Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Persistance of Memory, an Inspiration ❯ One-Shot

A quick breeze kicked up the dust and debris that was strewn around the once metropolis. Scrunching his eyes shut and putting a hand up to stop the assault of dirt into his eyes did little for the man who walked the town. The ruins were too great and numbered too many for a hand to stop all assaults. If they did not physically assail the eyes, the mental images they brought around would be enough to bring another man down, weeping over the loss.

The man's purple hair whipped behind him in the new wind, causing his sword to rattle a bit in its sheath. Reaching behind him, he slipped his shoulder-length hair into a loose ponytail, keeping the majority out of his face for now. Continuing the path, he surveyed the damage for possible rebuilding opportunities. Now that the androids were gone, the few people left were slowly reforming towns that were not considered hazardous to live in.

His boots crunched over some broken concrete and stucco siding, but his footing remained sure. The whistling wind did little to distract him, merely creating another background noise. Looking down, he spotted a yellowing paper among the ruins, as if it had been ripped out of a book. Squinting his blue eyes, he leaned over, and plucked it out of the dust, brushing the excess dirt aside with the back of his large hand. Holding it at proper distance, he began to read:

______________

-Diary entry twenty-one, page four.

He was our purple-haired god. Swift, silent, and deadly. Moving with a grace unmatched by any creation this earth could produce. His weapon and he were one; whether it is his sword or his hands and feet. Each movement was a study in precision, perfectly formed and designed to produce maximum damage. In flight, he made the birds look clumsy, wind appear slow. No one could match our god, for he was the epitome of what the universe could give.

Yet, remarkably, he was a benevolent god, working against the agents of destruction. Long before, I had given up on the idea of a god, for how could any sort of higher being allow such pain? Allow such horrid creatures to conquer and slaughter the ones who cried out for mercy?

But he reaffirmed my faith. He was how a god should be: tangible. Accessible to the eyes and senses. He was real, not another figure of imaginations and fervent hopes. The sword-wielder, the demon eradicator, our savior; whatever you wanted to call him. The only important detail was that he was on our side.

My lone surviving friend called me crazy, said that the pressures of life under the threat of violence had finally cracked my last shred of sanity. She said he was just another human, albeit one that was at the apex of our evolution. Blasphemer. She had never viewed him in motion, though. I did, once.

The mechanical beasts preyed on our town that day, contesting with each other in yet another sick, depraved game that demons play. Today's entertainment was to see which one fiend could make the top of a person's skull fly further. They had corralled and herded the residents into two equal lines, standing in front of them, in front of their cold blue eyes. They had gone so far as to measure out distances behind their victims, like a javelin throwing contest marks meters. I was pinned, trapped as I felt the blood splash from my neighbor and dampen the side of my face with its warm crimson wetness. Before I closed my eyes in preparation for the black-haired demon to take his turn with me, I noted that the blonde was holding a notebook. She was recording their distances for posterity's sake!

Then, he came, a blur of blaze and glory. Blonde hair and glow trailing along like a comet yanked from above and let loose on the earth. He sent the black-haired devil sailing with a sickening thud into the nearest building. Cutting through the air like a well-honed arrow or sharpened knife, he then shot what must have been a godly power beam into the female demon. He spoke to us, then. His face a mix of fury and calmness, compassion and hatred. His stance simultaneously aloof to us, and ready to fight the demons. My breath caught as he opened his mouth to speak. Was I worthy of hearing his silken voice? "Get out, now!" he commanded with all the authority befitting a god. And that was the last time I saw him, our lavender-haired god.

I have come to pay tribute to our god and the one who they say birthed him, praying to stay in his good graces; for if he turns against us for our slights and fear, we are truly lost. My eyes dart around in search of the demons, even while on this mission of joy, I must be wary. It is a mere, simple gift I have gathered; basic fruits and grains, but I pray it is enough. I have heard stirrings that food particularly pleases our god, so I have made the effort to acquire the best and freshest provisions that I could obtain. I leave the dully-colored package on the sand-covered doorstep, careful not to make a noise. There are other gifts littering the battered concrete walkway, all made and left with the same grateful heart. Turning away from one of the few buildings not completely ravaged, I muse over the irony of the situation. Our god has chosen to take up residence in the old Capsule Corporation building. The Capsule Corp. brought us into a new age of technology before, perhaps our munificent god can bring us into a new age once again, one without the trepidation and torment.

I have heard possibilities that the demons are finished, that our god destroyed them with a final almighty blast. Good triumphing over evil after a long, hard battle. It would be fitting. The sacrifices made, the roads we walked, finally complete. Our god would have come through. Then what? How do we live? I cannot rejoice just yet, for the crumbling shells of both buildings and people force me to remain wary. Stepping over the rotting sinew and ligaments of a previously strong body, I realize that once I drop my guard, they will return once again.

If they do, I know our god will protect and do all he can. For how can he not? Whether for good or bad, he is all we have, and we are his, forevermore.

-In the Holy Name of Torankusu, Amen.

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A single teardrop stained the ink on the page, causing the name to run. Carefully folding the weather worn sheet, he placed it gently into his pocket. An artificial breeze appeared under his feet as the man was lifted off the ground. Glancing around one last time, he flew back home to report that while it would take much work, this city possessed hope.