Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Consacra ❯ Connate 2 - Conscience ( Chapter 6 )

CONNATE

 

Chapter 2: Conscience

 

"For as long as we have existed, we have had the Dragonballs, or xarai-ethel, as they are called in our language.  But not merely one set.  At one time, all Nameks created them.  It was a natural process, as you described yourself.

 

"When a child came of age, he would create his own set of xarai-ethel.  The age varied for every child, as every person reaches maturity at a different point.  But when children began to understand the significant questions in life, they could conceive of a force tied to their soul that had until then lain dormant.  Conceptualized visually, that force was a dragon.  It materialized at the same time the child began to grasp the knowledge of right and wrong, good and evil, life and death.

 

"But as soon as the dragon appeared for the first time in the eyes of the child, its essence would solidify and encase itself within seven orbs.  The orbs would then scatter across the planet, as you first saw with your Dragonballs on Earth.

 

"The child's village would hold a public ceremony for him, a celebration of his coming of age, and the initiation of the rite that would take him the rest of his life to fulfill.  It was a journey to find the seven xarai-ethel he had created.  He was told of the lessons he would learn and experience personally, and the choice that he would face at the end of his journey.

 

"We had no advanced technology then, nor was it necessary," Moori said.  Piccolo realized he was talking about the Dragonball radar Bulma had invented. "The purpose of the journey was not to find them quickly, use them to gratify earthly desires, and then repeat the process as many times as possible.   It was a sacred journey of discovery, a pilgrimage of sorts, to the center of one's soul.  Such an endeavor was not to be taken lightly.  It was expected to take most of one's life to accomplish, after all.

 

"Thus, each Namek lived most of his life constantly moving around the planet, experiencing all the natural wonders and forms of beauty the world had to offer.  He met many others on the way, made close friends to walk beside in the search for their respective xarai-ethel, and learned the value of the life he had been given.  Along the way, one inevitably came to realize the depth of his own imperfection, his flaws, mistakes and sins.

 

"And he would realize that he was not free, could not be free by the mere virtue of his existence.  Most of all, he could not be free from himself—all the uncertainties resulting from his choices, the small and great evils he was capable of, the dark intentions and thoughts he harbored that were too shameful to disclose to others.

 

"The yearning for freedom would begin after this realization, and it would continue to grow stronger until one reached the end of his journey.  The elders of the village had told him of all these things at his initiation, but he had not understood then, this thing that lay at the core of all trials.  It was like a constant thirst for water, intensifying each year as he realized ever more clearly his need for it.

 

"Our original world was quite vast, as you saw for yourself, and much of the terrain was difficult to navigate.  Many more years would inevitably pass before one could collect all seven of the orbs he had set out so long ago to find.  He would become acquainted with suffering, both physical and spiritual, and long to be fulfilled, knowing the only thing that could grant him peace was the union of the xarai-ethel.

 

"And when he finally found all seven, the dragon he had seen only in a flash of vision in childhood would materialize before him, bow its head in acknowledgement that he had at last completed his life's journey, and offer to grant him one wish.

 

"One wish, unlike the two or three that are possible with the Dragonballs in existence today.  There would be no second chances, as the search had already taken most of one's life.  But then, most Nameks had already decided what their one wish would be long before the end of their journey.

 

"They would wish for freedom.  The granting of such a wish cannot be described in words.  How can one describe the gaining of freedom when it is not a solid object that can be grasped?  But the dragons granted this wish to all who asked for it.

 

"Once the wish was granted, the xarai-ethel would scatter once again, but there would be no need to gather them a second time.  Nameks returned to their home villages to settle permanently.  Some had children, who would eventually go off on their own journey.  The knowledge of the one wish that lay at the core of all yearning was passed down from generation to generation.  Thus, we were able to live in peace with each other and with ourselves."

 

Piccolo was silent, digesting all this with a mix of wonder and doubt.  The story was nothing like he had expected.  The elder watched him with a small smile, waiting for him to speak.  One of Namek's suns was setting, half-visible through the window, casting long shadows across the mat between them.

 

Moori must have caught the skepticism in his eyes. "I will answer what questions you have to the best of my knowledge."

 

"I find it hard to believe everyone wished for the same thing," Piccolo said. "Some could have chosen to make a different wish.  And weren't there any who found the Dragonballs without making that ultimate realization you described?  What about those who died before finding all seven?"

 

"One question at a time," Moori chuckled.  Piccolo suppressed a frown at being spoken to like a child. "Yes, some could have chosen to make a different wish, and perhaps some did.  My father did not tell me about those who deviated from the norm.  I do know that the predominant choice was for freedom, and that our people enjoyed a long age of peace.  We did not wage war in those days, and were never in material need.

 

"To answer your second question—there is an intrinsic characteristic of the Dragonballs that you appear to be unaware of, perhaps because you have always gathered them out of expediency instead of spiritual reflection." The old eyes twinkled. "Have you ever looked closely at the stars within each orb?"

 

"No." The thought startled him, that the stars were more than mere decorations.

 

"They reveal many things," Moori said. "No two beholders will have the same experience when seeing them—truly seeing them.  And each orb is different."

 

"What does that have to do with my question?"

 

"Patience," he said gently. "You asked if there were any who found all seven without experiencing the epiphany.  The answer is no.  At the initiation ceremony in one's village, one would learn of the powers that lay within each separate orb.  Each time he found one of the xarai-ethel, he would look within it and be changed.  Those stars reflect truth, powerful in both its complexity and simplicity.   They may reveal the beholder's greatest insecurities, flaws, fears, pride, folly, all that he loves and holds dear, all that he regrets and hates, all that he wishes he could have and become…and the things that have made him who he is.  Looking into one orb alone is enough to shake a man's soul.  One cannot see all seven and remain unchanged."

 

"So the stars basically coerce you into changing in some fundamental way," Piccolo said skeptically.

 

"Can one be coerced by the truth?" Moori questioned. "The truth merely illuminates our choices, showing us the paths we might take that were hidden before, or the end of the path we are currently treading, which may end in destruction.  It does not force us to turn back or to choose a new road.  I believe the Earthlings have this saying as well: 'the truth will set you free.'  Here is what that axiom means.  Knowledge of the truth allows one to make better choices, choices that might have previously seemed absurd or impossible given one's former ignorance."

 

Piccolo said nothing.

 

"I do not know the answers to all your questions," Moori admitted easily. "As to those who died before finding all seven, I do not know of their fate.  Their xarai-ethel perished with them, of course.  But as our people have always said, God is merciful."

 

Piccolo chose not to comment on that last statement.  He had known his people were mystics who believed in some higher god, but he had always been unsure how they could reconcile their faith with the fact that most of the deities in the other realm were pathetically weak and incompetent.

 

"I'm not too keen on the philosophical trimmings of this story," he said instead. "The freedom issue seems rather inflated."

 

"Well.  What do you think freedom is?" The elder's voice was soft, unassuming.

 

He paused for a second, considering. "To be able to do what one wants."

 

"Is that it?"

 

"What else is there?  Freedom from imperfections and 'sins,' as you said?"

 

"Yes, that is part of it," Moori said.  Piccolo could sense the beginning of another lecture. "You might say there are two forms of freedom.  Freedom 'to,' and freedom 'from.'

 

"The former is often thought of as free choice.  The freedom to do what one wishes, as you stated.  But then, our freedom is never complete, as our choices are always constrained by circumstances—our own inadequacy and weaknesses, lack of knowledge, and the coercive hand of external actors.

 

"The latter is often conceived of as liberation.  Every individual longs to be free from the ills that plague him and the chains that bind him.  The poor long to be free from poverty, the sick long to be free from disease, the guilty long to be free from guilt, the oppressed long to be free from oppression, and so on.

 

"The edges separating these two are often blurred.  My freedom to do as I wish may actually infringe on the second type of freedom.  In an extreme case, I may exercise free choice and murder my brother, but the consequences of my act will likely be additional chains barring me from freedom."

 

Piccolo cut in. "I understand.  You would be burdened by fear of punishment, guilt, the hatred of others, and so on.  But why use such an extreme case to prove your point?  It's feasible that we limit our own freedom every time we make a choice."

 

"Perhaps not every choice, but many," Moori said. "The important ones especially.  Like your choice to come here."

 

"My choice to…"

 

"You operated on limited information and made the decision to come to Namek on your own.  You left Gohan and everyone else, not knowing where the alien threat was and whether or not it would return, maybe even to destroy Earth.  Is that not a burden?"

 

"I made the most sensible choice," Piccolo said.

 

"How can you be sure?  You were operating on limited information."

 

"I suppose I can't know," he said shortly.

 

"Then what exactly is true freedom?"

 

Piccolo considered for a second. "To be able to have both forms of freedom at the same time."

 

"But…"

 

"But it's not possible because of outside forces and our own inadequacies," Piccolo said. "Yet the dragons somehow made it possible?"

 

"The dragons are the embodiment of man's free will in the absence of all constraints. Nothing was impossible for the dragons of old, unlike those of today," Moori said. "There is a wish woven into the fabric of every living being's soul, a yearning that never dies but is at the same time impossible for mortals to fulfill.  It is this most impossible wish that the dragons were able to grant as part of the wish for freedom.

 

"All life reaches for immortality. From the simplest single-celled organism to the most advanced sentient race, every being longs to live forever.  Though Frieza, Vegeta, and many others sought to achieve eternal life by an explicit wish, it is already an implicit yearning implanted within the most basic gears of functioning of every living being.  To the very end, our bodies fight against death even if our minds are ready to pass on.  The wish for freedom encompasses freedom from death, the ultimate chain that binds all living things."

  

"But everyone who made such a wish died anyway," Piccolo pointed out. "Unless they're still walking around somewhere on this planet and I haven't noticed them."

 

"There is more than one kind of death, Piccolo," Moori said. "Most seem to consider physical death as the only kind, but you and I both know that our souls continue to exist after our bodies perish."

 

"So the other kind is soul-death.  Is that a polite way of saying someone's going to Hell?"

 

"It means that one remains unfree even after physical death."

 

"Frankly, this all sounds like a load of theological bullshit," Piccolo growled. "None of it amounts to anything concrete."

 

Moori sighed.  The setting sun cast shadows across his aged face, the wrinkles in his skin appearing as dark crevices.

 

“Piccolo, have you ever seen a Namek in the other world?”

 

Piccolo paused. “No. But there are countless souls in that realm; finding someone of our race would be like spotting a speck in the ocean.”

 

“In addition to that, there are very few of our race in the other world to begin with. But the reason for this…what would you think if I told you that at one time, there were no Nameks in the other world?"

 

The though suddenly unnerved him. "I'd ask how you could know that, and where their souls went if not to Heaven or Hell."

 

Moori smiled.  His next question was just as unexpected as almost everything else that had passed through his lips in the past hour. "Piccolo, do you believe in God?"

 

He raised one brow. "I don't have to believe.  I know there are gods," he said slowly.

 

"You know I am not speaking of the Kais." Moori's voice was quieter, more serious. "Do you believe that there is a force greater than the Kais…the first creator, the final judge?"

 

Piccolo shook his head. "It was never relevant to me.  I've never considered it."

 

"You may find it is more relevant than you think.  From where do you think the dragons draw their power?  The power to alter the fabric of space-time itself?  To free life from death?"

 

"So the dragons are some kind of channel of this force's power?"

 

"They are the bridge."

 

"You know I don't have much patience left," Piccolo said with a frown. "What are you really saying?"

 

"They are the bridge between the mortal plane and the realm beyond, from which no one who has entered has ever returned.  The one wish that our ancestors made allowed them to cross over to that realm after death."

 

"You and I have both returned from that realm, Moori.  We've been wished back.  Unless you're talking about some other plane…"

 

Moori smiled again.  Piccolo said nothing.

 

He chose to drop the subject once more.  He did not want to go on and offend the elder or initiate some hopeless debate over whether such a being existed in the first place.  The hard evidence was clearly stacked against Moori's belief.  There was no way to know for sure that at some point there were no Nameks in the other realm.  This "God" had never spoken or made its presence known as far as Piccolo was concerned.  He was not one to believe in things that he could not affirm with his own senses.

 

In the past hour he had learned much, but still he failed to see how any of it was relevant to the matter at hand.  Time was not an abundant commodity; he had to get to the core of whatever Moori knew that might be useful to him.

 

"So how did everything change?  There are only two sets of Dragonballs now, and none of the other Nameks have made any."

 

"Ah.  Come outside with me, and I will tell you the rest of the story.  We have been sitting inside long enough." The elder rose from the mat and looked through another window at the planet's second sun, which was now rising.

 

They left his home and flew slowly over the mountains surrounding the village.  Piccolo noted the odd shape of the trees lining the slopes, the branches curved into a spherical shape.  This world was remarkably similar to old Namek; the familiarity had probably made it easier for their race to thrive again.

 

"This is much like the world in which your grandsire lived," Moori said, his robes flapping gently in the wind as they gained altitude.

 

"You knew him?" Piccolo said.

 

"No.  The only older Namek I ever knew was my father," Moori replied. "I was his oldest child, the firstborn in the age after the great cataclysm."

 

Piccolo could remember little of his sire's childhood; from the blurred images of his earliest memories, he could not discern any coherent string of events.  The feeling of those vague, formless memories, however, was like a bitter aftertaste; from that alone he knew that his progenitor's departure from Namek must not have been pleasant.  He remembered the distinct smell of burning.

 

“Before my younger brothers were born, I enjoyed the full attention of my father, and from what he told me later, I was a very inquisitive child.  I wanted to know everything—why there were only two of us in the entire world, what had happened to his own father and the rest of our people.  He told me many stories, almost everything he could remember from his life before the cataclysm.  I realized later that his memory was the extent of Namek's history.  There was no one else but him to remember what our people had been like for thousands of years."

 

"Was it just a natural disaster?" Piccolo asked. "A meteor storm?"

 

"No. Natural disasters are not selective about their survivors."

 

Piccolo looked at him sharply. "Guru was selected to live?  Out of an entire race of people?"

 

"Yes.  Except for those who somehow escaped, like your father."

 

"Was it an invasion then?  A war?"

 

"It was not wrought by nature or man," Moori said simply. "It was divine judgment."

 

Piccolo was silent and let the elder speak.  Already he thought it had to be myth, diluted and refashioned through the years until little factual information remained.   But he would hear what Moori had come to believe.

 

"The long age of peace ended when foreign ships descended from the skies and we encountered the outside universe for the first time.  We believed them to be gods at first, but quickly discovered they were mere mortals like us.  They could die, because they killed each other over our planet."

 

"For the Dragonballs," Piccolo surmised.

 

Moori nodded sadly.  He was slowing, nearing the top of the highest mountain as far as Piccolo could see. "The wars were long and bloody.  We had always been a peaceful race.  We had never seen living beings capable of such barbarism and cruelty, and we had never experienced the tortures of slavery before then.  Many died in the crossfire between opposing armies, or took their own lives rather than fall captive.  Many also died as maltreated slaves before their captors realized the Dragonballs died along with their creators.  It grew worse after that.  We were not allowed to die.  Many were confined to small cells for the rest of their lives as kings, generals, rogue soldiers, and all sorts of enterprising individuals raced to find as many sets of xarai-ethel as possible.  And the children…some were too young to even speak when they were taken captive and raised like farm animals, waiting for their coming of age and the formation of a new set of Dragonballs.

 

"The dragons' power could not be used to their fullest extent by outsiders, as the dragons were tied to their creators' souls alone.  Still, they wished for many things out of greed, the thirst for power, malice, jealousy, revenge…

 

"Our people learned to fight soon after that, with our natural physical strength and high ki level.  We fought hard and overthrew many of our captors, and even managed to take back our homeworld.   We still lived in a constant state of war.  Our whole way of life was changed, overturned.  Most stopped having offspring, no longer able to afford time and energy on raising young.  Youths no longer embarked on their lifelong journeys of spiritual discovery; the Dragonballs were no longer used in the old way, with that one wish to grant freedom.  And our people found that the dragons had become limited.  Without the will to discover truth and self, without time to reflect on what each orb had to reveal, we lost the full extent of the dragons' power.  Wishes were now used to fight wars, to increase firepower and defenses, to thwart enemy plans.

 

"Soon after, we became just like our enemies, pursuing riches, power, vengeance, the wide spectrum of worldly desires and corrupt ends.  We no longer cared about the root problem that remained within our souls, and chose to live unfree rather than to die free.

 

"Some betrayed our people, selling their xarai-ethel, a precious part of their souls, to outsiders willing to pay handsome sums for possession of the orbs.  Many moved off-world, and thus their xarai-ethel scattered across new planets, new systems far away from Namek.  It seemed that every world that became aware of the existence of Namek added itself to the war, a universal war over wishes."

 

They landed on the peak of the mountain; it was a small plateau, covered in hard ice.  The air was bitingly cold, but strangely still.

 

"What happened then?" Piccolo asked, looking through the clouds and mist that swathed the land below.

 

"The great cataclysm," Moori said into the stillness of the air. "It did not shake Namek alone, but every world that had been touched by the Dragonballs.  The landscape of the universe was drastically altered in the span of one Earth month."

 

Piccolo paused.  There were too many questions clamoring in his mind. "Why is it that no one knows of any of this?  Even Frieza didn't seem to know anything about the Dragonballs until a few years ago."

 

"No survivors were left to tell."

 

Piccolo was unnerved at the chill that ran down his spine.  It was not borne from the cold air.

 

Billions…trillions, perhaps, had died…

 

"And Guru was the only…"

 

"He was the only known survivor."

 

"Every race that was involved in the war was wiped out?"

 

"I do not know.  Perhaps not all of each race was wiped out, but only those who had aspired to abuse the dragons' power.  In any case, it is apparent now that the knowledge of the Dragonballs was lost very quickly in the wake of the cataclysm.  Collective memory is a peculiar thing.  The devastation from the cataclysm was on an unimaginable scale, far worse than what the war had wrought.  The traumatic memory of such an event is sufficient to warp history itself.  History, after all, is the account of those who survive to tell about it."

 

Piccolo looked at the elder with a level gaze. "How is it remembered, then?"

 

"Every race has a different name for it, and on many worlds it has become legend, acquiring a sort of fantastical status.  Most remember it as a massacre of epic proportions. Some believe it was divine cleansing, while others believe it was an outpouring of evil."

 

"And what caused it?"

 

Moori was silent for a second.  He walked slowly to the center of the plateau on the mountain peak. "He met my father on the highest mountain of old Namek.  I imagine it was much like this one."

 

"He?"

 

"He came to Namek last," Moori said softly. "The executioner, tsa'in Azrathi."

 

Piccolo stared at the ground under his feet, covered in a layer of ice and rock. The tale was growing more fantastical by the second. The thought that one being could be responsible for bringing the entire universe to the brink of destruction, in the span of a month, no less, was impossible.

 

"My father was one of the only free youths who had yet to create a set of xarai-ethel.  His own father had been about to sell him to an alien warlord in exchange for great wealth.  By then the news of widespread destruction by the hands of a godlike being had reached Namek.  Some fled for their lives immediately; others, like your grandsire, could only afford to send their children off-world, not themselves.  Many stayed out of foolishness and a false sense of invincibility stemming from their possession of a set of Dragonballs.

 

"My grandfather was still unwilling to let go of the bargain he had struck for his own gain.  The arranged spot for completing the transaction with the warlord was the base of the highest peak on Namek."

 

He turned away from Piccolo as he looked over the edge of the plateau to the ground thousands of feet below. "Before my father was put in chains, the base of the mountain was split in half as if by lightning, blinding him on the spot.  In the next second, he found himself at the top of the mountain, on an icy plateau such as this one.  He cowered there, paralyzed with fear, as the deafening sound of earthquakes grew to fill his entire range of hearing.  The world shook apart beneath him, and he could not see it.

 

"When it ended, there was complete silence, the sound of a world utterly destroyed and cleared of life."

 

Moori's eyes were closed as he continued. "Then he came to my father, the last Namek left alive."

 

The chill in his spine seemed to have solidified into a block of ice. Piccolo could not doubt Guru's testimony; the deceased elder had told his son all of this firsthand.  Could it be…was Guru the only source of historical truth in the universe?

 

"My father could not see him, as he had been blinded.  But he could feel his presence; he said his life force was unimaginable in its power.  Greater than Frieza's, greater than even Son Goku's.

 

"He told my father that the universe was not at its end, but another beginning.  That it all would have ended if people had been allowed to continue abusing the xarai-ethel, destroying each other and the worlds they lived on.  So it was all wiped clean.  My father alone would know the truth of what had happened before, and pass that knowledge on to his descendants so that they would live rightly, in peace and not enmity toward their neighbors.

 

"At that moment, my father's xarai-ethel came into being; I can think of no other experience that could bring about their creation so directly.  With immeasurable speed, tsa'in Azrathi caught them before they could scatter.  And he changed them, somehow, limiting their powers.  As my father would later find out, he also changed the process of their creation so that they could no longer be made naturally."

 

Moori opened his eyes and looked back at Piccolo.

 

"You still doubt; I can sense it clearly.  And you still wonder if any of this has to do with your current circumstances.  It does.  I have realized it through retelling this hidden history.

 

"He told my father that there would a time in the future when the way to freedom would be illuminated to all people. When that time drew near, there would be many signs.  Two great empires would fall at almost the same time. False gods would appear and lead many astray. The exiles of Namek would return. The Dragonballs would once again be hunted.  And there would be a messenger."

 

Prophecies.  They were usually vague enough to fit any given time period. But the list Moori had given…Frieza and Cold's empires had both fallen. Many were now journeying to Namek to retrieve the Dragonballs.  And the exiles of Namek…

 

He was the first to return, then. Accompanying that thought was the absurd feeling that he was being closely watched. He again wondered if the alien he sought was anticipating his actions and decisions, perhaps even directing them…was that how prophecies worked? Did some outside force channel and mold events in time and space toward a certain end, or did they just fit together by coincidence?

 

"You believe this messenger to be the alien I sensed on Earth," Piccolo said slowly.

 

"Perhaps I spoke wrongly earlier; this being may not be a threat, but an ally…if we choose to accept it as such," Moori said. "It told Vegeta to seek the 'place of origin,' our homeworld.  The place of origin of the Dragonballs."

 

"But how could the Dragonballs be the origin of Vegeta's questions?"

 

"Perhaps that is not for us to know." Moori shrugged. "In any case, it is fairly clear to me that we should be prepared for great change, and soon."

 

Piccolo shielded his eyes from the sun that was now halfway risen across the sky. "What happened to the executioner?"

 

"I do not know," Moori said. "His path of destruction was finished at Namek, and he was never seen again."

 

"You think this was divine judgment."

 

"What else could it have been, Piccolo?"

 

"If it was, then why wouldn't the Kais want to acknowledge any of this?"

 

"You grow irritated that I speak to you as one would to a child.  But it seems it cannot be avoided," Moori sighed. "The Kais did not send the executioner, neither did they take action to stop him.   It was not in their power to do so.  As you have observed yourself, they are like mortals dwelling in a different realm governed by different laws.  That is the extent to which they differ from us.  Now that this messenger has appeared, revealing the origin of a connection to a force greater than they, would they not feel threatened?"

 

In his mind Piccolo could see the stubborn knot of disbelief inside him, the voice that told him this new version of universal history was too outlandish to be true.  But what reason did Guru, the wisest being ever known to live among his people, have to lie to his only son?  What else might explain the silence of the gods?  And the prophecies…he himself was an element of one of them.

 

The questions that remained would not recede in his mind until he found the answers; at the same time, the answers he had already been presented with could not be dislodged. Nonetheless…

 

“Even if all this is true,” he said, “how does any of it help? How can I find the `messenger'?”

 

“I don't think that such a being can be found unless it wants to be found,” Moori said.

 

“Then what are we supposed to do, just sit around on our asses and wait?”

 

“If the messenger meant for Vegeta to come here, then this world will remain a critical juncture. You need not leave without reason. Waiting does not have to be a passive process. It grants you time for preparation, for careful thought and testing that which is uncertain to you. And for listening. Thus far you have been hearing and speaking with the voice of Daimao alone. He recalls only Earth. Why do you not listen to those who were born of Namek?” the elder said. “You have intentionally kept them silent, have you not?”

 

He smiled at the look of surprise on Piccolo's face.

 

“Listen to the one who was born before the old ways ended. Listen, and wait,” Moori said, reaching up to tap one wizened finger against Piccolo's temple. “Try to remember.”

 

*****

 

In the realm between unconsciousness and lucidity, the lines between memory and imagination, possibility and impossibility were nonexistent. Only in meditation did the reins of rationality slip from his hands. Or rather, the rules of what was rational were redefined, reshaped so as to include anything that he subconsciously imagined as truth. The empty air on which he sat, the whistling of the wind through the trees over his head and the faint laughter of children in the distance—all now existed in a separate realm, muted and faded like watercolors in his mind.

 

Thus far, he had only allowed one voice to speak, the one he considered the core of his self, the most prevalent pattern in the infinitely complex tapestry of his soul. The other threads of a different color and order, he had largely ignored. Somehow, they had always made him feel less whole. The interweaving of two other souls, once distinct beings, in the fabric of his essence, felt invasive. Moori had told him to listen to them.

 

Then he could no longer think of them as disquieting, intrusive entities, but as his own self entirely. Until now he had always been Daimao's offspring and reincarnation, a demon who had breathed evil and wrought destruction, meeting a slow death and rebirth by the innocence of a half-Saiyan child; this was the skin with which he was born, in which he moved, spoke, and thought most naturally. Alongside the dark, brooding essence of Daimao was Kami, the former keeper of Earth, the old wizened voice that quietly moved his conscience toward infinitesimal acts of good, the voice he still loathed for the extreme discomfort it made him feel. And there was Nail, the strong, simple warrior who had taken his last stand against Frieza, offering his blood and life force to delay the tyrant, and then offering his soul to Piccolo in the hope that combined, they might have victory. His voice was normally silent, a content observer, still bearing the spirit in which his soul had merged with Piccolo's—not seeking to survive for his own gain, not seeking to survive at all, but only to offer his strength when it was needed.

 

Try to remember, the elder had said.

 

For what purpose?

 

To remember his past—was that preparation for his future? A future in which he might face the being that Vegeta had encountered, the supposed `messenger?'

 

With practiced control, he checked the flow of questions as a sieve might slow a constant stream of water. None would be answered if all clamored simultaneously.

 

The hesitation remained. He was and always would be Daimao first and foremost; the thought of assuming the voice of the other beings that were part of him, even for a moment, set him on edge and threatened to break his concentration. He would have to cast Daimao down from his throne and allow another to take his place…

 

He could sense the invisible barrier of his hesitation, much like the emptiness of his palms waiting to be filled with energy on the cusp of a battle. Once he broke past it, it would be easier…though he still did not know what to expect.

 

He had to remember. This was the reason to step down from that throne. He conceptualized the elder's words as a necessity, that there was no other option. His life was driven by necessity; hesitation was an obstacle that he would surpass.

 

He felt an old voice, soft and familiar, echo within him.

 

…remember…

 

Remember what?

 

There was the faint sense of an answering smile. He noticed then that the invisible wall of hesitation was gone, but he had not shattered or scaled it. It was simply gone, as if it had never existed.

 

The threads of his consciousness stirred, the older voice approaching his own, and they were face-to-face; there was no throne, only a plane of equals. Each word and thought and image, both the intelligent and senseless, flowed forth seamlessly. He listened, sensing more than hearing, remembering through the inseverable link with the being before him what it had felt like, long before, to be one voice.

 

The whole…

 

The whole, incomplete, restless, wandering…

 

The whole, sundered…

 

The memories were disjointed, split into fragments that slid against each other as if time moved in adjacent slices. A dark sky, dotted with stars, the first view of the universe from Earth; an image of a broken spaceship lying on its side in a forest; the first pangs of hunger; the pain of blistered feet as he wandered alone on hostile land. Hearing words for the first time, uttered by strange, soft-skinned, two-legged creatures…hearing screams, new words radiating fear and panic, seeing eyes that were blue and green and brown—in all of them he could see fear of the unknown, which bled into hate.

 

There was a flash of pain, the sight of his own blood...the realization that other living beings wanted him dead. They had opened his flesh with their weapons.

 

They were humans, he learned.

 

And he was not one of them.

 

He yearned to be one of them, to belong…He began to returntheir hate…He longed to care for them, watch over them and teach them wisdom…To destroy them, hear their screams and delight in their pain…To be their invisible guardian in the sky…Tobe adestroyer king, reigning in chaos…

 

He was not of one of them, could never be. The thought saddened him. It angered him,that they hated and feared him so blindly. Compassion stirred within him, the knowledge that they did not know better and he could teach them a better way. They were weak; he could crush them under his hands like flies; he could shed their blood as they had shed his. They were weak; he could protect them and guide them from an invisible place in the sky; if they did not see him, they would not fear him. They might even revere him, pray to him, beseech him for blessings and wisdom. They might fight back with greater hate, challenging his power, sating him with their deaths. He could rule over them, have the world cower at his feet.

 

He strove to be worthy. To do good, to save others, to watch over the wellbeing of all people he met, as was a guardian's duty. He could not be worthy. He was chasing a lie, pouring his effort into impossibility. He could do good, buthe could never be good. The people of Earth were lost; he was different, he was stronger; he could help them, shepherd them, though they rejected him. They would always reject him,and so they would bear his wrath; he was stronger, he could crush them, curse them, rule them.

 

He would be the keeper of Earth. He would be the keeper of Earth.

 

Seven orbs, a dragon, washing through his consciousness and into the world, scattering over the land…

 

What were they? What did they mean?

 

He would find them…perhaps then he would feel complete…

 

Perhaps they would help him, empower him to do good, to be pure…

 

Perhaps they would help him, grant him more power…

 

Perhaps they would purge his soul of the shadow within, allow him to sleep at night in peace, without the other, the voice that raged in dark whispers…

 

Perhaps they would make his power complete, purge his soul of unnecessary allegiances and theuseless striving for good…

 

He longed for freedom as one might thirst for water, freedom from the chains that bound his soul in shadow even as he stood on the guardian's dais. He was a pretender. His soul was wretched, undeserving, impure. His hypocrisy sickened him. How could he call himself a guardian, a protector god, when such evil lived within him…was part of him…

 

He longed for freedom from the inane duties of protecting a people who deserved death, who were now oblivious to him, whose forefathers had shed his blood with blind hate. He was bound by a foolish conscience that checked his thirst for destruction and chaos; he longed to break those chains and be free to do as he wished, to live for himself alone…

 

He searched long and far for the seven orbs.

 

He searched long and far, slowly driven to the edge of madness.

 

Each night he felt the invisible threads of his connection to the orbs and the dragon that lived within them. They whispered wordlessly, waiting for their union.

 

Each night he raged, straining against the despair of the impossible task set before him. The whispers mocked him; he would never find them.

 

He would never be free.

 

He would never be free.

 

He decided to kill the other.

 

He challenged the otherto try.

 

The pain could not be described in words or lucid thought—the pain of half his soul, half the cells in his body tearing apart, dying.

 

The pain was his triumph. The other was too weak to bear it. He knew that he would have victory, perhaps not in the way he had first imagined it…

 

The pain was too much to bear. He could not kill the other…so he freed it.

 

Piccolo Daimao rose from the pool of blood and bile that stained the sanctuary in the sky. He took his first breath, free of the bonds of a frail body burdened by conscience and care and all the absurd thingshe could not understand.

 

He took a breath, shallow and weak, and beheld the demon standing before him. The devil that would threaten to destroy his world and the people he had sworn to protect. A demon born from his own soul.

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

. . .

 

“And he would realize that he was not free, could not be free by the mere virtue of his existence.

 

Most of all, he could not be free from himself—

 

all the uncertainties resulting from his choices…

 

the small and great evils he was capable of…

 

the dark intentions and thoughts he harbored that were too shameful to disclose to others.”

 

Moori's words.

 

They rang true for him. He had experienced that yearning for freedom, which his people believed was intrinsic to all sentient life. The struggle between conscience, the wish to be free from evil and darkness, and that other voice, the one that wished to be free to live without care or allegiances.

 

If he had found the Dragonballs in his youth, would he have thought to make the wish for freedom? Would it have purged his soul of Daimao and cleansed him of hypocrisy, the stain on his conscience that plagued him every day he stood on high as Earth's guardian?

 

In any case, he had not found the Dragonballs. He had achieved freedom his own way, but at great cost to himself and Earth. Kami had been freed of evil and hate, but Daimao had been freed as well, unleashed upon the world.

 

Now he was both Kami and Daimao, and it seemed the image he saw of himself in meditation had never been so unclear. Was that yearning for freedom still there within him? Was there still a wish waiting to be made?

 

He had never cared so much to have answers, to simply know what was unknown to him. One central question was emerging among the immediate concerns that had led him back to Namek in the first place.

 

He did not know himself. He was Piccolo, but he had given himself that name. He was three beings of distinct names and memories in one body and soul. He was three voices, yet spoke with only one of them. How could he be three and one at the same time when the mere acknowledgement of the other voices signified their disunity? He was not whole, had never been, from the moment he had become conscious of the dark voice that yearned for violence to this very moment, when Moori had reminded him that he was not entirely Piccolo Daimao.

 

His own name suddenly rang hollow. Only part of him answered to it—the one born of Earth. The others were silent.

 

Piccolo…

 

Piccolo!

 

The questions scattered as his concentration broke, jarred out of that unseen realm by the sudden mental call. He was a second slow to realize it was Dende. The young Namek's voice was urgent, strained.

 

What is it, kid? He opened his eyes, allowing his senses to reenter the physical world where everything was solid, defined by lines and color.

 

It's Bulma and Trunks. She sent a distress call to her father, saying that they're both in danger. She also said 18 disappeared, she thinks someone managed to kidnap—

 

He frowned. 18 was with her?

 

Yes. She brought her along for protection.

 

Piccolo had to shake his head—Bulma's powers of manipulation were impressive, but to persuade the machine girl to do such a favor for her? He wondered how she had managed that.

 

The signal was cut off suddenly. Dr. Briefs hasn't been able to get back in touch with Bulma, and he's very worried. Gohan brought the news to me and he's regretting not having gone with Bulma to protect her.

 

He growled in annoyance. I told that insufferable woman not to go after Vegeta. She's only brought this trouble on herself.

 

Piccolo! It was Gohan. You have to help her! Trunks is in danger too!

 

He paused at the sound of his pupil's desperate voice. I know they need help, Gohan. But what I came here to deal with—

 

If you don't go find them, then I will. The boy's statement carried the sound of a threat alongside a plea. I shouldn't have let them go by themselves…

 

This is not the time for you to start playing hero, Gohan, Piccolo said bluntly. The recklessness in the boy's voice was enough to warrant his harsh response. He could not afford another loose variable in an already complicated state of affairs. You are not to leave Earth, do you understand me?

 

How can I just stand by while they're in danger? How can I be so heartless?

 

Gohan sounded more frayed than ever, stretched too thin. Piccolo wondered if his absence was a partial cause of the boy's heightened level of anxiety. He had only been gone for a few weeks…but Gohan did not have anyone else close to him, did he? Only his mother and infant brother.

 

Gohan. Do you know how to pilot a ship?

 

A tense pause. No.

 

Piccolo decided that one rhetorical question was enough to get his student to reconsider his reckless heroic urge; asking another would only serve to undermine the boy's confidence.

 

I know you're concerned. I am as well, he spoke honestly. But you will not leave Earth and make things more difficult than they already are.

 

Then you have to go after them. What if this is the work of the alien Vegeta met?

 

The thought was unexpected. Messenger or not, the mysterious being was beyond understanding or predicting at the moment. If it had gone to Vegeta first…perhaps Bulma and Trunks had a role to play as well.

 

Maybe. Maybe it is, he responded gruffly.

 

Whatever's happening out there, promise you'll save them, Piccolo.

 

It struck him that Gohan called him by name naturally, without the hesitation and discomfort that he himself now felt. The boy knew him only as Piccolo, had always treated him the same even after he had fused with Nail and rejoined with Kami. Perhaps…perhaps he was who he was, not solely by his own power and decision, but by the acknowledgement of others, Gohan most of all. The thought gave him some sense of peace, brushing away a bit of the irritating uncertainty within.

 

He cared little for Bulma and her son. They were not his responsibility, and he owed them nothing. Yet conscience stood apart from personal debt, or lack thereof. Perhaps the memories of Kami and his own sire had deepened that conscience. Or perhaps it was the influence of the boy—so like his father, irritatingly pure of heart, full of good intentions and inexplicable care for others.

 

And so he made another promise he was not sure he could fulfill, simply because Gohan had asked. The boy was his conscience in large part.

 

But within himself, he could not deny what he had confronted during that brief time of meditation—the knowledge of that inner conflict that had driven his original being to the point of self-sundering. A conflict between conscience and will, a divide that still remained.

 

Perhaps as he traveled the expanse between Namek and his next destination, he would begin to cross that distance within himself, and understand his own being more fully. Whenever the `messenger,' whether enemy or ally, chose to be found, he would be prepared for their meeting.

 

*****

 

Author's Note: This took unbearably long to finish. Feedback is very important at this point. Any criticisms are welcome. I would like to engage my readers from now on and see what they're getting out of this story, and how I can improve my writing. Here are some things I am wondering in particular:

 

What themes are most prominent so far?

Has this story challenged you to rethink something in life or to begin thinking about something you had not considered before?

What do you think of the religious overtones in this chapter?

 

You can answer one or all of these questions; I would appreciate any input. The encouragement and comments I have received in reviews so far have been very helpful. Thank you for reading!