Author's Note: I didn't expect to be back at this so soon, but the reviews and messages I've gotten from you guys have really spurred me back into action. Thanks to everyone who's still reading after all this time. I've overcome a bit of a plot-hurdle with this story, and I think I can move forward a bit faster in the future.

The next chapter will have Saiyans. I promise :)

When Cymbal walked back into the house, the first thing he saw was Yamcha heave an exaggerated sigh as he handed Krillen a wad of money.

It was weirdly comforting - kind of like being home in the Tsubris, when he'd come back from an impossible mission and someone would have to hand T five dollars.

You bet on me?

We bet on everything here. Why are you surprised?

No, I mean, you actually bet on me surviving. Positively. Because that kind of behavior skirted dangerously close to "expressing faith in his abilities," which T did not do.

One, I'm not lucky enough to have you conveniently die. Two, I bet that you would simultaneously survive and fail miserably. I also have money on our father dislocating at least one of your limbs when he finds out about it, so if you could, say, work on falling on your right side, I might see my way to splitting profits.

We can't even SPEND money. Why are you like this?

Oh, big brother, it's just for fun. You have no sense of humor where your ongoing Eldest Daughter Syndrome is concerned.

….and no more human psychology books for you. That shit is clearly rotting your brain.

Which should be a step toward – what is it you're always telling me to do – blending in a little more around here?

It was times like those that really made Cymbal think he might have made the WRONG choice when, looking at the possibly-defective, creepy not-hatchling that T had been, that he hadn't just, whoops, pushed him off the catwalk before flying-age. Even the admittedly-awful person that Cymbal had been back then had felt BAD about those intrusive thoughts. Weird-beyond-all-justification or not, warrior type or not, T was his brother, and Cymbal would help him survive if it was reasonably possible because he wasn't a monster. He wasn't human, for the gods' sakes, and so he couldn't possibly have a Cain impulse.

He wonders sometimes if he's being punished for that now. If the universe was trying to warn him of something, if it was trying to give him a chance to save the world a little early, and he –

And that's enough of THAT train of thought.

"You ARE an optimist," he said to Yamcha dryly.

Yamcha shrugged. "You can't fault a guy for wishful thinking."

Cymbal considered this deeply for a moment, and then he said, "No, but if you two already have a 'who is getting killed first' pot you haven't invited me in on, I can fault you for THAT."

"That is RIDICULOUS, who would DO that!?" Krillen huffed, even as Yamcha jumped guiltily and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I mean, that's in SERIOUSLY poor taste, even for YOU."

"Yeah, spare me the indignity act. Just tell me how much the damned buy in is," Cymbal said.

"There is no –"

"Fifty bucks," Yamcha and Bulma said simultaneously, the latter not looking up from whatever she was doing with a pen-laser.

Krillen's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yeah, fifty bucks," he agreed.

"Who's the favorite?"

A brief, awkward silence filled the room.

"Oh, you are FUCKING kidding me," Cymbal snapped. "How am *I* the favorite?!"

"You did already die once this week," Bulma pointed out from the table, still lasering away at something.

"And you are, no offense, kind of a hothead," Krillen added.

"Why do humans always say 'no offense' right before they say something that they know is going to offend someone?" Cymbal asked. "Does that protect you, typically? Is that some like….monkey troop social norm I haven't learned? Like how a gorilla physically can't attack you if you exhibit submissive behavior?"

"…are you seriously comparing us to gorillas?" Yamcha asked.

"Are you….was that not clear? I didn't think I was being subtle."

"Cy, stop trying to pick a fight by being a speciest asshole. Yamcha, stop letting him goad you; you know he just wants an excuse to punch you in the face."

Cymbal shrugged because that was….fair enough, really.

Yamcha did not look nearly so comfortable. "Since when does he get a nickname?" he asked, gesturing in Cymbal's general direction.

"See, THIS is why I'm offended," Cymbal said, gesturing to Yamcha. "He gets hung up on stupid shit like that, and you still think he's going to outlive me in a fist fight with an alien species."

"Children, please," Bulma said, in that tight tone of voice that indicated that someone was getting tased in the potentially-very-near future. "Mommy can't play right now as she's busy saving the world. Can't you go play outside? Quietly?"

Yamcha blanched visibly. "Please never say anything like that ever again," he said.

Cymbal not at all subtly took a big step to the left. He had no intention of being in the crossfire if Bulma did in fact snap and decide to tase her boyfriend, as…while Cymbal would never argue against the fact that he was hardheaded about certain things, he'd developed what he'd consider to be a very healthy aversion to anything Bulma might be holding that had the potential to zap his skeleton into visibility.

Cymbal couldn't help but notice that Krillen was doing the exact same thing on Yamcha's other side. The monk looked him dead in the eyes and mouthed "solidarity."

Cymbal gave himself the hard mental equivalent of a slap, because his life had taken enough of a nosedive without him deciding he might kind of almost be starting to LIKE the little shit.

"I'm betting on you to die first," Cymbal said to Krillen. "So we're clear."

"Yeah, well, you only get to collect if the Saiyans do it WITHOUT your help – so we're clear," Krillen said.

Cymbal flipped him off, which made Bulma roll her eyes, but Krillen just seemed to take it in stride.

"Anyone called dibs on the couch yet?" Cymbal asked.

Yamcha and Krillen both looked at him blankly.

"Okay," he said. "Then dibs." He stretched out on the couch.

"He's going to sleep," Bulma said from her work station, as the boys were still clearly baffled as to what a simple thing like "dibs" meant.

"…how," Krillen said flatly. "I mean seriously, HOW. You would need a CHAINSAW to cut the level of tension in this house, I think it MAY actually be giving me CANCER right now, HOW are you planning to SLEEP?"

"I'm a soldier, short-stack," Cymbal said mildly, draping his forearm over his eyes. "I can sleep anywhere. Wake me when there's something useful to do."

"If we're waiting for a time when you can be useful," Yamcha muttered, "You might be asleep forever."

"I think your girlfriend feels differently about it," Cymbal said, forearm still over his eyes.

There was shocked silence for a second. Two. Then Yamcha erupted with a very satisfyingly enraged, "Oh, that is IT –"

And Cymbal dozed off to the pleasant sounds of Yamcha attempting to come over to the couch, presumably to try to kill him, as Krillen loudly and at least pretty effectively held him back while hissing, "Stoppit, stoppit, we are OUT of drywall and he'll kill you."

So really, it was just like home.

Yamcha was waiting outside (where he hadn't been shoved to cool down, he just HAPPENED to be standing out here because he WANTED TO BE) when he sensed Tien's chi. He hadn't sensed Tienshinhan since they had wished him back after the 23rd Budokai.

Yamcha didn't have much use for the more touchy-feely aspects of chi use. He wasn't interested in colors of auras or any of that other mystic crap; for him, chi was strictly a tool like a hammer or an anvil, and yeah, okay, maybe if you really wanted to, you could elevate swinging a hammer to an art form, but Yamcha was more interested in getting the job done.

As such, it surprised him that he was able to recognize the large power signature coming his way as Tien's after so much time. He and Tien had spent a good chunk of the Demon Wars fighting the Demon King's soldiers together, but that had been more a matter of necessity than choice – especially at first, when Tien had strictly been That Guy Who Broke My Leg After He'd Already Won The Match.

But Tien had apologized for that, had sworn he was turning over a new leaf, and after a few battles, Yamcha had realized he didn't doubt him anymore. And maybe he'd come to count on Tien's meditative presence in his life more than he realized: Tien's level head to balance out Yamcha's temper, Tien's focus to counter Yamcha's restless energy.

Yamcha felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease a little as Tien landed – and even the familiar crane crest on his uniform couldn't quite manage to tense him up again. "Hey," he said. "How did you know to come?"

"Kami," Tien said with his usual lack of preamble. He brushed his hands down the front of his flight-rumpled gi and gave Yamcha a restrained smile.

"Well," Yamcha said, "Welcome to the shit show."

Tien's lip twitched. "It's good to see you, too."

"No, really." Yamcha jerked his thumb back toward the Son House. "It's lucky I caught you. You will not BELIVE what we've got in there."

Tien blinked at him.

There was a miserably long silence.

"You're not even gonna ask?" Yamcha asked.

"I….assumed you were going to tell me when you were ready," Tien said. "You know, after you'd built some suspense."

Yamcha bit the inside of his cheek and (somehow) did not yell. "Cymbal's asleep on the sofa. Piccolo's out lurking around the woods somewhere like a freaking yeti. APPARENTLY we're all on the same team today."

Tien blinked again. "Seriously?" he asked.

"No," Yamcha said flatly, "I'm pulling your leg."

Tien sighed. "I've already apologized for breaking your leg. I don't know how many more passive-aggressive statements you need to make about it in your ongoing search for spiritual healing, but - "

"…and your sense of humor continues to be horrifying," Yamcha said.

"I'm just relieved you finally learned to tell when I'm pulling your leg."

"You're really not gonna say anything about Cymbal and Piccolo?"

Tien shrugged. "I'm not sure I have much room to talk – though I do have some questions about why you're referring to a hairless person as a yeti."

"That would be what you got stuck on," Yamcha said. "Also, seriously? You killed like, a few people because your martial arts instructor was basically like if Charles Manson and Bruce Lee had a baby…"

"Good to see you've been catching up on your pop culture…"

"These guys tried to murder every human on the planet!"

"Strictly speaking, I'm not sure this version of Piccolo has ever killed any human beings," Tien pointed out.

"Yeah, not for lack of trying," Yamcha said. "Also, Cymbal killed YOU, so I'd expect you to be a little more –"

Tien waved him off. "He made an excessive shot to legal target area – and if you remember, I did blind him first. I'm a little surprised that the judges chose to disqualify him for that, given the circumstances, but I think they might have been biased against anyone with green – "

"Yeah," Yamcha said, "that whole zen monk thing you've got going on? It's still a real buzzkill. Just so you know."

Tien tilted his head at him. "And what's really bothering you?" He asked.

"Bulma," Yamcha said.

"Ah," Tien said in a way that spoke literal VOLUMES. "That."

Yamcha couldn't decide whether he was more irritated at the tone, or relieved that no further explanation seemed to be necessary. "You know how sorority girls rescue pit bulls?"

"I don't," Tien said. "Why don't you explain it to me?"

"Don't patronize me. Anyway, they take this dog that used to literally kill other dogs in the ring, and they take it home, and they put a sweater on it and do its nails, and name it Princess or Jeoffrey or something and just expect everybody to totally disregard the fact that it's a man-eating…"

"Yamcha, if Cymbal OR Piccolo is wearing a sweater when I walk into that house, I'm leaving."

"See? You got it. Right away." Yamcha folded his arms and huffed. "And Bulma's being BULMA about it, so she just, you know, digs in when I even SUGGEST that she's going to get her hand bitten off."

"Maybe she won't," Tien ventured.

"Yeah, have an actual conversation with the guy for ten seconds and tell me that. And she's not the only one. Chichi's just as bad with Demon King 2.0. So is KRILLEN of all people, and I mean, of anyone in our group, he's like the ONE person I can usually count on to have a functioning survival instinct."

Tien shrugged. "I have no concerns about Piccolo," he said.

"God, not you too. You had it out worse for the Demon King than ANY of us –"

"Well," Tien said maddeningly, "Piccolo's father WAS sort of like if Charles Manson and Genghis Khan had a baby. And besides," he added before Yamcha could LOUDLY protest that it was NOT the same thing and also that he couldn't just keep stealing his analogies like that, "I asked Kami about it. He said that Goku had trusted Piccolo. That would be enough for me even if Krillen WASN'T a pretty good barometer for whether or not someone is going to try to kill us."

Yamcha sighed. Because okay, now that Tien mentioned it, THAT part was bugging him, too. Goku was a grown man now – could almost look Yamcha in the eye – but he'd been all of four feet tall when Yamcha had met him, half-wild and prone to snacking on roadkill or going through the trash like a racoon if you took your eyes off him for long enough. Nonetheless, he was kind. Helping-box-turtles-across-the-road, saving-people-for-free kinds of kind. None of the rest of them were like that; or at least, they hadn't been before they met Goku. Bulma and Krillen were both accomplished at running a con, Yamcha was a desert bandit, Tien was an assassin, and Goku, well….Goku grieved when the android-friend he'd known for all of a day got crushed.

Fighting the demons had DONE something to Goku that it couldn't have done to the rest of them, because they'd gone into that fight already knowing that the world was a shit place and that most of the people in it were AWFUL. And it happened so FAST. Literally one day, Goku was still a scruffy, stocky little kid, and then suddenly he was a lanky teenager, and Yamcha didn't even READ auras, because again, that was the frilly window-dressing crap that he didn't need, but Goku wore sadness and worry around in those days like an extra layer of clothing.

Yamcha had not forgiven the demons for that. He never WOULD, and sue him, but it felt a little bit like a punch to the gut that Goku apparently HAD.

"Son's a better person than either of us," Tien pointed out. "He sees people more clearly than most can– even me," he added wryly, tapping his forehead beside his third eye.

Yamcha sighed. "Stop being enlightened at me when I'm busy being pissed off," he said.

Tien raised a brow at him. "Did Bulma make you come out here to calm down?" he asked.

"No," Yamcha said. "I'm standing out here because it's STIFLING in there."

Tien didn't miss a beat. "How long is your time out? "

Yamcha felt an unwilling grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Like another forty minutes," he admitted.

"Then I'll wait with you," Tien said.

Goku was gone. Piccolo assumed the other fighter had finally dozed off – it seemed to him that Goku most often reached out to him at night before he fell asleep. Piccolo envied him in a way, wondering if the other warrior had some secret (besides a largely empty head) to an uninterrupted night's sleep.

Piccolo had walked for a while, after the Saiyan's presence had finally faded from his head – just stretching his legs, letting the cool mountain air clear his head, practicing his stupid breathing exercises that T had taught him years ago.

When he finally felt like he could be around other organisms without blowing a hole in the atmosphere, he turned his path back to the Son house.

He stepped out of the trees to find both Yamcha and Tien leaning against the outside wall of the house. Both fighters jumped slightly – Yamcha notably more than Tien – and Piccolo suppressed the urge to roll his eyes in the interest of NOT ratcheting up their collective tension any further.

"I am officially putting bells on you guys," Yamcha said. "This is RIDICULOUS."

"Are you on night watch?" Piccolo asked.

Yamcha opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded. "Yep, that's what we are."

Piccolo folded his arms. "Because I just assumed Bulma threw you out of the house."

Tien put his hand to his mouth and pretended to cough. Yamcha fumed visibly, crossing his arms and looking away. "In my defense," he said petulantly, "your brother is an ASSHOLE."

It was only a lifetime of self-discipline that let Piccolo keep a straight face. "I'll give you that," he said.

Then the triclops stepped forward. "Piccolo," Tien said in his usual, restrained way – none of the yelling, desperate energy that always bubbled up from his father's memories whenever Tien was around. Tien put his hand over his own chest and bowed just slightly. "I am honored to finally meet you."

Piccolo blinked, as one, that was not a greeting he was used to getting, and two, well, there was only so much of this collective insanity that could be explained away by head injuries to the various parties involved. Nonetheless, he HAD, at one point in his life, had something like manners drilled into his head by main force mostly, so he bowed slightly in return (and if the gesture was a little stiff from disuse, well, so be it). "Tienshinhan," he said, "your reputation preceeds you."

Yamcha looked back and forth between them with an expression as if he'd just taken a straight shot of lemon juice. "Okay, how come HE gets manners, and I get…you being a dick," Yamcha said to Piccolo.

Piccolo snorted. "That's probably a side effect of your personality. Are you allowed to go back inside yet, or do we have to keep standing out here pretending it's because we want to?"

"…we should be good now," Yamcha said.

Piccolo sighed and let himself in, noting as he did so that the front door wobbled slightly. He made a mental note to tell Cymbal he had some hinges to repair.

Bulma, of course, was at the table working on something. There was no sign of Chichi or Gohan, Krillen was pacing (though he stopped with a visible expression of relief when they came through the door), and Cymbal was…

"That is the creepiest thing I've ever….is he SERIOUSLY sleeping with one eye open?" Yamcha asked with a broad gesture toward the couch.

"He does that," Piccolo and Bulma said nearly in unison – and with nearly the same level of resignation. Piccolo shot a look her way.

"Don't look at me that way," Bulma said. "He napped in the air car between evil lairs."

"Ooookay," Krillen said, "Putting that whole disturbing moment behind us – is it planning time yet?"

"It is," Piccolo said.

"So, uh…" Krillen cast a dubious look over at the couch. "Should we wake him up?"

Piccolo snorted. "Let me," he said. He walked into the kitchen, selected a broom, and walked back into the living area. "I'd stand back," he advised the humans, who all did, he noticed, take a big step back (except for Bulma, who was apparently too busy for such petty things as ongoing survival).

Taking hold of the handle just above the brush part of the broom, Piccolo extended his arm and poked his brother in the chest with the other end, maybe a little harder than necessary.

Results were explosive. Cymbal went from flat on his back to upright in a fighting stance, the broom handle snapping in his grip with a gunshot-loud crack.

The humans collectively jumped – Krillen, in fact, startled so violently that he tripped over a potted plant – but Piccolo had been expecting worse, so he just said, in his flattest tone of voice, "I can't take you anywhere."

Cymbal glanced around the room, and he seemed to shake off his drowsiness a bit like dogs shake off rain. "Yeah, well, as far as alarm clocks go, you rank right up there with foghorns and bee stings," Cymbal said. Then, he glanced around the room, obnoxiously alert for someone who had been asleep a minute ago, and his gaze settled on Tienshinhan.

"Hey, I remember you," he said, and Piccolo braced himself for disaster.

"Are we good?" Cymbal continued, "Or are we gonna have to posture at each other and stuff."

Tien tilted his head, looking a little like the cranes his style was named for, and said, "Uh…no. As far as I'm concerned, we're…good."

"Well, that was easy," Cymbal muttered. "Did you just wake me up for introductions, or are we – "

"Planning time," Piccolo confirmed. He glanced around the living room, the kitchen. "Where's…?"

"With Gohan," Krillen said, with only that for prompting. "Do you want me to…"

"No, I'll get her," Piccolo said. "Assuming I can be reasonably sure you lot can handle five minutes unsupervised without turning this place into a smoldering crater."

"You know we can't promise that," Krillen said, "but we'll do our best."

"I'm putting more coffee on," Cymbal said.

"Fine," Piccolo said, and he started down the hallway.

Chichi didn't hear Piccolo walk to the door, but she knew when he was there – she could see his shadow in the light around the doorframe. She stood up carefully so as not to wake Gohan, and she edged carefully over to the doorway.

She'd never fully shut the door, so she was able to ease it open without making a sound. She sidled out of Gohan's room, tapping the door mostly shut behind her before she looked all the way up at Piccolo, whose head was well above the top of the doorframe, who looked ridiculously small in her hallway, like an adult in a child's playhouse.

"Is something happening?" she asked.

Piccolo, as usual, did not make eye contact. He nodded once. "Time to make a plan," he said.

Chichi blinked. And you didn't want to start without me?

"It'll be a three ring circus," Piccolo said, still looking fixedly at some point on her wall. "If you don't want to be a part of it, then no one could fault you, but…it IS your house."

"I'll come," Chichi said. Then, she bit her lip. "Also, about….earlier, with Kami."

Piccolo winced slightly – she got the feeling that, if he were anything like her husband, he would be awkwardly putting a hand behind his head. "Right," he said. "Sorry about that."

"I wasn't looking for an apology," she said, because she didn't know how else to explain to Piccolo that no mother on earth was ever going to want anyone to apologize for having a bout of angry-bear-overprotectiveness over her own offspring. "I was halfway to beating it out of him myself."

Piccolo seemed to exhale some tension. So that was something.

"Does it mean that Gohan –" Chichi had to swallow around her rapidly-closing throat. "Is he going to be, is something going to HAPPEN…"

"Don't think of it like that," Piccolo said. "Kami…sees things, that's true, but you have to remember that the future is always in flux. What he sees are possibilities, not certainties. Also, he's a little ambiguous on his time frames, so whatever he saw, it might not even be in the immediate future, it might be decades from now. We can't know, and he won't tell us." Piccolo huffed again, his brow darkening. "I'd make him if I could."

"How can you be so sure?" she asked.

Piccolo popped his neck to either side, looking….uncomfortable. "I don't get how it works," he said. "I'm….not my father, but some part of him is still here. Some part of his spiritual energy went into whatever he did to make me. It's why I'm still tied to Kami. So…there are things I understand about Kami that had to have come from that part of me. I don't know how else I would know them, but," he shrugged, "I do know them."

"Do you ever see things like that?" Chichi asked. "Things that…could be the future?"

Piccolo put a hand to his own temple. "Gods, I hope not," he muttered, and he sounded so tired. "I dream a lot lately," he continued, "And if that's the future, I don't want it."

Chichi took a step forward, then another. Then, not knowing where the impulse came from, she set her head against his chest and fisted one of her hands in the front of his gi.

Any other man on the planet would have reflexively put an arm around her. Hell, even Goku would have tried, awkwardly patting her on the back and offering a "There there, it's okay."

Piccolo just stood there, his hands fisted at his sides, and he was like one of those horses who tolerates having young girls throw their arms around his neck, even if it's not a concept that he, being a horse, could understand.

He's not so bad, Chichi, and those were Goku's words from what felt like a thousand years ago, when they had, for some reason or another, been talking about the guy who had tried to kill him at the Budokai. Goku had rubbed his arm, looking oddly guilty about who-knew-what (only she knew now, she knew he'd been taking care of him). It's just, the way he understands the world, everyone and everything wants him dead.

Goku, I don't care if no one hugged him enough as a child, she'd said, he BLEW UP an ARENA, that MIGHT have something to do with everyone wanting him dead.

Goku had chuckled. And no one died, did they? I mean, that took some talent, if you think about it. You know what I think it is? I think he's like one of those little birds that puffs itself up and hisses at you when you threaten it. He puts on a pretty good show, but I don't think he's MEAN at heart, really. He's just protecting himself.

He's a demon, Goku, she had said flatly, not a pheasant.

But standing here with him like this, she got it. She'd never MET someone who was at once hurting so badly and so completely clueless as to how to do anything about it.

She put her free arm around his waist, because she thought he probably needed this more than she did, and she was a little taken aback at how rigid he still was.

"How do you live like that?" She asked, because she was tired enough to have lost some of her filter. "You are the tensest person in the world."

"Your husband used to tell me that," Piccolo said. And he relaxed a little, just the tiniest bit, and she could hear his heartbeat slow down to what she judged to be no-longer-panicked-rabbit-about-to-kill-itself-with-a-heart-attack levels, which, sadly, counted as progress in this case.

Chichi felt a small smile tug at her lips. "I'll just bet he did," she said. Did he have sense enough to touch you? she wondered, because her husband was so TERRIBLE at doing that, not just with her, but even among his friends – he tolerated slaps on the back and one-armed hugs in the way of cats that hate to be picked up, but surely even Goku had to have seen…sensed?...how badly this guy needed someone to put a hand on him from time to time in a way that wasn't a right hook.

Piccolo cleared his throat. "He said he misses you, by the way." And there it was, finally, so hesitant and awkard and barely there, his hand hovering over her back like he couldn't quite bring himself to let it settle.

Chichi was PROFOUNDLY glad that she was standing so close to Piccolo, because she was so bad at masking her expression that the gods KNOW what her eyes would have told him. "You're just saying that," she said.

"And he said you wouldn't believe either of us if we told you that," Piccolo said, and his hand finally came to rest just under her shoulders. "But he said that we should keep trying."

Chichi swallowed a few times, gathered her considerable strength, and said in a steady voice she was proud of, "When he gets back, I am GOING to kill him."

"Only if you beat me at Ro Shim Bo," Piccolo said. "Or maybe we should set up a lottery system at this point? From what I understand, Cymbal spent a couple of months being forced to watch Spanish soap operas. He's going to want payback for that."

Chichi stepped back from Piccolo and snorted. "Serves him right," she said. "And if you ask me, they should have turned off the subtitles. Come on, let's go make sure that we're all alive to give Goku a piece of our collective minds in a few days."

Piccolo met her eyes for all of half a second, and there was something like a smile buried in there somewhere before he was back to looking somewhere over her head. "Sounds good to me," he said.