Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Errant Exile ❯ War Wounds ( Chapter 21 )

“Errant Exile”

Chapter 20: “War Wounds”

AN: This chapter makes reference to “One Good Deed.” If you haven’t read it yet, this entry will make more sense and have deeper meaning if you do.

“She doesn’t need to talk. She needs to pound the shit out of somebody.” - Vegeta

‘Piccolo?’

When Gohan had been a small boy, Piccolo learned early on that his student had a natural talent for interrupting his sensei’s meditation, usually when it was the most productive.

Today, however, was an exception.

The roof tiles had grown uncomfortable hours ago and he’d resorted to floating while he watched the sun set. Cool evening breezes rustled his cape and tugged at his gi as he tried to ignore his tense, underworked body. He unfolded and stretched, working a kink out of his left shoulder. ‘Yeah, Kid?’

‘I know I keep asking you this, but has there been any change?’

Piccolo sighed and looked down at the figure sitting on the beach. She was shivering, arms wrapped around her knees as she stared across the waves. The evening tide was coming in, and from his perch on the roof he could see swirls of foam and sand inching towards Khri’s toes. ‘No, Gohan. It’s the same as yesterday and the day before that.’

Gohan’s inner voice was sympathetic and a bit awed. ‘Its been over two weeks and she still hasn’t said a word? I know Khri is an alien, but she’s still female...’

He couldn’t stop a snort of amusement. ‘She’s not like your mother or Bulma. She never talked much, even before...’ He let the sentence trail off. ‘Khri physically can’t hold out much longer, Gohan. She’ll drink water but she won’t eat and she’s losing weight. Sooner or later she’s going to have to snap out of it and start living again.’ At least that was what he hoped. He didn’t doubt Khri was perfectly capable of starving herself to death if she wanted to.

‘I don’t think many species could survive on the Namekian diet.’ Gohan left off the joke about Saiyan appetites, his voice growing serious. ‘‘Piccolo, I know its been a while since you’ve trained...Vegeta’s been making snide remarks about a ‘lazy Namek,’ but Goten has been sparring with Trunks every chance he gets. Ever since Satan City was attacked he’s been determined to work harder and push himself. He’s worried about Khri but wants to know if you’ll be sparring again soon. He also asked me if you plan on dropping out of the tournament.’

Piccolo frowned as he arched his back into a deep stretch. The idea of dropping out didn’t bother him one bit, but the thought of disappointing Goten and Trunks did. Eighteen is still looking for a team, he remembered, and the idea of forcing Vegeta to be paired with the woman who once beat him is entertaining, but... ‘I don’t plan to drop out, but getting away to practice is difficult at the moment.’

‘That’s one of the reasons I’m bothering you!’ Gohan’s voice brightened and Piccolo felt it sounded a bit forced. ‘Videl told me this afternoon if you want a break, she’d be happy to spend the day with Khri tomorrow. She’s offering to spot you three times a week so you can start sparring again. She says she’ll bring some food Khri might be coaxed into eating, like chocolate ice cream. I’ll send along my extra senzu, too. What do you think?’

Rising to his feet and standing on the roof tiles, Piccolo arched his head towards his right shoulder to stretch his neck. The offer was very tempting. Unlike ChiChi, who had thrown martial arts out the window when she married Goku, Videl kept her skills fresh by sparring with Pan. If Khri showed any changes – for better or worse – Videl could handle it. He could spend a few hours training with the boys, then wind down at his abandoned waterfall before returning to Khri’s house to relieve Videl He glanced back down at the motionless shape on the beach, now surrounded by water, and made a decision. ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that, Gohan. I’ve got something in mind that might change things...if it doesn’t work I’ll let you know.’

Piccolo could feel Gohan’s curiosity curling around his reply. ‘Oh...ok...I don’t know what you’re planning, but good luck.’

‘Thanks. And thank Videl for me.’

Gohan’s voice drifted away, leaving Piccolo alone except for the occasional bird that whistled in the nearby palms. I can walk still walk away, he reminded himself, then snorted in annoyance. He’d been rehashing that argument for more than two weeks. My agreement with Sai ended when he died. I could let Gohan and Videl watch over Khri...hell, they’d probably be glad to do it. The last thing I want is to be a damned babysitter again. He floated down to the beach and tossed his turban into the soft sand. The dull thunk of his shoulder weights hitting a stone was loud enough to let Khri know she had company, wanted or not. He stood several feet behind her, feeling the breeze gently stir his antennae as it tousled her short hair.

The first week after Khri’s life had been torn apart had been a lesson in patience, futility, frustration and worry. After her collapse on the edge of the Lookout he’d tried to coax her inside the Temple, but she didn’t need to use words in her refusal to be moved. Dende had brought out a blanket and draped it over her shoulders, then forced a cup of hot sweetened tea into her hands. It took a bit of persuading but she managed a few swallows, then promptly ignored them both and stared into the star-filled sky the rest of the night.

The morning brought about another disturbing change. At sunrise Khri voluntarily went inside the Temple and emerged a short time later, shocking both Dende and Piccolo with her altered appearance. She’d shucked off her battered armor, bathed and changed into a black uniform identical to the one she’d worn her first night on Earth. Piccolo knew humans had many strange and pointless customs when it came to expressing grief and apparently Leonids did too. The sleeves had been ripped off at the shoulders, leaving her arms cold and bare. She had also cut her hair.

Judging from the ragged edges she’d sawn her braid off with a dull knife. What was left stood out from her scalp in wild curls and spikes that a super Saiyan would envy. She reminded Piccolo of a dandelion about to turn to seed. The loss made her look more vulnerable, her haunted eyes larger...and he hated it.

Khri used most of the day to rip apart the receiver and the dish and reassemble them. She spent the next three huddled on the Lookout’s edge with the machine. It hummed and occasionally chirped as its receiving dish swept back and forth but the sounds it made didn’t interest her. Mr. Popo conjured up meals that would have sent Goku into ecstatic convulsions but she left them untouched, the bed prepared for her unused. The days crept by with no change except for the rare hours she fell into a fitful, shallow sleep that never lasted long. When the first week was over Piccolo said farewell to Dende and Popo. Weak and sleep-deprived, Khri didn’t resist when he carried her off the Lookout and took her home. The second week was no different from the first, except her choice spot was now the water’s edge rather than the Lookout’s platform.

Piccolo quietly waited for a sign that Khri had noticed him, but her blank stare across the ocean helped firmed his resolve. He set aside all second thoughts about his plan as water and foam swirled around her ankles and soaked into her uniform pants. Lack of food, decent sleep and the stresses of grief had left her weak, her stamina low. His jaw tightened as he wrestled with a surge of feelings he thought he’d already dealt with; worry he would accidentally injure her, fear he’d waited too long and desperate hope that his scheme would work. There was also anticipation, kindled by a curiosity born many years ago when he’d first met Khri and she’d issued her challenge. He cleared his throat.

“Khri. You’ve been through a lot and you’ve had time to grieve, but it needs to stop now.” The roar of the ocean masked the sound of his deep, steadying breath. This is where things get interesting. “You can’t go on like this. Its time for you to start living again.”

She didn’t turn to look at him but Piccolo didn’t miss her flinch. “Your enemies tried to kill you here, on Earth. They almost succeeded once, but you pushed through the pain and the blood and defied them all. Now look at you! You’ve let yourself be defeated and you haven’t even been attacked!”

Khri’s head slowly turned and she looked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were open and burning bright. I think its working, he thought with an anxious swallow. There’s no turning back now. “Look what your own father has done to you!” He let his own surge of anger at the Leonid Eldest, at Sai, at the unfairness of it all give his voice an edge. “You were denied the privilege of dying as a warrior should! In spite of all your achievements they treated you like some spoiled, pampered child! They wouldn’t let you fight to defend the things you valued just because some old man wanted to leave a legacy!”

A twinge of old emotional pain caught him off guard. He’d been the product of Daimao’s cravings to shatter Earth and rebuild it into a second Hell, but the bitter old fool hadn’t counted on his offspring’s rebellion. To his own sire he’d been nothing more than a tool, an attempt to sidestep death and build a horrifying legacy by proxy. Khri’s father may have loved her, but had his desire to leave a part of himself behind been any less motivating than Daimao’s?

Piccolo knew the uncomfortable question would have to wait for an answer. Khri stood ankle-deep in the water, fists clenched and twin sparks of light glaring out from her shadowed face. Good! Its time to finish this. “You still owe me a fight, Khri, and now’s the perfect time. Here’s your chance to fight back. I won’t use chi and will stick with blocking moves just to make things fair.” She caught the subtle insult and her eyes flared brighter still. It was the riskiest part of his strategy; he wasn’t completely sure that raw emotions were enough to prevent Khri’s use of blackfire. They wreaked havoc on her shielding, but what about her attacks? His smile was mocking as he crouched into a fighting stance, fists ready and one foot grinding into the sand. “Show me you can fight, Khri. Prove them all wrong.” Excitement warred with guilt as he tensed with the thrill of an old challenge about to be answered. “You really don’t think you can hurt me, do you?”

The first punch Khri threw was easily blocked, but the impact sent a shock through his shoulder. There was plenty of force behind her arm without blackfire, enough to make him slide backward in the sand a few inches. The next few blows were easy to anticipate, but she nearly landed a kick to his jaw that would have sent him sprawling. I don’t know if she’s testing me or not, he wondered as he deflected a flurry of blows.

Fighting with so many self-imposed restrictions was more of a challenge than Piccolo first thought. No chi meant no flying, no beam attacks, no shielding, and no speed-of-light moves. He was limited to whatever physical force his body could produce and the discipline it took to keep from powering up was remarkable. Years of sparring and fighting kept him well conditioned, and dealing with gravity had never been bothersome until now. With no chi behind it, his bigger frame and heavier bulk slowed him down. Khri’s tall, lightly muscled frame had the advantage when it came to speed, and as she warmed up she moved even faster.

The last colors of sunset had bled from the sky and the full moon was rising when Piccolo, after blocking a kick to his gut, was able to anticipate her pattern. Khri’s blows had been strong and methodical without being totally predictable, but they reminded him of the machines Vegeta used in his gravity room. They were well programmed and Bulma had designed them to behave intuitively – Vegeta would throw a tantrum if he suspected otherwise – but they were still machines. Had Khri been fighting the same enemies for so long, using the same methods so often that she’d forgotten any other way? Just how old is she, he wondered as Khri’s missed kick sent her skidding into the sand. If she’s as old as I think, she could know hundreds of different fighting styles! “You can do better than this!” he snapped as she rolled to her feet. “Fight like a person, not a damned robot!”

Khri’s shoulder slammed into his ribcage, throwing him backward. When he hit the sand hard she had already vaulted over him and was about to attack from behind. Fighting the urge to strike back, Piccolo found himself not only on defense but feeling surprised. She knew a few moves from the old Namek style he’d “acquired” from his fusion with Nail. There were a good handful of attacks he didn’t recognize but several kicks reminded him of sparring moves Goku had brought back from Yardrat. At one point she hooked a leg around his ankle and jerked him off his feet. Khri moved from a fast, fluid dance into the most dirty street-brawling style he’d ever seen. Stars passed to the west and towering clouds moved in, cutting off the moonlight and drenching them both in a brief but intense thunderstorm. Pillars of lightning went ignored as Piccolo guarded against but didn’t quite block a blow to his knee. Khri’s thick hair lay plastered against her scalp as she stood several feet away, small streams of water running down her face as she stared at him over raised fists.

At last the storm rumbled its way down the beach, taking the rain and returning the stars. A cool pre-dawn breeze was picking up when Piccolo noticed a change. The pauses between Khri’s attacks were growing longer and longer and she was shaking. He wondered if the rain had been a mixed blessing. Her clothing was soaked and the wind blowing through it had to be cold for her. I think this is it, he sighed, resuming a battle-ready stance, flicking his fingers at her in a gesture of challenge and mockery. Just a little bit more...

Khri rushed him and she stumbled half way. Her knuckles, caked with sand and blood, landed soft blows that he caught with both hands. Head down and shaking like a leaf in the wind, her knees buckled and she collapsed. Piccolo caught her and eased her gently down. “Sai! Oh...Sai!” she sobbed, her voice raspy and faint as she doubled over.

“Let it out. You’ve been holding it too long.” Much too long, he thought, watching as the first hints of sunrise blurred the stars. Khri didn’t wail or fall into hysterics; she simply cried, occasionally speaking a name, soaking the knees of his already damp and sand-covered gi. Her battered uniform sported holes and rips, the skin underneath scraped raw and bleeding. Her butchered hair was partially dry and full of sand but still soft beneath his fingers. Khri’s sobs tapered off into ragged hiccups as the cries of seagulls seeking their morning meal echoed in the retreating dark. Her fists tightened as she took a deep breath and suddenly wilted.

Piccolo gasped in alarm. Had he pushed her too far? He reached for her wrist and searched for a pulse. It was there, faint but slow and steady. Piccolo scooped her into his arms and stood up. Dried tears traced sandy paths down her cheeks and her skin was cold. Too cold, but she’s too exhausted to shiver. He pulled her tightly against his chest and began the short walk up to the house. For the first time in hours he used chi, but only to nudge open the patio door.

The living room was dark and quiet. Rainwater pooled on the sills of every window left open during the night. Birds were piping a good-morning song in the nearby trees as Piccolo gently stretched Khri out on the sofa. She’s going to pissed at me later, he thought as he laid her on her side, watching as sand streamed out from her clothes and into the cushions. But I’d rather have her angry than emtpy. Reluctant to turn on the nearby lamp, he pulled the grille away from the fireplace. The logs in the hearth were seasoned and would burn easily. A small, controlled blast of chi ignited the wood and coaxed the flames high. He noiselessly replaced the grille and headed down the hall towards the bathroom.

Piccolo found himself appreciating Khri’s spartan lifestyle. Her closets were uncluttered and spare so he found a stack of small towels and a blanket in no time. He remembered where she kept her medical kit and retrieved that, too. She showed no signs of waking up as he spread the blanket over her and tucked it around her legs and back. He set down the medical kit on the low table next to the softa, then went into the kitchen and poured a large bowl of warm water. Kneeling on the floor, medical kit between his knees, he picked up her right hand. “At least these wounds are easier to deal with” he rumbled quietly, examining her injuries in the light of the fire.

Her knuckles were a bloody mess. Sand had gotten into the cuts and slowly ground itself in, mixing with blood and caking the wounds shut. He scowled and rummaged through the medical kit. Bandages were easy enough to spot, but there at least three tubes containing different types of cream. The labels, printed in Khri’s native language, were indecipherable so he resorted to the smell test. One was too astringent, the second had no scent at all. The third reminded him of a salve used by tournament medics on bleeding injuries, so it was probably his best bet. Using well soaked towels he managed to clean most of the sand and dried blood from her hand. Khri never moved, making him wonder if she was asleep or had genuinely passed out. He smeared the salve into the cuts and wrapped her hand in several swaths of bandage, leaving her fingers free. He tucked her arm under the blanket, went back into the kitchen for fresh water, then started work on her left hand.

As he cleaned away the signs of their fight, Piccolo took the opportunity to study this odd female that was occupying so many of his days. Her face and body were noticeably thinner and there were dark circles under her eyes. The set jaw and blank stare were gone but he wasn’t comfortable with the shadows of pain they’d left behind. Her bare arms bore marks of long ago battles both won and lost. A short, thin line slashed across her bicep, another one marred the inside of her elbow. A small crescent-shaped burn mark hid in the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. Four small, star-shaped scars were visible on her wrist, two on each side, reminding him of...

He froze. Four...small...stars...

Blood-tinted water from the towel pattered onto the floor. Four scars...four fang marks...

The towel slid back into the bowl.

Made by me.

The green hand engulfing the gold one trembled as a foggy memory cleared, leaving him with the taste of blood in his mouth. His Daimao-induced rage had burned fresh during the first years of his life, and his sole purpose at that tournament had been to spy on Goku and learn how to crush him. Then a tall, alien woman with strange powers had interfered with his plans. He’d been furious with her when he’d sunk his fangs into her wrist, but he’d been furious at the entire world, too. He ran the pad of his thumb over one of the scars. Have they become part of her? Just another leftover from an old fight? The explanation made the most sense except there were clues she felt otherwise. A tug on her sleeve here, pulling her hand away there. Khri was conscious of those scars. And she never wanted me to see them. Why?

The fingers he cradled in his palm twitched as she shifted in her sleep. He watched her face for signs he’d woken her but her eyes stayed closed. She let out a long sigh ragged from exhaustion and tears, then grew still. Piccolo scowled and finished the cleanup, topping the wounds with more of the salve. He opened another bandage and started winding it around her hand.

“Thank you.”

Khri’s eyes were open. They were glowing faintly in the firelight as she blinked sand from her lashes. Her voice, unused for over two weeks, was just as gritty as her clothing and sofa.

Piccolo looked away, then tore the extra bandage material off with his teeth. “Go back to sleep. You need the rest.”

He felt her watching him as he secured the end of the bandage and gently pulled the blanket over her arm. “How...how did you know...?”

“What to say and what to do?” He set the bowl and medical kit aside, then got up to add another log to the fire. The comforting heat helped to dry his gi and encouraged him to relax. He sat down on the floor in front of the sofa, feeling her knees press against his back. “I had a hunch.”

“Would you please explain?”

He quirked an eye ridge at her. “Only if you’ll sleep afterward.”

“I promise.”

And you always keep your promises, don’t you? Piccolo stared into the fire, watching the flames writhe and wriggle along the fresh wood. White-hot embers glowed beneath the grate, reminding him of a time when his soul smouldered with hate and anger. “What you said...thirty years ago...at the tournament, just before you left. Did you really intend it as advice for me, or was it something you wished for yourself?”

The knee against his back twitched. It was all the confirmation he needed. He listened to her uneven breathing as she thought about his question. “Both. When I told you to live, push yourself and learn from your challenges, I was passing on advice I’d been given once that I thought valuable. But refusing to let others push you towards their future rather than your own...” her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, “I wanted that for myself, when I was young. I never followed it.” Piccolo felt the blanket shift and cool fingers touched his shoulder. “I’m glad to see you did.”

He snorted. “Not by choice. At least at first.” He’d never told the story to anyone before; there had never been a need. The Sons had all lived it, especially Gohan, who passed it along to his family. There were plenty of other eyewitnesses to keep the tale alive, and they had the sense not to retell it if he was around. Admitting to yourself you were going soft was one thing. Hearing about it from others was completely different and not pleasant in the least.

“I don’t know how much Gohan told you, but my life wasn’t meant to be my own. My egg was spit out by Piccolo Daimao just before he died at Goku’s hands. I was born with all his memories, his hate and his rage. My only reason for living was to kill Goku, raze everything on Earth and rule what was left.” The admission sounded strange, as if it had happened to a different person. Maybe...just maybe it has. “It was when I was training Gohan that my ambitions...changed. I kept putting off what I thought I wanted...what Daimao wanted...until I realized his wishes didn’t matter anymore.” Khri’s grasp tightened gently, urging him to continue. “I was born to create a legacy and infused with the motivation and know-how to do it. I wonder now...after all these years...if some part of my mind remembered what you said about not letting others choose for me.” He shifted uncomfortably on the hard floor. “First Gohan and Goku, then Goten and Trunks...they gave me the excuse. Your life was a tool just as mine was, even if the reasons were different. You needed to get the self respect back they took from you. I just gave you the chance.” He turned to look at her.

Firelight reflected in Khri’s clear eyes, a hint of her old smile teasing one corner of her mouth. “You are so young, Piccolo. How did you get to be so wise so quickly?”

He let himself chuckle and turned back to watch the fire. “That is a long story and its not easy to explain. Once the tournament is over and I’ve got a few days to waste I might tell you. And since you’re calling me young, just how old are you...” he paused, feeling her hand slide from his shoulder. Worried, he touched her arm as he turned around to check on her.

Khri had fallen asleep. The shadows beneath her eyes were still there but carved less deeply into her face. She was breathing normally and the muscles in her arm were relaxed. Piccolo shook his head, gently tucking it back under the blanket. As much as he hated to admit it, Vegeta had been right. Khri had needed to “pound the shit” out of somebody, and it had taken far less encouragement than he’d anticipated. He leaned back against the couch, feeling the aches fade and and cuts close as he considered carefully how he had earned each one. She’s shown me a few new attacks that I want Goten and Trunks to try. Lulled by the heat and a strange sense of relief at hearing Khri’s voice again, Piccolo leaned his head back against her knees. Sunlight was pouring through the eastern windows and he wondered if he should pull the blinds, but the idea of moving wasn’t appealing and he doubted a little thing like sunshine would wake her now. Focusing on the crackle of the fire rather than the chirp of the birds, he closed his eyes and let himself relax. I hope I remember where she keeps the tea, he mused before falling easily into a meditative state.

To be continued...

RoseofVegeta: Thank you so much for your kind reviews! I’m glad you’re enjoying the story and Piccolo is “growing on you.” (LOL) Yes, I do work hard to mind my grammar but I’ll slip up now and then. These last two chapters have been angsty and exhausting...glad they’re done for now!

Animegrrl: I’m glad you like Khri – I believe that a truly strong woman never has to be bitchy or pile on the teasing to wield power. She simply...IS. As for the updates, I’m going to try and keep them regular as possible. There’s still a long way to go, and I hope I don’t let you down. :-)

AN: The next chapter is a special one. “Everyone’s A Winner” has been brewing in the kettle for a long, long time, and its one I sincerely enjoy writing! Not only is it fun, but its probably the closest thing to “fan service” I’ll ever do. An update shouldn’t be long!