Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Where do I belong? ❯ Chapter 21 ( Chapter 21 )

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball/Z/GT, it characters, or anything in it; nor do I own any other licensed product/item that may appear throughout this fan fiction piece.

AN: Many apologies about the wait for this chapter. Seriously, my computer has broken down twice, the originally completed chapter of this was deleted when my faulty hard drive crashed, and then months of writers block drained away my writing ability. Add in college and constant exams, and this took way too long for me to write. So I apologize, and people, I will not abandon this story. If it takes me a while to update, just email or IM me if you want to know why.

[Also the fact that over the summer, I was working all day and my parents don't support my writing so I was virtually banned from the computer. So I couldn't work as much as I wanted to over that summer.]

Many thanks to ssj-chibigoten. He beta'ed this chapter for me, which meant I didn't have to wait a few days for me to get back to being able to read this and wait to post for that long. Also, you people should send your thanks to him because he was one of the few people who have slightly gotten me back into DBZ. Yeah, lost interest. But my stories will be completed. 'Yami no Matsuei' inspired me for this chapter, so blame that yummy angst on it. (Great anime, go watch it!) Anyways, review and help motivate me people! Enjoy.

~*~

Chapter 21

Scowling, Vegeta stared at the gray haired woman that stood before him, wondering just where his young opponent had disappeared too. The pair had usually met at least once a week at the large clearing in the woods where he had first seen the boy. Now, after weeks of indecision, weeks of not seeing the young man, he had finally given in, intent on finding the fighter and force him into battle. Only, instead of finding the boy, he had found a pair of old earthlings, and the new knowledge that the boy and his family had moved to an undisclosed location. There seemed to be a scandal behind it, but he had found the woman to be quite tight lipped.

Pivoting on his heel, Vegeta marched down the driveway, headed in town to discover just what had occurred. As much as he would hate to ever admit to it, he had come to enjoy the hours of base sparing, furthering his technique and skill, with someone who had shown more talent than he had seen since his days working for Frieza. He could easily see how skilled the boy was with technique, each move being lightning fast but with amazing precision, backed by power that he could not begin to fathom. For a child who should have been dead by the ki he emitted, the boy was a prodigy. Everything about him baffled the Saiyan Prince.

The dark knowing eyes that showed more pain and knowledge than anyone should ever know, rivaling some of his own inner shadows. Yet, the young fighter's darkness was not consuming him . . . haunting him yes, but the boy had enough strength to push it away, enough purpose to move on through life. The boy screamed darkness, everything in him whispered danger . . . and something so familiar within the child's immortal obsidian eyes cried out to him.

Standing in front of the tall imposing brick building, he slowly approached a group of laughing teenagers, his eyes darkening, his face falling into a mask of controlled anger. Shoving a tall blonde haired male against the school building sharply, Vegeta launched into his line of questioning.

Yet, while his tone and appearance may have made him an intimidating presence, the youth could only stare at him oddly as his heavily accented Japanese flowed from his imperious mouth.

The teen cocked his head to the side, ignoring the threat that the man could pose, and laughed. "Dude, what is your problem? If you're going to try and say something to me, try learning English first." With that, he pushed at his assailant's chest, only to watch as the shorter man growl, his voice holding threat even in a language he could not speak.

Vegeta was frustrated. The few times he and the child had spoken, it had been the Japanese he had been taught before even coming to Earth. He had noticed that the boy would frequently speak another language to others or mutter to himself during their fights, but he had never truly taken it into account. Now the mere human before him was mocking him, his inability to understand just what he was saying adding to his anger and frustration.

Before Vegeta could unleash his anger on the young man pinned before him, a hesitant hand gently settled upon his shoulder. Whirling around, Vegeta easily fell into defensive position. Only, when looking at the distraction, he found his 'attacker' to be a young thin girl with auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, her green eyes sparkling behind a pair of thick glasses. The books she held before her were clutched tightly to her chest as she looked at him in interest. A small smile played upon her lips as she looked towards him curiously.

"Can I help you sir?" She asked in slightly accented Japanese.

Vegeta heard as the male he had pinned to the wall moved back to his group of friends, muttering unintelligible English. Turning back to the girl, he focused upon his original purpose. "I'm looking for someone." At her nod, he continued. "Male, black hair, black eyes, about this high, martial artist, speaks Japanese . . ."

Her jade eyes narrowed in thought at the loose description of one boy of so many; however, she could easily discern one boy who stood at the forefront of her mind. "Gohan?" She asked, her head tilting to the side in question.

Vegeta forced his reaction not to show, not allowing his eyebrows to rise or his eyes to widen, but merely nodded knowingly. He had always had a hunch, a simple inkling to the truth. This would not prove it, but it certainly put him on the correct track. Breaking from his thoughts, he carefully listened to the girl as she related the story that had circulated the school. The boy was apparently one of the most popular and well loved students, by fellow students, teacher, and faculty alike, but the rumor of the tail had forced him to be an outcast without his ability to disprove the words.

"His sister told me they were moving, though. They're opening a new branch to the Daemon Dojo's in Satan City. You know, you look a bit like Gohan. Are you two related?"

Vegeta scoffed at the question. If the child in question was truly the spawn of Kakorott, he refused to connect himself to the idiot. However, the boy was another story. "Something like that." A firm nod in her direction, he sharply turned, stalking off of the property.

It was time to go hunting . . . Saiyan style.

~*~

Pulling his knees tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs, Gohan rested his head upon his knees, his darkened eyes gazing out into the stormy night. Lightening flashed, the illuminating display lighting up the night's sky. The sound of thunder could be heard as it rolled in, the storm that had been brewing over Satan City for the past three days was swiftly breaking as large droplets of rain covered the land.

Sighing, dull obsidian orbs turned back, meeting the cold red stare of his alarm clock, the numbers burning into his head. The three mocking him as the minutes refused to move, the night taunting him with its unwillingness to allow time to pass, trapping him within the depth of the early morning. Countless sighs had escaped his lips, his limbs aching from the time spent in their closely curled position, his eyelids falling heavier by the second. Yet, sleep evaded him, his mind refusing to shut down so that he could find relief within his dreams.

It had been this way for a number of days. The long nights passing by like days, time spent merely watching the numbers flick by upon his clock. The storm continued to sound itself, the thunder rolling through his head as he allowed himself to be lulled by the soft sound of the rain.

They had been living in Satan City for little more than a month and Gohan had still not grown used to the creaks and sounds of their new home. Instead of being surrounded by lush woods and a gentle lake, they were encircled by the sounds of the city. No more was he awoken by the soft chirps of birds, but by the harsh honks of car horns, the sound of the shattering bottles in an alley, screams of sirens. The gentle breezes of the countryside had been replaced with the stench of garbage, smog, and pollution.

A slight tremor ran through Gohan as a bolt of lightening trailed through the sky, reflecting silver in his dark velvet eyes. Their month in Satan City had been spent preparing their home, setting up the dojo, and placing the Daemon family in a foreign city. Hours had been spent teaching his parents and sister the Japanese language, a language he had known since he was adopted. And finally, after putting it off for so long, he would be starting school . . . in five hours.

He could remember when he was five, the soft words of hesitation in sending him to a public institution. It had all been centered on his abnormalities. The fear that he would be discovered . . . the fear that they would be discovered. He could remember his own hesitation, his own fear of it all. Yet, it had been fine. Never once had he suffered the teasing, only granted acceptance by his peers. He had spent months hiding in the corner of the room, avoiding his fellow classmates in order to insure that no problems would occur, no shame to his newly found family. Those same children he had feared had pulled him out of those shadows that had once threatened to consume him, dousing those self doubts with happiness that radiated from their souls.

Those childish days had been cast away, just as those fears and doubts had long since left him. But now . . . it was different.

It was because of him his family had been forced to move. Each and every uncomfortable moment in his new home, in this foreign city, was simply a payment in retribution for his actions. It was his fault, he was the one who had been ostracized by his abnormalities, and thus bringing the family who had only desired to give him love, with him. He was the reason for everyone's discomfort, everyone's false smiles. They had put upon cheerful facades, full of smiles that never reached their dulled eyes. They had been stripped of a life they had always known, cast into a foreign world, all for him.

While this thought warmed his heart, he could still hear his classmates haunting taunts within his mind, those words that he had feared his entire life, coming to life before his very halls. The crowds that had once greeted him, embracing him with ease, parted before him. Whispered voices that once coursed through his ears with cheerful gossip became the same hard, cold tones that mocked him. Around him, looks that were full of spirit, of jealousy, of worship, of warmth . . . had turned critical, examining, piercing his very soul.

"Demon."

A shudder passed through his body as he closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the world around him.

"What a freak. Thinking he could be like us, accepted by us. Did he honestly think he was human?"

Wasn't that what he had always wanted? Deep down, he knew he was different from everyone else. He knew that he could not just be accepted, not if they knew of his many differences.

"What is he?"

A tail.

"What does he want from us?"

Superior strength that could destroy mountainsides.

"Is he dangerous?"

Ability to fly.

"Could he really kill us all?"

A past full of doubt and blood that coated his hands, a childhood no person could understand, a future that was cloudy . . .

"What is he?"

That was all he wanted to know. What was he? Where did he belong? He obviously did not belong with the rest, he was different. His differences accounting for so much, separating him from even his family, his friends, and everyone else he knew.

Only two people knew the truth of his strengths. One a mere apparition within his mind, the other a man draped within the shadows. He had once asked that man who he was.

"Ano . . . who are you?" Gohan asked, his eyes wide and curious at the brutal man before him.

That constant smirk, one that had never left his face contorted as once ice hard obsidian eyes swirled. In a voice that could only account for ageless exhaustion, he replied, burning his words into Gohan's mind, the tone displaying that the hardened man did feel . . feel far more than Gohan could ever have believed.

"A prince with no title to truly claim. A man without a home. A father in title alone. A warrior with no battles to fight. A puppet who has lost his strings."

Gohan merely stood there, that voice haunting his mind. "A life, never truly understood."

His head jerked up, his eyes slightly wide at the boy's words. "A life never truly understood." He murmured in agreement, his smirk twisting into a slight smile.

Slowly, Gohan walked to the only man who could begin to comprehend his life, if given the chance. Clasping his hand to the man's forearm, smirking as the prince instinctively flinched at the touch; Gohan spoke, his whispered words carrying far out with the wind.

"A man with more to live for than he realizes, and more influence than he could possibly fathom. A soul hiding behind a hardened mask, hiding the pleasure he has found in a simpler life."

The door closed silently behind him as Gohan exited the house, a small smile upon his face as he remembered his sparring partner's reaction to those words. Of course, after that, he had quickly left, returning to a life Gohan knew very little about. But those eyes had told him, recognized him as more than just a fellow martial artist that day, they had accepted him.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he moved down the silent streets of Satan City, the headlights of a passing car reflecting in the rain that beat down upon him. Aimlessly he moved through the streets, his eyes trained on the ground below him, lost in thoughts and memories that threatened to consume him. The fear and apprehension had engulfed him, the threatening shadow of Orange Star High School stood foreboding in the distance. Realizing just where his feet were carrying him, he moved off course, turning towards the newly founded dojo.

Bathed in the streetlights, water cascading from the roof, the dojo was a definite reminder of ancient Japanese history. Its design had been taken from that of older homes and temples, creating a unique building amidst capsule houses and towering skyscrapers. Its ancient look provided an almost serene feel, creating the distinct illusion of coming home for the boy upon the street. The wind chimes on the porch rang out in the wind that passed by them, their soft sound echoing pleasantly within his ears as he moved toward the entrance.

Unlocking the door and entering his security password, he stepped inside, removing his shoes before fully entering. The empty building was silent, no creaks or shifting on its new frame to haunt him. Instead, it was only the soft sounds of the rain the wind, the echoing thunder. Around him, the lightening flashed, piercing the light shadows of the room. Another flash of lightening reflected off of the glass casing in the center of the room, the white light briefly illuminating the glittering trophies that lay within its confines.

Softly, Gohan padded over to the large case. Flicking on the light within the cabinet, he waited for his eyes to adjust. Peering through a single half lidded eye, he opened his obsidian eyes as one hand pushed the thick strands of silken ebony from his face, as water dripped onto the hardwood floors beneath him. Trophies, plaques, ribbons, and other various awards greeted his sight, his name printed on the majority. Each was a statement to attest to the prowess of martial arts within the Daemon family line.

Despite the fact that his blood was not of their line, every member of the Daemon family insisted that he was just that . . . family. The fact that he was adopted, neglecting of his foreign abilities, they had embraced his as just that. Each one of those awards had been received with hugs and kisses, praise from the family that had taken him in, loved his as one of their own. Every award won was a thank you to them for just that. Each trophy he had added to their collection had become a symbol of his strive to ensure their pride for him and his abilities. Every ribbon had been a testimony to the love he felt for them. And each plaque, inscribed with the Daemon name, a testament to himself of who he was.

His hand, splayed out against the cold glass surface, ran with a foreign, unknown, alien blood. That blood was the same that had been embraced by his family, loved by his family, prided by his family. A content smile appeared upon his face, tugging at the corner of his lips, warming his eyes as he submerged himself in those memories. Yet, that hand haunted him. Accepted as he was by those he loved, questions that could not be answered plagued him.

Was he human?

If he was not human . . . what was he?

In comics, cartoons, manga, and anime, those with supernatural abilities saved the world. But all he had ever done was hurt those he loved. The hand that had been held so tightly by his foster family was the same that was stained with blood, the same that had been unable to prevent disaster, only created it. At one point, he could remember promising that he would protect them, a promise he had strived to continue.

Glancing around the dojo, he could feel the warm spirits of the children that had been in the building hours before, and would come in hours after he left. He too had once been there, the beginning of his training at the Daemon family dojo.

"Great job Gohan! Just a little higher."

The small boy aimed his kick higher, meeting with the solid flesh of his father's hand. His body, small and compact, twisted as the kick hit, the imbalance roughly sending him to the ground below. Sitting there, he fought back tears, afraid to be met with his father's disappointment. All he wanted was to make his new father, the only father he had known, proud. But all he could do is fail.

Two large, warm hands lifted him up, cradling the small boy's body to his chest. A soft finger wiped away the crystalline drops that hovered at the edges of large velvet eyes. Hesitantly, Gohan looked up, only to be met by warm emeralds and a large smile.

"Are you tired, son? Did you want to go home?"

"Iie!" Gohan said, his vocabulary broken with his native Japanese as he shook his head adamantly. "I want to do it again. I want to make you proud!"

The large smile merely widened, the adult male's face leaning closer to the child's determined one. Lightly tapping the boy's nose, Erik spoke. "You already have, just by being you. And you always will."

Those fond memories before he had been exposed to the death and destruction of his power warmed him, reminding him of the family he had. With those memories, he had never wanted to know anything beyond that, not his true origin, or the constant question of where he belonged. He had been content with what he had been given.

Shaking his head, he turned the lights off. A glance at his watch showed that he had been gone for nearly two hours and outside, the storm had been replaced with the beginning lights of dawn. If his parents or sister had awoken and discovered him missing . . . Gohan did not even want to contemplate the results of that. He knew they worried for him, just as he knew they wanted to give him space to think things through.

Guilt washed over him with that knowledge. They loved him for him, despite everything. No matter his past, present, and future actions, that love was something they had guaranteed, and reassured time over time. Yet all he could ponder on were the questions of his origin, of the truth beneath the forgotten memories of those brief years he had been granted in some unknown place, with unknown people.

Had they loved him? Would they love him knowing all he had done, all he was? Would they embrace him as the parents he had now always had? Did he have any siblings? Grandparents that had annoying habits? Pesky cousins always wondering over his love life? Aunts ready to match make with a family friend?

There were so many unanswered questions. Yet, there was no way to know. Moving here had been a step closer, knowing that his native language was Japanese, but beyond that, what would he find? What if everything he wanted to believe in his origin was a lie? That his biological parents had not wanted him at all.

Turning the key in the lock, he began his way back home, his eyes downcast at those thoughts. His past was so foggy. He had never mentioned the few glimpses he had of his memory to anyone. While his memory had never returned, he would occasionally remember a simple feeling, a caress, warmth that he could never distinguish. Yet, it always felt like home.

Approaching his home, a single light burned in a downstairs window. Someone, if not everyone, had awoken. They were probably waiting, huddled in the living room, worried over his disappearance. He could practically see his sister sitting, gazing into the distance, wondering, hiding her own worry. His mother would be frantically pacing, spouting off his possible demise in some tragic and horrible accident while his father attempted to sooth her, covering his worry with a gentle smile and a soft word. But when he walked in, he knew it would change. His mother would hold back her desire to check him over for any form of injury; his father would simply welcome him back, his eyes questioning where he had been. Cassandra would smile before fading into the shadows, making her way back upstairs where she would wait for him.

They would not question, nor would they antagonize him for answers to their questions. It was simple acceptance, belief in him in its most simple form. With a soft smile, he moved toward the door, intent on seeing the only family he had ever known, to sooth their worries, to embrace them, apologize for all the trouble he had caused, to chase away the shadows of sadness and concern that lurked within their eyes each time they gazed upon him.

Yet, as his hand fell upon the doorknob, a wave of apprehension hit him. Backing away, he felt himself encounter a wall of warm flesh and muscle. A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder as he froze. The morning light washed over Satan City, casting away the shadows of the night's storm, bringing in the fresh day. But Gohan could feel, the fresh start of the day would not be quite so bright for him as he was sharply turned by the strong hand that held to him tightly, a cold voice washing over him. That cold figure, washed by the warm morning sun, proved his apprehension true as calculating eyes ran over his rain soaked body.

"Boy."

~*~

Worth the wait? Doubt it. Anyways, I really am going to work to have the next chapter up in a decent amount of time. Well, let me know what you people think!