like you said, time's a factor. I can't let 'im kill everyone on Earth, and he can't let your bosses see him fail. I think Gohan would say we're at an…impasse? Is that the word? Anyway, it's also probably a sure thing I'm gonna face this tyrant of yours at some point, so having someone like Vegeta on my side would be preferable, right? Even if he can't complete his ritual?"
Raditz was flabbergasted. He couldn't help the glimmer of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Mirth and admiration started to bloom in him, envious of his kin's refusal to give in to despair.
Maybe he's more Saiyan than you realize.
"Why not use these Dragon Balls you're so fond of? If they're really as wondrous as you say, could you not wish for the Planet Trade to be no more?"
"Nah, doesn't quite work like that. There are limits. The Dragon Balls are powerful, for sure. They can't do anything exceeding the capabilities of their creator—in this case, Kami. Kami can do incredible things, don't get me wrong. Like raise the dead. They're bound by a lot of the rules and stipulations of Their position, though. Which is why the Dragon Balls are handy! They're kinda like a divine loophole, since Kami's not the one actually making the miracles happen, haha."
Raditz eyed his sibling for a long while, sizing him up. Reappraising. He wondered if he misjudged Goku. Since they met, he found his younger sibling grating at best, insufferable and traitorous to the Saiyan ways at worst. Now, he was seeing different. A new light. Maybe this was the side all his friends, family, and former enemies saw. A bit dim, yes. Naïve and a tad unrealistic? Most certainly. Possessed of uncommon bravery, fortitude, and the ability to inspire hope despite all odds? Also true.
"Kakarot," Raditz uttered. He was cut off by an approaching sound. Running footsteps by the hundreds. Deathly wailing and moaning. The telltale song of the damned.
"Uh," Goku gulped. "What's that?"
"Trouble. Demons. We've been in one spot for far too long. Get your guard up," Raditz growled.
The two Saiyans assumed crouching positions with teeth bared and fists clenched. They raised their power levels and tensed their bodies for an impending onslaught. Before long, dozens of mangled creatures crested over the nearest hill, charging towards the pair with weapons drawn and vacant, hollow, lifeless eyes.
Several nights after having last seen Piccolo, Gohan was in his room, hunched over a history textbook in his desk chair. He knew the position was bad for his posture, would catch hell from his mother if she caught him sitting in such a way. He just couldn't muster the energy to stay upright, give himself over fully to his studies. He was feeling restless, unfocused, like there was something gnawing at him.
The boy let out a sigh and gave his sight permission to wander. He examined the family photo at the corner of his desk, taken when he was only two years old at most. He was wearing the same ornate ceremonial garb he chose to don at Master Roshi's, though it was much bigger on him in the picture. He was practically swimming in it, kicking and pumping his tiny fists and laughing in his mother's embrace, his dad standing behind with an arm around her shoulder, smiling contentedly. This would've been in those early halcyon days when fatherhood was still new and brimming with luster for Goku. It felt like so long ago. Gohan couldn't even remember those days clearly, only fragments and images. Random unassociated feelings. A year after the photo was taken, his intelligence started blooming—real memories began to take hold and cement themselves. Coincidentally, right around when he was kidnapped the first time. Even that ordeal was hazy to him.
He continued to stare at the picture. After a few seconds, he plucked it off the desk by its bamboo frame so he could get a closer look. Upon further scrutinization, he could see the tip of his old tail barely peeking out from a seam in his pants. He frowned, unsure how to feel, and placed the photo back in its place with a deep exhale. Sooner than later, he would need to ask Krillin or Bulma about the specifics regarding the timeline of events. When he was kidnapped. If his tail was removed before or after. Whether or not the trauma of the event kickstarted his consciousness and self-awareness earlier than what otherwise might've been. Whether or not his innocence was already well and truly lost.
Gohan folded his hands behind his head and leaned in his chair, balancing on the back two legs. Another behavioral tick he needed to indulge in private, lest his mother scold him for its reckless, dangerous possibilities. Realistically, he knew his mom worried about him too much. If he were to fall, his chair was nowhere in range of anything he could bump his head on and seriously injure himself. Even if that were not the case, using Spirit to shield from a potential concussion was an option he didn't have before. Then again, he couldn't necessarily blame his mother for her concern. He was only four (almost five), and even he could suss out how scarring it would be for a parent to see their child kidnapped, let alone twice in less than two years.
He missed his dad, despite all the complicated emotions he harbored towards him, given form and greater clarity thanks to his talks and interactions with Piccolo. He could tell his dad's heart wasn't always in it when trying to be fatherly. Somehow, Goku remained a guiding, inspiring light in his life regardless. He also couldn't deny the awe and elation he experienced when regaled with stories of his childhood exploits, however exaggerated they likely were. Piccolo insisted otherwise, and they more than anyone else had no reason to lie to him. Still, it was all so weird and fantastical. He supposed before long, he would get his proof, one way or another.
It was a strange dichotomy difficult to reconcile. In a few short months, Piccolo had proven themselves to be a more adequate, educational, and in many ways dedicated father figure than Goku ever did. He knew there was still some lingering resentment for constantly needing to dumb himself down around his dad—a notion in and of itself which made Gohan feel guilty. He knew it wasn't Goku's fault he was handicapped, saddled with a brain injury that might always keep him a child in many ways. On the flipside, it was precisely the reason the two of them held such a close, special bond when Gohan was younger. In those bygone days, they were more alike than not. Then Chi-Chi started tutoring him, teaching him how to read and fostering his burgeoning intelligence, in turn leading him to mature very quickly. Having perhaps the smartest person in the world as a godmother didn't hurt either, as Piccolo correctly surmised.
The more he ruminated, he realized that was when he and his dad started drifting apart, when they started to be on differing wavelengths. It was such a complex web of cause-and-effect, he didn't know who to blame or who to thank. All at once, it became so obvious, the timing and some of the underlying reasons Goku grew less and less interested in his family.
His mom wanted him to study, to learn. His dad wanted him to fight, to be strong. Rather than being given an option of a healthy middle ground, Gohan found himself torn; tugged between competing ideologies. Incompatible philosophies, at least according to his parents. Obviously, he gave himself over to his mother's way of thinking. He hadn't really chosen it. He was given no say, no alternative, despite how much she lauded his agency and ability to reason for one so young. He pondered if he would grow to resent her for it.
A thought struck him: the idea the universe was telling him to be more like his dad. Perhaps it would bring them closer together again, reinvigorate Goku's sense of purpose within his family. And likely drive a bigger wedge between him and Chi-Chi. And why should such a thing be Gohan's responsibility?
'Do not mistake me releasing you from responsibility as deeming you incapable.'
Piccolo's voice echoing in his head. Different situations. Important words, nonetheless.
Gohan groaned with frustration and stood from his chair. He needed to blow off some steam, vent some of this anger and sadness and feeling of displacement. He trotted over to his window and did his best to quietly pop the latch and slide it open. He turned his neck and listened carefully to see if the minuscule noise caught his mother's attention. He used a bit of Spirit to sharpen his senses, magnify his hearing.
All was calm in the Son household. The only audible sounds were Chi-Chi humming to herself and a pot on the kitchen stove at a rolling boil. Satisfied, Gohan eased himself out his bedroom window. He stepped onto thick, cool grass and flexed his toes, stretched his muscles. He took in a huge breath and closed his eyes, invigorated by the crisp night air. He spent a minute rocking back-and-forth on his heels before opening his eyes and trudging forward, hands in his pockets. He realized he was wearing the training garb bestowed upon him by Piccolo, sans boots and socks. He didn't remember putting it on. He decided it didn't matter.
He wandered into a clearing right at the beginning of the dense woods which bordered his house for miles. To his immediate left a little way up the hill was his great-grandfather's old shack, Goku's childhood home. It had probably been weeks since anyone went in there to pay their respects and light some incense for the dearly departed old man. Maybe his mom went in there to do it while he was sleeping or before he awoke some days.
He stepped further into the horseshoe-shaped clearing facing the east end of his home, marking the spot (from his bedroom window's vantage, at least) where the forest truly began. As if acting as a door to the great wilderness beyond was a massive elm tree, far bigger than those surrounding. Due to its size and sturdiness, Goku took several logs suitable for firewood over the years and speared them through different parts of the tree's trunk, creating a sort of makeshift wooden training dummy. There were numerous places where the bark was cracked, caved in, or crumbling outright from numerous pinpoint strikes and crushing impacts. Gohan patted one such area, recalling how the strength required to do such a thing never seemed odd to him until recently.
As the boy previously hypothesized, human and Saiyan biology was very similar. While Saiyans were absolutely much stronger than a human at a baseline, they weren't quite superhuman. Not without the use of Spirit, which is what Goku would've needed to create such a piece of training equipment. Oh, the times when Gohan could put his head in the sand and ignore the outlandishness of the world around him, when it all seemed commonplace. The days when a simple explanation like, "my dad's the strongest guy in the world!" could suffice.
Without thinking, without intending to, Gohan clenched his teeth, grunted, and threw a punch. He led with his index and middle knuckles as Piccolo taught him, so as not to harm any of the bones in his hand. He was surprised, both by his own outburst, then by the revelation it didn't hurt. Quite the contrary. The small splintering of wood and shavings of bark folding around his fist was gratifying. He paused, considered things, then chose to continue.
He withdrew his fist from the tree, rotating it into a ready position at his hip as he did so. Simultaneously, he threw a punch with his other hand, this time aiming for a spot in the trunk unmarred by his father. He was delighted this action did not elicit any pain either, instead producing a hollow thunk followed by a pronounced crack in the wood. He kept going.
A flawless roundhouse kick to one of the protruding logs. Gohan started to work up a thin sheen of sweat. It felt good. The brisk nighttime mountain air prickled his skin. The wind swirled around him with his efforts; or perhaps it was his efforts which produced the tumultuous gusts.
Is this how it feels for you, Dad? Is this what it's like for a Saiyan? The thrill, the exhilaration, the drive to do more, to push yourself? Is this what Mom's been hiding from me all this time?
Gohan bared his teeth, dropped to the ground, and landed on his own palm. He used it to balance himself while helicoptering his legs. Both kicks struck outstretched arms of the homemade dummy, rebounding him. He used the reversal of his spinning momentum to return to his feet and deliver a flurry of intermingled chops and elbow strikes between the dummy's limbs.
Is this what I need to do? To get your approval? To make you like me? I know you feel stifled, trapped here. I know you miss your days of adventuring. Why do you have to fight with Mom over it? Can't I be smart and strong? Why does it have to be either or?
Gohan's movements became a blur. Wooden shrapnel flew off the surface of the tree with each attack. Leaves fell through the air and Gohan danced between them, bobbing and weaving and whirling as if they were advances from an unseen enemy meant for him. His grace and speed and fluidity would've given both Goku and Piccolo a run for their money.
Of all people, Piccolo's the only one who gave me a choice. The only one who cared about what I wanted, about my feelings. The only one who didn't push me to be one thing or another. I'm sick of this. I'm tired of trying to please everyone and pleasing no one. If I'm more like my dad, I'm a disappointment to my mom. If I'm more like my mom, I'm just wasted potential to my dad. And the worst part? A world-ending threat is on its way that couldn't care less about my existential crisis—
Gohan lost control. He let out a guttural, furious scream from the pit of his stomach and punched at the center mass of the tree with all his might. He was expecting this one to hurt, even welcomed the pain in a strange way. Instead, much to his shock and fear, his fist entered the trunk of the tree like a drill, boring a solid two feet into it. The sound was like a point-blank shotgun blast and echoed across the whole of Mt. Paozu. The opposite side of the tree exploded from the sheer force of the hit. Wood fragments littered the forest floor in a wide circle around him, lighter shavings and bits of foliage still hanging in the air like smoke from a fire. Reflexively, he swiveled his jaw and felt his ears pop from the built-up pressure.
Gohan lowered his hand and ceased his exercise. He took in rapid, heavy breaths, trying to comprehend what he just did. The last few minutes were murky in his memory, as if he were acting on autopilot. He knew it was physiologically impossible for a boy of his age and size to devastate such a large, dense inanimate object the way he did. He must've used a tremendous amount of Spirit to protect his own body, as well as inflict the damage displayed in front of him. An amount he didn't know he was capable of summoning. And he did it all on instinct with no forethought or conscious input from his brain. That required skills, technique, and practice he did not possess. At least, not before entering the Saiyan space pod. It suddenly dawned on him Piccolo's gambit with the conditioning tech went exactly according to plan. This revelation spurred in Gohan equal parts excitement and terror.
He flexed his fingers, examined them for contusions, split skin, any signs of breakage. He turned in place and made to return to his house. When Gohan looked up from his hand, he froze, petrified.
He could see the silhouette of his mother standing in the open front doorway, bracing herself on the frame with one hand, likely clutching her pearls with the other, her features masked in shadow created by the warm living room light behind. She too declined to move. They stood, staring at one another from afar.
Finally, Chi-Chi said, "Dinner's ready." She said it low, practically mumbled it. She knew she didn't need to speak very loudly to be heard, what with her son's newly-honed senses. After another pause, she retreated inside. Gohan's feelings of intermingled giddiness and trepidation gave way to intense guilt and shame.
The boy re-entered his home a couple minutes later. He took a seat at the dining room table without a word or glance at Chi-Chi who sat across from him, already daintily eating her food. Before him were two bowls—one piled high with piping hot white rice, the other a rich and decadent beef stew, glistening with rendered fat, thick-cut vegetables half-submerged in it.
Gohan's mouth positively watered. Without thinking, he snatched up the stew and began to shovel it into his mouth voraciously. He barely even used his utensils, alternating back-and-forth with the rice, practically inhaling the food. When he was nearly finished, he caught the gaze of his mother, who watched him with a sad smile.
"I was wondering if you'd ever inherit your father's eating habits. I used to find them deplorable. Nowadays, I can't believe I actually miss seeing him devour a three-course meal in ten seconds. I suppose love will do that to you. At least I always knew my cooking was appreciated. Maybe those habits go hand-in-hand with training," Chi-Chi mused. Gohan gulped a hefty mouthful.
"Thank you, Mom. It was delicious," he said as he gently placed the almost empty bowls in front of him.
He knew better. While Chi-Chi was right that training certainly worked up an appetite, Gohan knew through his visions in the Attack Ball ravenous, borderline animalistic eating was a Saiyan trait. Their higher muscle density and faster metabolism than humans combined with how much Spirit they used on a day-to-day basis (among a number of other factors) meant they needed much more food much more often.
"I suppose I'll have to start giving you portions I normally would've reserved for your father. Once he returns, we're going to rack up quite the grocery bills…after all, I don't think there's enough available farmland on this entire mountain to keep one and a half Saiyans fed," she chuckled.
Gohan hadn't wanted to bring up the subject of his unearthly genetics, concerned it might upset her. Evidently, she was already way ahead of him. He needed to remind himself sometimes where he got the bulk of his intelligence from.
An awkward bout of quiet filled the room, punctuated by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer, fittingly given to them by Gohan's grandfather, Ox. He realized he hadn't noticed it earlier when using Spirit to look for sounds in the house. Its relaxing, metronome-like quality often bled into the background for him when studying.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you earlier, if I did. I don't know where that came from. I promise, I'm done training. I'm still not gonna fight. You don't need to worry."
Gohan stared sheepishly in his lap as he spoke, twiddling his thumbs. After a while, he looked up at his mother to gauge her response. She watched him carefully, the emotions on her face difficult to place. She set down her own bowl and chewed her lower lip, meticulously planning her next words.
"Sweetie, you don't have to apologize. It's okay. You didn't scare me."
"You definitely seemed scared. Or at the very least, disappointed," Gohan replied, a sore spot in his previous maelstrom of self-reflection returning to the forefront of his consciousness. Immediately, Chi-Chi reached across the table and placed her son's chin in her hand, demanding his attention.
"Listen to me. I can't think of a single thing you could say or do to make me disappointed in you. Do you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul. And I know I don't say it often enough, but I am endlessly proud of you."
Tears flooded Gohan's eyes. He placed a small hand atop hers on his face, relished the intimacy. It felt like they hadn't talked this way—connected—in a very long time. He suddenly felt even more ashamed of the resentful thoughts he entertained towards her before.
"When I saw what you did to the tree, I wasn't scared or mad or anything like that. If anything…I was a little sad. You're so young, yet so smart and mature. I used to think it could only be a good thing. You've been through so much in the last two years. I sort of feel like you skipped over your childhood. It's almost like you're a little man already. I don't know how much of it is my fault, how much is just circumstance…"
There's that word again. Thank you, Raditz.
"There's still time. As you say, Dad's gonna come back. Once he and Piccolo and the others beat the Saiyans, I'm sure everything will turn to normal."
Chi-Chi smiled, though she was skeptical.
"I hope you're right. You usually are. Still, I can't shake the feeling the opportunity for normalcy passed us by. Could be what I get for trying to keep things from you. For trying to make sure you grew up the way I wanted instead of the way you were meant to. I know you don't believe me when I tell you your father's coming home, nor do you believe half the stories we all told about his early days. I have no one to blame except myself. I'm the one who should be apologizing, Sweetie."
Gohan became misty-eyed again. All these tumultuous feelings and emotions he'd been wrestling with as of late; he didn't expect to make these sorts of inroads with his mother for a long while, if ever. He tried not to let it influence how he was feeling about his dad, though it was difficult.
"You were trying to protect me. I get it. Especially after everything that's happened. I don't blame you."
It was Chi-Chi's turn to feel a hot, wet stinging in her eyes. She used one knuckle to wipe at them.
"Well, that makes one of us."
Another silence filled the space between them. Not as uncomfortable as the last. Nevertheless, Chi-Chi could tell there were things left unsaid. She knew her boy was agonizing over something, so she decided to try and tease it out of him.
"So, Piccolo and I talked. They told me about your…'incident'. Boy, I let 'em have it for coming up with such a harebrained idea to begin with, let alone going through with it. You're okay, right?" she asked with a deliberate tone. Gohan considered bending the truth in order to spare her some stress and anxiety. He eventually decided against it, knowing it would be a betrayal of the openness and vulnerability they just shared. Any efforts at reforging their bond would be forfeit with half-truths and dishonesty.
"My head still hurts a little. I saw things inside the pod. Things I won't be forgetting anytime soon. The Saiyans were a really complicated species. Brutal, self-serving, obsessed with strength above all else. How much of that is intrinsic and how much comes from the environment they existed in plus ancestral trauma is anyone's guess. There are things about them I wish I didn't know. At the end of the day, Piccolo's plan worked. I'm a lot stronger now, a lot more disciplined when it comes to fighting. I guess in retrospect it was kind of a waste."
Gohan couldn't rightly explain the hollow feeling in his chest upon voicing those last few words. He hung his head. His mom watched him for a lengthy beat.
"You lied to Piccolo, then. When you told them you didn't want to be a part of this anymore." She said this plainly, baldly, dispassionately, as if it were an obvious fact. Her son shook his head and furrowed his brow.
"I wasn't lying. I think I meant it in the moment."
"Now you're not so sure."
The biggest silence yet. Tears rolled across Gohan's doughy cheeks. He sniffled and rubbed at the spot where the Attack Ball's conditioning helmet previously sat on his skull, looking very much like Goku whenever he would get self-conscious about his scar.
"I don't know what to do, Mom. I know what Dad would say. I know what he would do. He would tell me if a person has the power to help others, then it's their duty to do so. He would charge in, guns blazing, fearless. Ready to lay down his life to save the world. Literally. I'm not as strong as him. I'm not as brave. I want to be, and I feel terrible for even thinking about staying put."
Gohan couldn't help himself. He began to weep at the kitchen table, in his opinion proving his own thesis on the matter. Chi-Chi leaned over to him and clasped both of his hands in hers.
"Sweetheart, do you honestly believe your father is never afraid? Of course he is! Both times you were taken, I've never seen such fear in his eyes. He worries and frets deeply for those he loves and cares about. Even those he doesn't. And we both know he's not always great at showing it, but he loves you to his marrow. I know he does. Yes, some people would argue there's an expectation if you have power to use it responsibly. I also know telling you you're only a boy and this weight needn't rest on your shoulders would be wasted breath. Piccolo already tried. I, for one, know I will worry about you every second of every day until the day I die. That's a mother's duty and responsibility. And right!
"What I mean to say is, you have a decision to make. An important one. And you can't make it based on how you think it will make me feel. Or your father. You need to make this choice for you and only for you, because it will ultimately determine what kind of man you want to be. And I promise you, whichever you decide is okay."
"I love you, Momma," Gohan blubbered as he jumped out of his seat and across the table to embrace her. He used a tiny amount of Spirit to keep his body from actually touching the table and knocking over their glasses and bowls. Chi-Chi hugged him in kind, squeezed his body against hers fiercely. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and peppered him with kisses while she ran a hand through his messy, unkempt nest of raven hair.
"I love you too, Sweetie," she whispered in his ear amidst his sobs. "Don't you ever forget it."
"These things aren't alive, right? I'm not just killing a bunch of innocent creatures?"
"We're in Hell, you moron! Shut up and keep going!"
Goku and Raditz fought for what felt like hours. The demons were of the ghoul or zombie variety; not particularly swift or strong or threatening on their own. Most burst apart or exploded from a single hit. Hundreds of them bum-rushing at the same time, however, proved a logistical challenge. They were almost hydra-like in the sense for every ten the brothers felled, fifteen more seemed to crop up.
Goku twirled through the stratus sideways and let loose with a volley of energy blasts from each palm, becoming a pinwheel of destruction. Bodies fell and crumbled beneath the weight of his indomitable Spirit. Once he cleared a large enough space to land, he touched onto the ground and performed a series of breakdance kicks. More bodies crumpled with each attack or were otherwise thrown backwards, clearing the area around him.
Raditz emerged from a sea of corpses like a missile of black hair and white-hot fury. He somersaulted through the brimstone-saturated air and assumed a defensive stance back-to-back with his sibling.
Normally, Goku would've used a momentary lull in the action such as this to trade banter with his compatriots. Instead, the two Saiyans declined to speak. Not out of animosity or malice. Far from it. The duo felt a kinship with one another unlike anything since they first reunited months ago. An unspoken understanding was brewing between them, brought on by a mutual zest for battle and testing of might. Goku once again got the notion this was how Saiyans bonded. Suddenly, the majority of his life pursuits being dedicated to and driven by martial arts made much more sense to him.
Are you ready, brother? one of them thought, though both could hear. Neither were sure who the sentence originated from. It didn't matter.
Goku and Raditz resumed their attack, except they weren't fighting separate battles. They were moving and striking and dodging as one, totally in sync, as effortless and symbiotic a tag team as Goku ever was with any of his friends or masters. They each filled in the gaps of the other's fighting styles perfectly. Whenever one would catch a cheap shot from an undead monster, the other would be rushing in to compensate. Whenever one needed to hang back and catch their breath, the other would step in without qualm or protest to pick up the slack. As they swung and pivoted and ducked and hollered and flourished with crackling power, their movements became indistinguishable smears of color, as if the physical barriers separating and dividing them as two wholly individual beings was eroding in front of their very eyes. Their strength was equal, their Spirit entangled.
Before any hitherto unexplored metaphysical lines could be crossed, they realized the conflict was over. As their vision and senses caught up with reality, they took in the literal field of dead things around them, no longer moving, no longer imbued with otherworldly magics animating them. The brothers collapsed into sitting positions atop the hellish plane. Their halos briefly clanged off each other, emitting a vibrating hum before settling into their stationary positions. Light and pressure normalized in the atmosphere as power levels receded. They breathed harsh, ragged breaths, awash in sweat, leaning against each other's spines for support.
"Good…job…bro!" Goku wheezed and stuck up a hand for a high five, then realized Raditz might have no idea what a high five is, and probably wouldn't care either way. He let his hand fall to his side.
"I'm sorry, Kakarot," Raditz admitted. "I'm sorry for what I put you and your family through. I stand by my reasons. All the same…I wish I had approached it differently. I realize I could've talked it out with you better. Maybe even reached an understanding. Perhaps it would've inspired me to borrow some of your courage in standing up to the Planet Trade."
Goku looked over his shoulder, eyed his sibling in his peripheral vision, and smiled. He was surprised and elated in equal measure.
"I forgive you. I wish things turned out different, too."
Raditz angled his head up at the blood-red clouds. He closed his eyes and sighed.
"You've lived quite the life, Kakarot. It amazes me I find myself longing to have been a part of it."
Goku knotted his brow and rotated on the ground to face his estranged brother.
"It's not too late. The Dragon Balls only take a year to recharge after they were last used. We could bring you back! Give you another chance to do things right."
Raditz didn't turn to meet his gaze. He continued to stare up at the sky, deep in thought. The absence of words was filled by the moans of the damned, the churning of magma, the billowing of his dust-colored cloak. It was heavily torn and shredded now, exposing the dark jumpsuit and Saiyan armor underneath. The armor invented by the Tuffles, perfected by the Saiyans, mass-produced and commodified by the Planet Trade. He knew being resurrected would return his piece to the gameboard, give his prince the extra bit of wiggle room he so desired. On the other hand, he knew his loyalties were subtly though no less permanently changed. The situation was more complex now. He was no longer certain what he would decide if forced to choose between duty to his master and this newfound affection for his brother. In his mind, it was cowardice what won out in the end. He tried to assuage the requisite guilt by reminding himself in addition to everything else, he was so very tired.
"No. Thank you. But no."
"Why?" Goku questioned.
Raditz still refused to look him in the eye, took his time answering.
"The blood on my hands is not so easily washed away. Or wished. I was given many chances. I made my choices. I have to live with them. Well, you know what I mean. I don't think Hell is the same for everyone who arrives here. I find it fitting—appropriate my fate should be to face the untold legions I've sent to this or similar places. Adjacent ones. The gods must be smarter than I thought. I think this is where I belong."
Goku often had trouble "reading a room", so to speak. Even he could tell this was a viewpoint he was never going to be able to talk his brother out of. He was proud of him for repenting, for coming to the decision on his own. It also made the circumstances that much sadder. That much more bittersweet.
"If Hell is different for everyone, why do you think I ended up in yours?"
"Clearly, you don't belong here. I'd venture to guess a vision of Hell does not exist for you."
"Oh, come on, no way. I can totally picture what my Hell would be like. None of my friends or family, no wilderness, no one to spar with. No food."
To Goku's utter shock and delight, the food bit actually got a snicker out of Raditz.
"They say ghosts can't move on because they have unfinished business. Perhaps I was yours. Or you were mine," Raditz said with a smirk.
Before Goku could reply, something happened. A high-pitched whine dominated the duo's hearing, drowned out everything else. Goku plugged his ears as his halo started to glow brighter and brighter until it was a shimmering ring of iridescent light. A moment later, it shattered into a cloud of sparks and expanding golden dust. Raditz stared on, mesmerized.
"Whoa! I think my friends might've just wished me back to life!"
Goku said "might've" in order to hedge bets, yet he was more than sure of it. The feeling in his body, his extremities was instantaneously noticeable and different than seconds ago. He felt solid, corporeal, brimming with life. Mortal. Finite. It felt great. Evidently, Raditz noticed there was something different as well, for he couldn't stop gawking at his newly-minted sibling.
"I'll be damned. You really weren't making it up."
Everything was happening so quickly. Goku changed his mind, decided he wanted to take one more stab at convincing Raditz to allow himself to be resurrected. Instead, Goku levitated involuntarily. Life, by all appearances, was a tractor beam pulling him out of Hell. Before he could drift too far upwards, Raditz threw out an arm and clasped hands with Goku. His grip was strong enough to hold him in place temporarily, though the pull grew more intense with every passing second.
"Wait, Kakarot! Listen to me," The elder Saiyan implored. He hesitated before delivering his parting words. Goku gripped his hand tighter, nodding and urging him to continue.
"It pains me to say…I think you may actually stand a chance against Vegeta. If an opportunity arises to kill him, please. Don't do it. He's been through more than you can possibly imagine. He is not a bad man. Find common ground with him, as you did with me. I promise you he is not your enemy."
Now, the brothers locked eyes, stared into each other's souls. Goku didn't know what the future would bring, what circumstance might force him to do. With only a firm nod, he vowed quietly to try his best. Raditz smiled and loosened his grip.
"Are you gonna be okay?" Goku asked, not wanting the exchange to end, certain it was the last time they would ever speak. Raditz gave a cursory flip of his hair.
"Nothing I can't handle."
The divine pull became ever more tenacious. Goku's legs lifted backwards and over his head, placing him upside down, his form anchored only by his brother's grasp.
"Good luck. Goku," Raditz encouraged, then opened his hand and watched the last of his family drift away.
Piccolo hovered high above the sea cliffs which previously served as their makeshift camp/training grounds over the last several months. Somehow, returning to their old haunt—the rocky quarry where Chi-Chi convinced them to aid in the battle against Raditz—felt incorrect, like a step in the wrong direction. They wanted to say they couldn't explain why, though events as of late erased their desire to keep lying to themselves. They knew full well they missed their protégé and were having difficulty letting go. Whether it be their former student or the villain what birthed them or their grudges with Kami and Goku, they wondered if letting go would be a lifelong problem for them.
Maybe it's the kid who did a number on you…
They tried their best to continue meditating. It proved difficult. Their mind was clouded, distracted. Training solo would prove more of a challenge than they anticipated. Much to their chagrin, they knew Kami was onto something when They mentioned strengthening a pupil having a beneficial feedback effect. It might end up being necessary to swallow their pride and attend the group exercises already underway at the Temple of the Guardian.
Before they could consider the matter further, their senses went into overdrive. A strong power level was fast-approaching. In truth, fast was an understatement. Were they not in a semi-meditative state, they would've never detected the Spirit signature before it was too late. With barely a second to spare, Piccolo unfurled their crossed limbs and twisted out of the way of the oncoming attack: a fist zooming through the spot their body formerly occupied. The fighter was small, nimble. Their aura of power was such that it immediately pulled light from the path of their movements, obscured their form with fiery energy. Without missing a step, the figure spun into a midair roundhouse meant for Piccolo's neck. The green one blocked it with their striated forearm and buckled from the force of the blow. The pair traded punches, kicks, and dodges for a few minutes, waves of Spirit pouring out of them and firing away with each concussive impact. Any passerby would've mistaken the noises of their clash for the beginnings of a thunderstorm.
The two fought to a stalemate, equally matched. Piccolo, however, was just a smidge more skilled. They goaded the ghostly shape into an elbow drop, which they evaded and countered with an uppercut, sending the pint-sized assassin reeling. As they soared out of the opaque, rapidly dissipating aura, the mystery attacker was revealed to be none other than the son of Goku, looking more like his father than ever. He regained his bearings and retook a defensive pose. Piccolo gawked in confusion.
Guess I deserve this for the sneak attack I pulled on him.
"Gohan? What're you doing here? What's gotten into you?"
Gohan huffed and puffed. He was winded, though refused to relax his defensive stance. Gone was every shred of his anxiousness, fear, trepidation. In their place was ferocity, determination, and strong will. Piccolo felt like they were staring at a completely new person.
"Train me!" Gohan shouted across the distance between them. It wasn't the meek, wide-eyed, good-heartedly naïve request it was months ago in the bowels of Capsule Corp. This was a demand, forceful and brimming with hunger, need.
Piccolo paused, processing. They relaxed their energy, let their limbs go slack. The boy did no such thing.
"We've been over this, kid. This is a world you weren't born into. You have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all me. You don't need to do this," Piccolo implored, almost pleaded. Gohan didn't care.
"I know. Train me," he said again.
Piccolo folded their arms and watched him carefully. He was so much stronger, so much more powerful than when they last met. If they didn't know better, they might've guessed he was moonlighting with Krillin or one of the others. No, they knew the score. The conditioning tech worked. Whether or not the boy lost a vital part of himself in the process was still up for debate.
Or whether he discovered something buried. Something which was always there, waiting to be brought out.
Piccolo pinched their chin between their thumb and forefinger, contemplating. Gohan waited patiently for their reply, still on guard. The green one couldn't help but smile, brimming with pride, adoration, and a slight but of awe in their student.
"We're approaching do or die time. It doesn't get any easier from here, kid. The conditioning was just the first step. If we do this, the real training will begin. There'll be no going back. If you're in, you're in it 'til the end."
"Good," Gohan affirmed. "Don't go easy on me."
To Be Continued…
