Yamcha came to a sudden stop, standing in stunned silence as the scene before him seemed to play in slow motion. The poor woman's body drifted down to the snow below, a streak of crimson running down the side of her face from the bullet hole in her temple, a terrified expression frozen on her lifeless features. The two men turned, now facing the two intruders that were making their way down the hill and turning their guns on them.

Yamcha glanced over to Ivan. He, too, was staring down at the scene below with a look of paralyzed horror. Soon enough, his countenance was overcome with pure rage, and he took off again down the hill at a speed that surprised even the warrior from the future. Before he could stop him, Ivan had sprinted down and closed the distance between himself and the two men below, a tortured scream of anger and pain tearing from his throat. The infuriated alien was before the woman's murderer before he could blink, and soon enough the unsuspecting man found himself with his back pressed against the snow. Ivan raised a fist, and though Yamcha shouted out to try to stop him, the blow connected with devastating effect. Where once the man's head lay, now there was only a large splatter of crimson against the pure white snow.

The second man staggered backwards a few steps, as though he was considering running and couldn't find his footing, but he soon found himself affixed in the gaze of what seemed to be a crazed demon. Ivan pounced once more, tackling the other man to the ground, his hands affixed firmly around his second victim's neck. Yamcha could hear the man's desperate gasps for air for about a minute, his hands clawing at the immovable fingers wrapped around his throat before he finally went limp. The traveler from the future could do nothing but stand there and stare, too stunned to even think about intervening anymore.

Ivan removed his hands from the dead man's neck, staring down at the corpse as though surprised at what he'd just done. He stared down at his hands, at the blood splattered across his knuckles from the first man he'd killed. Despite having been on the front lines of war, he'd clearly never taken a life before. He was a medic. A healer. A pacifist. To have killed, even in the throes of anger… It was more than the poor man could take.

Ivan's attention shifted from the corpses of the two men to that of the woman they'd executed mere moments ago. She lay in the snow, almost appearing to be in a gentle sleep if it wasn't for the blood streaking down the side of her face. Ivan seemed to completely forget about the men in an instant, scrambling frantically over to her side. His hands shook and hesitated, but he eventually reached down to gingerly cradle her head with the utmost care. Despite his soft, whispered pleas, however, she would not wake.

Yamcha took a hesitant step forward, not wanting to intrude, but at the same time too curious to stand back any longer. He approached just close enough to see the dead woman's face. She seemed to have been in her middle ages, just the slightest wrinkles around the corners of her mouth and eyes showing her age. Her raven hair was still affixed into elegant victory rolls atop her head, the remaining length draping down to her shoulders. A lump gathered in his throat as he found that he recognized her from the wedding photograph in the old newspaper Dr. Briefs had recovered for him. She'd been the only other female aside from the bride herself in the picture. Her name had been Natalya Scherbakova. She'd been the one to rescue Ivan from the frozen mountains, the one that had given him a home and a loving family. She was his beloved mother.

"Piccolo, I… I'm so sorry…" Yamcha offered hesitantly, unsure of what he could possibly say in such a situation but sure that he had to say something. He didn't even notice that he'd called him by the wrong name. But what else could he do? Here was a man who'd spent well over a year in a war he wanted no part in, captured and tortured by an enemy that could see him as nothing more than a curiosity at best, and a potential weapon at worst. Yet, even after escaping all that, to come back home to find everything he'd ever known and loved reduced to ash, and his own mother executed before his eyes… Honestly, it was a bloody miracle he was holding it together as much as he was. Or, at least, it appeared he was holding it together…

Ivan turned from his mother's body rather suddenly, shifting to dig around in the snow nearby. After a moment, he retrieved something that had been buried there, bringing it up to rest against his temple. It was the pistol one of the assailants had used to murder Natalya just a moment ago.

"W-wait, no!" Yamcha shrieked, diving forward as quickly as he could, grabbing hold of Ivan's arm to yank it away from his head. There was a thunderous crack just next to his ear, and for a moment he was afraid he was too late. Eventually, he willed himself to look up. Ivan stood there – thankfully still alive – his arm having been pulled away just in time for the bullet to just barely graze the top of his head. A thin streak of purple blood now streamed down the side of his face, running parallel to the tears that flowed freely down in cheeks. His whole body seemed to be trembling, his eyes searching emptily forward as though wondering why the scene before him had not gone away in an instant.

Suddenly, Ivan's attention shifted to Yamcha, his fierce eyes fixed on him with the same sort of rage they held when he'd attacked his mother's killers. The Namekian shoved him from where he clung to his arm, sending him tumbling down into the snow. Yamcha was too caught off guard to react, landing flat on his ass at Ivan's feet. When he looked up once more, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

"Why?!" Ivan barked out before Yamcha could so much as raise his hands above his head. "Why the fuck won't you let me die?! Can't you see?! There's nothing left for me here! Nothing! You damn bastards have taken everything from me! What does it matter to you if I live or die?! Why the fuck do you care?!"

"Because that's what you do when you love someone!"

Once again, Yamcha's mouth spoke before his brain had a chance to stop it. Even so, that seemed to do the trick. Ivan, stunned by the outburst, lowered his weapon, staring down at the other man incredulously.

"Wh… What..?" he breathed out, looking utterly baffled by what he'd just heard. Yamcha took the opportunity to leap up and grab the gun from his hand, tossing it well out of reach.

"You heard me, dammit! Even if you've given up, I'm not about to sit here and give up on you! You're stronger than this! I know you are! The Piccolo I know would never quit fighting, no matter how tough things got! I know things seem hopeless right now, and I'm not even going to pretend to know how you're feeling right now, but you've got to trust me when I tell you that things won't always be like this. It gets better. It'll never go back to the way it was, but it will get better. I know it will."

Ivan stared down at him for a good long moment, slowly absorbing all he'd just been told. His eyes then shifted over to his childhood home, still engulfed in flames, and his mother's body lying in the snow. Then, as everything seemed to sink in once more, he dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands in a vain attempt to keep his tears at bay. Yamcha knelt down at his side, pulling the grieving alien into his arms in some instinctual attempt to comfort him. Ivan hadn't the energy to fight it any longer, and he wept openly against the other man's shoulder.


The ashes of the mansion were still faintly glowing even after Ivan and Yamcha had finished their business on the property. They'd managed to find a few entrenchment tools in the jeep they'd stolen, and the two of them had spent the next several hours digging a large hole as close to the smoldering ruins of the house as they could stand to be. Once it was complete, they gently lowered Natalya's body down to the bottom. They stood at the edge of the grave for a long while, Ivan staring down into it as though unwilling to stain his mother's body with the dirt he knew he must cover her with. Yamcha waited patiently, letting him take it in his own time.

Yamcha wasn't sure what to say in this case anyway. Piccolo had already told him that he'd grown up without religion, so any prayer would be meaningless to him. In the end, a respectful silence was all either could muster before they finally filled in the grave.

"So…" Yamcha began hesitantly once they were done, "What about your sister? She wasn't inside, was she?"

Ivan shook his head slightly, still staring down at his mother's grave.

"No. She lives with her husband in Izhevsk."

"I… Don't know where that is… Is it safe there?"

"From the war? Yes. I don't think the Germans made it that far. There are other dangers, though."

"Oh? Like what?"

Ivan's answer was a brief gesture over to the bodies of the two government agents he'd killed earlier. They wouldn't be bothering with graves for them.

"I heard what they were asking her. They were here looking for me. All of this… It was all because of me…" He paused for a brief moment, having to fight to keep his composure. Yamcha could tell he'd reached his limit for how much weakness he was willing to show. "If they came all the way out here to interrogate my mother, then they're not above going after Tatyana as well."

"So, what's the plan? Are we going to try to beat them to her?"

"No. Chasing the snake's tail will do nothing but waste time and let them know we're on to them. I'd prefer to cut off the head while we still have the element of surprise."

Yamcha had to admit to being somewhat impressed. Ivan was no warrior – not yet, anyway – yet he was already starting to think like a tactician. Perhaps he simply had a natural talent for it.

"Alright, where do we find the snake's head, then?"

"That should go without saying," Ivan began, finally turning away from the fresh grave to start hiking back up to their jeep. "Moscow."


The drive to Moscow was not nearly so long as the one they'd taken from Poland, but it still took them several hours of travel through rough terrain. It was all well enough. The trip gave Ivan enough time to recover more energy, allowing him to complete his regeneration and even to materialize his human disguise over his body. It felt a bit strange sitting next to the blond giant in such a serious setting, especially considering that the last time he'd appeared like this to him was during the baseball game. Gone was the serene smile he'd come to expect from that face, replaced instead by a grim look of resolute purpose.

The drive was easier once they reached the city proper. The outskirts still held the scars of battle, but no enemy seemed able to breech the capitol's defenses. Even so, there were plenty of soldiers patrolling the streets, though they did seem more relaxed now that the war was over. Soon enough, the iconic spires of St. Basil's Cathedral faded in from the snowy distance, marking the outer edge of where the heart of the Soviet government resided.

The Kremlin itself was a veritable fortress, surrounded on all sides by high walls of red brick. Security here was at its strongest, yet miraculously the papers Mr. Popo had given him got them through even this. Once inside the complex, Yamcha couldn't help but start to feel a little nervous.

"O-okay, now what? These buildings are huge. Who are we even looking for? And how are we going to find him?"

"Don't worry, I'll find him," Ivan replied calmly, doing a far better job of looking like he was supposed to be there than Yamcha was. "I met him once. He was noteworthy enough for me to break my rule about prying into people's minds where I'm not invited. I got a feel for his thoughts. Once we get close enough, I'll be able to track him."

"C'mon, don't play the pronoun game with me. Who's 'he?'"

Ivan didn't answer right away, as though even saying the name out loud would alert his target to their pursuit.

"Doesn't matter. He's either the one giving the orders, or his death will cause a large enough distraction that they won't have time to think about going after my sister. Either way, it will serve its purpose."

Yamcha furrowed his brow, a little frustrated that Ivan continued to play coy with his answers. Then, all the pieces slowly started to fall into place, and once he was able to see the big picture in his mind he felt his blood turn to ice.

"A-are we about to assassinate Stalin?!" he blurted out, barely having the presence of mind to keep his voice down. Ivan merely let out a sigh, though he stopped just short of rolling his eyes.

"How I ever thought you were a real NKGB agent is beyond me. You lack any sort of subtlety."


Soon enough, Ivan managed to pick up on the thought pattern of their target and directed Yamcha to park outside what had to be the largest building in the entire complex. Going through the entrance was out of the question. It was heavily guarded and a simple pat down would reveal the pistol Ivan still carried to do the job. Instead, the two of them waited for a moment when no patrols could see them and lept up to the second-floor balcony. Once there, they pried open a window and slipped in.

Once they were inside, Yamcha couldn't help but stare in utter awe. Never had he seen such over-the-top opulence! The floor was polished marble cut into intricate designs, and the very walls themselves were trimmed in gold. Huge chandeliers lined the ceiling, providing the main source of light for the grand hall.

"Holy shit… This place would make even Vegeta jealous…" Yamcha mumbled to himself. He wasn't left to ogle for much longer, though. He snapped back to reality when Ivan nudged his shoulder, motioning for him to follow quietly. He nodded, doing just that as they made their way down impossibly huge halls. Soon enough, they stopped outside a pair of massive gold doors, one of which was cracked open just wide enough to peek through. Inside was a sizeable group of men – all of which looked to be some sort of military or government official – sitting around a long table. Occasionally passing into view as he paced around the backs of his men was a man who was instantly recognizable if only for his moustache.

Upon spotting his target, Ivan pulled his gun from where he'd stashed it in his waistband, but he did not strike. Not yet. He watched silently, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The instant Stalin passed by the door, he lept into action. He shoved the door aside with his shoulder, bursting into the room and taking aim at the dictator's head before anyone knew what was going on. Before the generals had time to react, he pulled the trigger. What followed was not the thunderous crack of gunfire as expected, but an impotent click. Ivan's eyes widened, his body freezing as he realized what went wrong. The gun had jammed. He never got the chance to come up with a back-up plan. In an instant, the generals were on their feet, each unholstering their own sidearms and aiming them squarely at the sudden intruder.

"No!" Yamcha shouted, bursting into the room and diving to tackle Ivan out of the way before he could be shot. He lept, but somehow he never made contact with his target. After a long, confusing moment, he realized why. Time seemed to have stopped dead all around him. Stalin was frozen in a half-dive to the ground, the bullets of his generals suspended in mid-air above the table. Yamcha himself couldn't move, though it wasn't for a lack of trying. Though he could somehow perceive everything that was happening around him, he couldn't move a muscle. What the hell was going on?

'Well then, we have quite the interloper here, don't we?'

The voice that spoke out in the utter stillness sent shivers up Yamcha's spine. It was soft, the gender indistinguishable, but it sounded more like an echo in his own head than that of a spoken voice. He strained his eyes to try to move them so he could look around, but it was no use. Soon enough, though, the source made itself known.

A tall, almost impossibly thin figure more glided than walked around from behind him, its white robe clinging closely to its slender form. Yamcha just barely managed to make out a familiar symbol in red emblazoned across the figure's chest. It was the kanji for "God." His eyes would have widened if only he could move. This was the Guardian of Earth, the one before Kami.

The Guardian reached out a long, slender hand, taking Yamcha's chin in its gentle grasp and turning his head up to look at him. The former bandit found himself staring up at a creature that had to be as tall as Piccolo himself, though its bulbous head, large almond-shaped eyes, and ash grey skin made it look like the typical "little grey alien" from popular UFO stories.

When it spoke again, its tiny slit of a mouth never moved, further reinforcing his theory that it was using telepathic communication.

'You've served your purpose here quite well, Mr. Rekishiyoma. I thank you for doing your part to preserve this most interesting subject. However, I'm afraid any further interference from you would be a detriment to my plans.'

The Guardian reached into the inside of Yamcha's coat as it spoke, gingerly retrieving the manila envelope he had stashed there. Its attention then seemed to shift to somewhere behind him.

'Mr. Popo, I'd like you to keep these in the Pendulum Room chest to keep them from being affected by the passage of time. Also take careful note of what this one is wearing. Have Garlic retrieve a replica to be placed in the chest along with them. We do want to be prepared in the future, now don't we?'

As the Guardian handed off the papers, Yamcha heard a familiar voice behind him reply with, "Yes, Lord Mal'kesh."

The Guardian – apparently called Mal'kesh – turned back to Yamcha once more. It reached out and, with the slightest of touches, closed his eyes, and the world disappeared.