Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Errant Exile ❯ Bent ( Chapter 26 )

Errant Exile

Chapter 25: “Bent”

It’s true what they say, Piccolo sighed to himself. It never just rains. It really does pour.

Warm droplets pattered his bare head and shoulders, pooled between his chest and crossed arms, then dripped steadily from his ears and antennae. Water cascading down the peaked roof of Khri’s house treated him like a stubborn rock resisting a river’s current. The heavy rain felt good against his skin, and he’d indulged himself by shedding his heavy cloak and turban. He could see the next flash of lightning through his closed eyelids and felt the resulting thunder in the vibrating roof tiles. Dawn was still hours away. Could’ve fooled me, he snorted, unfolding his legs for a stretch. His soaked gi stuck to his skin and his shoes felt like sponges. It’s been a long night already.

The tournament had been an exercise in patience instead of fighting. Piccolo’s faint hope that his team’s practice of not using chi would have leveled the playing field was crushed in the first round. Vegeta had entertained himself by seeing how few moves he could make before destroying his opponent and the boys followed his lead. Trunks and Goten left the stadium carrying the huge trophy between them, grinning madly at the young women clinging to their free arms. Piccolo’s own bouts were boring except for the final match: watching the leader of the Golden Serpent team writhe in agony had been a guilty pleasure. It was short-lived, though. He had other things on his mind.

After she’d ran from the storage room, Khri had returned to the stands. Gohan, forewarned by Piccolo of her strange behavior, tried to coax more information out of her but had no luck. Piccolo had caught a glimpse of her before their team began their fight. She was still pale, her face locked in an empty smile. His distracted glances caught Vegeta’s attention, earning him a threatening scowl. Gohan and Trunks were dimly aware something had gone wrong, but nothing could dampen their spirits as they posed for photographs, trophy hoisted between them. The victory party at Capsule Corporation had run late into the evening but Khri had bowed out early, fleeing renewed expressions of sympathy at the loss of Sai. Piccolo followed her air car at a discreet distance, then waited in the forest until the last light had winked out. As soon as he’d taken up his usual perch on the roof, he was startled by a sudden light shining from the back of the house.

Evening darkened into deep night. The neat square of light on the ground, cut in the shape of Khri’s bedroom window, winked back out. It returned a short time later, followed by the lights in the living room and the kitchen. He heard the distant clatter of the kettle in the sink, of running water. The moon, a thin silver grin hovering over the horizon, rose nearly overhead when the light in the kitchen went out. The parade of lights continued throughout the night. Shortly after midnight he felt the wind change and watched as a thick bank of clouds began swallowing the western stars. A distant rumble rolled across the waves.

Piccolo shook himself free of the recent memories and opened his eyes, surprised to see the living room light was still on. Either Khri had found what she’d been looking for or finally fell asleep, but there was another possibility. What if she knows I’m here and she’s waiting for me to come in, he wondered. “Dammit,” he swore under his breath, “this is stupid. Why am I wasting so much time trying to figure this out?” He stood up, ignoring the drag of his water-soaked gi. “She owes me an explanation for today, and now is as good a time as any.” Fists clenched in determination, he marched to the edge of the roof.

The tiles beneath his feet shuddered in warning. The back of the house exploded outward in a blast of glass and plaster. Piccolo gasped and shot upward as the sofa from the living room flew across the yard, rolled a few times and came to a muddy stop. A gaping hole, lined with debris and the tattered wisps of a filmy curtain, stood where her patio doors had been. “Khri!” he roared as he landed. He wiped the rain dripping from his eye ridges with the back of his arm and tried to peer into the house.

All the lamps were out. Over in the corner a white light flickered: somehow the television had survived the blast. It lay turned on its side, the screen white with electrical snow and the speaker hissing static. Before sparks burst from the back and it winked out he got a glimpse of the wrecked living room. Overturned furniture was battered and broken, and large chunks of plaster and wood had been chewed out of the walls. The patio doors, torn from their hinges, lay like crumpled and torn pieces of paper across the lawn. Glass chimed as the steady rain drummed the largest shards out of their frames. During the next flash he scanned the floor but there was no sign of Khri. He called her name again, then picked his way through the debris and ducked into the house.

Piccolo stared at the wreckage, worry tightening his throat. The spewed rubble itself was the only sign of an explosion. Where was the smoke, the heat from numerous small fires that should be blazing? All thoughts of a possible accident vanished and he forced himself to think. He doubted the assailants could hurt him, but if they were still in the house and had subdued Khri, blindly rampaging through the house could put her in danger. Feeling for unknown chi, he found nothing but the bright sparks of birds and other wildlife nearby. I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I hope I get a headache. Piccolo stepped over a shattered lamp in the center of the living room, took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Finding the blank space created by Khri’s shielding had been an ongoing challenge. It was elusive and required a lot of concentration to find, plus the raging headache the backlash caused wasn’t an incentive. Frustration with trying to keep a visual fix on the damned strange woman drove him to practice finding her shield. It had turned into a cat-and-mouse game; he used opportunities when she was distracted to brush against her shield, quickly retreat and pretend the space behind his eyes didn’t throb. The dark looks she threw him hinted she was onto his scheme but she’d said nothing. Over the passing months he’d gotten much better and, to his relief, the headaches grew less intense. It was a skill he suspected he’d need one day. That day, however, turned out to be a dark, stormy night.

Piccolo focused on the far end of the house first, the corner bedroom Khri slept in. Finding it empty he moved to the next room, waiting for the tell-tale pain to bloom behind his eyes. The room enshrining her computer, the bathrooms, the large closet and laundry all turned up empty. His gut twisted and sank as he turned to the kitchen. Damn, they’ve managed to take her or she’s dead . . . When his senses reached the dining room and found nothing, the sinking feeling in his chest made it hard to keep looking.

There!

Khri’s shield was barely a whisper of its natural strength, flickering off to his right. He spun and stared into the darkness where the dining area opened up into the living room. “Khri! Where are you?” he yelled, losing his focus and heading towards the shadows.

The sudden blaze of amber light gave him less than a heartbeat to move. Khri lunged at him from the shadows, wielding a broken chair leg like a club. Her swing went wide when Piccolo jumped back, missing the side of his head. His arm flew up just in time to intercept her next strike, the wood splintering against his forearm. Ignoring the pain, he made a grab for her wrist and came up short. She leaped onto the seat of the only chair left intact and glowered down at him.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” Piccolo’s booming voice and the weakening rumble of thunder shook the room. “I know you didn’t want me here but there’s no reason to attack me!”

Khri’s bare feet shifted on the squishy chair cushion, her back to the jagged hole in the wall. The storm showed signs of easing yet heavy waves of rain blew into the room, soaking everything. Water gleamed on her neck, bare arms and midriff, and streamed down her face. Her tangled hair curling loosely down her back, her loose pajama pants and her black tank top should have made her look vulnerable. Her eyes, however, were burning slits and he could see her fangs glinting in a furious, silent snarl.

There’s something very wrong here! Piccolo took a precautionary step back. The only time Khri’s eyes had glowed while fighting was during their little skirmish on the beach, and never when using blackfire. He’d never discussed it with her; he’d simply assumed her dimmed eyes were tied to the tight emotional control needed to tame her power. The house looked like a bomb had gone off, but the only thing thrown clear had been the sofa. Khri hurled the stump of her weapon at Piccolo and looked around frantically. The patio doors had been blown out but the iron curtain rod had survived. The thick screws holding the brackets rained bits of plaster as they were ripped out of the wall. The sharp end of the rod lowered, trailing a ruined drapery like a war-torn banner. Khri held it like a spear, watching him through slits of light, then leapt from the chair and charged him.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Piccolo raged. Then he knew. That’s it . . . she’s not thinking!

Sidestepping Khri’s improvised spear wasn’t a problem. Unlike their first battle she was physically healthy, strong and not suffering from emotional and mental exhaustion. He wrested the rod from her but couldn’t avoid the kick she landed to his gut. Knocked across the room, he felt his back and shoulders smack into the wall. He freed himself and was on his feet again in time to roll aside from another kick. He snagged her ankle and jerked it hard, hearing her breath hiss out of her lungs as she hit the floor.

Waves of terror climbed upward through Piccolo’s fingers and curled around his arm into his shoulder and chest. Uncontrolled terror, mixed with panic and desperation, found its way past his own shaken emotions and tightened his lungs. This had nothing to do with chi, he reminded himself. The ability to empathize with the emotions of another through skin contact was a Namekian trait, a legacy given to both healer and warrior Nameks alike. Nail had been taught how to use it by the elders. With no one to teach him, Kami mastered it himself through personal experience. Such emotional intrusions could be shut off while fighting, but Piccolo had been too intent on finding the cause of Khri’s erratic behavior to consider this a serious fight. His grip tightened as she struggled to escape. “Khri, stop it!”

She didn’t answer. She kicked out with her free leg and Piccolo felt the bones below his wrist crunch painfully under her heel. His grip held and he snared her free ankle with his other hand. “Khri! Stop this now!” Khri rolled left and right, fingers digging into the carpet as she flailed. The desperate need to escape, to wrest herself free driven by unholy terror had stripped away any sign of thoughtful defense. “What is it! What are you so afraid of?” he roared, watching her arch her back as he pulled harder on her ankles. Suddenly Khri reared up. The heavy bronze lamp, the shade missing and sporting a broken bulb, slammed into the side of his broken wrist. The impact numbed his hand and she jerked that ankle free, rolled to one side and rammed her heel into the fingers still trapping her. Piccolo growled in pain and stepped backward again, letting Khri jump to her feet. The room glowed brighter under her baleful, hate-filled gaze, her hands balling into fists.

A distant memory bubbled to the surface of Piccolo’s mind. I’ve seen this sort of thing before, he mused, and it’s important. The hunch grew and became solid an instant before Khri hissed. She flew at him, her shoulder slamming into his chest in an attempt to knock him down. The move probably would have worked on one of her own kind, but Piccolo’s size, bulk and natural strength absorbed the impact with nothing more than a grunt. It also put her exactly where he wanted her.

Piccolo threw his arms around Khri, twisting his leg behind her knee. He fell backward and hit the floor, feeling pieces of debris dig into his ribs and shoulder, taking the impact for them both. Before Khri started struggling again he rolled over and pinned her. The rain had made them both slippery, so keeping her legs and arms trapped was difficult. He’s nearly forgotten how strong she was; the image of her ripping the door off a semi truck spurred him to grab both her wrists. His broken hand made it hard to keep a tight grip. One leg free and she’d be able to throw him off. I’d better do this now!

The technique was an old one on Namek, known by Nail only because Guru felt he should learn it. Kami had discovered it, like so many of his natural abilities, on his own prior to his ascension to godhood. Piccolo had stumbled across it during one of his rare rummaging sessions in Kami’s curdled memories. He’d snorted in disgust at the judgmental old man’s use of the skill but now he could see where it could be used to a fighter’s advantage. His hold on Khri’s wrists was slipping and tightening his fingers could break bones. She’s going to be pissed at me for this, he growled to himself, pressing his forehead to hers.

Twisting clouds of black and scarlet sucked him down, down into a nightmare world that would have made his sire cackle with sick delight. Corkscrews of magenta reached for him and missed, repelled by an unseen barrier. The clouds and colorful ringlets blackened and were swallowed by a void of dark silence. I’m just an observer here, he reminded himself. When he found the hard shell protecting Khri’s mind he flinched. I have to do this! I’m not my father, and I won’t intentionally hurt her! He clenched his jaw and plunged forward.

Khri’s mind was surrounded by fear and a dread so intense he found himself staring in shock and disbelief. The dread exploded into crippling horror when cold, wet bands of rubbery muscle coiled around her like a nest of tightening ropes, snaring her limbs and crushing her chest. Caustic slime burned her eyes. It filled her nose and mouth, slid down her throat, raising waves of nausea and smothering her. This isn’t just a nightmare, he gasped. She lived this! It’s a real memory!

The shell protecting Khri’s mind blew apart and shattered into millions of tiny, glittering pieces. A scream never reached her voice. It never had a chance. Nooooooooo! STOPnoAIRstopstoptopcan’tBREATHE! HelphelpNONOmustgetfreeHELPSAIohpleaseAIRAIR! HelpSTOPSTOPpleaseNOAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Piccolo jerked his head back, gasping. He was free, free to fill his lungs with huge gulps of sweet, tropical air. The burn of acid on his tongue vanished and his stomach stopped churning. The physical sensations of the experience had been terrible by themselves, but Khri’s scream as her thoughts, memories and feelings were ripped from her . . . that had been unbearable. The bones of her wrists creaked as he tightened his fingers, blinking in the fierce light from her wide eyes. “Khri,” he roared into her ear, “wake up!”

Khri’s back arched and he nearly lost his grip. He pushed himself up on his elbows, keeping her pinned using only his chest and legs. “Dammit, Khri, wake up!” he shouted again, knowing he was about to lose his best advantage. The night terror prevented Khri from attacking him with blackfire but it also turned her inside out, trapping her mind inside an emotional storm over which she had no control. Piccolo felt her twist underneath him, bringing her closer to freeing one leg and throwing him off. Salty water dripped from his antennae onto her face, then was swept away by her damp hair as she tossed her head from side to side. Anger and frustration at her stubbornness, his own helplessness and the whole stupid situation forced his decision. It would take good timing and a lot of caution. Probably a few apologies too, he snorted. Then Khri’s right leg was free and there was no more time for second guessing.

Pain burst through his shoulder the instant he released one of her arms, her sharp elbow grinding into his collarbone. She now had leverage and started to buck him off, but he was ready. His fist caught her left cheekbone, snapping her head to the side and mashing the broken bones in his hand. The room abruptly dimmed and the straining body beneath him went limp.

“Khri!” Piccolo shifted his weight back to his forearms, holding his breath in fear. Did I hit her too hard? He slipped his unbroken hand her cheek and the floor and gently turned her head. She could hear her breathing, a little too fast but it was steady. The lightning had slacked off as well as the rain and thunder, leaving the room far too dark to check her injury. He raised his head and squinted towards the hall. The switched flicked up and diffused light flooded the living room. The cold light showed him a few small cuts on Khri’s face, probably from flying glass and debris, but a long gash ran the length of her swelling, left cheekbone. Her right hand lay palm up beside her head, darkening oval bruises circling her wrist like a tattooed bracelet. He was about to back away to check for other, possibly more worrisome injuries when her fingers twitched.

A slight frown wrinkled Khri’s brow as she took a deep breath, swallowed and opened her eyes. Her smoky pupils, only a shade darker than her amber irises, glowed softly as she stared up at him. Nearly nose-to-now, Piccolo could make out the tiny, shimmering points in her eyes responsible for their mercurial light. “Piccolo? What are you . . .” She broke off and frowned. It was fleeting, but he didn’t miss her expression of pain, her fingers probing her slashed cheek.

“Take it slow,” he said quietly. He pushed himself up, ignoring the sharp pain from his own fractures, and sat beside her. Her pajama trousers, ripped in several places, were soaked and sticking to her legs. There were signs of bruising on one ankle and an assortment of minor scratches criss-crossed her arms and neck. The hem of her wet shirt had crawled up to reveal new splotches shining under the old scars scoring her ribcage. As he suspected, most of the fresh damage she’d done herself when fighting her furniture. “I don’t think you’re hurt badly but be careful.”

Khri sat up slowly, her eyes darting around the room in confusion. She gasped at ruined furniture, the battered walls, the gaping hole and the thin curtain of water pouring from the dark sky beyond. Her gaze fell on the lamp she’d used as a club, then her eyes flew wide and her jaw dropped. When she turned back to stare at up him, he nodded at the desperate question on her face. “So far it was just this room,” he added. “A couple of minutes more and you wouldn’t have a kitchen.”

She looked down at the rug, her shoulders trembling. “I . . . I thought I told you, made it clear . . . why didn’t you stay away? I warned you . . . not to come back here tonight!”

“I don’t take orders from anyone. You should know that by now.” Piccolo stretched one leg, then scowled at a piece of glass stuck in his knee. He plucked it out and tossed it aside. “I certainly wasn’t interrupting your sleep. Big crashes in the middle of the night usually mean trouble.” He inspected his broken fingers and damaged wrist. Rejuvenation was well underway but the angles at which the bones had been fractured would slow things down. He flexed them experimentally and wished he hadn’t.

At his painful noise, Khri turned around. She stared at his hand a moment. “Let . . . let me help with that,” she said hoarsely, reaching for him.

“Forget it. It’ll be fine.”

“I know that,” she said, “but I . . . I can help it along. And I . . . it would help if I had something to focus on.”

Piccolo’s frown relaxed, his curiosity piqued. “She uses what we call ‘close-range TK,” Sai’s distant voice intruded out of the past. “High Clan can repair shattered bone, broken blood vessels and other nasty injuries.” The chance to ask him what “High Clan” meant was long gone and now wasn’t the time, but it had never occurred to him that Khri might be able to heal wounds other than her own. He extended his crumpled hand.

“This might pinch a little,” Khri said. Her cold hands gently cradled his injured one. He heard bone snap and a felt a sharp twinge in his index finger but kept still. He gasped when the pain instantly disappeared, then growled when she moved on to the next break. “No carpal damage . . . the metacarpals, though . . .” There was another painful crunch, followed by instant relief. At no time did she grasp or even squeeze any of his fingers; her actual touch was feather-light. She methodically examined each bone, joint and tendon, working her way down each hand and into his wrist.

Once Khri finished with the last torn ligament, Piccolo let out a long sigh. He’d forgotten how much misery a badly crushed hand could cause, even for a short period of time. The last of the small cuts faded as he slowly clenched his fist. “Thanks.”

Khri didn’t reply. She turned her back to him, drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. “How did you know . . . that I was still asleep?”

Piccolo’s short laugh came out a snort. “When Gohan was a child training with me in the desert, he used to have nightmares. Most of the time he’d just cry or act as if he was wrestling a wild animal, but every so often he’d scream and throw himself at me. There wasn’t any thought or sense to his fighting, just fear and rage. After a good punch he’d wake up and not remember anything that happened.” For a long time he’d thought the kid was playing at some sort of stupid game and forced him to work even harder as punishment. He’d forgotten all about it until after his fusion with Kami and he was forced to train Goten and Trunks in the Room of Space and Time. Goten had repeated Gohan’s infuriating behavior and was only saved by an intrusive memory from Kami. Night Terrors, the old man learned, were common among young children and some adults. Piccolo glanced outside, taking note of the relenting rain and thinning clouds. I was just glad they never happened during a full moon. “Whatever happened at the tournament triggered your nightmare,” he said softly. “I want an explanation, and I think now’s the perfect time.”

She shivered. “I’m sorry I injured you, but that part of my history is none of your concern.”

“Dammit, Khri, look around you!” He pointed accusingly at the smashed wall even though she couldn’t see him. “Your mistake about seeing about Sai didn’t cause all this! Earlier today you almost attacked me, then ran off without an explanation! You wouldn’t tell Gohan what happened, you avoided me the rest of the day, and now this!” When she refused to respond, he stopped shouting and sighed. “You might as well tell me. I saw enough of your dream to know what scared you.”

Khri turned with a sharp gasp, her face pale. “What?!”

Piccolo rested two newly healed fingers on his forehead and favored her with a slight smile. ”Warrior and healer Nameks have their differences, but we can all dreamwalk.”

The shock faded from her rounded eyes and she turned away again. “I forgot about that.” She rested her chin on her knees, no longer bothering to hide her shivering. “You . . . you shouldn’t have intruded.”

“It’s not as if you gave me much of a choice.”

She still wouldn’t look at him, but he sensed a change in Khri’s resolve. She was cold, wet and the swelling beneath her eye looked painful, yet he could feel her pull the shreds of her shield together. He had to fight the urge to retrieve a blanket, light the fire or do something to ease her discomfort. Just wait . . . give her a few more moments . . .

“It happened many years ago, long before my first visit to Earth.” Her voice was emotionless, bleak and grey. “The Aughenai had just left Home Station after a major retrofit and crew rotation. We were only a few days out when Surveillance picked up what they thought was a distant distress call. It was in a language we’d never encountered before, one our best linguistic engineers couldn’t unravel. We suspected it could be a Tigradi construct, but it was decided we should answer the call.” She paused for a deep breath, letting it go in a ragged exhale.

“We tracked the signal to an uncharted system. It came from the largest planet, one covered with water except for a few large islands. The signals were coming from the ocean.” Her tangled curls brushed the carpet as she turned her head, her dark profile outlined in light from the hall. “The Brioux language was difficult to translate but we were certain about one thing: they were being attacked and needed help. Surveillance found no signs of any ships nearby other than the Aughenai and the support fleet. Even with the translation problems we managed to arrange a meeting on their largest island. Since it was a first contact situation it was my duty as Battle Commander to lead the landing party and linguistics team.”

Piccolo saw her jaw tighten and her eyes closed. “The Brioux are aquatic, but they can survive out of the water for a few hours. Their ambassador, a scientist named Pym, insisted that they were being attacked and millions had already died. The linguistics team tried everything, even filtering the Brioux speech through water sims to decipher it. Without a better translation it was impossible to understand exactly what the Brioux were facing. That . . . that was when Pym made a suggestion. He . . . he said that his Emperor had special abilities and might be able to . . . to learn our language quickly . . . from one of our landing party. I . . . I was that one.”

Khri’s shield snapped tighter. The breath she drew in was shaky, her voice tight. “Their Emperor was brought to the island. Their royal line has the ability to . . . to absorb information through the skin. We didn’t know how the process worked until I’d stepped forward . . . and he’d . . . he grabbed me.”

Images and sensations from Khri’s nightmare swam behind his eyes. That explains the monster, he thought, refusing to relive the feel of cold, slimy coils cutting off light, air and sound. Piccolo had never seen Khri cry out in pain, not even in the parking garage, which made her unheard wail all the worse. Dreamwalking didn’t require him to share her agony, and feelings of guilt poked him for it. Hell, just watching it was bad enough. Suddenly he remembered his sire: the old demon would have been giddy to inflict such terror on an independent, strong-willed creature like Khri.

I, Piccolo coldly reminded himself, am not my sire.

Khri’s near whisper brought him back to the present. “When I could see and hear again I found myself on our lander, strapped on a med table. The captain was shouting and the medics were on the verge of panic. They said I’d been in shock and they couldn’t rouse me. I found out later that the whole incident happened in seconds. My crew thought I’d been eaten. The Emperor, now that he could understand our language, instantly spat me out and backed off but not before he was shot. I was taken away for treatment but we now had an ‘incident’ to deal with.” She looked down, her face now hidden behind her curtain of hair. “The Emperor was inconsolable. He was horrified that he’d harmed me even though he hadn’t meant to. He lost a few tentacles but would survive, and his entire entourage was traumatized because of their Emperor’s upset. Fortunately for the linguistics team, the Emperor’s wails were in our language so they were able to translate it quickly. The order was given for the crew to stand down but the crisis wasn’t over. Nobody could calm the Emperor enough to reason with him, and they were running out of options other than a complete retreat back to the Aughenai.”

And where was Sai during all this? Piccolo wondered, but that question would have to wait in line behind other, more important ones. “You didn’t retreat, did you?” he ventured instead.

Khri’s hair swayed back and forth. “No. I . . . I knew what I had to do.” She raised her head and a trickle of pride brightened her voice. “I cleaned myself up, left the lander and walked back to the meeting. I let the Emperor see he hadn’t hurt me. Everyone calmed down, mutual apologies were exchanged, and the linguistics team finished their translations with the Emperor and Pym’s help. We learned that they were being attacked: we’d just been thinking on the wrong scale. They’d been invaded by the Dreg, a parasite species that was mining the Brioux themselves for trace elements. The Dreg were listed as an extinct race, and since they were microscopic we didn’t even consider them as a possibility.” Her smile held no humor. “We ‘cured’ the Brioux in less than a day and earned their friendship, their trust, and valuable trading rights. The mission was labeled a success, we returned to the Aughenai, and I was immediately whisked back Home so I could lose my mind in safety.”

Piccolo blinked. “What?”

“The Brioux Emperor had . . . had damaged me. There was no way I could let it show or I’d lose everything. My position, my home on the Aughenai, my self-respect . . . the thought of losing them helped me survive the trip back Home.” Khri appeared to be watching the last drops of rain splash the carpet but her gaze was too distant. “I spent several weeks at my family’s compound, locked in total isolation while undergoing reconditioning. The specialists hinted that if I didn’t recover quickly I would be certified as unfit for duty. I would be forced to retire.” Her eyes blazed in sudden emotion. “I fought my way back. I refused to let what was done to me take up any more of my time, any more of my life. And when I was pronounced fit for duty and returned to the Aughenai, I found that the story had become a downtime tale. The troops were retelling and stretching it over game tables and it grew with every rumor. And I used it to my advantage.” The fire in her eyes was short lived, however, as she re-examined her wrecked living room. “I thought I’d conquered the nightmares. Obviously, I was wrong.”

The room went silent except for the distant rustle of leaves and palm fronds, the crash of storm-stirred waves on the beach. A chunk of plaster clattered to the floor as the soaked lath gave way. This house can be fixed, Piccolo mused, but what about Khri?

Khri started to stand. “I should find a tarp for the hole and clean this up. It’s a better use of my time than reliving old haunts.”

“Not so fast!” Piccolo’s hand shot out and snagged her right forearm, taking care to avoid her bruised wrist.

“N . . . no! Don’t touch me!” Khri snapped raggedly, trying to pull away. “Let me alone!”

Moving slowly and with just enough strength to keep her from escaping, Piccolo hauled her backward. He grasped her shoulder and pulled her around but she still refused to face him. His arms went around her, trapping her stiff body against his. “I know how you did it, how you went on,” he murmured into her hair. “You shoved your feelings aside until they were weak enough to fight, and then you won. Others threatened you and you were afraid, but you took control and showed them all. You won, Khri.” A careful flare of chi heated the surrounding air, creating a hot wind that drove the damp from their clothes and sent Khri’s hair flying. She’s still shivering. Damn, now what do I do? His arms tightened, drawing her closer and pressing her uninjured cheek to his chest.

It could have been minutes or hours, Piccolo wasn’t sure, but eventually Khri’s shaking stopped. Her fingers, knotted into his gi top, eased their death grip without letting go and her breathing steadied. His ear twitched at the distant piping of a small bird clearing it’s throat for a morning trill. A soft glow gave a blush to the eastern sky and the clouds let through the night’s last stars. Tropical mornings always started soft, he sighed to himself. Soft . . . like the rounded shoulder cradled by his left hand. He marveled at the smoothness of her skin, fingertips brushing across the ridge of an old scar. It took a moment to realize her shirt had bunched up in the back and his other hand spanned her rib cage. There was muscle there, used and abused, hidden beneath more soft skin. The silky hair tickling his chin smelled of rain, wind, and the delicate perfume of tropical flowers. She didn’t feel like this the night of the carnival, he thought, looking down at the long curve of her neck and shoulder. This feels . . . better! An annoying buzz in the back of his brain hummed to life and battered the inside of his brain like a trapped wasp hitting a paper screen.

The sun crested over the horizon and Khri stirred. She drew back just enough to look up at him, and he was oddly satisfied that she didn’t try to push him away. Her eyes were glowing more brightly than usual, regarding him with the openness and wonder that reminded him of a very young Gohan. “Why?” she asked quietly. “Why did you . . . what made you . . . “ Piccolo didn’t help finish the question. A tiny frown crinkled the bridge of her nose. “I’ve never spoken with anyone about what happened to me on Brioux. The medics and specialists got their information from others who were there, not me. I . . . I didn’t even tell Sai about it.”

Piccolo’s brow ridges flew up. “You mean that bastard wasn’t there with you?”

The hint of a smile dimpled her uninjured cheek and her eyes flashed. “Who do you think shot the Emperor?” Her grin faded. “Sai wasn’t permitted to return Home with me. The situation was so dangerous politically he was kept on the Aughenai as a sign of stability and to help control any damage. Once I’d returned, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about it.” The outside of her thigh slid against the inside of his when she shifted to a more comfortable position.

The infernal humming was becoming a distraction, and the feel of Khri’s long body pressed into his seemed to make it worse. Piccolo kept his hands very still and seized upon a statement Khri had made earlier, one he’d found disturbing. “You said you were ‘locked in total isolation.’ Why?”

Khri bowed her head, her thick bangs tickling his chest. “I went mad, Piccolo. For several weeks I was a danger to everyone, even myself. Once the madness started to fade the nightmares began. After I blasted holes through the medical complex they decided to sedate me and lock me down at night. Only a handful of specialists were allowed access . . . and they brought strong orderlies to make sure I didn’t cause trouble.” Her voice dropped to a terse whisper. “I was a prisoner in every sense of the word. It didn’t take me long to figure out that my only way out of prison was to recover. So that’s what I did, and I did it alone.”

“Where was your father?” Suddenly curious, he added, “and the rest of your family?”

“Eldest . . . my father, was too busy.” She nearly managed to hide the bitterness. “He sent a message, saying he had every confidence I’d recover and be back on duty in no time. My older brothers and sisters . . . their business takes them off world. They’re also very good at avoiding potential family embarrassments.” She shrugged. “At least they used to be.”

Piccolo bit back a growl of disgust. Time spent training Gohan, two unwanted fusions followed by years of watching his student mature and become a father had taught him more about parent-child relationships than he really wanted to know. Touch, he’d learned, was an important part of that bond. It also explained why little Gohan had insisted on hanging on him at every possible opportunity. Khri’s father, in spite of his plots and plans actions to protect her, had forgotten that a child occasionally needed comfort. Even an adult child, he thought as he looked down.

The buzz became a further nuisance by reminding him that Khri was certainly not a child. She was old, older than he wanted to think about, and the scars running beneath his fingers carved deeper than her skin. When it came to touch he’d thought of her as a cactus, ready with sharp points to keep him away, but not now. An unanswered question nagged him, and he feared the asking would harden the softness of the woman in his arms. It still needed to be asked.

“You haven’t told me what triggered your nightmare.”

A surge of fear, horror and dread poured from Khri’s body like dark wine from an overturned bottle. It only lasted a heartbeat when she gasped, clamping down hard on her emotions with a ruthlessness that surprised him. I keep forgetting just how alien she is, Piccolo mused as he stared down into her wide eyes. Her pupils were shrunken points of smoky amber and nearly lost in her glowing irises. “Tell me,” he insisted. His arm around her tightened further, the hand on her shoulder moved to rest against gently against her injured cheek. “It has something to do with the man you mistook for Sai and what happened with the Brioux, doesn’t it?” When she swallowed and pursed her lips, he played his most convincing wild card. “If it poses a threat to Earth, you’ve got to tell me.”

Khri stared into his eyes for a long moment, then blinked. “I . . . I don’t think it will come to that, but perhaps you should know.”

She told him of her pursuit of Sai and the eventual unmasking of the Brioux scientist. Her voice remained cool and steady but he could sense the ache of renewed loss followed by old horror. That all changed when she related the story about her interruption of Vegeta’s little meeting with the Ohlindi and the exorbitant bounty. “You should have told me about this yesterday,” he growled in anger, tipping her chin so couldn’t look away. “I spent the night watching you turn lights on and off when I should have been on the lookout for trouble! How the hell am I supposed to protect you when you keep secrets like that?”

“I wasn’t ready to tell you.” Khri didn’t shy away from his anger: she never did. She surprised him instead. Her cool fingers brushed the back of his hand, pressing it more firmly against her cheek. “I’d been given a lot of information in a very short period of time and I needed to think. Earth is the last place I’d expect to meet Pym or any other Brioux . . . and I reacted badly.” Piccolo felt her shudder. “I needed to consider all my options and assess the real risks before I talked to you. The hunters are making their opening moves. They’re putting out feelers and gathering information, so for a while they’ll be discreet. Any kind of mess will cost them profit, and that’s the one thing Traeger won’t part with. I’m also worth far more alive than dead, so they’ll be careful.”

Piccolo grunted, nodding. Having the strongest fighters in the known universe playing house on one little planet would deter any big, noisy attacks, so he’d have to watch for the little, sneaky variety that crept through cracks in defenses and used snatch-and-grab tactics. He really hated those. By the scowl on Khri’s face, she wasn’t a fan of them, either.

A large bird sounded its wake-up call outside. Piccolo glared at the bright sunshine blasting into the living room, turning the droplets resting on the bushes outside into glittering diamonds. It was another beautiful morning in the tropics, and the storms of the previous night would have been a memory except for the damage done to Khri’s house.

“I really made a mess, didn’t I? Her voice was soft, a bit embarrassed and not without humor.

One eye ridge lifted. “Is this gonna happen again tonight?”

“I don’t think so. Somehow, I don’t feel like that old nightmare is going to be a problem. There are newer ones to worry about, but they should be less violent.”

Piccolo sighed. “That’s good. Because you’re running out of cheeks.” When Khri looked up at him, sunlight spreading across her face glowed through her eyes, hiding their natural spark. “Can you fix that?” he asked, irritated by the thickness in his voice and the blasted buzzing in his brain.

“I can. I . . . I’m pretty sure my cheekbone is fractured, but it’s not bad.” Her slight grin pushed up her swollen cheek and nearly shut her eye. “You pulled your punch, Namek.”

“Just don’t tell Vegeta.” Vegeta, he thought darkly, I need to have a talk with him. I need to make sure he’s got his priorities straightened out. He looked back down at Khri, saw she was concerned by his sudden shift in mood so he forced himself to relax. “I can make tea while you heal yourself.”

Khri turned her head, resting her face against his chest. “I’m not thirsty.”

Feeling her cheek beneath his hand suddenly warm, he held still. “What about the hole in the wall?”

“It’s too early to start making calls to have it repaired,” she said, voice slightly muffled by his shirt. “It’s stopped raining and the furniture is ruined.” She actually laughed. “Any bounty hunter who sees this mess is going to think another party snatched me! It’ll take them days to figure it out!”

Piccolo felt himself chuckle. It felt good to laugh, almost as good as it did to hear the fear leave Khri’s voice, feel her muscles unclench and her relaxed body press closer . . . he hissed through his teeth in disbelief at the admission. What has gotten into me?

Khri must have felt his arms around her stiffen. “Are you thirsty? Did you want to make tea?” she asked quietly, watching him. He could feel her holding her breath.

With a long, slow sigh, Piccolo forced himself to ignore the hum and the petty reasons he should push her away. He couldn’t hide the flush of his own face, so he tightened his hold as much as he dared without hurting her. “The tea,” he rumbled, “can wait.”

To be continued . . .

         ;            &n bsp;      

 AN: I apologize for the “dark and stormy night” line. Gah, so tacky. But it WAS a dark and stormy night! It’s a bad literary indulgence on my part.

Huge thank-yous to all my reviewers. I’m so sorry this chapter took so long, but I update slowly so I can do things RIGHT. I hope this chapter makes sense and I haven’t forgotten obvious questions...if not, let me know through my forum, “DBZ and the Exile’s World.”