Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ I'm Not Going to Leave You ❯ I'm Not Going to Leave You ( Prologue )

Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT are not mine, and I hold no claim to them. If I did, you can bet there would be a lot more death!

A/N: There are two ways this story could go. One, it can remain as a stand-alone fic, which is what will happen if my ideas dry up -- but it doesn't look like they will. Two, this is a prologue to a saga I'm thinking of writing. Details about this saga will be at the end of the fic, so stick around!

Think of this as the Mirai timeline, but an alternate one. One in which Gohan contracts the deadly heart virus, not Goku. This doesn't fit anywhere with the DBZ canon, so don't tell me so -- it's not meant to. I guess that qualifies it as an A/U then, huh? Hn.

Well, enough babbling. On with the story!

I'm Not Going to Leave You

"Piccolooooo-saaaaan?" Gohan's childish voice reverberated through the quiet forest, sending small animals scampering for cover, and causing several birds to fly from the trees, squawking in alarm.

Piccolo's large, elfin ears twitched in response to the high-pitched sound, and he grimaced. So much for meditating . . . Piccolo enjoyed Gohan's company, but the small boy had an incredible talent for barging in right when his mentor needed quiet time the most. It would almost be amusing if it didn't happen . . . every single time.

A pair of short arms encircled Piccolo's neck in an enthusiastic hug, which Piccolo made a point not to return. "Hi, Piccolo-san!" Gohan chirped, smiling pleasantly as Piccolo extricated himself from the choking embrace, the boy oblivious to the fact that Piccolo's cheeks were turning purple. "I've missed you! It's been a long time since Mom's let me come out here."

Piccolo just grunted in response, finally prying Gohan's arms off him, and he picked the boy up and held him in front of him, shaking his head a little before dropping Gohan to the forest floor. Gohan picked himself up, still grinning. "Child, you aren't four years old anymore. Try to show some restraint, would you?"

Gohan just laughed, and he stepped back, stooping low in a sweeping, half-mocking, half-respectful bow. "Sorry, sir. But I've still missed you, no matter how grumpy you are. You're funny!"

The Nameksejin glared, feigning annoyance for the sake of his image, though he didn't mind Gohan's flippancy. The kid admired him, despite, like he said, Piccolo's gruff manner -- and it wasn't like Piccolo could get such unabashed praise from anyone else. Satisfied that Piccolo had missed him, too, Gohan plopped down on the grass, leaning his head against Piccolo's side and smiling contentedly. Piccolo tousled the kid's hair, which was as close to a hug as he could get.

A low snicker sounded from the bushes nearby, and Piccolo knew instantly that that was no woodland animal. He cursed inwardly, though he didn't say the words aloud -- if Gohan went home and repeated him, his mother would come after Piccolo and wouldn't be satisfied until she had Nameksejin steaks for supper that night. Son was hiding, and had been keeping his ki level suppressed, and Piccolo had been too preoccupied with Gohan to notice.

Piccolo raised his voice, sounding harsh in the soft breeze that was blowing through the forest. "Son, I can hear you in there. You might as well come out," a burst of laughter was the reply, and Piccolo growled. "And stop laughing!"

The bushes rustled and a grinning Saiyajin came into view, obviously trying not to explode with suppressed mirth. "Oi, Piccolo," Son Goku greeted him, letting loose a very un-warrior-like giggle. "What's up?"

"What's so funny?"

Son clapped both hands over his mouth, but his shoulders shook like a flower in a violent gale, and a few stray chuckles escaped through his fingers. He nodded his head toward Gohan, who shot Piccolo a typically-disarming Son grin. Piccolo fought the urge to smile at the boy in return, but lost the battle (as he did every time), and his rebellious lips mirrored the boy's expression.

"That's so cute," Son remarked, chest heaving with the attempt to keep his composure.

"Cute??!" Piccolo roared, and Gohan covered his mouth. "Son, if you say that again, I swear -- Super Saiyajin or no Super Saiyajin -- I'll break every bone in your body!"

"I didn't say anything," Son's childlike face fairly radiated carefully-manufactured innocence. It was an expression he frequently used when his wife was angry with him -- the one that made her laugh and say that it was impossible to stay mad at him for long. Unfortunately for Son, it was not about to work on Piccolo. "I just said that it's cuuute that you make such a good Daaaddeee . . ."

Piccolo was about to punch him when he realized that the Saiyajin was only trying to get him angry, and he smirked. "Son, if you wanted to spar, just say so. Don't try to embarrass me into killing you."

Son chuckled, and he dropped into a fighting stance, tugging at his weighted wrist guards. "Yeah, well, it's more fun that way. I don't get to see you blush very much otherwise."

"I hope you want a real workout this time," Piccolo snarled, depositing Gohan on the ground and trying to ignore the boy's high-pitched giggles. "Because that remark just crossed the line. Prepare to fight, Son Goku!"

"If you can bring it, I can take it," Son challenged in return, and he clenched his fists, eyes narrowing, and he blazed into Super Saiyajin with a loud shout. The forest-dwellers who had timidly returned scattered again at the sight of the tall man, surrounded by golden flame.

"I hope you can back that up," Piccolo shot at him as he flew into the air, where it was easier to spar without having to worry about damaging the forest. "Because it would be a pain to travel to Neo-Nameksei just to wish you back after you die."

Son flicked his fingers in a "bring it on" gesture, and the fight began.

Gohan followed them at a safe distance, and he hovered in the air just above the canopy, fingers laced behind his head, watching with amusement. It would be years before he would be up to his father's level, or even to be as good as Piccolo-san, but for now it was fun enough just watching them spar. Daddy sparred because it was fun, never taking anything seriously, always laughing and making jokes, whereas Piccolo-san fought to win. Dad's light-hearted approach to everything always made Piccolo-san mad.

Dad started howling in complaint, yelling, "Unfair!" because Piccolo-san had poked him in the eye with his mystic attack, and the Nameksejin merely stared at his opponent with disdain. Gohan was rolling in the air, holding his sides, feeling as though his body would split from the force of his amusement. This was better than the movies! He'd have to bring Mom next time -- she'd probably get a kick out of watching Dad act like a moron. She always laughed when Dad pretended like he was three years old.

While Dad was still dancing around in the air with his hands over his face, shouting that he hoped Piccolo-san was happy, because he would never be able to see again, Piccolo-san attacked. He held his index fingers in front of his forehead, the fingertips glowing a bright pinkish-orange, and Gohan grinned in anticipation. He liked Piccolo-san's finishing move the best, but his mentor refused to teach it to him. Piccolo-san said Gohan needed to make his own attacks.

"Makankousappou!!!" Piccolo-san roared, extending his arm straight out, and the spiralling energy blast burst forth from his fingers toward Dad. At the last second, Dad crossed his arms, batting the energy beam away, creating an impressive light show.

Gohan whistled, impressed. Piccolo-san was strong, but Dad was fast. Piccolo-san hadn't been able to hit Dad with a makankousappou yet . . . suddenly, Dad began to shriek, swiping at his hair.

"My hair!" Dad screamed, waving his arms frantically. "My hair's on fire! Put it out, put it out!"

Piccolo-san snorted scornfully, and he reached out and caught Dad's arm, holding him so that he couldn't move away. He stretched out his thumb and index finger and deftly extinguished the tiny flame that had been burning merrily on the tip of Dad's hair. "You're such an infant, Son. Honestly!"

Gohan started laughing at the air of wounded intelligence that his father affected, and once the mirth began to bubble out of him, he couldn't stop. The demi-Saiyajin laughed until every drop of air was squeezed from his lungs -- laughed until tears streamed from his eyes and his chest hurt from the lack of oxygen. Eventually, the pain in his chest was so intense that Gohan was forced to stop . . . but even after he calmed himself down, Gohan's chest still felt like it was on fire.

"What's . . . happening?" he gasped, and he clutched spasmodically at his shirt. The pain, he realized, was in his heart, not his lungs. "Daddy? Piccolo-san?" his heart seemed to be pumping liquid fire through his veins instead of blood, his whole body feeling like it was burning, but especially his chest.

Gohan was scared. He'd never felt pain like this before -- not in the battle against Nappa, or Furiza, or anyone else . . .not even in his sparring matches with Piccolo-san. This was a different kind of hurting. It was inside him, not like cuts or bruises or energy waves.

It hurt. Really, really bad. Gohan's brain started shutting down, concentrating on nothing besides what was going on inside him. Gohan's eyesight began to blur, the scenery in front of him swimming, fading in and out. Darkness crept in at the corners of his vision, causing everything to slowly fade to black. His hearing was going, too . . . except instead of everything dying away, all the little noises like birds chirping and the wind blowing, sounded a hundred times louder. It hurt his ears, and made his head pound.

Gohan tried to call for help, but he didn't have the energy. All he could do was whimper, and hope that either Daddy or Piccolo-san knew what to do. He was so scared . . .

"Gohan!" Piccolo shouted, as Gohan pressed his tiny hand to his heart, doubled over in pain, crying out pitifully. "Gohan!" but the boy didn't hear him. Piccolo could only watch as Gohan's coal-black eyes rolled back in his head, and he began to fall.

Son was at his child's side instantly, catching the boy and holding him against his chest. "Gohan, what's the matter? Where does it hurt, son?"

"He's unconscious. He can't hear you," Piccolo reminded him, wincing as Son whirled upon him, eyes filled with betrayal. I know, the other man's eyes told him. "I'm sorry," Piccolo frowned. "Come on, we'd better get him to a hospital."

Son nodded curtly, but the lines of his face were taut and his eyes were sad. "Y-yeah . . . Piccolo, what's happened to him? It, it all happened so fast . . ."

"I don't know, Son. That's what the doctors are for," Piccolo closed his eyes for a moment once the words were out, instantly regretting them. Why did he have to be so callous? Gohan knew it was just his way of dealing with the unfamiliar, but Son didn't know him as well. The Saiyajin wouldn't understand that Piccolo was trying to keep his emotions under control.

"Piccolo, please," Son looked at him pleadingly, but his turquoise eyes snapped with repressed anger. "I'm sure this is your way of handling this, but it's not mine. Okay?"

"All right," Piccolo agreed grudgingly, vowing to keep quiet. Aside from Gohan, Son was the only one who could get an apology out of the Nameksejin without it being a mockery.

Gohan's small face puckered, and the fabric of his shirt was bunched between his fingers as he attempted to massage away the burning in his heart. Sweat dotted the boy's smooth forehead and rolled down his cheeks, mingling with the tears that poured from his eyes like rain, squeezing through clenched eyelids. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, and they sounded almost like sobs.

"It hurts . . . it hurts . . ." Gohan sounded so pitifully small that Piccolo felt a stab of pain on his account. He continued to cry out, stranded in the grey area between unconsciousness and wakefulness. "Please . . . Daddy . . . Piccolo-san . . . make it stop . . ."

Son's mouth tightened, and he drew Gohan close so he could kiss his son's forehead. "You'll be all right, Gohan. I won't let anything happen to you, and neither will Piccolo. We're gonna' get you to a hospital, and then everything will be okay. I promise, all right? You'll be fine," Piccolo didn't think Gohan noticed, but Son's voice was filled with panic -- it was something that Piccolo had never heard before. Not from Son, anyway.

It made Piccolo feel afraid, and the acceptance of his fear only heightened its intensity.

Gohan's hysterical sobs wore down to exhausted hiccups, but he still kept his eyes squeezed shut against the pain. His lips trembled, then he spoke -- so quietly that even Piccolo had trouble discerning the words, his voice was so cracked and low. "I . . . want . . . Mommy . . ."

An expression of resolve crossed Son's face, and he handed his precious bundle over to Piccolo, carefully, as though he was afraid Gohan would break. "Hang on, Gohan, I'm going to go get Mom. I'll be back in a second," holding two fingers to his forehead, Son disappeared.

Piccolo cradled Gohan's crumpled form in his arms, and he could feel the boy's small body shaking. "Hang in there, kid," Piccolo searched for a convincing reassurance, but he came up dry. "I promised you nothing would hurt you, and I'm not backing down."

"Heart . . . on . . . fire . . ." Gohan buried his face in Piccolo's chest, as though the close contact could keep him safe.

The air shimmered, and Son reappeared, this time carrying ChiChi. The warrior had reverted back from Super Saiyajin by now. "Gohan-chan! My baby!" the woman cried, causing Piccolo to wince. "Piccolo, give him to me."

The Nameksejin instinctively pulled Gohan closer to him, feeling if he let Gohan go, the boy would leave him. He began to refuse, but Gohan's eyes opened a crack, and a ghost of a smile touched his features. ". . . Mommy . . ." he glanced up at Piccolo, eyes pleading. "Lemme' . . . see . . . Mom."

Ach, he was using what Piccolo had not-so-affectionately dubbed his "heartstrings attack," looking up at his sensei with his eyes wide, face so trusting. It was a pity that wouldn't work in battle, because it certainly bent Piccolo to the boy's will. Still uncertain, Piccolo handed Gohan over to ChiChi, who held Gohan tightly, stroking his hair and kissing him repeatedly on the forehead and on the top of his head. "Mommy's here, sweetie. Everything will be fine now. You're gonna' be okay, darling."

Piccolo had to forcibly repress a snort at the woman's treating Gohan like a baby -- (No wonder he was such an infant when I met him!) -- but his amusement was replaced by incredulity as Gohan smiled, his face free from the torment for a few seconds. "Thanks," the boy raised his face, and ChiChi leaned down so Gohan could plant a weak kiss on her cheek.

Hmmphh, Piccolo mused, watching Gohan relax into what appeared to be a peaceful sleep. Maybe I underestimated her. She certainly calmed Gohan better than I did . . . Feh. I hope Gohan doesn't expect me to act like that.

ChiChi continued to fuss over Gohan long after the boy slipped into unconsciousness, and he did not wake. Piccolo exchanged a worried glance with Son, but said nothing. Neither of them wanted Son's wife to worry any more than she had to.

Gohan was taken to emergency almost as soon as they arrived -- after a few tense moments when one of the doctors assumed Piccolo was the ill one, due to his colouring, but a hysterical ChiChi cleared things up.

"I can't do it," Son muttered, through the fingers that he held over his face. "That's my kid in there . . . I can't just sit here and let him die!" He and his wife sat on chairs outside Gohan's room, Son with his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. For once, ChiChi was the one comforting him, holding her husband as he struggled not to cry, and she stared above his head at Piccolo, pleading silently.

Piccolo ignored her -- it wasn't like he could do anything about it. He'd only seen Son in such a state once, and the man was inconsolable. All Piccolo could do was stand erect, hands at his sides, staring at the door to the room, apparently unaffected. The only thing that attributed to the emotion roiling behind his calm facade was the spasmodic clenching and unclenching of Piccolo's fists.

Gohan, the thought rose in his mind before he could even think about it. If you die, I'll kill you. I swear, I will. Don't you dare do this to me!

... A small, snivelling boy looked up at Piccolo from where he stood in the waist-high river. "Where's my Daddy?" he demanded, sniffling ...

... The boy curled into a little ball, sobbing, complaining about the cold and hunger, then his face lit up when he saw two large, red apples sitting on the ground in front of him. "Eww!" he complained after taking a large bite. "It's souuur, it tastes baaad, I wanna' eat dim-sum . . ." ...

... Piccolo rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand, staring reproachfully at the boy, who had just dealt him a hard punch to the face, and a small smile of approval wormed its way into his expression ...

... Small fingers closed over Piccolo's own as the Nameksejin pulled the half-Saiyajin boy from the river ...

... The kid stood at the bottom of the cliff, yelling after him, screaming in determination and the refusal to give up, despite the fact that Piccolo just walked away ...

... Piccolo's hand reached out, hesitated, then finally ruffled the boy's soft, black hair, lifting it off his forehead. Don't worry, kid,he thought, I won't let anything happen to you. I promise. ...

"I meant it when I said that," Piccolo growled, shaking his head violently to dispel the last of the memories. The last thing he needed was to become emotional. Not here, not now. Not in a blasted hospital, for heaven's sake! "Gohan, hang in there."

Time passed, but time had no meaning for Gohan's friends and family; it could have been minutes, hours, or days, and they would not have noticed. Eventually, Son cried himself to sleep, his face pressed into ChiChi's shoulder, and she was nodding off herself, when the door opened.

Piccolo floated back to the ground, having been hovering in lotus position for the last while. "Well?" he demanded of the emerging doctor, whose face immediately lost three shades of colour. "How is the boy doing?"

"Well, it's difficult to say. All we can really discern is that he has contracted some kind of viral infection, and it's attacking his heart," the man steepled his fingers and deliberately avoided looking at Piccolo, concentrating instead on ChiChi, whose eyes were wide with shock. "Unfortunately, we've never seen this kind of virus before. It's causing the vessels in his heart to expand, and sooner or later . . ." he paused.

"Spit it out before I rip out your throat!" Piccolo roared threateningly. He didn't need some idiotic doctor going all mealy-mouthed on him.

"Um . . . as far as we can tell, eventually the boy's heart will expand so much that it will burst. I'm sorry," he added hastily, as ChiChi gasped and Piccolo's eyes widened. "It will happen quickly, when the time comes. He'll probably fall into a coma before then, so he won't feel anything when he . . . passes on. Right now, however, he is experiencing a great deal of pain."

ChiChi got to her feet, disregarding Son, who tumbled to the floor and woke with a startled yelp. The situation was quickly explained to the Saiyajin, who sank back down onto the chair in disbelief and shock. ChiChi, meanwhile, was shaking, hands clenched into fists at her sides. "How long does he have?"

"We're not sure, but the progress of the virus is escalating rapidly. A few days, perhaps -- a week, at the very most."

The woman closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her forehead. Piccolo felt a twinge of sympathy for her, and he didn't bother to suppress it. "Let me see him," ChiChi said finally.

"I'm sorry, I can't allow that. From what we can tell, the virus is highly contagious. We don't want you to --"

"I don't care!" ChiChi yelled, startling everyone, including Piccolo. Her fists tightened, and blood began dribbling down her palms. "That's my son in there! To hell with my own good, I don't care if whatever-it-is is contagious, I'm going in there! I'm not letting my nine-year-old son die all by himself, in a strange room, with only some apathetic doctor for company! Now get out of my way before I hurt you!"

"Ma'am," the doctor held up his hands placatingly, "Please, listen to me."

"NO!" ChiChi shouted, and suddenly a dark red energy flared up around her, pulsating in the silent hallway. Her teeth were gritted together, and her eyes flashed with anger. "If you won't let me, then I'll make you!"

The next second, the doctor was sliding down the far wall, clutching his broken jaw and weakly calling, "Security!"

The woman still stood in fighting stance, fist extended in the follow-through of her power punch, panting with anger. "I'll kill you! If you don't let me through --"

"ChiChi!"

Son startled them, and Piccolo watched as he ran over to his wife, gripping her arms and holding her back. "ChiChi, stop! You aren't helping anything. Gohan needs us to be calm, not go charging in there like battleships and messing things up. Please, just calm down."

ChiChi struggled for a minute or so, attempting to free herself, but finally she stopped, breathing heavily. Son wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, and his wife began beating his chest with her fists. "It's not fair! Our little boy is in there, all alone, and he could be calling for us, he could be scared, he could be --"

"I'll go see him."

They turned to look at Piccolo, and he crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm Nameksejin. I shouldn't be susceptible to your diseases."

Son nodded his thanks, and ChiChi calmed down, allowing her husband to rub her back, moving his hands in circles soothingly. "Thanks, Piccolo," Son managed a wan, non-convincing smile. "I owe ya'."

"I know," ignoring the moaning doctor, who was in the process of realigning his jaw, Piccolo stepped over the man and opened the door to Gohan's room.

The first thing he noticed was the beeping of the various computer monitors, and the high-pitched cacophony hurt the Nameksejin's sensitive ears. A large bed sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by a plethora of medical paraphernalia, and the white sheets on the bed were rumpled. It took Piccolo a second to find Gohan amid the blankets, tubes and wires, and when he did so, he sucked in his breath in an involuntary gasp of shock. The boy looked so small, lying there in the enormous bed, with tubes sticking into various parts of his body, clear liquid dripping into his arm from a bag suspended over his head.

The boy was pale, resembling a wax sculpture, and his skin had an unnatural texture to it that seemed to signify death. Piccolo shook off the analogy, but it plagued the back of his mind all the same. The darkness of Gohan's hair and the gaunt circles under his eyes contrasted with the colour of his skin, causing his pallour to stick out in sharp relief. His small hand clutched at his heart, even as he slept.

Piccolo made his way to the edge of the bed, moving slowly, as though afraid that even the slightest noise would disturb Gohan and cause him to have another attack. Slowly, his muscles moving seemingly of their own volition, Piccolo reached out a hand and placed it gently on Gohan's smooth forehead. His skin was burning hot to the touch, and Piccolo resisted the impulse to pull back.

Gohan coughed weakly, then his eyes fluttered. He flicked his gaze around the room, unseeing, not recognizing anything, and fear crossed his face as he found himself in strange surroundings. When his gaze fell upon Piccolo, however, Gohan smiled, though it was merely a ghost of his usual gleeful expression. "Piccolo-san," he breathed, his voice sounding like the faintest of breezes, barely qualifying as a whisper.

"Gohan," Piccolo returned, giving a slight nod. He stroked the boy's forehead comfortingly, glad no one else was in the room. He didn't want to have to put up a front -- the action seemed pointless now -- but he didn't want anyone to see him acting so soft. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm scared," Gohan's tiny voice amplified his fears, making them seem more tangible. "Where am I?"

"In a hospital. You've been asleep for a few hours now, I think."

"Where's Mom and Daddy?"

Piccolo swallowed hard, but the action was difficult. It felt like a rock was lodged firmly in his throat, though he didn't know why. "They're outside. They're not allowed to come in. The doctors think you're contagious."

Gohan's lower lip quivered, and he squeezed his eyes shut as they began brimming with tears. "Piccolo-san?"

"What is it, kid?"

A hand crept out from under the blankets, tentatively, and reached up to touch the green fingers that rested on his forehead. "Am I gonna' die?"

Piccolo nearly fell over; he hadn't expected Gohan to ask so soon. He sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the springs bounce beneath his heavy weight. "Kid, that's not a good question to ask. Do you feel like you're going to die?"

Gohan's eyes shimmered, and he gripped Piccolo's fingers tighter, though with only a fraction of what should have been his strength. "Just answer me, Piccolo-san! Do the doctors say I'm going to die?"

He stared up at his sensei earnestly, and again Piccolo felt the rock-in-the-throat sensation. Blast, my eyes are burning. What's the matter with me? "Doctors . . . don't know anything, Gohan. Don't believe anything they say."

"Then I'm gonna' . . . I'm gonna' . . ." Gohan burst into tears. "Piccolo-san, don't let me die, please!"

The Nameksejin knew that if Gohan grew any more agitated, the doctors would come swarming in like flies to a carcass. Great analogy, Piccolo. Where do you come up with those? And at such appropriate times, too . . . idiot. Piccolo shook his head, not wanting to make false promises, but wanting Gohan to stop being afraid. "Gohan, calm down. I'm doing everything I can."

Which is absolutely nothing. Damn you, Piccolo . . . some protector you are. When the kid needs you most, that's when you fail him.

Piccolo moved closer to the centre of the bed, and he drew Gohan onto his lap, carefully, to avoid dislodging the tubing sticking into the boy. Gohan shuddered and hid his face in the front of Piccolo's gi, sobbing, fingers digging into the rock-hard muscles of Piccolo's chest. "Don't leave me, Piccolo-san," the boy entreated him, looking up at him through black eyelashes glistening with jewel-like tears. "Please . . . if you leave me all alone, I'll die!"

"Say that again and I'll kill you," Piccolo snapped, but he hadn't intended to be so harsh. It was just that the reality that Gohan might die, scared him more than anything else could. "You aren't going to die. You're a fighter, Son Gohan -- now, prove it."

Gohan began to nod, when he let out a scream of agony and clutched uselessly at his heart. "Piccolo! Piccolo-san -- augghh!! It hurts, it hurts! I'm on fire, make it stop, make it go away!"

Picccolo glanced around the room helplessly, searching for anything to aid the boy, to release him from his pain, but when he couldn't, he punched the "call" button beside the bed. Seconds later, a handful of doctors entered. After appraising the situation, one of the doctors inserted a needle into Gohan's arm, injecting some kind of sedative into the boy's bloodstream. Gohan thrashed about for a few more minutes before succumbing to the effects of the medicine.

"What did that do?" Piccolo watched Gohan's chest rise and fall, but there was something unnatural about the movement -- sometimes the breaths were long and far-between, sometimes short and ragged. "Will it help?"

"Unfortunately, all we can do is sedate him when these attacks occur," a doctor apologized, looking sadly at the boy. "There's no medicine on this planet that can help him . . . I wish there was something more, but all we can do is make him sleep. Hopefully he'll be sleeping when . . . when it happens."

"Get out," Piccolo growled suddenly, startling them. He glared at them, eyebrow ridges pulling together in a horrific scowl, "I'm not going to hurt him, and the kid needs someone to stay with him. He's scared of you. If there's really nothing you can do for him, then you don't need to be here."

After making Piccolo promise to call if Gohan had any more attacks, the doctors left. Piccolo remained alone, still perched on the edge of the bed, holding Gohan's hand, but all he could do was curse at his ineffectiveness. If there was only some way to free Gohan . . . to kill the microscopic bug that was draining his life away . . .

"P..c..l..o-s..n," Gohan's lips barely moved, the sound issuing from them so soft that only a Nameksejin's sharp hearing would be able to pick it up. "St..y ... w..th ... me ..."

Not knowing what else to do, Piccolo stretched out on the bed, lying beside Gohan's frail form. Even though his body was still firmly muscled from years of training, Gohan appeared so tiny and helpless in that moment, making one forget the powerful warrior that lay beneath the surface. Gohan sighed, a nearly imperceptible noise, and with his remaining strength he crept close to Piccolo, curling up on his friend's chest, one arm around Piccolo's neck. His soft hair tickled Piccolo's chin.

Never, not even when the kid had been four years old, had Piccolo seen Gohan this vulnerable, needing his presence so badly. Piccolo's mouth tightened, and he rested an arm across Gohan's back protectively, holding him. Right now, he didn't care how weak, how soft, he was acting. Gohan needed him -- there was no one else who could be there for him, and Piccolo wasn't going to betray that need by putting on a show of toughness and pride.

"I'm here for you, Gohan," Piccolo whispered, his breath ruffling Gohan's hair. "I'm not going to leave you, and I'll do everything I can to make sure you get through this. I promise."

******

Two days passed in a blur of medicine, attacks, and periods of comatose-like sleep. Despite the pioneering efforts of medical science, Gohan's condition steadily worsened. Son and ChiChi were still not allowed to see him until the doctors were certain they could not catch the virus, and the Saiyajin and his wife took up residence in an unused room.

Piccolo remained at Gohan's side the entire time, even when Gohan wasn't lucid, or when he sank into a sleep so deep he appeared to be in a coma. The Nameksejin wanted to make sure he was available if Gohan called for him, and he not once let go of Gohan's hand, just in case the boy could sense his presence when he wasn't awake.

"Piccolo-san?"

Piccolo blinked as he felt a slight pressure on his hand in accompaniment to the soft voice. "What's up, Gohan?"

The boy's face was no longer pale -- his skin was flushed bright red, caused by the expansion of his heart. The overtired muscle was struggling to compensate by pumping more blood, and the result of this was the rise of blood to just beneath Gohan's skin. "How ... long ... has ... it ... been?"

"Two days," Piccolo rubbed his thumb across the back of Gohan's hand. He'd been doing that a lot, since he discovered that the action brought Gohan comfort -- the boy said that his mother used to hold his hand like that, when he had nightmares. "How are you holding up?"

"Chest ... hurts," Gohan admitted, squirming a little and pressing a hand over his heart. Piccolo took hold of the boy's wrist and moved it away, placing his own hand on Gohan's chest. He began massaging the afflicted area, applying light but firm pressure, and though he knew it had no medical value, it did help to ease the pain . . . for a short time, at least.

Gohan sighed with relief and closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax. After a while, he asked softly, "I'm really ... gonna' ... die ... aren't I ... Piccolo-san?"

"Kid . . ." something caught in Piccolo's throat, causing his voice to tremble, and he bit back a curse. Why did he have to be so weak? What was happening to him? He'd never been afraid of the deaths of others before. In battle, the passing of his fellow fighters had been a grievance, yes, but nothing to get upset over. War was war, and that was that. Casualties were expected. But this . . . this was something Piccolo was completely unprepared for. How could he deal with something that could not be fought?

"Answer ... me," Gohan insisted quietly.

Angered, Piccolo snapped, "You're not going to die. You hear me?"

"Stop it!" Gohan shouted, startling him. His eyes narrowed, and he fought against the weakness in his body to grip Piccolo's wrist. "Stop ... lying to me!" his small chest heaved, and Piccolo winced. If the kid didn't calm down, he could excite himself into another attack. "You ... never ... lied to me ... before ... don't do it ... now!"

Piccolo stopped short, and he pried Gohan's fingers off his wristband. "Sorry, kid. It's just --" his lip curled, fangs bared in a gleaming snarl. "Arrghh! It's not right, Gohan. You're a warrior! You're not supposed to die of some insignificant disease. It's not right! We were supposed to die together, in battle somewhere. Not me watching you waste away in a stupid hospital, powerless to do anything about it!"

Tears gathered in Gohan's eyes, but he didn't have the energy to wipe them away, and they rolled silently down his cheeks. "I ... know ... but please ... Piccolo-san ... be honest," he squeezed his eyes shut for a second, amassing his courage to ask the question they both dreaded. "How long ... do ... I ... have?"

"The doctors say . . . a few days," Piccolo growled, and he forced his energy down as an aura of power surrounded him, fuelled by his feeling of helplessness.

"What's ... it ... like? To die ... I mean?"

The Nameksejin felt the corners of his eyes tighten, and he looked away, unable to meet Gohan's black-eyed gaze. "It's not really that bad, Gohan," he found himself unable to lie any longer, no matter how much comfort he wanted to give the boy. "It . . . doesn't hurt as much as people say it does. Not in your case, anyway . . . it'll probably just feel like sleeping."

"Thought ... so," Gohan let out a sound that remarkably resembled a whimper, and he chewed his lips. "Pic..colo? ... I don't ... wanna ..." he sucked in a deep breath, struggling to speak. "But if I ... have to ... I'm not ... gonna ... die ... scared ..." he smiled, put his hand over Piccolo's. "I'll ... die ... strong ... like you ... did ..."

"I know you will," Piccolo agreed, and he tousled Gohan's hair in the now-familiar fond gesture. I don't know what I'm going to do, though . . .

The small boy began to thrash, pulling away from Piccolo's hand. This time, however, something was different. Instead of screaming, the boy could only release small moans, whimpering like an injured animal. His ki level, instead of flaring up and down like it did before, began to drop steadily, like a rock in the water.

"No!" Piccolo yelled, as realization sank in. "No, Gohan! Don't give up!" he knew he should be notifying the doctors, but he couldn't stand the thoughts of them standing over the bed, intoning their solemn proclamations and condemning Gohan to death. He wouldn't let it happen!

The feelings that flooded him were exactly the same as what had filled him when Nappa had shot the blast at the boy -- fear, love, confusion, disbelief . . . And just as before, Piccolo didn't think. He acted.

Picking Gohan up, Piccolo held him close, pressing his forehead against Gohan's. Holding the boy's twitching form still, Piccolo pressed a hand to the side of Gohan's head, and he let his mind enter the child's, like he had done so many times before, to contact him or send him thoughts.

This time, Piccolo didn't worry about connecting -- he just pushed his consciousness into Gohan's mind, and somehow became Son Gohan. What Gohan felt, he felt -- Gohan's suffering was his own.

Pain registered itself immediately. Pain slamming into him from all sides, but especially his heart. Piccolo gasped, wondering how Gohan had survived this long if this was what he'd had to deal with. Bright flashes of colour dotted his vision, making it all but impossible to see. An invisible hand squeezed his chest in a vice grip, making it feel like his rib cage was on the verge of cracking. Pressure of an incredible force expanded his heart outward, each pump of the muscle sending agony jolting through every inch of his body.

Piccolo sent his consciousness directly into Gohan's heart, forcing himself to sense it on a molecular level. There! He could sense Gohan's heart, as well as the alien presences of the virus. With no idea what he was doing, Piccolo visualized a microscopic ki blast and sent it at one of the invading cells. It burst. Piccolo then attacked another, and another, and another -- but it was not enough. Maybe if he had a week to do this, but he didn't. Every moment counted, and they were moments he did not have to spare.

He entered Gohan's mind further, so that he could find no difference in their beings -- no point where Gohan's consciousness ended and Piccolo's began. It was almost like fusing with Kami and Neru. Perfect! As soon as he had done this, Piccolo felt the virus begin to attack him, feeding off his heart. He could almost feel the virus' delight, though he knew diseases had no thoughts or emotions. His heart was stronger -- it provided a larger breeding ground for the virus, and the cells knew it.

Good, good, Piccolo thought, Come. Attack me!

Within minutes, the disease had left Gohan's body, and began attacking Piccolo at full strength. The Nameksejin grunted, and he gathered his strength to pull his mind away from Gohan's. If he didn't do it right, and do it now, they would both be dead!

Agonizingly slowly, Piccolo 'unfused', so to speak, and he found himself collapsed on Gohan's bed, panting heavily. Gohan lay still, his skin returning to its normal colour, chest rising and falling in level timing.

The pain was increasing now, making it difficult to see, but Piccolo's lips curved up in a smile anyway. "I ... did ... it," he muttered, his voice rasping in his throat and sounding a hundred times louder in his own ears. "G..goodbye ... Gohan ..."

He fell off the bed, his body spasming on the floor as he tried to control the convulsions that were taking over. His stomach twisted, began to churn, as Piccolo brought the last of his energy together. He had to accomplish one last thing before he went . . . he couldn't leave Gohan alone like this . . .

As blackness descended upon him, Piccolo began to vomit, a bulge growing in his throat, jaw unhinging. Green, sticky liquid spewed forth from his throat.

Piccolo had never expected death to be like this. Not alone in a hospital room, lying on the cold floor. He'd always thought it would be in battle . . .

No. Not alone.

Stomach still heaving, chest burning, brain beginning to shut down, Piccolo smiled. See ya' ... someday ... kid ...

The last Nameksejin warrior released his final breath.

******

"What's going on in there?" Goku demanded, leaping to his feet, as the sound of Gohan's voice filtered through into the hallway. "What the heck? It sounds like someone's dying in there!"

"Goku!" ChiChi screamed at him, hitting him on the head. "Don't say that! Oh, Gohan!"

Decision seized hold of Goku, and he ran toward the door, not caring whether the disease was contagious, or what the doctors would say. He didn't care that Piccolo was with Gohan -- all he knew was that his son could be dying, and he wasn't there.

ChiChi grabbed his hand, and the two of them charged into the room together . . . where they ground to a halt, jaws dropping in unison.

Gohan was crouched on the ground, bleeding where he had ripped the IV tubes and other surveillance equipment from his chest and arms. Tears poured from his eyes, and he was sobbing like he never had in his life, shaking a motionless body.

Lying on the ground, unresponsive to Gohan's pleas, lay Piccolo, his skin an unnatural olive colour, with an underlying purple hue. Violet blood and clear saliva leaked from the corners of his slack mouth, and his eyes were vacant. No life energy emanated from him. Gohan pulled Piccolo's head to his chest, hugging the body of his friend, and cried. He looked up at his stunned parents, not really seeing them.

"He took it," Gohan wailed, caressing Piccolo's cheek with his fingers. "He took my disease! I felt his mind inside mine, and then . . . and then . . . the hurt was gone . . ." overcome with emotion, it took a few tries for any of Gohan's words to be intelligible. "It took me awhile to wake up, and when I did, he . . . he . . . Piccolo-san!" the last of Gohan's explanation disintegrated into a heart-rending scream of anguish.

Goku's breath came in shallow gasps as he beheld the shell of the man who had once rivalled his own strength. He had made the ultimate sacrifice for Gohan -- the second time. "Piccolo," the Saiyajin whispered, not registering ChiChi's cries as she burst into tears next to him. "Thank you, my friend."

A soft cracking noise caught Goku's attention, and his head snapped around to look at the far corner of the room. His eyes nearly burst from their sockets.

Sitting in the corner was a green, slime-covered egg, rocking slightly. A small hole was in the top of it, and a tiny, green hand stretched through the gap. In the silence that suddenly filled the room, a new-born Nameksejin began to cry.

******

*Wipes eyes* I didn't want to kill Piccolo-san . . . really, I didn't! But it had to be done. Anyway, about the series thing . . . I'm thinking about making a saga in which Piccolo's kid (name unknown for now ... heh, heh) grows up with Trunks. The jinzouningen would still arrive, just like in the regular Mirai timeline, meaning there's lots of angst, death, violence, and tugging at the heartstrings, but the difference is, Gohan has two kids to train, not one. Except there's a problem . . . Gohan hates Piccolo's child, because he wants Piccolo back. Oop, I don't want to say too much. Well, tell me if I should make the series, or leave this on its own.

This is probably the first time I'm specifically requesting feedback, because I honestly don't know whether or not to continue. I want to, but it will be a long process, most likely, and I don't want to put myself through the effort of writing it all for no reason. So tell me, 'kay?

Pikkoro san, dai, dai ...

Pikkoro san, dai, dai ...

Pikkoro san, dai dai dai dai da~i suki!

~Leia