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lluvguts · 3 years

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☆.｡.:*you blush like an ocean in love.｡.:*☆

☆ read it on ao3 ; comment or feel my wrath >:3

☆ teen rating ! they're aged up. there's kissing. they're idiots. yeah.

☆ word count ; 1101

/ / /

The rainy evening was a time to celebrate, to watch the train smoke disappear into the thick clouds above, to grab Luca's hand and breathe in the salty Portorosso air, now infinitely better with his warm fingers twined with his own. Luca finally home, finally for good, forever.

"Dolcezza, let's swim, yeah?" Alberto took Luca's hand tighter and pointed to the waves, rippling and grey from the stormy wind.

"But," Luca pondered at the overcast, his cheeks burning at the name he had called him. Alberto tucked a wind-blown curl of hair back behind his ear, and Luca blushed harder. "It's going to rain."

He chuckled softly and pulled Luca into his side, away from the gusts of wind. "Like it's ever stopped us before."

"Well what of the others?"

"What about them?" Alberto teased, looking down at Luca. "I'm sure Giuletta has grown tired of seeing your bel volto in her Mama's bathtub, hmm? Dinner is at sunset. Come on, Lu. It'll be nice."

The other boy nodded, moving with tentative steps across the piazza, still in his school shoes that clicked along the dark cobblestones, still wearing his navy blue coat and loose button-up blouse. His backpack slung to one side, brushing Alberto's chilled arm. While they walked, Luca's face fixed down on the ground now collecting droplets of light rain, staring with a fond smile at Alberto's bare feet, the bruise on his kneecap (from falling out of the hideout while trying to fix a loose board, he'd written it furiously in one crumpled letter) and, with rain falling into his hair, letting his fingertips graze the fabric of his long skirt.

"It's cool here, It's nice..." Luca murmured to himself. He put his full weight--which really wasn't much to Alberto, all sun-tanned muscles and long sweaty days working as the town's lifeguard had made him strong--against Alberto's shoulder, stopping and tilting his hot cheek into his collarbone. "I missed you, tesoro."

"I kept all of your letters," He continued, blurting out. The steady crash of the waves only inches from their feet, mixed with the murmuring wind made Luca's voice catch. Or, as he held onto the front of Alberto's pull-over jacket with such urgency and need, it was perhaps his own tears that spilled down his cheeks that made such a sad, pitiful sound slip past pink, flushed lips. "All of them. I- I kept them in a drawer, by my bedside. Then, when we had to keep this--questo amore--to ourselves, they went under my pillow at night. They're all wrinkled now. I didn't sleep well then."

Alberto turned Luca so he was facing him, chest to trembling, shivering chest, and hugged him. Seafoam tickled their heels, turning Alberto's feet to muted purple scales in the moody weather. "I missed you too, but there is no need for these tears, amore."

"I k-know! But, ... but," Luca lifted his head up and let Alberto rub his thumb across his cheeks, wiping the salty tracks and blushing scales. "I'm just...I'm upset that we were apart for so long."

He shed his backpack at the shore, sitting in a sandy puddle of water, but not seeming to care for the books and other things inside. When Luca looked back up with hazel eyes, they were bright with sadness, but full of hope and feeling. Alberto's heart gasped, a writhing little thing inside of his sore chest, seeing the beautiful palette of blue and green scales bubbling along Luca's neck, his cheeks, his eyelashes long and wet with dewy water. Alberto loved seeing Luca like this, how careful he considered his own changing and the mediated glance as he looked with broken longing at his love.

"I could count the days, the minutes I waited for you. But I don't think this would help," Alberto kissed the rain-flecked front of Luca's hair, leading him further into the awaiting water. The salty spray made their clothes stick to their tired limbs, Alberto's skirt kissed his knees and the front of his legs and wouldn't let go. Luca held on, rain and all, kissing Alberto's throat tenderly, cold lips to cold neck.

"Your scales..." Luca whispered, hardly audible, against Alberto's cool skin. He kissed him again, still soft and gentle, oh so gentle, tracing just the edge of his bottom lip along the hollow of his throat. "I've memorized them. I'll never, ever forget them."

"You'll never have a reason to."

Alberto's stance in the water faltered at that, his body swaying slightly with the tide. He squeezed Luca's shoulders, peeling off the thick coat. He relished in seeing his pale human skin shimmer, the scales lightened from many Summers, a glowing honeydew. "Mio piccolo luna. Mio Luca, caro Luca. Mio luna. I missed you so." He babbled into Luca's head of fins, kissing each and every one.

Luca laughed, warm breath on his neck making him shudder. He gladly abandoned the coat and let it float along the foam of the water. "You said that already, love."

"I'll say it again." Alberto cradled his face with both hands, smearing rain droplets over Luca's dark blush, a sign of his love brimming beneath the surface. He pulled Luca up into a kiss, speaking into his lips. "I missed you."

"I missed you more."

"There's no way."

He hummed in reply, on his eager lips. "No more Summers to keep you from me," Luca murmured over the kiss, locking his arms around Alberto's waist, just before tugging off the taller boy's coat too. Another kiss. "No more studying, no more quiet nights in Giulia's guest bedroom. I can hold you here with me instead. We can learn together, we can even fall asleep in the hideout. I just want to be close to you again. Not let it be a dream anymore." He ended it with a tiny sniffle, a whisper on the skin.

"We can have all that, amore. We can have all of that," Alberto pressed, the rain drowning his words, so he spoke them again and again into Luca's ear.

"I love you, Alberto."

The faint ebb and flow of the water pushed Luca fully into his front, and he pulled him as close to his chest as they could get, two interlocked bodies, just salt and tears and rain separating them--or drawing them ever closer.

#i am bored #luberto #luberto fic #luberto fanfic #luca #luca fanfic #alberto scorfano #luca paguro #alberto and luca #luca fanfiction #gay fish boys #lgbt fanfic #luca 2021 #pixar luca #luca x alberto #alberluca

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sweetescapeartist · 3 years

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MY DBS MANGA CHAPTER 70 REVIEW

We learn in the last chapter that the Cerealian Dragon's name is Toronbo when Granolah speaks Namekian. Toronbo grants Granolah's wish but can't make Granolah stronger than the gods.

Here's the confusion I have... Goku is a mortal beyond GoDs so making Granolah the strongest mortal is making him stronger than gods. If you wanna say Beerus has been training and is now stronger than Goku, there's still a problem. It was said that Goku and Vegeta were stronger than some GoDs right before the ToP (but that might be anime only, so maybe it doesn't apply here). So Granolah is stronger than GoDs no matter what. If the gods that Toronbo is speaking of are the Angels, then that means Granolah is Ultra Instinct level of power since Goku is the lowest in Angel tier. But whatever. Bottom line is Granolah is temporarily stronger than Goku who may or may not be stronger than Beerus.

Granolah gets his wish granted and the cost is shortening his life... cool. Not much to say except let's see how its executed.

(I recently read that in DBXV2, during the Infinite History Saga, Videl is enchanted with Towa's Dark Magic spell by Dabura shaving off her life but granting her greater power. So granting power at the cost of lifespan has been done in DB before. Not in canon but in the games.)

Also, Granolah's life being shortened to 3 yrs got me thinking... Currently it's almost AGE 781 in the DBS manga timeline. Goku leaves to train Uub in AGE 784. We got 3 yrs left. The original manga shows Bulma said she hadn't seen Goku in 5 yrs. How I see DBS is that it is an alternate timeline that just happens to have a similar outcome to the EoZ.

So... why is Vegeta learing from Beerus again if Beerus isn't that strong now? Is Vegeta being like Krillin and continuing his learning from a master weaker than him, but gaining wisdom & knowledge? I-is Vegeta becoming Krillin 2.0?! (More like dollar-store Krillin)

I do think beerus got stronger tho. He seems very confident that Vegeta can get stronger from learning from him. Beerus probably saw Goku get UI then decide to train aftet the ToP

Anyways, Beerus is teaching us about hakai/destruction energy. Its erasing something from existence, not just destroying it (we already knew that). But, Vegeta quickly figures out how to do it anyways. By destroying a tiny pebble...

A tangent again but I personally think Piccolo is capable of easily learning Hakai energy. Think about it. Piccolo can create clothing out of nothing, why could he not do the reverse?

Goku is uninterested in what Beerus & Vegeta are doing. I dont know about you, but it sounds like Goku thinks that he's above Beerus in strength. Beerus & Vegeta aren't considered a challenge to him in any way. Goku sees UI as more important & better than anything Beerus has to teach, and Goku is right. Plus Goku learned Hakai on his own while Vegeta needs Beerus to teach him. It's a waste of Goku's time to learn it again.

(God Comics is funny. I imagine Toribot writes them)

Goku says "Let's see which one of us can be the strongest in the universe!" Really, Goku...? At present time, Goku is the strongest mortal in the universe already. He should know that. Then Vegeta for some reason thinks he will become the strongest in the universe. The last time manga Vegeta was the strongest mortal in the universe was... never. He's always behind Goku or whatever new opponent arises. This scene is meant to be comedic that they're arguing over who will be the greatest but it's not funny to me. And yet Vegeta fans still hold on for hope.

But why is Goku concerned about being the strongest between him & Vegeta? Goku is far above Vegeta. They're not rivals at this point. Also, Goku was the strongest in the universe until just a few moments ago. Goku should be saying "I knew bein' the strongest wouldn't last for too long. Roshi did tell me there will always be somebody stronger out there. Hehe! This is gettin' me excited! I can't wait to meet 'em!" (This would alsp parallel Monaito giving Granolah the same advice Goku already knows.)

Also, I guess Broly isn't that strong after all. Bye Broly, you served your purpose. And to think that Goku had said that he thinks Broly is stronger than Beerus...

Oh yeah. So Vegeta destroys a pebble. Impressive? Goku kinda gives a compliment or he is practically saying "Good job Vegeta! You're doing great following in my footsteps!" Seriously, this would be so much better and cooler if this seperate paths of training began right after the Universe 6 vs Universe 7 tournament. That would be the perfect spot to have them train under Beerus & Whis. [Vegeta using Hakai against Merged Zamasu, Goku able to fight Merged Zamasu temporarily because he is getting better at letting his body move on its own, Toppo & Vegeta using Hakai against each other as Goku & Jiren use power above GoDs. That would work so much better.]

Then Vegeta says he's gonna destroy bigger things soon... is that supposed to be more impressive? Its not. But this it to build up Vegeta even though there is nothing amazing about anything he is doing at the moment. Maybe later tho.

So Cerealians can't grow beards. Also I guess Granolah's race don't age? His hair grew when his lifespan was shortened but he has no wrinkles. It seems that they age more gracefully than Saiyans. If he has some wrinkles he would have looked cooler imo. Or those lines under the eyes at the very least. If the wish shortened his life & made his hair grow, it should have also showed that he aged. (Here's an edit I made of "Grampa Granolah." You're welcome)

And remember Vegeta destroying a pebble? Granolah can suddenly destroy big rocks! Cool right?! No? Its not cool? Showing Granolah destroy a much larger object right afterwards kinda belittles Vegeta's accomplishment.

Oatmil is surprised by a boulder exploding. This means one of 2 things. Oatmil is stupid & never saw an Granolah explode a boulder. Or it's implying that the boulder exploding is some technique Oatmil doesn't know of. Idk how he can tell its any different from just blowing up a rock with ki. I think it's supposed to be destruction energy. If it is then, ok. If getting his wish was so easy, then why can't he suddenly learn destruction as well?

Yay! Monaito! (This really should be a Namekian focused arc)

Granolah reminds me of Zamasu with his attitude a bit. Monaito tells him somebody stronger will definetly appear. Granolah has become like Vegeta and is over confident, so he is destined to get humbled. And think about this. Goku can probably train a bit and surpass Granolah within a week.

Granolah can now sense ki. Meaning he can have the destruction technique or UI, because why not?

Monaito blames himself for Granolah's actions. Its not your fault Monaito! You did nothing wrong! Dont be so hard on yourself.

Whis being a creep and peeping on people lol.

Granolah's hair growing was pointless because he cuts it off soon after. Nothing changed visually. This kinda reminds me of how Moro lost his arm. Goku gave him a senzu, Moro grew it back, & then Moro broke his arm when attacking Goku. Then Moro tore his arm off & reattached his old one. There was no need for Moro to grow his arm back then tear it off. Similarly, there is no need for Granolah to have grown long hair then cut it off.

Maki still brings a smile to my face. She & Gas stand out the most out of the Heeters. Maki's personality is kinda like Zangya combined with a teasing Bulma. Gas reminds me of a Krillin/Piccolo fusion with dreadlocks. I also ship Maki x Gas cause they're short and look cute together. (please don't be siblings so I can draw them together🤞)

Granolah fights Oil & Maki. I'm not impressed. They seem like they could be defeated by Chaoitzu (he's stronger than Raditz and probably Nappa now too). Granolah's movements could be seen as UI. If it is or isn't UI, it doesn't matter. Showing off that kind of power is like Goku using Ultra Instinct during a rematch with Nam or King Chappa. Its not effective storytelling. There had to be a better way of showing Granolah's new strength than making him fight opponents that give him zero challenge.

The art is good as usual and the panel flow is nice. Toyotaro is improving at creating the illusion of motion. The environment being used in the fight was smart and a good visual. Toyo still uses a ton of panels almost every page tho. But he's still a better artist than I am.

Granolah appears to have used Hakai again. Not the explosive variant but the sand variant (yes I think there are 2 ways of using Hakai).

The "Sand Variant" that Beerus & Goku (& maybe Granolah) have used.

The "Explosive Variant" Beerus & Vegeta (& maybe Granolah) have used.

Maki thinks the "Hakai" is magic so that's interesting. I would say I'd like for the next enemy to be a magic user but, we know how Moro turned out... 😓

Maki has "ki claws" & I like the idea but it would be better if she had used it against an enemy she can defeat. It doesn't make her look useful in this fight. Gas seems confident when he is about to fight Granolah, but Elec stops him. Gas would've gotten beaten but it make ya wonder what Gas can do.

Granolah appears to be a person that is easily manipulated and persuaded. He even gave information they weren't even asking for. He'll probably be easily convinced and manipulated by Freeza/the Hedters or quickly have a truce with Goku.

The Heeters plan to go to Planet Cereal to get the Dragon Balls. As I suspected, the Cerealian Dragon Balls were created so that it would be easy for wishes to be granted. Gathering 2 Dragon Balls on a nearby planet instead of gathering 7 on New Namek or Earth. Plus these new Dragon Balls ensures no interaction between Earthlings & Granolah/the Heeters. A perfect way to write Gohan & company out of the story... *sigh* 😔😒

We learn Cerealians live for 2 centuries. How's that compare to other races in Universe 7? Freeza & King Cold apparently can live more than 200 yrs, But that may be because they are mutants. Namekians can live for like 500 yrs & its possible for them to reincarnate themselves too. So in a way, Namekians can live forever. Saiyans stay youthful & live to be in their 80's, but rapidly age when they reach their 60's or 70's. Average Earthlings appear live to be in their 80's or 90's but some are over 100 yrs old (Dr. Briefs, Panchy, & Ox King are in their 90's in GT) and others can increase their lifespan through elixers or the Paradise Herb. Just some thoughts of mine.

Maki says "If he ices Freeza..." Ha, an ice pun. Elec wants to defeat Freeza so he can control his army. Its revealed they wanna kill Granolah & that they worked with Freeza to destroy his planet & race. Well... that more than likely means they're gonna die by Granolah's hand or Freeza's. This info is also an attempt to make the reader more sympathetic for Granolah. Granolah is too bland (pun intended) so I don't feel any more sympathy than I already had for him. Elec plans to make Goku & Vegeta fight Granolah since Granolah hates Saiyans. Smart but we all kinda expected it. Not bad writing tho.

The final panel talks about fate bringing the 3 (Goku, Vegeta, & Granolah) together. Sounds like a repeat of the Broly movie.

We've had 4 chapters in this arc & not 1 panel of Freeza... If Freeza doesnt appear & do something in the next chapter then I will be disappointed in the writing. Showing Freeza here and there would give tension and build up until we get the encounter with him. We also have no idea who Oatmil is. Is he an A.I. or a person? Not that big of a deal yet, but I would like to find out soon. Either show Freeza or tell us more about Oatmil next chapter pleaae

This chapter was like oatmeal (the food not the character) without butter, brown sugar, milk, & honey or raisins. Not bad, but not very good either.

So here's my thoughts on the things that could or could not happen in this arc.

Goku vs Granolah. I don't care for the fight because the power is at a point that it doesnt make sense for enemies to get to without cheating somehow. The fight will look cool but I have no interest in it.

Vegeta vs Granolah will have Vegeta being stomped as always and Vegeta fans will make excuses & complain how it's not fair. A lot of Vegeta fans often make fun of Yamcha & Krillin for getting beat up even though those 2 bravely fight opponents leagues stronger than they are. Vegeta has gotten stomped by opponents more times than Krillin & Yamcha combined but the fans gotta deflect somehow. I don't care to hear or see the complaining again.

The interaction and dialogue between Granolah & Vegeta is going to be more interesting than their fight. But I worry because Toyo isn't the best at writing dialogue.

I have no reason to care about power growth, certain interactions, or Goku & Vegeta's training.

What I am curious about/want to see?

Monaito's well being. I want him to reunite with other Namekians. But I think he's been set up to die.

Lore about the dragon gods & Namekian lore we probably wont get.

I want Piccolo, Krillin, Gohan, & others will be involved. Piccolo because of the Namekian & wosh granting dragon lore. Gohan because his interaction with Granolah eould be interesting since Gohan is half Saiyan & views himself as an Earthling. Krillin & other Earthlings because they can bring tensions where characters like Goku & Vegeta can't. Those 2 are too strong for there to be any real tension. However Earthlings aren't all powerful so them using wits to survive is more exciting. But I doubt any of their involvement.

How long a Cerealian year is? Is it shorter than a Namekian year? How much time will pass for the Cerealian Dragon Balls to be active? How much stronger than Granolah will Goku get? Hopefully the answers aren't lazy...

Will Beerus finally fight somebody? There are 6 mortals that are near or above his power (Goku, Granolah, Vegeta, Broly, Freeza, Gohan).

Who's the villian of the next arc & what explanation is going to be given for them having power on the level of Angels? Angel tier fights don't sound interesting to me anymore. After those kinds of battles, Goku will have no challengers left.

Will Goku disappear to train or something so the story can TRY to match up with the EoZ?

Will Goten, Trunks, & Marron hit their growth spurts within 3 yrs?

Will we get spin-off manga about other characters? PLEASE!? 🙏

Also DBS moved too quickly when it comes to power. Now we're at the point that Goku & Vegeta need to stop being involved in fights for there to be any actual threat or tension. The Buu saga took place in AGE 774. After training for 4 years of peace, Goku thought SS3 & fusion was his limits as a Saiyan and he was right. Well, kinda... Goku was introduced to god ki near the end of AGE 778. Then in AGE 781, Goku masters Ultra Instinct... He mastered an Angel technique in 2 year or 2.5 yrs. That was waaaay too fast. As a result the storytelling & writing are suffering from this rushed progress. Now we're gonna have an Angel tier opponent? According to the pattern of DBS, Goku's gonna end up surpassing the Angels within 2 or 3 yrs after learning god ki. Thats not impressive for Goku, that's terrible writing. And no, Goku getting this strong so fast is not a benefit to Saiyans either. It just shows us that without god ki, Saiyans ain't all that powerful unless they're the legendary Saiyan like Broly. Saiyans didn't even have a concept of training until Goku was trained by Earthlings. Gohan, Freeza, 17, & I'm pretty sure Piccolo as well have all surpassed SS3 without the help of god ki. God ki makes Saiyans look like they have limits. With god ki, the writing is broken....

I got off topic again... Anyways that's the end of my review.

#dbs manga review #dbs manga #dragon ball #db #dragon ball super #dbs #edited out the 10 yrs of peace because the original manga never says that

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luigis-love · 5 years

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SOUL MATE WORDS VI

A FANFIC FOR THE CHICCOLO WEEK 2019

@chiccolofans

CHAPTER 06

KISS ME

NOTE. SORRY FOR THE DELAY. MY DAD WAS IN THE HOSPITAL, AND WELL.. YOU KNOW, THINGS GET DIFFICULT WHEN THAT HAPPENS. THANKFULLY, HE IS BETTER AND AT HOME NOW.

PICCOLO

The namek looked at the table and tapped his finger on the table cloth, wondering how long it would take Gohan to figure out that he had forgotten his folder with all his papers to the school inscription.

Chichi had not noticed, luckily she was outside fussing with the laundry or something like that.

The sound of kinton at full speed allowed the namek to know that the teenager was back, he stormed the kitchen, took the folder from the spread arm of his father figure, gave him a stupid smile that was a copy of the ones Goku used to make and ran out again.

- Mr. Piccolo, Mr. Piccolo!

The door re opened, and this time, it showed a small copy of the strongest saiyan of the universe, the boy came shaking a book in the air, and the namek moved his chair to allow the boy to jump and sit on his leg.

- Look! You remember we were reading this book about birds?

- Yeah, I remember.

There was a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he would forget something that happened… last night.

- Well, I took the book to the nest I told you about! And it turns out…

Goten kept talking like there was no tomorrow, showing his notes, drawings, maps, book and everything to Piccolo, who could not avoid to listen to the child like he was unraveling the secrets of the universe.

The sound of steps made him move casually a finger and the door opened to let Chichi in, she smiled, a basket of clean laundry in her arms, and went in. The door closed behind her without a sound.

- …BUT THERE WAS AN EGG MISSING MR. PICCOLO!!

Piccolo fake gasped and the child started waving his arms in all directions while still going with his story. He was not as smart as Gohan had been at his age, but he was indeed smart. It made the green alien so proud to see his boy so engrossed in those topics and using real book facts to back up his knowledge. He had spent hours… long, long hours teaching him, being his master in more than one field, a nice perk that came from being a god for so long.

He looked up at Chichi, who had left the basket in a chair and was watching the events unfold.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

CHICHI

She screamed in pain. The doctors had offered some drugs to deal with the pain, but she denied. She had had Gohan the natural way, and this second child was going to be the same.

However, there was something that she truly needed.

She arched, screeched like a proud banshee and called for the one thing she wanted in that difficult moment.

- PICCOLO!!!!

The door banged open and the nurses jumped scared, from outside, someone said “Sir, you can´t go in there!” someone mentioned to “Call security” but it was completely impossible for any of them to stop him.

In a short second, Piccolo knelt down next to her and took her hand, she whimpered while the pain made her moan between rapid breaths.

- It hurts, Piccolo… it… it was not like this with G-Gohan… what if... what if…

- Nothing is wrong Chichi, nothing.

Security came, but the doctor inside stopped them. It was not the first time he saw a stubborn mother saying “no” to the pain drugs, and it was not the first concerned mate, husband, boyfriend or whatever that he saw being supportive of the mother in labor while being an ass to the hospital personal. So he signed and just asked the nurse to give him some proper attire… which he doubted they had, since the guy was big as a mountain.

It took way too long, Piccolo stayed by her side, holding her hand and promising she was going to be ok, she and the baby. And she believed him.

The first time, she had done this alone, in her house with a midwife, it had been painful, but not like this… and now… now Piccolo was there, holding her.

For a second, she knew that if Goku had been alive, he would have been training somewhere in the planet and would not have even been there. The fact that he was around when Gohan was born had been almost a miracle, since her water broke while they were having dinner.

With a Spartan cry and a final push, with her forehead covered in sweat and a mess of blood and other liquids covering her lower body, Chichi gave birth to her second son, who after a few seconds, started to cry with a mighty pair of lungs that made Piccolo wince, since it seemed that now Chichi´s screeches had found a rival.

- It´s a boy.

Piccolo said, and his voice trembled for a second. His eyes were glued to the tiny thing being cleaned by the doctors.

- Chichi, is a boy.

She hiccupped and laughed and cried and closed her eyes.

She was so, so tired. She missed Piccolo´s eyes on her. Missed how he admired just how beautiful she looked through his warrior´s eyes, seeing a woman who just won a battle of life and death, a victory of her own, a warrior way stronger than him in a battle that he would never face… he could, of course, but he wondered if he would ever dare to challenge the amazing feat she had just done before his eyes.

- I have someone who wants to meet you, Sir.

Piccolo turned around at the nurse, who was holding a small bundle in her arms. He panicked, he was terrified that he was going to just destroy this very tiny being in his monstrous arms and he would vanish from existence.

But before he could say or think, or do anything to back away, his arms spread before him and he received him, and cuddled him against his chest.

Chichi blinked tiredly, and looked at the scene of Piccolo holding a baby, th-her baby, for the very first time in his life.

- Chichi, I… I… he…

She was able to see the exact moment when Piccolo silently bowed himself to the child. To rise him protect him, love him, die for him if necessary. She saw it happen, and she believed in him, she silently vowed herself not to ever separate him from th-her… her little one.

Piccolo knelt and offered her the baby, she took him in her arms and saw the tiny, red and puffy face of her new born son.

- Hello there… hi… hi baby boy…

The baby whimpered, making them smile.

- Look at him Piccolo… he is so small…

And he definitely was. Compared to Piccolo, he was just tiny, barely bigger than his emerald hands.

- Hello Goten… Hello… I am your mommy.

Without even thinking, Piccolo embraced Chichi, and she cuddled up to him, looking for his warmth, his protection… she turned around and smiled brightly, and he kissed her forehead.

PICCOLO

The phone in the living room rang and Chichi went to answer it, while Piccolo was working in a few sums with Goten in the kitchen table.

- Goten? It´s for you.

- Oh wow! I wonder who it is!

The namek rolled his eyes in amusement. The one and only person who called Goten was Trunks. The fact that he still wondered who was calling him by phone was just hilarious.

Chichi came over and took the notebook, quickly reviewing the work made by her two men. She smiled when she saw that Goten´s writing was slowly coming better, it didn´t look like ink spaghetti anymore. It was at least… understandable.

- MOOOOOM! TRUNKS WANTS TO KNOW IF I CAN GO TO HIS HOUSE AND STAY THE NIGHT!

- Is Bulma ok with that?

- I DON´T KNOW, LET ME ASK!!!

Piccolo and Chichi stared at each other for a few seconds, and the answer came.

- MOOOOM, BULMA SAID THAT IT IS OK!

- Then yes sweetie, you can go to visit Trunks.

- YEEEEY, THANK YOU MOM! HEY TRUNKS….

The human woman fell on the chair, wondering how was Gohan doing in the inscription to Orange School. It was a shame that Trunks had not called a couple of hours ago, or her oldest son could have taken his brother to Capsule Corp and then went to the college. But still, it was what it was.

The child came and hugged his mother, thanking her for the permission. Then he jumped over to clean his studying materials, hugged Piccolo and went away to put (or throw) everything in his bedroom.

The namek stood when Goten came back, Chichi held him and kissed him goodbye, telling him to be good, to behave, not to get in troubles, NOT TO ANNOY VEGETA…

- Come on boy.

Piccolo advanced with Goten, Chichi went after them.

In the backyard, the namek looked at the blue sky and then at the kid.

- Be careful, ok brat?

- Yes Mr. Piccolo.

- Remember to call your mother when you arrive to Capsule Corp.

- Yes Mr. Piccolo.

- And don´t give troubles.

- Yes Mr. Piccolo.

- I hope so.

Goten floated and cuddled himself with arms and legs over Piccolo´s wide torso, he patted his back, a faint purple touching the tips of his ears.

- Come on, be gone now.

- Sure!

He mid jumped in the air and then took speed. Piccolo looked with pride how the child went away in the air, something he taught him to do barely a year before, and the kid was good at it.

- BYE MR. PICCOLOOOOOO, BYE MOOOOM

He screamed from across the distance, in a matter of seconds, he disappeared. He kept looking at the distance… and a small hand curled around his waist, and a head rested against his ribcage.

He casually hugged her back.

CHICHI

The dishes were piled in a quite dangerous form in the sink, and Chichi signed. It had been Gohan´s sixteen birthday party. It was late, very late, and now that everyone was gone, the children were happily sleeping, and the house was quiet, she was able to look at the all mighty disaster the entire house was in.

She signed and pulled up her sleeves to start washing dishes, because there was no way in hell that she was going to allow all of this mess to see the light of the morning. Chichi heard a noise outside and she perked up. Closed the water that she had just opened and peeked outside.

There was Piccolo, with a big black trash bag picking up items from the floor, plastic cups from the tables, smashed pieces of cake, and everything was going to the bag. He looked up for a second and stared at her at the window, and said nothing, he just kept cleaning.

The raven haired woman couldn´t hold a few tears in her eyes. And without a word, she went back to wash the dishes.

Almost an hour later, the door opened and Piccolo went inside. She was almost done, and he went to the living room, a broom in one hand and a garbage collector in the other.

She followed him almost fifteen minutes later with a mop and a cube of water.

At almost four in the morning, the house was sparkling clean.

Piccolo sat in the couch with a groan, and Chichi fell on the couch right beside him.

Not caring much about property or whatever thing her brain could come out with, Chichi placed her legs on the couch and snuggled against Piccolo, who maybe unconsciously accommodated himself to make her more comfortable.

It took a few minutes of very comfortable silence for both of them to realize the position they were in, but instead of freaking out, Chichi just… allowed it. She raised her hand and took one of Piccolo´s, and she dedicated to play with his four green fingers, bending them, comparing the size of their hands, making a fist, touching his sharp nails…

Eventually, the hand she was playing with became quite heavy, and she felt a soft rumble above her head. Piccolo was sleeping… she was sleepy too… and so comfortable.

So she encircled his arm around her and closed her eyes, her face partially on his chest, almost on his hearth, and her back warmly pressed against him.

It felt nice…

PICCOLO

When? He wondered, did they started to develop such a… mutual, calm, and accepted intimacy?

When did she start to casually hug him? When did he start to sit by her side while she cleaned the dishes so she had someone to talk to while doing something only she did? When did she start to casually touch him, to casually caress her cheek, or allow her hand to linger a little too much when patting his arm?

When did he start to feel such joy from the small little things with her?

His chest ached, his soul mark was warm under the fake layer of skin… probably warning him about him making a mistake with someone that was not his soul mate. Well… sorry, not sorry, he was staying right in this place, next to her, with their children, for as long as he could…

- Piccolo?

- What?

He turned down to see her. To appreciate the woman she was now, with her white blouse that fit her so well, with her purple long skirt that embraced her hips and then flowed like water, with her hair lose and blowing in the air.

- Kiss me.

She said.

And he did.

CHICHI

All seemed right, over food, Chichi looked at Piccolo drinking his water, and he tried not to blush when he felt her eyes on him. Goten was eating his bowl of rice. So was Gohan.

And then, Gohan told them that Goku was coming back for the martial arts tournament.

#chiccolo week #chiccolo #chiccoloweek #chiccoloweek2019 #chichi #piccolo x chichi #piccolo #otp #my OTP #soul marks #soul mates #time jump

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ladyvegeets · 5 years

Text

Lethal Combination - 02

(Read it on AO3 or FFnet)

Bulma let her partner find his own damn way back to the precinct. She was in no hurry to work with him further. Besides, he had fired his weapon and shot somebody. Somebodies. He would need to fill out a hell of a lot of paperwork as well as receive a psych eval. If she was lucky he wouldn’t pass it and her partnership with detective Vegeta Saiyan would be a tiny blip on her record, never to be thought of again.

Good riddance.

She finished her own paperwork, purposefully ignoring Vegeta when he slunk into the precinct after hitching a ride from another officer. Unfortunately being her partner, he was set up with a desk perpendicular to hers, but they both did a good job of ignoring each other, putting up an invisible icy wall. She waited about an hour for him to apologize, and when he didn’t she decided she didn’t even want to hear one. As far as she was concerned, Vegeta was dead to her, an hourglass over his head counting down the seconds to his forced expulsion.

“Briefs, Saiyan! My office, now!”

Bulma looked up the same moment Vegeta did. Their eyes met, then they grimaced and looked away, standing to meet the captain.

“Would either of you care to explain what the hell happened today?” Piccolo demanded once Bulma had settled into one of the chairs opposite his desk. Vegeta didn’t take the other seat, opting instead to lean against the far wall with arms crossed over his broad chest.

Neither of them said a word.

Piccolo raised a brow. “Well? Briefs?”

“Don’t look at me, Cap. I’m not the one who thinks he’s a one-man army who doesn’t have to follow protocol.”

Piccolo looked to Vegeta. “Care to explain, Saiyan?”

Vegeta shrugged one shoulder. “What she said.”

“Jesus. You two haven’t been under my command for more than a few hours and already you’re in trouble.”

“Me?!” Bulma spluttered, indignant. “What did I do?”

“I put him under your watch. As partners, you’re responsible for each other,” Piccolo reminded. “And what’s this I hear about you taking a swing at him?” Bulma blushed bright red and looked down at her shoes. “Jesus, Briefs, do I have to write you up on your first day back—”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

Bulma and Piccolo looked up to where Vegeta was. His face was inscrutable. Bulma had seen statues with more expression than he had.

Piccolo narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying Briefs didn’t hit you?”

“Do you see me filing a complaint?”

Bulma tried to keep the surprise off her face. Why was he covering for her?

“Is that the way of it, Briefs?” Piccolo asked. His tone made it clear: he wasn’t buying it.

Bulma and Vegeta locked eyes, but his gave nothing away. Did she dare take his out?

“…What he said,” she finally agreed.

“Well well, look at you two getting your stories straight,” Piccolo drawled with heavy sarcasm. “Listen, I don’t know and I don’t care what’s going on here, but I need you both to get your acts together. That means working as a cohesive team. I don’t want to hear bo-fucking-peep about either of you unless it’s in regards to breaking a case. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Crystal,” Vegeta grumbled.

“Good. Now get out of my sight. We’ve got a dead kid on the beach I want you two working on.” Piccolo looked up at Vegeta with hard eyes. “You catch that, Saiyan? Dead. No one for you to shoot at this time.”

“Not yet.” Vegeta pushed off from the wall and walked out.

Bulma hurried after, avoiding the captain’s judgmental eyes. She waited until she and Vegeta were back at their desks before calling him out. “Hey.”

He didn’t acknowledge her, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair.

She grabbed his arm. It was like steel. Christ, just how much did this guy work out? “I said hey.”

“I heard.”

“Well it’s polite to acknowledge someone when they’re talking to you.”

He turned sharply, nearly butting heads to lean in and glower at her with the full weight of his irritation. She had to give him credit, he was intimidating. The guy definitely had his interrogation face down. “You are acknowledged,” he snarked, his words purring over her like the icy touch of Death. Her skin broke out into goose-bumps.

But she refused to back down. Drawing herself up to her full height, she met his glare with her own. “Why did you cover for me back there?”

“Tch.” He pulled away, suddenly bored, and finished shrugging on his jacket.

“Hey, I’m serious.” She wouldn’t let him pull away, circling to stay in his line of sight.

“Fuck, you’re persistent.”

“Part of the job.” She jabbed his chest with a impertinent index finger. “C’mon, spill it. I know you don’t like me, so why stick your neck out like that?”

He grimaced. “Because I am no snitch.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read between his lines. What was his deal? He clearly gave no fucks about making friends or even staying alive, yet he wanted her to believe he had some kind of honor system? The man was a walking juxtaposition.

“Is this your round-about way of saying you’ve got my back?” she asked.

“Isn’t there a dead body we’re supposed to be looking at?” he looked away, trying to change the subject. Bulma felt her first flicker of victory. Was that a crack in his armor she saw? Maybe he wasn’t so unsalvageable after all. Picking up the keys, she dangled them from her fingers. “I’m driving.”

“Fine by me.” He walked passed her on the way to the parking lot. Bulma hitched a brow and followed after. A male cop that didn’t insist on driving. Well, at least he had one redeemable quality.

~xox~

Bulma and Vegeta strode through the sand to the area cordoned off by the police, pushing through the crowd of surfers and beachgoers trying to get a look at the dead body. A tall officer with permanent bed-head was jotting down notes in a pad. He looked up and gave Bulma the biggest grin and wave. “Bulma, you’re back!”

She gave him a smile on approach. It was hard not to around the big goof. “In the flesh. How’s Chi-Chi?”

“Huge!” officer Goku gushed with evident joy, as if his birthday, Christmas, and vacation had all come at once. “She’s due any day now.”

“That’s amazing!” Bulma saw Goku glance at her dark shadow. “Oh uh, Goku Son, this is detective Vegeta Saiyan, my new partner.”

“Partner?” Goku repeated, a worried look crossing his face before he could think to mask it. It was one reason he’d never made it as detective. He was a terrible liar. Goku shook off his shock and offered Vegeta a large paw and grin. “Hey, nice to meet you, buddy. You’re in good hands, Bulma’s the best on the force.”

Vegeta glanced down at the hand and then looked away, putting on a pair of shades. “Are we going to shoot the breeze all day or talk about the case?”

“Um, right…” Goku let his hand fall back and walked them over to the body. “DOA. No ID. Can’t be more than 18. A bit overdressed for the beach if you ask me,” he said, his expression morose as he looked down at the dead boy. Another reason Goku never tried for detective: his heart was just too big to handle the grittier cases.

“What does forensics say?” Bulma asked, crouching down by the body to get a better look. Goku was right, the deceased was young, and not dressed for the beach. Had he been dumped here or washed up on shore?

“She says it looks like he drowned.” A slender woman with a sharp blond bob-cut approached, latex gloves on her hands. “Sorry, I was just cataloging some evidence.”

“Lazuli, Vegeta. Vegeta, Lazuli,” Bulma made quick introductions. “She’s our forensics expert.”

The woman eyed Vegeta over with a disapproving glance. “Most people just call me 18.”

“Why?” he asked in a surprising show of sociableness.

“Do you actually care?” 18 inquired.

Vegeta’s expression didn’t change. “Nope.”

“Alright then.” 18 turned back to Bulma. “I’ll know more once I get the results back from the autopsy but with little else to go on, drowning seems most likely.”

“Accidental?” Goku asked.

“Probably not,” Bulma interjected as she pulled out a pen to lift up the dead boy’s bangs, getting a better look at his face. “Not too many people go swimming fully dressed. How long’s he been dead?”

“Hard to say if water’s been a factor, but at best estimate sometime between 10 and 2 last night.” 18 squatted down and started collecting more evidence. “I don’t know if I’m going to be much help on this one, Briefs. Drownings are notoriously hard to get anything concrete on, and the morning tide washed away anything useful.”

Bulma sighed, imprinting the dead boy’s face to memory before letting his bangs fall back. “What do you make of all this?” she asked, throwing a look over her shoulder to her partner.

Vegeta was staring down at the body with eery silence. There was a stiffness in his posture, even more than usual, and it hadn’t escaped her notice that he kept a small distance between himself and the victim. She couldn’t see his eyes from behind his shades, but his mouth was set grimly. “Stinks of foul play,” he finally growled and walked off.

“Your new partner seems, um…” Goku trailed off, failing to find something nice to say.

18 had no such reservations. “Like an asshole.”

Bulma watched Vegeta trek back to the parking lot, not sure what to make of him or his blunt attitude. “Yeah, seems that way… But at least he’s an honest one.”

An awkward silence fell over the three. Goku was the first to break it, clearing his throat. “Well I’ll uh, see if anyone’s filed a missing persons report that matches our vic.” He beat a quick retreat and 18 picked up her camera and started taking photos of the scene to avoid making eye contact with Bulma.

There wasn’t much point sticking around so she headed back to her car. Vegeta was already in the passenger’s side seat, chin in his hand, staring off into the distance across the beach. He didn’t look up as she got into the driver’s seat. It was hard to say for certain, having known him only a few hours, but she got the impression something was on his mind.

“No ID, no clues, no witnesses. It’s not looking good for the kid.”

“It was looking worse for him between the hours of 10 and 2 last night,” he replied dryly.

“Yeah.” She gave him a long side-eye, her fingers flexing on the steering wheel. On a hunch, she asked, “That wasn’t your first dead kid, was it?”

He didn’t react, staying quiet so long she wondered if he was going to ignore her entirely. “No.” The word felt unnervingly final.

She left it at that. What more could you say? In their line of work, you saw a lot of fucked up stuff. Turning on the engine, she put the car in drive and took them back towards the station. The wind whipped at Vegeta’s hair through the open window.

~xoXox~

AN: I know next to nothing about forensics or police procedures other than what I’ve picked up from the briefest of google searches and police dramas, which I’m sure are ENTIRELY ACCURATE AND NOT EXAGGERATED AT ALL.

#ladyvegeets #vegebul #lethal combination #vegeta #bulma #lethal weapon au #lethal weapon #buddy cop #buddy cop au #police #detective #detective au #fanfic

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scarletraven1001 · 5 years

Text

Retribution

[Book 1] [Chapter 1]

Summary: Raised in the shadows, Vegeta’s sole purpose in life was to avenge the destruction of his family. The key to his victory laid in the hands of Bulma, the daughter of the enemy, and not even the strange connection he feels with her will keep him from raining his furious retribution upon all who had dared cross his bloodline.

A Vegebul Mafia AU Fic, for the @vegebulocracy Big Bang Challenge, 2018

Story Rating: E

Chapter Warnings: Violence, Swearing

Also on Ao3

All Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8

8-8-8-8-8

Notes: Hello! Welcome to my contribution to the Vegebulocracy (VBO) Big Bang! This has been super fun (though at times rather difficult) to write and I am so excited to share this with all of you today! This story is complete, and I will be posting all chapters until the 24th of December. I would like to thank the incredible, amazing @blacksheep1105 for her help as a Beta for this story, as without her help, this fic would not be anywhere near the story that it is right now! Thank you, girl! And to all of you, please check out Blacksheep's stories! With that, please do let me know what you think, for this first chapter of Retribution: Book 1!

8-8-8-8-8

Chapter 1

8-8-8-8-8

The coffee was fantastic.

He was no connoisseur – far from it, in fact – but he could definitely see that the tiny coffee shop that he had been sitting at for the past hour had the potential to become a big business if it kept making coffee this good.

The aroma of it was exquisite. The taste, liquid gold on his tongue, both soothed and kept him alert at the same time.

And Vegeta Saiyan needed to be alert, for what he was about to do.

He straightened his suit, adjusting his tie and checking his coat as he watched his target stroll leisurely up the street.

She was without a care in the world, her blue hair in a loose ponytail that flowed whimsically down her back. Her brilliant blue eyes shone like the most precious of sapphires, and her full pink lips beckoned like the petals of the rarest blossoms.

Her pale skin, vibrant even in the dying light of the twilight sun, was a clear indication of her wealthy upbringing.

Her family’s wealth… that should have been his.

That carefree manner, and the easy life that had given her all the things her heart had desired… those should have been his.

Resentment bubbled up from the deepest pits of his hardened heart, and he straightened as he watched her take her clueless steps into the comfortable apartment building where she resided.

He seethed, his hands clutching convulsively around his coffee mug, teeth grinding in his rage and excitement.

She was probably not even aware of the fact that she had been part of the conspiracy that had brought about the destruction of his family, the horrendous murders that had taken away everything that he had known and loved.

Oh, but she will know.

If all went well, before the night gives way to the next dawn, he will begin his revenge.

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma sighed as she dropped her purse onto a small table at her apartment’s entryway, cursing slightly as the contents spilled out from its broken zipper.

She really ought to replace that bag.

But she didn’t have the will to, as it was one of the little knick knacks left behind by her mother, Panchy, after she passed away a few years ago.

It had already been rather well-used before Bulma had received it, as Panchy had been very fond of it as well. Bulma had hinted at liking the design, and her mother had promptly gifted it to her the next day.

The yellow leather bag was starting to grow too worn for use, and if Bulma were being honest to herself, the bag really was broken already.

Yet, broken or not, the one thing that she can never let go of, was the small, handwritten note that her mother had scribbled onto the main pocket inside.

Live well and stay beautiful, my baby girl.

Bulma had already lost so many people from her life, that she really didn’t want to start losing their mementos, as well.

She had left her home town of West City behind, as it had given her too many painful memories. To cope with her losses, she had moved to East City, where she began to work as a free contractor for rebuilding houses and infrastructure damaged by a recent earthquake that destroyed most of the downtown city proper. She received only food and transportation allowances, and was more than happy to keep it that way.

It wasn’t that she was generous… Working for next to nothing was her way of atoning for the sins that she knew that her family had been involved in for several generations.

She possessed a brilliant mind, and it did not take much for her to realize that her mother’s family, and now her own father, were involved in the workings of a crime syndicate.

Her father, Dr. Trunks Briefs, was a scientist who had occasionally dabbled in politics, under the stern and watchful influence of the West City Syndicate.

This was another reason why she had left West: To escape the syndicate. It was a convoluted group of corrupt officials and crime lords who had been in and out of the Briefs household since before the moment she had drawn her first breath.

Releasing a wide yawn, Bulma headed for her bedroom, intent on changing out of the denim jeans and simple white shirt that she had worn to work.

She was barely out of the living room when she heard her mobile phone ringing, and it took less than a moment for the ringtone to register in her mind and fire adrenaline through her veins.

It was a unique ringer tone that she had set for a private number that no one but her and her father knew about. He never used it, unless there was an absolute emergency.

She lunged forward, tripping over her own feet in her haste, and immediately answered.

“Hello,” she greeted, breathless from the panic that now surged within her body.

“Bulma!”

He sounded stressed, ragged… he was a little breathless, from what Bulma could tell, and she immediately knew something major had come up.

“Dad? Is everything alright?”

“No, baby,” he said, and Bulma’s hand flew to her chest, trying to still her now erratic heartbeats.

“What happened? Are you ok?” she asked.

“Yes, but you won’t be!” he said urgently. “I need you to get out of your apartment, right now. I have received intel that some people are after you. You need to get out, now!”

Her panic dwindled slightly at the sheer ridiculousness of her father’s claim.

However, his words made her take a glance around the room, her eyes that had been raised in the heart of danger making a quick sweep of her surroundings and quickly noting the locked doors and reinforced windows.

“Dad, that’s impossible,” she said brightly into the receiver, even while her brows furrowed in concern. “This flat isn’t even named after me. I’m not using my real name here!”

“That doesn’t matter! Leave, now!” he yelled, his desperation bleeding into his shouted words. “Go into the woods, whatever. I am sending men to fetch you right now.”

This was not the first time that her father had been so paranoid, and Bulma was skeptical.

“Dad, really, I don’t think-”

Bulma cut herself off with a shrill little scream, when the lights in her room suddenly turned off, plunging her into pitch blackness.

“A power outage?” she thought in confusion.

“Bulma!” her father screamed.

“Dad, I’m fine!” she placated. “The lights just went out all of a sudden. Lemme grab my flashlight-”

“No!” Dr. Briefs yelled. “Don’t! If the lights went out, that means they are there, Bulma! You need to go! Walk in the shadows… draw no attention to yourself. Get out of there, now!”

This time, she believed him, and did not need to be told twice.

“I will call you when I get to safety,” she said, turning off the call.

She grabbed her bag, felt around for her keys and wallet, and she stuffed those and her phone into her pockets before she made a break for the door.

8-8-8-8-8

The phone vibrating in his hand was their signal.

The power had been cut, and it was time to make their move.

Vegeta stood in the lobby of the apartment building, watching the small bit of panic on the patrons’ faces as the lights went down.

They needn’t worry… it was not them that he was coming for.

The public addressed system pinged, and a clear voice rang out to address the residents.

“All residents, please vacate the building,” it called. “We are experiencing technical difficulties in the electrical circuitry. We are now working to restore the power. We advise you to vacate to ensure your safety. ”

The same message was repeated twice more as the small communication link in his ear beeped.

“We’re in, big brother ,” a voice said in his ear, almost cheerful-sounding in spite of the serious nature of events. “Emergency lines are down, as well.”

“Good job, Kakarot,” Vegeta said, his deeper baritone humming into the line. “Lapiz? Are you ready?”

“Of course,” a smooth, calm voice called in. “Piccolo and I are underground. Waiting for your move, Prince.”

“Don’t call me that,” he growled as he began to walk in the opposite direction of all the tenants rushing to leave the building.

A staff member was ushering people out, telling them to vacate due to a short circuit in the building, and Vegeta smirked as he recognized the guy as one of the people he had paid off to help let them into the maintenance rooms.

He smirked as he made his way to a side room, leading into the emergency maintenance stairwell. He calmly climbed the stairs, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he approached the correct floor.

She was still there. He could practically feel her.

A flow of people greeted him as he alighted on the fifth floor, their excited chatter annoying him, the beams from their flashlights blinding him as they flashed across his face while they moved.

Vegeta knew that Briefs would tell her not to use a flashlight. The old man was predictable, that way.

A small movement off to his left alerted him to a slight, dark silhouette trying to make its way through the darkness.

He pulled his night vision glasses out of his coat pocket even though honestly, he didn’t truly need them quite yet.

Even in the pitch-black halls, he would recognize that strangely-colored fall of hair, anywhere.

With a devilish smirk, he begins the chase.

8-8-8-8-8

Trying to navigate the halls in the dark was hell.

She took tiny, measured steps, hands feeling along the walls as she did her hardest to not trip over anything.

It had been easier to move around when she was still among the people who had their lighting implements on, but as she strode further away from the flow, she realized that she may have made a mistake.

She had thought, if people were after her, they would probably try to find her among the sea of people. Nobody would have guessed that she would try to make her way out using the smaller stairwell in the maintenance areas.

“For a genius, I could be really dumb sometimes,” she muttered, feeling a small wave of relief wash over her as her eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

She could make out the faint outline of a door, and knew from the blueprints that she had of the building that this was the main entryway to the maintenance areas.

Slowly, she turned the knob, not making a sound.

She closed the door behind her, taking a deep breath before she leaned back against the wall beside the door.

Bulma looked around, realizing with trepidation that something was… off.

This was the maintenance area. She had expected the maintenance men to be swarming this place, trying to fix the broken circuits so they could restore power to the building.

Why then… was it empty?

Not a sound, not a soul in sight.

Her heart beat harshly within her chest, as she began to suspect that, in her over-thinking her escape, she may have screwed herself, instead.

The soft click of the door behind her, followed by the soft sound of hushed footsteps that like her, remained unguided by light, confirmed her suspicions.

Suppressing a gasp, Bulma tried to find a place to hide, feeling around for any apparatus large enough for her to plaster herself against.

To her horror, the silhouette of the intruder started walking closer.

She took off in a panic, trying her best to run in the pitch black darkness, holding in her panting breaths as she fought to clear her mind, to think…

She was Bulma Briefs, and she refused to acknowledge that she somehow may have been outsmarted by one of her father’s thuggish rivals.

Her keys jingled softly in her pocket, but in the absolute stillness of the dark, the sound seemed as loud as sirens to her terrified ears.

As if hearing her distress, the person chasing her mocked her by stomping once, a little loudly, almost making her shriek.

Her hands groped in the darkness before her, and on impulse, she felt around her pocket, grasping at the tiny charm that held her noisy keys together.

Her lucky charm. An old, round spaceship toy that she had turned into a keychain as a memento of her dearest friend that she had lost when they were just children. For all the years after he had died, having the toy with her made her feel like he was still right there, and with her heart in her throat, she begged the heavens for him to keep her safe once again.

She hoped against hope, that he was still watching over her, right at that moment.

Her footsteps sounded too loud and heavy to her ears, and she was sure that the person chasing her could find her on the sound of her footfalls alone.

She turned a corner, and she let out a loud, desperate gasp when her hands pushed forward…

And found a solid, brick wall.

She was trapped.

The despair went through her just as she felt the thick, large hands grab hold of her shoulders, and she finally let out a scream as she tried to struggle away from her captor.

“Kyaaa!” she yelled “No! Don’t touch me!”

The person let out a snicker, a low, man’s voice that sent terrified shivers up her spine, before he effortlessly pulled her by the waist with a single arm, and with the other hand, she felt him lift a cold metal cylinder to her head.

A gun.

Her screaming subsided with a choke, her hands helplessly flying towards her chest to still the erratic beating of her heart.

“Please,” she whispered, “Don’t shoot.”

She felt him pull her closer, pressing her against an unyielding body, as a chuckle vibrated across his chest that was right against her back.

From what she could tell, he was not too tall, but was made of a thick wall of pure muscle that she, in her frailness, had no hope of getting away from.

She felt the gun leisurely caress her cheek, until it pressed up against the side of her throat, followed by the hot sensation of a gust of his breath against the back of her neck.

“Now, why would I want to go and kill you now, Ms. Briefs?”

His voice, low and throaty, terrified her…

And for some reason, brought a strange twinge of familiarity to twitch at the back of her mind.

“Who are you?” she demanded, trying and almost succeeding at keeping her voice from trembling.

“That does not matter,” he answered. “What is imperative right now, Princess, is that you cooperate with me. And we shall start by walking back the way you came, into your apartment, so we can make a little call.”

She sucked in a breath.

“And if you know what is good for you,” he hissed, “you will not make a sound.”

She pushed at him slightly, before she hissed back.

“Do not call me Princess.”

8-8-8-8-8

Ah, so she still had that fight within her, after all.

“Very well,” Vegeta answered, taking a discrete whiff of her hair as he pulled her more tightly against him.

She smelled glorious.

Even more so than he remembered.

Then again, his memories of her scent were always mixed with the smell of grass, the scent of sweat, sunshine and childish delight.

She was definitely no longer a child, now.

As quickly and gently as he could, he forced her to walk back the way they had come, his small night vision glasses helping him see perfectly in the darkness.

He had to admit, that toying with her, giving her hope that she had even a slim chance of getting away when he could clearly see her struggling to take her tiny steps, was rather enjoyable.

The whole area was still dark as they trudged down the hall leading to her room.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice strong and demanding even in her compromised state. “Are you gonna rob me? Kill me? Rape me?”

He chuckled darkly at that. “Oh believe me, Ms. Briefs… If I were to decide to fuck you, it would not be rape. You would be begging for it.”

She scoffed, pulling a smirk from his lips.

“I highly doubt that, you brute.”

He could see the door. They were almost there.

“Who are you?” she asked again. “Do I know you?”

Amidst her question, he sensed an underlying note of genuine curiosity.

She knew. Or at least, a part of her did.

She had always been too smart, even for him.

“You are in no position to be demanding answers, Ms. Briefs,” he said simply.

He finally pushed his way into her apartment, and found his men waiting for them in the living room.

“Lapiz,” he called out, pulling off his night vision glasses, sticking them into his jacket pocket. “The lights.”

A small halo of light appeared from a single lamp in the middle of the room, giving off a faint illumination that was just enough to see by.

“Piccolo,” he called.

“Yes, boss,” a tall, thin man with a tall nose and a white turban round his head stepped forward, holding the ropes, just as planned.

He felt Bulma gasp against him as Piccolo came forward, quickly tying her hands together, before he knelt down to bind her legs while Vegeta held her steady.

After Piccolo was done tying her up, Vegeta ushered her down onto a chair, patting her pockets, and pulling out her phone, wallet, and keys.

It was as he was placing her things down onto a table to leave them behind that the small trinket dangling from her keys, hanging beside a tiny flash drive, caught his eye.

He paused, lifting it closer to his face, disbelieving…

The small, white toy, a miniature alien spacepod from a silly television show he had watched as a kid, cheerfully taunted him, causing him to gasp inaudibly.

He turned it over, and saw exactly what he had hoped, or perhaps dreaded, staring back at him.

A tiny “V”, carved onto the back of the toy.

A marker, carved onto the trinket with a small kitchen knife.

He glanced surreptitiously at the woman who was glaring at his men.

She had kept it.

All those years…

Vegeta cleared his throat, steeling himself.

It was not the time for sentimentality.

However, unable to help himself, he found himself surreptitiously putting the woman’s keys into his own pocket instead of leaving them behind.

Before him, Lapiz was already setting up the small netbook, loading up the video call that would connect them to the man who had helped destroy his family.

The cheerful sound made by the application was like an alarm, fully pulling him into the moment, reminding him of his long overdue revenge.

He cracked his knuckles, situating himself behind Bulma’s chair, both of them directly in front of the small computer that was currently placing a video call request to none other than Dr. Trunks Briefs.

Lapiz took his position behind the computer, his short black hair falling primly behind his ears as he aimed a gun at the woman, just as Vegeta had instructed.

Vegeta was trembling from his excitement, but he reined it back, forcing on a placid expression as the face of the man finally appeared on the screen.

“Hello?” the older man called into the screen.

“Dad!” Bulma called, on cue.

Vegeta’s smirk widened.

“Bulma? Bulma, it’s dark. Did you make it out?”

“Dad-”

“No, Dr. Briefs. She did not make it out,” Vegeta finally called out, and he watched in glee as the scientist’s eyes widened, first in fear, and then, in horrified recognition.

“You…?” he choked out. “The Dark Prince…”

He almost sneered at the tile.

Oh, how he hated it.

At the moment though, he relished in the terrified reverence that he heard in Briefs’ voice as he stared in petrified horror at him through the computer screen.

“Yes, me. Surprised, doctor?” he taunted, placing a hand on Bulma’s shoulder for show.

“My daughter! Please, don’t hurt my daughter-”

“Does she look to be in pain, doctor?” he asked. “She will remain unscathed, if you tell me exactly what I need to know.”

8-8-8-8-8

Bulma blanched as she saw her father’s eyes widen on the screen.

He had been looking at her, but then his eyes became riveted on her abductor, standing guard right behind her.

“I knew it,” she thought to herself. “Something about him is familiar. My father knows him…”

The man behind her began talking again, and Bulma strained her mind, trying in vain to think of where, where and when, she had heard that voice before.

It was not entirely familiar… like an echo of a long-forgotten memory that had been distorted by time, but she had known from the start, from the very first time that he had spoken to her, that she knew that voice…

“I will ask you, only once, Briefs,” he snarled. “Where is the third?”

Her father looked shell-shocked. “The third… you have found the second?”

“As I have said to your daughter… you are in no position to be demanding answers from me,” the man bit out. “Answer my question, Briefs.”

Bulma watched her father through the camera…

He was tight-lipped, his eyes wide in terror and agony… and she realized with a sinking feeling that she knew that look.

It was the face he made whenever he had to keep a terrible secret from her and her mother… his face whenever he knew that the syndicate’s business was far more important than anything he had on his plate.

At once, she came to the startling realization that whatever it was that her kidnapper was asking about, her father knew exactly what the answer was.

And yet, even with her sitting there in mortal danger, he would not talk.

She was absolutely sure.

The horrifying thought raged inside her head, and she understood that whatever it was, was bigger, more important, than her.

She began to despair as she watched the emotions run amok on her father’s face.

She closed her eyes as she heard her father speak the words that would spell her doom.

“I am sorry, young man. I do not know,” he answered, and she heard his plea through his softly-whispered words.

I am sorry, Bulma.

She shook her head in disbelief.

Her father had just sold her out… to keep a secret for the syndicate.

“Tch,” the man behind her spat. “Yes you do, Briefs. I am rather disappointed that you would allow your own daughter to die for a secret that we can unfold soon, anyway. I had just been hoping that you could make the search easier.”

Bulma felt his hold on her shoulders tighten, and she peeked, seeing the thin, severe-looking man behind the netbook still pointing his gun at her in warning.

“I know you do not think much of your existence, Briefs,” the man said, “but let me see how well you hold out when I have your daughter with me.”

With that, he gave her shoulder a sharp, painful squeeze.

“Aah!” she cried out, trying to hold back tears at the unwelcome sensation.

“Bulma!” Dr. Briefs cried.

“You had your chance, Briefs!” he said again. “And if you value your daughter’s life, even a little… make sure that the details of this little chat never reaches Frieza.”

“What do you plan to do with Bulma?” Dr. Briefs asked.

The man simply walked away from her, and with a menacing smirk, answered:

“We will be in touch.”

He then reached down, and disconnected the call.

He turned to the other two, who simply nodded and began packing up their computer and lights, as he approached her again, and before the lights went out, she finally caught a decent glimpse of the man who had been holding her captive.

Bulma’s breath caught in her throat as the sense of recognition began to relentless nag at her mind.

Her eyes took in the broad shoulders that made up for a rather compact stature, his hair a dark, controlled flame above his head. His large hands lifted to conceal his eyes behind what seemed like a set of high-tech night vision lenses.

She shook in denial. It couldn’t possibly be…

His eyes… she needed to see his eyes.

She didn’t even fight him when he untied her legs, then forcefully pulled her up with him, a gun to her side as he made her walk briskly beside him and his men.

It seemed like a small eternity, but soon, she felt the breeze of the cold autumn night on her cheeks, and she had barely realized that she was out of the building before she felt herself being pushed into a sleek, black car.

The man followed immediately behind her.

“Drive,” he growled, and a blond seated at the driver’s seat nodded, speeding them off into the night.

Bulma looked around, noting another dark car following closely behind them, and she took a deep breath, gathering her will before she turned to face her abductor.

Now, in the sparse lights of the few streetlamps littering what looked to be a back street, she gazed at his face, turned sharply towards her while his gun remained trained on her.

“Please,” she tried to reason with him again. “Why are you doing this? My father already told you that he doesn’t know anything.”

He smirked, an eerily familiar expression that made her chest constrict.

She needed to see his eyes!

“Come now, woman. Did you honestly believe that he was being truthful?” he asked, and Bulma viciously pushed her tears back, as desperation filled her.

She tried to discreetly move her hands, hoping to loosen the binds.

“I would not attempt to escape if I were you, Bulma.”

She stilled.

It can’t be…

She looked at him again, her heart hammering in her chest…

The way he said her name… it was unmistakable.

A slightly teasing cadence, the “u” sound deeper and a little longer than necessary.

There was only one person who had ever spoken her name that way…

“My name… why did you say my name that way?” she whispered.

He pointedly looked away.

Bulma felt her lower lip tremble. “Please… may I… will you let me see your eyes?”

He glanced at her, and with a hesitant sigh, lifted his free hand, and pulled off his dark glasses.

Her very breath stopped, and she stared.

Those eyes… narrowed, slanted, with thick brows… the darkest eyes she had ever seen.

The sight of those eyes transported her mind back to her youth, to happier times, before all the complications began, and she finally felt the tears fall unbidden down her cheeks.

She would know those eyes anywhere.

Bulma choked, her emotions too much, running too high…

It should not have been possible. But she couldn’t possibly be wrong…

“Ve… Vegeta?”

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and that miniscule affirmation was all that it took to make her tears fall harder.

“Oh God… you’re alive?”

8-8-8-8-8

To be continued…

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mz-hide · 5 years

Text

Trick Of Might - Chapter 3

Aka: a Dragon Ball Z slash fic.

Chapter 3

The Prince takes a walk down memory lane and Turles has to put some pants on.

Summary: An ancient enemy makes a sudden comeback into Goku’s life. Long-suppressed memories surface again and it’s no longer possible for the young saiyan to ignore them. Warnings: Dubious Consent, (because of drug use) Ships & Pairings: Bulma/Vegeta, Goku/Vegeta, Goku/Turles, Goku/Turles/Vegeta, Turles/Vegeta, Raditz/Turles, Nappa/Turles, Nappa/Raditz/Turles Contains: Threesome - M/M/M, Group Sex, Polyamory, Aphrodisiacs, Secret Crush, Confessions, Enemies to Lovers, Love Triangles, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Gay Sex, Biting, Scratching, Boners All Around, Feral Behavior, (just a tiny bit), Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content

You can find the rest on my AO3 page (username: originalmonkeyhydes)

The closer he got, the sharper the saccharine smell of flowers became. The young saiyan grimaced, uselessly trying not to be affected by the increasingly suffocating atmosphere. He landed on a sturdy root, keeping a safe distance between himself and the source of that scent, raising an arm to his face to shield his nose. Now he truly started to regret his decision of sticking around to investigate. Not that the scent was unpleasant. In fact, it wasn’t. The more he focused on how little unpleasant it was, the more he felt dizzy. It was definitely counterproductive. He had to focus on making sure his suspicions were groundless and he had to be done with it quickly. He moved from a root to the other, pricking up his ears. It was hard not to be vigilant when all around him he heard the creaking of growing wood and the rustle of hot vapor moving the fragrant foliage. That place was starting to enervate him, yet he did not cave in. His resolution and his power of will were steadfast. He had the firm intention of seeing the end of that story. Finally, after a while, his efforts were rewarded, though not in the way he would have hoped. After flying all around the trunk without finding anything, he had been on the point of giving up when a glimmer on the ground caught his attention. He turned his head towards it and saw it. “Oh no…”, he murmured, closing in quickly to verify that his eyes had not betrayed him. In front of him, half-hidden between roots and fallen leaves, was a large, metallic orb. It looked darkened by smoke and quite damaged but still unmistakable. It was a ship. “It can’t be…” “Oh, but it is.” The young warrior turned around, jumping backwards, instinctively dodging the attack that crashed on the ground exactly where he’d stood less than a second before. He raised his eyes. Upwards, between the branches, he caught sight of a dark shadow, nonchalantly leaning against the tree trunk and eying him with apparent indifference. Goku didn’t need to look twice to know who he was dealing with. “Turles!”, he exclaimed, incredulous. The renegade’s face was hidden by the shadows, but the warrior still caught the glimmer of his fangs, bared into a smug grin. “In the flesh.” Turles’ face was made visible by the light of a second attack aimed at him. This time Goku didn’t bother dodging. He merely deviated it with an arm, sending it to crash away. He ignored the smashing sound of broken wood, keeping his eyes fixed on the other warrior, without moving a muscle. The renegade appeared bored, following his failed attack with his eyes. “You don’t seem glad to see me, Kakarot. Is this the way to greet an old friend?” “My name is Goku”, he rebuked, “And you are not my friend.” “Oh, such hostility… unjustified hostility, I might add.” “In what way would it be unjustified?” “If my memory doesn’t fail me, you weren’t the one to survive death by a mere thread the last time, when the Tree of Might exploded. I was. And I would have happily down without that experience.” “Speaking of which… I was sure you had died that time. How did you make it out alive?” “Please! I’m a saiyan. It would have been ridiculous for me to die for so little, don’t you think?” With those words, he stepped forward, jumping down from the branch, shooting a rapid sequence of attacks at him. The young warrior easily avoided them once more, even the blow that came from behind him, despite his vision being compromised by the dust and debris the aggression had caused to pollute the air. The kick aimed at his head was intercepted by his wrist, the knee surging towards his stomach by the palm of his other hand. The dark saiyan urged him further, giving him no time to think and forcing him to jump backwards. Goku saw an opening and retaliated. He felt his knuckles hit the mark, hard. But his opponent didn’t seem to relent. With ever blow he took, he had twice more in store. “I have to admit, you’re quite tough. I’m not surprised I couldn’t manage to kill you the last time”, said the youth, impressed by the tenacity the renegade was showing. It was then that his opponent managed to land a kick. Goku flew backwards, landing at a distance, escaping the devastating trajectory of the blows that followed. “And I must give you credit for trying, Kakarot. You almost managed. Though, I can’t say I escaped uninjured…” When Goku raised his eyes. The dust had dissipated and he could finally see the other clearly. He couldn’t help but flinch at the sight. The face he’d seen in his dream just a few hours before was staring back at him, but It was different from what he recalled. The flicker of malice in his obsidian eyes had stayed the same, just as the cocky curve of the smirk that bent those lush, brown lips with the same confidence he remembered. Turles grinned, as if unaware of the long, pale scar that crossed his cheekbone and split the corner his lip. Another one ran along the side of his neck and downwards, disappearing below his clothes. Yet, not even that disfigurement had been able to spoil the might and pride that shined through his features. In spite of himself, Goku had to admit to himself that the scar did nothing but enhance his charm. “At a loss for words, Kakarot?”, Turles teased, hinting at his scarring. “Admiring your handiwork? Or maybe you’re thinking of a good way to apologize to me for it.” The dark saiyan had noticed the intensity of his gaze, Goku could see it in his face. The thought that the renegade could figure out what had crossed his mind irritated him. “Why should I? You should be the one to apologize for having threatened my planet and my son.” “You just can’t let that old story go, can you?” “I’ve already told you, the Earth is my home and I won’t let anyone who’s threatened my home and my family have a lucky escape.” “Is it war that you want, then?” “You and I might not share the same values but I’m still a saiyan too, remember?”, Goku replied, his body shifting into a defense stance. “If it’s a challenge you offer me, I’m certainly not to the type to back down, Turles.” A dangerous smile curved the youth’s lips, a perfect replica of the one on his opponent’s face. “Now you speak my language…” Turles crouched slowly, lowering his centre of gravity, ready to attack at any second. His eyes were steadily fixed on Goku’s, intense and magnetic. “Come on now, let me see what you’re made of!” With a scream, the two of them hurled themselves at one another, eyes flashing and fangs bared in an expression of pure, primordial joy.

“Isn’t it too late for the runt to be out of bed?”

Thus Vegeta introduced himself, interrupting the agitated chattering between his lover and Kakarot’s son, who’d just landed in their yard. “I would’ve thought his nanny to be more diligent.”

Piccolo shot him a dirty look. Saying that the namekian had little affection for the prince was a gross simplification. Though, at least, the sentiment was reciprocated.

“Oh wow, listen to him now, being all paternal all of a sudden!”, his lover taunted him harshly, before turning her attention to the kid once more. “Just ignore him Gohan. He’s just acting cranky ‘cause he has to lend his plaything. If he behaves nicely now, he can have a new one. Now let’s go, come give me a hand, I have to set the coordinates in the computer. We’ll find your father.”

The youth shoot the older saiyan a hesitant look before following the scientist inside the ship.

“What did the idiot get himself into this time?”, Vegeta asked before the namekian could join the others. There was no need to specify which idiot. “I didn’t think you cared so much about what Goku does. What happened, are you truly jealous of your plaything that much?” “Don’t push it. The woman can afford a little sass with me but I assure you, you can’t earn my patience in the same way she does, so watch your tongue.” Vegeta usually was reserved about his private life, but the expression of slight disgust on the other’s face was worth an exception. “Now talk. What happened to Kakarot?” The namekian glared at him in silence for a moment before replying. “We don’t know yet. Kami suspects he might have gone to investigate an unusual occurrence on a small planet nearby. An odd energy appeared out of the blue a couple days ago. Initially, Goku didn’t seem too interested in finding out more about it. He seemed sure it was nothing worth worrying about. But now he’s gone without saying a word to anyone. Gohan saw him go out in the middle of the night. We’re all of the idea he might indeed have gone on his own to investigate.” “That’s it? That idiot can use instant-transmission, right? You’re worrying over nothing. As much as it pains me to say this, Kakarot is saiyan enough to fend for himself. Whatever might lurk on that planet has no chance.” “It’s been hours since he left. I’d say there is something lurking up there. And if there’s something keeping Goku when the Cell Games are drawing nearer, it’s a problem for everyone.” The Prince flinched. The fact that everyone on Earth seemed to assume Goku alone would have been able to defeat Cell irritated him. What was worse was that he’d started to believe that too and hated himself for it. “Cut to the chase, namekian. What could be worse than Cell right now? Is the thought of him finding something up there entertaining enough for him so bothersome to you?” “I could ask you the same question. Are you afraid Goku might find someone else to give a lesson to? Are you jealous?” “Keep this attitude up and the lesson Kakarot gave you will pale in comparison to what I have I store for you, namekian.” The green warrior shot him another dirty look, but the prince wasn’t the type to feel intimidated by so little. “Now explain yourself. You said 'someone else.'” “To tell the truth, my worry is that he might find something. Something we’ve already seen some time ago. It’s a tree able to drain a planet of its energy, killing every life form in its wake. The last time, Goku had to use the Genki dama to get rid of it. This time, however, we fear the same kind of tree might have taken roots on a neighboring planet, a very small and uninhabited one. If things turned for the worse, I don’t think he’ll be able to save the situation in the same way. There’s no lifeforms to borrow energy from for him up there. That’s why we think he might need help.” “It’s better if you two don’t go up there.” “Excuse me?” “You heard me. I don’t think those unnecessarily large ears are there just for show. You and the boy would do better to stay here. I’m going to retrieve your precious Kakarot alone.” With those words, he moved to turn away from the other, but the namekian immediately moved to block his way. “Why do you care so much to go up there personally? You’re always acting hard to get when it comes to help someone, why bothering dirtying your hands now?” “Fool”, Vegeta hissed, “You have no idea what’s waiting for you up there.” “I think we do”, Piccolo rebuked, grimly. “We know about the Tree of Might and we know the effect those fruits have on inconsiderate opportunists such as yourself. You are the fool here, if you think we’d let you go up there and pluck the fruits for yourself.” “Tell me, was it a saiyan that gave you a taste of their power the last time?”, the prince inquired, sharply. Piccolo gritted his teeth. “What happened to Turles? Is he still alive?” “If Goku learned anything from the mistake that was sparing you, then no”, the namekian growled, “If by any chance he is, though, I plan to take care of him personally.” “Ah! You?”, Vegeta mocked him, “If you truly knew the power of those fruits, you wouldn’t indulge yourself in such ridiculous boasting.” “I know enough. I know that something like that must never fall in the hands of the likes of you.” “Spare me! I’ve grown strong beyond the need for cheap trickery. Besides, I’m an elite, the prince of all saiyans. I would never humiliate myself by resorting to such vulgar means of obtaining a fleeting boost of power. I know the effect of those fruits very well, namekian. If it can put our fears to rest, know that you won’t find fruits on this tree in particular. I know that for sure.” That seemed to startle the warrior. Vegeta moved him out of his way, seemingly unbothered. “Trust me, you and the runt have no idea what you’re dealing with”, he warned him. “If you care about his wellbeing, it’s better if you don’t let him go look for his father.” Piccolo was stunned. He’d never trusted the saiyan but he knew by his tone that he wasn’t lying, nor threatening. As much as it irritated him, it was clear that the warrior knew more than him in this regard. He feared what might have been the part he himself was unaware of. “Mr. Piccolo, it’s done! Bulma set the course, we can go!”, Gohan called out to him, jumping out of the vehicle, shooting a confused look at Vegeta, when he walked past him. “Not so fast, Gohan!”, huffed Bulma, exiting behind him and crouching at the feet of the ship, rummaging about. “I have to detach the ballast first. You know, since the little prince here has the bad habit of blasting off into space without telling anyone, we had to anchor it to the ground. This way he doesn’t make it fall on the side when he trains a bit too hard.” “Please, be quick, we have to go help my dad!” The youth’s eyes shone with a light that was familiar to all of them. Piccolo and Vegeta exchanged a long, meaningful look. They both knew what had to be done. The namekian gritted his teeth, lowering his eyes. He wasn’t the type to be pleased with himself about being the one doing the hard, right thing. It sickened him almost as much as it did heeding Vegeta’s words. He couldn’t believe the arrogant prince had been able to convince him. “Forgive me, Gohan”, he murmured under his breath, hitting the kid at the back of his head with a sharp gesture. Gohan didn’t have the time to register the motion and fell limp into the arms of his teacher. “What has gotten into you?!”, Bulma shrieked, turning around and being the young half-saiyan unconscious, “I just finished with the ship, it’s good to go!” “Perfect”, remarked Vegeta, heading for the door fo the vehicle. “Where do you think you’re going, mister?”, the scientist called out to him, shaking with indignation, “Are you planning on abandoning your child a second time?” “Calm yourself, woman, I’ll be back soon.” “Goku better be with you when you do, if you care for your life”, the namekian warned him, a piercing look in his eyes. “His safety might not interest you, but if something happens to him, no one will be able to safeguard yours. Maybe I’m not a threat to you anymore, but I think we both know what Gohan will be capable of if something happens to his father.” “Tsk. Your threats don’t impress me, namekian”, Vegeta replied, shooting him one last glance once he reached the end of the stairs to the ship door. “Fear not, I’ll get your precious Kakarot back safe and sound. The day you can claim his kid as your own has not come yet.” The fiery indignation in Piccolo’s eyes was the last thing he saw before the door closed.

In the meantime, the Earth-raised saiyan had put his opponent to the spot. The fight had gotten closer in range. The heat of battle had pushed the renegade to retreat. Despite his ferocity was just as fiery as his opponent’s - if not more -, nothing he had to give seemed to be enough to overpower him. Turles was starting to get frustrated. He didn’t remember his opponent to be so strong. Kakarot had beaten him the last time, but the outcome of their fight had been a stroke of luck more than anything else. Before the warrior had found the strength to conjure up the devastating blow that had almost costed Trurles his life, the pirate had almost beaten him within an inch of his life. The dark saiyan could have sworn he’d really had the upper hand the last time, the youth hadn’t been holding back. When and how did he get this much stronger? The beating I’ve given him couldn’t have been worse then the damage he did to me… And I've grown monstruosly stronger than I was that time! What has happened to him since the last time we fought? He feels like an entire different person… Suddenly, a kick disrupted his thoughts, sending him flying and slamming him against the tree trunk. The impact took his breath away. “I have to hand it to you, Kakarot, you’re really putting up quite a fight this time…”, he chuckled, once he regained his voice. “You’re much stronger than you were the last time we fought, I can see that now. It’s a pity. I would have rather offered you a rematch worthy of its name as a show of gratitude for having held back on the death blow the last time.” “It’s weird to hear you speak of gratitude. I had the distinct impression you’d tried to kill me first before I attempted to do the same.” “I can’t deny that. Just as I can’t denied giving you a choice.” The shift in Turles’ gaze made him tense. He knew exactly what he was referring to. “Am I wrong?” “How do you think I could have accepted such a proposition, after you tried to harm my friends and my planet? I couldn’t have trusted someone like you to tell the truth! You left me no choice but to take you down.” “O, Kakarot…”, Turles shook his head, snickering, “You would have made a great saiyan if you hadn’t grown up among those Earthlings.” “What do you mean?”, the younger warrior asked him, quirking an eyebrow. Goku wasn’t sure he appreciated the way the darker saiyan’s eyes were looking him over. “I never thought I would have had to explain something so obvious so someone of my own kind. But I guess you really don’t know any better, don’t you Kakarot?”, he chuckled, shooting his opponent a look that was halfway between condescension and a kind of tenderness Goku wouldn’t have expected someone like Turles To be capable of. “What could so obvious that you’d feel the need to explain it to me? Are you trying to tell me that you trying to kill me is somehow coherent with your wish to show me gratitude?” “It’s not just about gratitude. I wan’t to show you my appreciation, Kakarot. You’re a saiyan, you should get it too. We’re a race of warriors. Loathing weakness is part of our nature as much as admiring strength and yearning for a path to glory. There is no greater form of respect than a saiyan acknowledging the power of one of his fellows, even when defeating him is a matter of life and death. No warrior could regret finding his death to the hands of an opponent to whom he’d be willing to give his life for. Class, sex, origin, rank, don’t matter; it is in our nature to try to partake in greatness, no matter how, as winners or as losers. Though, a saiyan’s greatest dream is to find someone strong enough to perfectly match his own strength. The greatest honor is to be that perfect someone to a warrior, in comparison to whom any other would pale.” The renegade laid his eyes on his opponent’s face, observing his expression slowly change as comprehension dawned on him.

“Even warriors like us, born to rule and conquer, would lend their hand towards a rival worthy of its name. Not in surrender, not in fear or cowardice, but to honor a fighter one can only be lucky enough to meet once in a lifetime. Is it so incomprehensible that I have lent you my hand the first time we met, Kakarot? If only you’d been raised among your own people, then you’d know what it means to find that someone.” Goku was speechless, his eyes wide open with disbelief, as a deep awareness started emerging from obscure recesses of his conscience. What Turles was telling him was more than believable, more than comprehensible; it was something that ignited sparks of recognition into the very core of his being, a sense of intimate understanding he could hardly fathom. Finally he realized why the other’s words were giving him that weird sensation of familiarity; it was because he already knew exactly what the renegade was talking about. He had already found that someone, because that someone had found his way to him a long time ago. Vegeta… “Having said this, my only regret is having underestimated you, Kakarot. You’re much stronger than I thought you’d be. I wanted our rematch to be fair game… but I would’ve been happy if the imbalance had been in my favor. I’d love to get you back for the scar you gave me.” “That’s what you get for threatening my home.”

“Yeah, that was a mistake I would’ve rather done without. And I have avoided repeating it, this time. Look where we are, so far out in space your Sun’s light can barely reach us. Look at this tree. It didn’t produce any fruit and it never will. I’m not a threat to your precious planet. Yet, you’re still so inflexible, even after everything I told you…” Turles chucked under his breath. He looked bitter, though it was hard to tell if that was really the case. A sinister grin still bend his lips and made the younger warrior quite uncomfortable. “I opened my heart to you, Kakarot, is that still not enough for you?” “Enough for what?” “Enough for you to give a second chance”, the other replied without a hesitation, fixing his obsidian eyes on the warrior’s once more. “I understand now that it won’t be easy for me to fight you in these conditions. If I could find a suitable planet to plant the Tree of Might and eat its fruit, than maybe I could hope to give you a better fight. And maybe I could change your mind about my old proposition and make you join me. Think about it, Kakarot. Think of the places we could conquer, of the opponents we’d meet on our path, think of the battle and glory that awaits. If we joined forces, no one couldstand in our way. We could rule the galaxy, just the two of us.”

“I know the price of that tree of yours and I don’t intend to pay it with the lives of entire planets and their innocent inhabitants. If you think you can convince me to become an accomplice to your evil plans then you don’t know me at all, Turles.”

“I knew you’d say that.” The younger saiyan saw a dark flicker in the renegade’s eyes and a victorious smile growing on his lips, but he understood what it all meant too late. Turles joined his hands and struck the tree trunk with all his might. The branches shook violently above the warrior’s head. Goku didn’t move in time to avoid the crimson gush of dense liquid that rained on him from hundred of red flowers swaying above his head. He slipped and fell to the ground. He tried to get back up to his feet but he found it impossible to do so, with the pool of slick, slippery liquid spreading around him. The scent was so intense he felt he couldn’t breathe. He panted, falling prey to a sudden vertigo. “Forgive me, Kakarot. I would not be able to live with myself without trying to convince you in any way I can. Even if it means playing dirty.” He lifted his eyes and saw the darker saiyan walking towards him. The renegade crouched at his side, seemingly unaffected by the saccharine miasma wafting off the thick sap. “Struggling is futile, you’re already absorbing it through your skin. For now, just focus on breathing. It won’t kill you, I can assure you.” Goku glared at him. Turles ignored it and brought a hand to the warrior’s face. He brushed the sap away from Goku’s eyelids with his thumb before bringing the digit to is mouth and sucking it off, looking pleased. “Quite pungent, isn’t it? It took me a while to get used to It too. I image it might be a little too much for you just now. Don’t worry. You’ll start feeling much better before long.” With those words, the renegade bent down and kissed him, pressing their lips together. Goku was dumbfounded. As much as he wished to bite Trulls’ lips off he found himself disclosing his instead, allowing his tongue to reach his own, tasting the sickly sweetness of that sap. That was his end. “I’ll see to that personally…” Those were the last words he heard before slipping into unconsciousness.

#dbz #kakavege #dbz fan fiction #my fics #Trick Of Might

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janeaubourg · 5 years

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Dust, pt. 2 (& Midnight Sun, pt. 7)

[image description: a sketch of a graphic score with leaf shapes, lines and boxes. Around the edges of the frame are pens, pencil, a ruler, my zoom recorder, my notebook from Iceland, and my violin.]

Two of the new pieces being played at Upstairs @ The Glebe: Dust are picking up threads from my Iceland trip last year. I’m enjoying the chance to get them to a stage where we can play with them. Really pulling on the term “play” here to not just mean play the notes, but extend it to playing around with the ideas, ruminating on them for a while, sounding them out, seeing how they feel.

The act of scoring something is such an interesting process of asking yourself very specific questions you didn’t realise you’d need to be able to answer. Even when there’s an open/flexible element to the piece, there’s still a lot to be specific about. You need to be able to convey the concept of the whole piece and also provide detail for the performers to work with.

Releasing myself from the idea that everything in this performance needs to be finished and polished allows me to actually play with ideas; to mould them in a way that lets each step show me the next one, while also knowing that steps can be retraced and other paths explored.

I am finding the joy in this process and a satisfaction in working on it that I don’t think I’ve had before.

One of these pieces is based on the Icelandic flora that we found on our first adventure as the Midnight Sun group. We stopped on a hillside to investigate the thúfur (hummocks) and admire the tiny flowers, berries, mosses and mushrooms growing on them. We had to tread carefully, as their roots did not grow deep and they do not grow or recover quickly.

[image description: Icelandic thúfur covered in very low vegetation. In the distance, the Midnight Sun crew exploring the hillside.]

I wrote some sketches on the hill, pulling on the idea of tiny, but hardy, sounds gathering together on small, low mounds. Interestingly, I would later see a really similar idea in Jacob’s panel of the collaborative score I made with the group!

[image description: The top part shows Jacob’s panel in the collaborative score, dots grouped together like the plants on the hill. the bottom part is a page from my notebook with a similar grouping of dots, but on lines. the handwritten notes around them say “find small sounds for each of the plants we found ... small sounds from the violin, minute ... minute detail, vast expanses ... changing from experiencing the detail of each mound to the overarching expanse of the landscape”]

Fleshed out a little more, I wanted to draw on performers knowledge and exploration of their own instruments to generate sounds that would represent this tiny flora. Each performer has 3 sounds they will play. The score has cells (repeated phrases) that have swells on these sounds. As they move through the score, some of these sounds move off centre from the others, then back together again. A simple idea that I hope will prompt some interesting combinations to come out.

[image description: 3 close up photos of the tiny plants we found.]

The second piece is called The Walking Song and I wrote it while I was walking to Akureyri Airport to meet Jarrah when he flew in from Scotland. It was a really lovely walk along the waters edge. I was thinking at the time about a simple song that could be used as a sort of meditative focus. I wanted it to be complicated enough that I had to keep my focus on it, but simple enough that I could sink into the enjoyment of singing it (trying to hit that sweet spot of flow). I have an idea in my head of eventually recording a version as an homage to Gavin Bryars’ Jesus Blood Never Failed Me Yet, but I really wanted the chance to play with it a bit first, particularly with others singing with me.

The rehearsal last night went really well. For the Icelandic flora piece (which I’m tentatively giving the name Thúfur) Naomi brought her piccolo and Liz used her accordion, but might bring a smaller accordion to the performance. They were both wonderful at jumping in and making it happen. Also good at giving a bit of feedback on the score! There were also a few things I think I might adjust to make it read better. It was a quicker run though of the Walking Song, but I’m feeling like its happening in the direction I want it to.

We also rehearsed an adaption of some ideas that I used in the Town Hall Laneway installation last year - specifically the chords that echoed the Town Hall Organ’s first performance. You can read about the research process here, but the short version is that I quote 2 chords from David Hollier’s piece Improvisations on Veni Immanuel, which he premiered on the organ. These two chords emerge out of an imitation of the air conditioner sound in the laneway. I wanted to follow a similar idea with this piece. The 2 chords start off with a bell-like tone, moving to an airy tone, then getting more distorted as the organ struggles to be heard over the air conditioner (that will in this version be part of the backing track). It might not be a literal sample of an air conditioner, but I may draw on some samples of my bathroom fan that is nearing the end of its life and throwing out some truly great sounds at the moment.

I recorded the rehearsal, which was really useful for being able to reflect on the pieces while I’m not also playing. It is also a great help to me for the construction of the backing track - it gives me an idea of timing and how things might sit under it.

Dust: Part 1

Midnight Sun : Part 1 | Previous Post (Part 6)

#midnight sun art camp #midnight sun album #upstairs: dust #my music #creative process #show your work

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paperdahlia · 5 years

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Answer 21, Tag 21

I love these but it always takes me 6 years to actually get to them lmao

tagged by @sunflowercecil 😩💦💦💕

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~1. Nicknames: G, gene bean, dahlia, rocket

2. Zodiac sign: Taurus, v close to Gemini

3. Height: barely 5’4”

4. Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw through and through but I also have a lot of Slytherin characteristics

5. Last thing I googled: a thousand miles hood remix

6. Favorite Musicians: Jon Bellion!!!!!!, Lauv, Troye Sivan, ODESZA, Oh Wonder, AJR, Enrique Iglesias, Walk the Moon, Zedd,,,,, god there are more but I’m too lazy to scroll through my Spotify

7. Song stuck in my head: got my hÖrseś in the bÂck

8. Following now: 684 lmao, need to Clean

9. Followers: *sobs* 141!! I love you guys wtf

10. Do I get asks: not often, but when I do it takes me 73 years to respond. I still have a couple ask from a drawing meme I posted on Valentine’s that I’ll get to eventually,,,,,,,,, I love asks tho, humor me

11. Amount of sleep: 2 hours at the least, almost 24 at the most lol

12. Lucky number: 17!

13. What I’m wearing: booty shorts and a blue tie dye tank top

14. Dream job: okay hhhh so I’m a huge science nerd, I’m a biology major so I’ve been seriously considering either a. A medical profession, like maybe surgery, b. Going to space, hopefully Mars (this is a surprisingly attainable thing for me to work for???), or c. Something w marine biology bc I’m a SLUT for water and I’m hoping I’d be able to put my scuba experience to work!!

15. Dream trip: I reeeeeeaaaaaally want to go take a huge trip around Europe!! I want to go back to London, and I want to visit Italy, Rome, Greece, all of that area and just hhhhh I love Europe thanks

16. Favorite food: uh okay I have a tiny stomach but BINCH I just love food??? Couple faves are soup, spam musubi, popcorn, and rice with literally anything. solty

17. Instruments: I play flute, piccolo, piano, harp, ukulele, French horn (not well tho), and I sing well !!

18. Languages: English and sometimes Spanish, but I’m doing p well at Greek and Japanese rn (duolingo don’t hurt me)

19. Favorite song: it’s changing all the time but rn it’s either Marvel at the Stars by Art of Verse, i’m so tired... by Lauv and Troye Sivan or 80’s Films by Jon Bellion

20. Random fact: I absolutely LIVE for dancing. although it has nothing to do with what I’m pursuing in life I have so much passion for it- a few of my favorite types are Latin ballroom dancing, pointe ballet, tap and figure skating ✌️

21. Aesthetic: took me 5ever to put this together but I love it I think it’s so cute

(I ADORE making aesthetics, if u want one for yourself, ur apprentice, an OC, or even a character send me an ask!!! I have nothing to do this week!!)

I’m tagging all of my followers!!! If u wanna do this go ahead, and tag me so I can see it!! I wanna get to know y’all better 💜

#personal #tag game #about me!!

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groundbreaking-science · 6 years

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2.4 Foci

Warning! The following section contains exercises that, if deviated from, could cause broken teeth and blindness. The reader proceeds at their own risk.

Prerequisite reading and exercises: 1.4 (on centring, posture and breath), 2.1 (autoception), 2.3 (Splitting pools of ki)

As a general rule, ki techniques need at least one focus. Focuses are anchors; they both root ki in absolute or relative space and act as a jumping-off point from where a ki-user can work complicated techniques without the need to draw genki moment to moment. From the simple point of a ki-ball’s centre or the abstract entirety of a weapon, to two points in space separated by unfathomable distances - learning the fundamentals of creating a focus forms the basis of this next section.

As I’m sure you’re already finding, staying on top of all the elements of ki manipulation can be somewhat daunting. Upsetting the natural flow of genki may have been a difficult enough, so how can anyone fly or even glow ki in their hand when continually drawing from the centre? Even my experienced brain would fry. But there is a way to bypass the immense effort required, and that is by using a focus.

The focus of a ki technique is, in some respects, mimicking your centre, a kind of stop-gap for ki during your technique replication. That natural overdensity in the upper chest, the pool, created at first by a restriction of breath that we split and moved? The centre point of those two pools were foci for our ki.

More than just an anchor, a focus then is an object or point of attention close to or within the intended technique that can gather ki in reserve. Having ki closer to the point of use makes life far easier for a ki-user.

Natural (or, more accurately, subconscious) foci do occur: when we attend to those we love and our own genki reaches out; when we have an injury and genki rushes to assess the damage and to marshal the body’s response; or even when holding tools in our hand and our mind incorporates the object into our own self-image. A focus does not have to be part of you, another person or an object, either. In many cases the focus will be a point outside your body defined in relation to a part of you. Between your hands is the most common focus and indeed will be the first external focus we shall attempt.

If you’ve ever witnessed a demonstration of ki, I wager you’ve seen a spark of ki hovering above an upturned hand. This technique is the most common one used to impress as it requires minimal effort (you are not going to work up a sweat), can be performed in close quarters (unlike some of the more spectacular and explosive manipulations), and is far easier for beginners than hovering a half a metre in the air (though the glow elicits the same excited disbelief from a crowd). In fact, I used one of these tiny points of light to shatter the worldview of the journal editors. Convincing a board of hard-lined skeptics to give my research a fair hearing with unsolicited papers alone was always going to be a trial. A simple demonstration (and in my case a meeting arranged under false pretences - thank you, Professor Junkyou!) can go a long way.

The purpose of this section’s exercises are not to create a spark in the hands, not just yet. Whilst the move does rank on the easy end of the spectrum, there are a number of elements to nail down before one can perform a tiny glow. Shiny things may blow away those who have no ki-sense or training and win you that phone number at the bar, but your peers and teachers will be impressed more by your ability to split and redirect ki’s flow with nuance within and without the body. Aim high, and you may even coax a ghost of a smile from Piccolo himself.

If your only goal in reading this textbook is to make friends at parties or to see into the back of your cupboard then I permit you - and only you - to skim through the exercises over the next three sections. If you are planning on using ki for a number of tasks like flying (as I suspect many of you are chomping at the bit to do), the simultaneous components need to be mastered in isolation before combination, and one quick recreation of a party trick will not prepare you for those.

2.4.1 Hands

As tradition dictates, we will begin by building to a focus between the hands. Sit crossed-legged, in seiza or seated with your hands resting palm up on your knees or thighs - whichever is easiest to keep a relaxed-but-upright back. If you are unable to use both or either hand, keep the symmetry in the genki flow for as long as possible, and take when I say ‘palm’ as the part of the arm you would use to press or hold an object, and ‘fingers’ to be the furthest point from the body.

Split your genki to your shoulders as in the previous section. You should experience a fullness, a sense of warmth, comfort, security and correctness attributable to these pools. The centre point of the whirlpool of ki is the focus. As the genki settles there, the light pressure and warmth should build in tandem. Some genki will of course continue to thread its way along the flow of blood in the arms, performing its natural function to regulate allostasis, but most will stick to the focus.

Without breath in the arms to help push the focus to your hands the visualisation required - that expectation and imagination - is harder to conjure this time. If you’re having trouble, imagine the genki caught around the focus as water held back by a dam or barrier, only a trickle passing through, the pressure building behind. Turn the valve or lift a sluice gate to let that water flow where it most “obviously” “wants” to. By expecting genki to flow in this manner, your genki will eventually deign to do so. Your genki may get stuck on its way as it ventures too far from normal experience and that is a typical stumbling block. If you find yourself stuck with warm elbows, reposition the mental dam to this new spot and try again and again until your genki reaches your hands.

Eventually the warmth, tingle and pressure will fill your hands, in particular the palms and along the side of your thumbs. Whilst these sensations will verge on the corporeal, genki is not physically manifesting itself just yet, it is still passive. This pressure is not from an active intent like push, but is the sense of life and presence that exists in and around your centre at all times. The sensation is only remarkable and unnerving in the hands as it is so out of place here. When we move to intents in the next section, the difference between active and passive ki pressures will become obvious.

Moving ki to the fingertips does not necessarily require you to split the focus into five. Pumping the fingers by flexing your fists a few times will stretch the shape of the pool. As the fingertips hit your palms, the eddies in the current will be disrupted and encouraged to divert to the fingers. Once your have experienced this sensation, it will be far easier to imagine and therefore encourage your genki to do so without you needing to flex your fingers each time.

If you are finding these exercises too easy (a minority of you, I’m sure!) and wish to push yourself, try to formally split your ki and make each of your fingertips a separate focus. When performed correctly your palm will empty and the tiny pools of genki will happily settle in the distal phalanx (last finger bone) of each digit, under the nail.

2.4.2 Between the hands

As part of your body, the hands are classed as an internal focus. Now for an external example - between the hands.

Adjust your body so you are still sitting tall but this time palms facing, wrists relaxed and near-straight. Your fingers should be curled inwards, tips or pads facing their counterpart to form an arc but not touching, as though you are holding a ball. If this position is too difficult, one hand with fingers in the same position, mimicking holding the ball on one side, will work just as well.

Your new focus will be the centre of this ball, a point usually level with the base of the middle fingers. Move your genki to your hands (across the palms and fingers) to begin. That same sensation of life, of yourself, that current of ki flourishing within the hands? Project it, willing it to extend around the new focus, the flow from both hands converging like water from two faucets. Though the genki will wax and wane, tumbling over itself at first (more a roiling anxious mist in your ki perception than a serene ball), your genki will settle if you will it to calm. At first your genki will stubbornly cling to you and be confused as you encourage it to let go - this genki was not necessarily expecting to leave the body after all - but it will get used to the new status quo. If you wish to use your breath to aid the “expulsion” of ki, that is a great way to start! But again do not rely on this method, you need to ultimately untangle genki from the breath.

Congratulations! You’ve created a happy ball of genki. Your first external focus!

Why have I made you to go the extraordinary effort of forcing ki down your arms, into your hands and fingers to only expel it mere centimetres from your centre? Wouldn’t concentrating genki around your stomach and jumping the genki across the gap to that focus make more sense? Well, there is a method in my madness. Although ki does like to follow a simple path, remember ki is very much tied to flow, and so prefers to mimic those present in the body - much like electricity tries to follow the path of least resistance, or water flows downhill. For most people, of all their appendages the hands have the best dexterity, proprioception and therefore most nuanced ability to manipulate ki, far greater than an arbitrary spot on your stomach. And finally a practical reason - as you raise your hands this external focus will not always be near your centre but always between your hands.

Ki doesn’t always behave like electricity - imagination trumps its stubbornness. Against received wisdom this exercise will work if your fingertips are touching, albeit slightly harder to perform. This difficulty is not because your ki will ‘follow the path of least resistance’ and refuse to jump to the central focus as some people believe, but because the sensation of touch will create and reinforce natural focusses along the fingertips and thus discourage ki to leave the hand.

Notation

Before we dive into other forms of focus and their uses, I want to introduce two notation systems to you. This will be a lot to take in at first but don’t fret, I’m introducing them together so you grow accustomed to seeing the very basics in tandem, not for you to become an immediate expert. The first I will expand on in the next chapter, the second the next section.

First is choreology, the study and notation of dance… Given this and the previous section I promise I am not tricking you into joining the theatre! Many of the techniques you’ll be learning later will have signature stances and rehearsable rhythms to the movements. Choreological notation, as opposed to my rambling, is the most precise way to record them.

As dance is typically accompanied by music, the notation is helpfully written on the same kind of five-line stave. The lines correspond to parts of the dancer’s body and surrounding space: the top of the head, shoulder height, waist height, knees height and the floor line. When reading you are looking at the back of the dancer, so actions on the left side are to be performed with your left. The stave shows a series of snapshots - frames - with movement lines indicating how to change from one position to another. The clef for this stave is a circle and straight line below, an abstract upright body.

The feet and hands are the parts of the body most transcribed, and are written as |, _ and a dot when they are in front, level, or behind the core of the body respectively. When elbows and knees are bent, they are indicated with a shorter, perpendicular line crossing them (or as an x when behind). The arcs below the stave indicate the direction the toes point in, and the hooks on the hand line follow the direction the curl of the hand follows (relative to the dancer’s core) to show where the wrists are pointing.

A diagonal line instead of a level line implies there is contact with the body (\ and / for left and right, adding a perpendicular line or circle if in front or behind). A fainter right diagonal line (/) crossing through the symbol implies the body part is on the wrong side of the dancer’s centre line (i.e. crossed-over), and a fainter left diagonal line (\) is used if the extremity is on the wrong side of the waist line (so hands and elbows aren’t confused with feet and knees).

There are plenty more rules of notation in choreology, but that is enough to start reading the staves below.

A note for those already familiar with this particular notation: the default is to assume ballet positions, that arms in front are slightly bent at the elbows, hands held with a characteristic delicate grace and level feet are fully turned out. Whilst you can adopt this, no such grace is required here. Arms out straight means arms out straight, and feet are marginally turned out for your stability and comfort.

The stave beneath this is for the fluxology, so-named for the study and notation of ki’s flow through time and space. Each of the five lines and gaps between the lines represent something different to the dance stave. From the top-down for the lines we have: a free line defaulting to the aura for neatness, the left hand, the right hand, the right foot and the left foot. Again this is as though we’re looking at the person from behind, but this time they’re leaning over - the clef for this stave shows this position. The gaps correspond to the head, the upper chest, the centre, and the pelvis. Below the stave can also mean the aura. Lines can be added above or below to refer to objects or other people.

Time progresses left to right as the with the dance stave, but this time as a continuous flow rather than a series of frames. Circles represent foci, both dotted and solid lines the flow of ki. Various modifications to the focus indicate whether there should be a change in flow rate, charge, amplification, or a rejection of ki (see diagram). Dashed lines represent genki, solid amplified ki or a mixture. A dotted line means ki from others. Vertical lines drawn between ki or foci shows a connection between them, like simultaneous action or a focus positioned relative to the foci indicated e.g. between the hands. When a line passes through a shape, that means the corresponding intent has been applied to that branch of ki. A tight row of ki lines serially connected with vertical lines are all branches of the same flow of ki at the focus they surround, though different intents may be being applied to the branches. Line weights can indicate if the proportion of ki is intentionally different between the branches.

Above are examples of relaxed positions and the simple flow of genki we have used for exercises 2.4.1 and 2.4.2. Note how, from context between the hand positions in the dance stave and whether or not the hand focuses are connected in the ki stave, it is possible to deduce the foci’s position.

2.4.3 - The feet

Much the same way ki can be pooled in the hands, the foot can be a handy focus, too. The feet and legs are already a strong focus as mitigating the stress of walking is managed in-part through genki.

In this case I want you to treat the instep of your foot like the palm of your hand. Of course, you probably don’t have the same flexibility in your feet as your hands and so cupping the feet in the same way will be tricky. If you can sit soles of the feet near-touching that would be perfect, though extrapolating from the average person’s flexibility you may have to make-do with outstretched feet turned marginally inwards. Thankfully this old dog’s still got it!

The same principles as before apply, but this time begin with the split focuses at the top of the thighs and expect genki to want to flow to your toes. Release the dam to nudge your ki along the intended path to your feet. Ki is more accustomed to pooling in the legs than the arms to brace when walking and so it will happily settle around your joints. It may then need some gentle persuasion in the form of visualisation to tighten up inside the foot. Remember to wiggle your toes to force genki right to the tips, too.

Now, imagine the external focus either directly between the the feet, or projected from both insteps to the centre of the ball they are trying to grip. If it would help at first to use a sports ball to find this point, please do so.

Why concentrate ki here? One preemptive (and potentially dangerous) leap of logic Pan students often make is to assume this must be the first step towards flight. Indeed, pooling ki at your feet and pushing yourself from the ground like a firework is a very effective form of propulsion. But fireworks have carefully designed fins to stabilise them and no method to reliably turn. Using a ki blast from the feet to fly will cause you to careen off into the blue and leave you hurtling towards an untimely death.

Although, such a risky move may just be what you need…

My parents’ home in Mount Paozu Sept 795, discussing unusual implementations of techniques with my father Son Goku, and Piccolo.

Goku: Oh! And there was the time I did the Kamehameha with my feet in the Tenkaichi Budokai! Have to admit, I’m still proud of that one. Gohan: In the 23rd, right? How did that thought even cross your mind? Goku: Well, I couldn’t fly back then you see, so Piccolo - being the super smart guy he is and all - had flown way up to get the height on me. I was getting pretty desperate and jumping to trade blows wasn’t cutting it. Then I remembered a time I’d seen the scene before. Do you remember, Piccolo? When I was a kid. Piccolo: To my eternal torment, yes. Father seared the image onto my retinas. Goku: [Chuckles] Way back when we fought King Piccolo, he’d grown to the size of a house to try and stop – Piccolo: He wasn’t the size of a house - at that moment, anyway. Goku: You sure? He felt like the size of a house. Piccolo: Because you were tiny, making the memory all the more humiliating for me… At some point King Piccolo had Goku right where he wanted him, half-dead with a broken arm and shattered knee. He couldn’t stand, so my father wrote him off. A huge mistake. Never write Goku off. Goku: Aww, you flatter me. Piccolo: King Piccolo flew up high, preparing to finally put an end to Goku’s meddling with a ki blast, when the kid shot up from the ground like a rocket with his working fist outstretched. He punched straight through my father’s chest. Goku: You see, I couldn’t jump anymore because my legs were useless, so I did a ki-blast with my good hand to push me off the ground, and then turned mid-air to slam him. It worked, and we won. Are you sure he wasn’t a giant? I went clean through. Piccolo: Very sure, pipsqueak. See? What normal child would think to do that? Never write Goku off. Or any of you Sons for that matter. Gohan: ‘Desperate times’, as they say - we’re pretty accustomed to those… So, the tournament? Goku: Ah yeah. Well, I remembered that fight, but this time I had my feet and both arms. I needed my hands free to deck Piccolo, naturally,– Piccolo: ‘Naturally’? Goku: – so by saying ‘Kamehameha’ as I fell I tricked him into thinking I was going for the blast with my hands when I actually channelled ki through my feet, threw myself at him, and smacked him in the face with both fists. It wasn’t enough to win that time but I got you good! Piccolo: The callback was not lost on me. Of course, I did a little hands-free blasting of my own as payback…

Being just as competent using a part of the body other than your hands (Dad his feet and Piccolo his antennae) can both release you from a bind and gift you the element of surprise, and with that the advantage.

4.2.4 Tongues and other focuses

Speaking of, one oft neglected focus (and yet arguably the easiest to use) is the head - specifically the tongue. As we’re not used to thinking of the head as anything other than a house for the brain and something to protect most don’t train this focus out of lack of imagination. But like the feet, learning to use your tongue can be an effective counter and, given the ease of the focus, free up effort to allow very complicated intents.

I skipped over the head until now as despite being the easiest focus, the idea of forcing you to sit cross-eyed with your mouth agape and tongue drying to a sad, shrivelled slip of jerky is - whilst amusing for me to watch - not hugely appealing for many students.

Since by now you will have brought ki to your hands and feet, this should be an easy task. If you need to do so, use one breath to bring the natural upper pool into the head. The tip of the tongue, which we are often cognizant of, will gladly harbour that genki (sorry, I know many people hate being made aware of their tongue and how it sits in the mouth). As you do this you may instinctively feel the need to poke out your tongue, as though continuing the breath’s flow from the mouth. Your eventual goal will be to close your mouth and have the ki concentration secretly grow behind your teeth to preserve the element of surprise.

Don’t panic that your mouth will fill with ki and explode! Unless you assign an intent to the ki, the ki will only gather, not interact with your body in any way. Many students are scared to hold their tongues back thinking they will break their teeth. Although, if you do wish to use the tongue to release a generic form of push intent, please remember to open your mouth when launching - I’m not going to pay for your dentist!

Using this focus isn’t exactly a pretty sight; it elicits bizarre kiai from users and fits of giggles from onlookers. Some of the most complicated intents, such as Gotenks’ Kamikaze Ghosts (a long story) use this focus, as well as their more simple Ki-Butterfly cousins. In the latter case their creators often breath directly into cupped hands out of politeness. Please push to surmount the anxiety of using this focus, as being able to unflinchingly use the tongue when your four main limbs are pinned is something not a lot of assailants will see coming.

With counters in mind, the eyes are another helpful focus and I’ve seen them used many times (Piccolo even used them in that same Tenkaichi Budokai final). However, I will not encourage you to use them at this point. You have not learnt to control intents yet and I do not wish you to do even the slightest hint of damage to your eyes. The eyeball itself can act as a very convenient spherical focus and the pupil a perfect exit to channel through. Even the lens can be used to focus and direct the ki if your imagination wills so. However, to do so means allowing your ki to interact with the lens and this opens the door to permanent injury. To that end I caution against using the eye for a focus right now, but if you feel like you need more practice on the face, creating a focus a handspan away from the tip of your nose will be far safer.

Finally, those readers with tails may also find the tail tip a useful focus, too. For those possessing the most dexterous types, I’ve seen ki-users bending the tip around to a curve - much like one would cup a hand - and focussing in the crook. The tail tip can be used much like a finger tip too, and if the tail is long enough to get behind an opponent at close range, you can attack where their defence is usually weaker.

2.4.5 Aura

The aura can be a useful place to pour genki into. Setting up a pattern of high flow rate from the centre outwards can help drag ki from your centre without you needing to actively drive it. Though be careful - ki that has left the centre begins to degrade (unless imbued with a hold intent, more in the next section). This mean you cannot carry around an infinitely dense cloud of ki in case of emergencies, so pick your moment. This preparatory technique is called aura shoring, and forms the basis of a number of nebulous and surrounding techniques we will cover in the future.

The focus for the aura then is the centre or more generally the body - only this time instead of concentrating the genki we are expelling it. This is a harder technique as we usually understand a focus as a point of attention to bring ki to, not to avoid. At first you may find splitting ki and channelling it out through the hands, feet and even head easier, but in this case that is very much making ki take the long way round.

To expel ki cleanly one can imagine an empty, calm bubble growing from the centre, genki riding the surface like dust on a shockwave until the bubble leaves the body. If that doesn’t work for you, just as a river’s eddy can be disrupted by putting your hand in the centre of the whirlpool and causing all the flotsam and jetsam to flow onward, so you can still the internal natural pools through visualisation and allow genki to meander its own way out the body.

When creating a barrier most ki users will default to using their hands to channel ki outwards (then anchor to the centre once the technique is in place), however being able to pop a barrier without gesturing can help you escape from some hairy situations. Utilising already held ki for a barrier is far faster and more efficient, to boot!

2.4.6 Compacting Ki

Go back to exercise 4.2.2 now, drawing ki into a focus between the hands. I want you to pay close attention to how your genki flows around the point focus - how it is denser at that point and tapers away, the particular flows and branches, the speed and frequency of how these flickers change direction. The exact nature of the densities and behaviour of those eddies will be unique to you. Next, I want you to compact the ki down to a point however you can. Try this without reading ahead. Remember the method of expectation and imagination.

What happened? Did you try to squeeze the ki, it caving at some point and slipping back through your mental fingers like a water balloon? Or did you spin the ki and tighten the whirlpool, with some licks of ki flying out? Or a mixture of both, a folding and squashing?

There are two schools of thought on the best way to reduce ki down to a point - whether to compress directly, encouraging the ki to head towards the centre point; or to rotate it all together, applying one tight and orderly movement to the whole flow. They both have their pros and cons.

Compression is the most direct way to compact ki, maintaining a similar density profile to its resting state within a smaller volume. Play whack-a-mole with the ki takes a lot of effort due to ki’s resistance of this squeeze trying to maintain its more nebulous form, though this method will come marginally easier with practice. The equal compression will keep the spherical shape, and these balls are relatively simple to direct when they have been released.

Rotating ki requires only one command and so is less taxing in terms of effort. The rotation keeps ki orderly and stable, too. However it will gravitate towards forming a disk, so the ki needs to be pulled out at the poles to form a sphere. The tighter the rotation, the harder the shape is to maintain, as the ki tries to fling itself apart along the outer edge. When imbued with particular intents and released, rotating ki is harder to direct than its compressed counterpart.

Some techniques will require compression (ki balls), others rely on rotation (kienzan), and some a mixture of both (beams). We all have a natural inclination towards one or the other, and so whichever is more natural to visualise and maintain will be the best for you to lean on.

The figure shows the symbols for compression and rotation followed by another symbol that the ki flows through, an intent. This intent - hold - and two very common friends - pass and push - will be detailed in the next section, 2-5, ready to finally put together in the last section of this chapter, 2-6.

next previous first contents ask?

#happy textbook anniversary everyone!#gohan #dbz #dragon ball #ki #(( if anyone knows Benesh notation and spots an error - please feel free to let me know ))#groundbreakingscienceupdate

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randomnotesonrandomness · 3 years

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Nota del traduttore

Translator’s note

English below

Ho ricevuto in regalo tutto i libri di Mary Ruefle dal suo editor, più o meno tre anni fa. È stato amore a prima vista. Una montagna di libri vicini vicini in borsa, poesia e prosa. Non un amore canonico, passionale, no, ma una cosa fatta di strane affinità elettive e un costante senso di smarrimento che non trovavo sgradevole, forse perché mi piace perdermi.

La scrittura di Ruefle può provocare uno strano timore reverenziale – il misto di paura e fascino che forse proverei davanti a un marziano – però a volte ti fa scoppiare a ridere. O almeno a me capita spesso. E soprattutto ti fa perdere l’orientamento. A un certo punto non capisci più dove sei e segui solo le immagini come i sassolini e le briciole di Hansel e Gretel. È affascinante se leggi e basta, un po’ una fregatura se devi tradurre.

Le poesie me le ero lette in un sorso appena avevo avuto i libri in mano. La sensazione di perdersi c'era, ma in quella forma me l'aspettavo, e mi dava chiavi di ritmo ma non soluzioni sensate per tradurre.

Ho deciso quindi di lavorare su pezzi a caso, uno sui colori e uno con una struttura più convenzionale – se mai Ruefle si può definire convenzionale – per capire cosa poteva farmi da sassolino oltre alle immagini. Perché io le immagini le vedevo bene, e le sentivo, ma dovevo stare nella griglia della scrittura, che non è mai colloquiale, ma sempre precisa e algida e severa nella forma - d’altronde in America la sua prosa è venduta nel settore poesia, oltre a essere insegnata in tantissimi master di scrittura creativa - ma poi in parecchi punti fa ridere o rimanere a bocca aperta. Tipo, quando scrive di menopausa, ‘Quando impazzisci non hai la minima propensione a leggere quello che Foucault ha scritto a proposito di cultura e pazzia’. Oppure “Una cosa è certa: non vorrei essere un albero di Natale.” O quando parla di teste rimpicciolite chiedendosi, sinceramente stupita, come mai la gente non ci pensa spesso.

Dopo la prima stesura di qualche frammento non ero soddisfatta. Allora mi sono messa a guardare i video di lei su YouTube. Dice cose serissime con un’espressione impassibile – la classica deadpan, letteralmente faccia morta – ma anche furba e allerta, sembra una volpe, e poi qua e là inserisce delle battute rimanendo seria seria, magari con l’aggiunta di un piccolo sorriso. A un certo punto durante una conferenza dice: ‘Gli artisti sono solo persone che non hanno dimenticato come si disegna, e per disegnare intendo creare. Ma non fatevi ingannare, hanno dimenticato moltissime altre cose. A volte si dimenticano che non hanno più otto anni. Ecco perché gli artisti sono per natura molesti.” E poi in un’altra conferenza dice che bisogna tornare bambini per ritrovare quel tipo di immaginazione, e che il buon senso e la razionalità non vanno molto d’accordo. “L’immaginazione ha vita propria e autonoma, l’immaginazione non è una cosa con cui giochi, è l’immaginazione che gioca con te. Ha il potere di creare e distruggere, di formare e deformare.”

Poi ho guardato alcuni dei suoi lavori di cancellatura, le erasures, perché Ruefle è anche un'artista di talento. E mi è venuto in mente che era tutto un lavoro per sopprimere la comprensione e creare qualcosa di nuovo a partire dalle parole pure.

E così finalmente ho capito, come in una sorta di epifania, che dovevo sospendere la logica. Esattamente come nella poesia. Anche perché non potevo farle cento domande su cinquanta pagine (via lettera poi, perché non ha il computer, scrive tutto a macchina). Nella sezione Contact del suo sito si legge: “Sorpresa! Non posseggo un computer. L'unico modo per contattarmi è scrivere alla mia casa editrice, Wave Press, oppure incontrare per strada qualcuno che conosco di persona.” Quando ho visto quella frase sul suo sito, praticamente dopo aver letto tre poesie, mi è venuta in mente la parola sassy, simpatica sfacciata e poi ho pensato, è matta. E poi ho pensato, non vedo l'ora di conoscerla.

Comunque a quel punto non so bene cosa sia successo, quando ho abbandonato la comprensione per il dubbio, ed è stato un po’ come entrare in uno stato di trance e lasciarsi guidare – forse anche commettendo errori ignobili, ma era il rischio da correre. Un po’ come succede con gli allucinogeni. E in effetti ho capito che leggere e tradurre la prosa-poesia di Ruefle è un'esperienza sinestesica, in cui senti colori e annusi parole e tocchi suoni.

Ovviamente gliel'ho scritto. Cioè in pratica mi sono immaginata un sacco di soluzioni di cose non solo difficili da tradurre (tipo giochi di parole di cui ho cambiato proprio il testo) ma a volte del tutto incomprensibili senza chiederle il permesso, senza la certezza che fossero giuste, come buttarsi in mare e nuotare di notte. E alla seconda lettera (gentilmente stampata e spedita con francobollo dal suo editor e poi via mail la risposta fotografata se no ci mettevamo due anni tra poste italiane e greche), quando le ho chiesto il significato di una parola contenuta in un brano già di per sé a dir poco astratto, ashling (che i vocabolari danno come sogno o visione in una rara accezione irlandese) lei mi ha risposto: 'Oddio pensavo a ash, a cenere ma non ricordo dove ho trovato quella parola, o se l'ho inventata, ma che bello questo significato irlandese del sogno che hai scovato! Comunque usa l'immaginazione e inventati qualcosa che dia l'idea di sogno, oppure di cenere ma anche di albero, e fai che sembri piccolo, minuscolo... Magari tipo ashtray??'

Per un altro brano intero dove c'era un gioco di parole praticamente intraducibile mi ha scritto: “Oh sì che guaio. Vuoi che lo riscrivo? Anzi, riscrivilo tu! Cambia anche il titolo!” In fondo a una delle lettere ha scritto: “Bellissima questa cosa che le lettere ci mettono settimane ad arrivare fino a te. Non ho mai messo piede su un'isola greca. È solida o spugnosa?” Eh. Bella domanda. Però mi ha fatto capire che dovevo vedere l'isola – e il mio modo di tradurre lei – toccandola con i piedi, annusandola con le mani, immaginando tutto con i sensi ribaltati.

Dopo varie riscritture, ho fatto un po' di prove di lettura con alcuni amici, chiedendo di chiudere gli occhi e ascoltare senza sforzarsi di capire e mi hanno detto che funzionava, che cadevano in quello stato di trance e vedevano le immagini. Ho amici adorabili ma non compiacenti, quindi forse non finirò nell'inferno dei traduttori. E se anche fosse, probabilmente sarebbe una storia in stile Ruefle.

xxxxxx

I received all of Mary Ruefle's books from her editor at Wave about three years ago, and it was love at first sight. A mountain of beautiful books sitting close together in my bag, poetry and prose. It was not a canonical, passionate love, no, more like a feeling of deep closeness made of elective affinities and a constant, but not unpleasant – maybe because I like getting lost - sensation of being confused and out of my depth. A complex kind of love. Ruefle's writing can be a source of strange awe - the mix of fear and fascination that perhaps I'd feel in front of a Martian - and make you lose your bearings. At some point you don't understand anything anymore and just follow images, like Hansel and Gretel's pebbles and crumbs. It's fascinating if you just read it, but it's a bit of a bummer if you have to translate it.

I had read all of her poetry as soon as I had the books in my hand. The feeling of being lost was definitely the same, but perhaps I kind of expected it in that form. The poems gave me keys to the rhythm, but not reasonable enough solutions.

So I decided to translate some fragments at random, one about colors and one with a more conventional structure - if ever Ruefle's writing can be called conventional - to understand what else, besides images, could be my pebbles. Because I did see the images quite vividly, and I felt them, but I had to keep playing within the writing grid, which is never colloquial but always precise and aloof in its form – after all in the US her prose is sold in the poetry section, and it's being taught in many creative writing MFA - but it is often very funny. Like, talking about menopause, "When you go crazy, you don’t have the slightest inclination to read anything Foucault ever wrote about culture and madness”.

Or "One thing is certain: I wouldn't want to be a Christmas tree." Or when she talks about shrunken heads wondering with genuine surprise why people don't think about them very often.

After the first draft I was not at all satisfied. So I started watching her videos on YouTube. She says very serious things with an impassive expression - the classic deadpan, an expression that I always liked - but also crafty and mischievous at times. Then here and there she just comes out with a joke while remaining very serious, maybe with a tiny smile. In one lecture she says: "Artists are just people who have not forgotten how to draw, by which I mean create. But don’t be taken in; they have forgotten a great many other things. Sometimes they forget they are no longer eight years old. This is why artists are of a troublesome nature.” And then in another conference she says that we need to become children again to rediscover that kind of imagination, and that common sense and rationality do not go very well with it. "The imagination has its own independent life, the imagination is not something you play with, it is the imagination that plays with you. It has the power to create and destroy, to form and deform. " Then I looked at some of her erasures, because Ruefle is also a talented artist. And it occurred to me that it was a way to suppress understanding and create something new from pure words. So I finally realized, like an epiphany, that I had to suspend logic. Exactly like with poetry. Also because I couldn't ask her 100 questions in 50 pages (and send them by letter, because she doesn't have a computer, she works only with her typewriter). In the Contact section of her website, she writes: "Surprise! I do not actually own a computer. The only way to contact me is by contacting my press, Wave Books, or by running into someone I know personally on the street." When I checked her website, immediately after reading three poems, I heard the word sassy in my mind, and I thought, She is crazy. I can't wait to meet her, she must be adorable. I don't really know what happened next when I gave up understanding, and it was a bit like entering into a trance state and letting myself be guided - perhaps even making ignoble mistakes, but that was the risk I had to run. A bit like what happens with hallucinogens. And in fact, I realized that reading and translating Ruefle's prose-poetry is a synaesthetic experience, in which you hear colours and smell words and touch sounds. Obviously, I tried – tried – to explain all this to her. In other words, I came up with a lot of solutions for things that were not only difficult to translate (such as puns I had to change the whole text for) but sometimes completely incomprehensible, and this without asking permission, without the certainty that they were right, like jumping in the sea and have a swim at night. And at the second letter (kindly printed, stamped and sent by her wonderful editor who also scanned and sent me her answer otherwise it would have taken years – Greece is paradise, but speed is not its forte), when I asked her the meaning of a word contained in a piece which is already abstract, to say the least, ashling (according to one of the many dictionaries I consulted it is a dream or a vision in a rare Irish meaning) she answered: 'Oh 'God I was thinking of ash, but I don't remember where I found that word, or if I invented it, but how beautiful this Irish meaning of the dream you found! Anyway use your imagination and come up with something that gives the idea of a dream, or ash but also a tree, and make it look small, tiny...? Maybe like an ashtray??' For another whole piece where there was a pun that was practically untranslatable, and she wrote, "Oh yes, that's a problem. Do you want me to rewrite it? In fact, you should rewrite it! Change the title too!" At the bottom of one of the letters, she wrote, "Isn't it beautiful this thing that letters take weeks to get to you. I've never set foot on a Greek island. Is it solid or spongy?" Ha. Good question. It made me realize, though, that I needed to see the island - and my way of translating her - touching it with my feet, smelling it with my hands, imagining everything with my senses turned upside down. After

several rewritings, I did some tests with friends, asking them to close their eyes and listen without trying to understand. They told me it worked, they could see the images and get into a kind of trance too. I have lovely friends and I know for sure that they are not complacent, so maybe I won't end up in translators' hell. And if that were the case, it would probably be a Ruefle style story.

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carryforthtradition · 3 years

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The bold little Stone Chat

It’s name comes from it’s distinctive call which is described so well in the poem I added below by Norman MacCaig. It is said to sound like flint on flint, two stones being struck together. It is a small bird, a bit smaller than a Robin with a bold black head, white collar, rosy breast with an assertive call. It has a big head and a short tail. They prefer coastal farmland habitats for breeding and nesting low to the ground where they dine on insects. They like to perch out in the open sitting upright, often in the gorse. When resting they can be seen fluttering their wings.

Brave and beautiful.

Unexpected opportunities.

A few weeks ago, I visited mum’s friends and neighbours asking for help. I needed someone with a good enough scanner to scan my ‘Caribbean Woodpecker’, so I could then get it to print and added to my ‘Little Shop’.

Earlier that day, I’d been bold enough to pop in to a local Art Gallery and Shop to see if my work was up to par and if they’d be interested in selling some of my prints. It was a bold step for me.

So, with a spring in my step, and hoping that mum’s friends would be able to help me, knowing that they are deeply involved with ‘The Filey Bird Observatory and Group’. I hopped round with my art work and knocked on their door.

I didn’t expect what happened next.

It turned out that they thought my ‘Caribbean Woodpecker’ was quite good and I was invited to draw or paint some birds, from some of their own photos, to contribute to the The Filey Bird Observatory & Group (FBOG) Annual Bird Report - how exciting!

I awaited eagerly for the photos to arrive by email. I was sent 12 to choose from and to do as many as I liked and with a 4 week deadline.

I liked so many, but I decided on this little bird - the Stone Chat. Because he is so small and so brave and I felt like him a bit after I’d had such an eventful week breaking through insecurity, ‘What if I’m not good enough?’, lack of confidence and self discipline!

Here is the ‘Stone Chat’ which I drew from an incredibly beautiful photo mum’s neighbour had taken. He was so pleased with this - I think he is secretly hoping I’ll do another. I’ll try my best.

He said that for their annual bird report, which is really beautiful and there is more information below, they like their photos and artwork to help people identify the birds, so there is need for accuracy and he said I had got it’s posture right. He said that my ink drawing is good enough for people to be able to identify the Stone Chat, and so we could do without colour.

Later, I may decide to add colour to it. We will see.

"‘Stonechat on Cul Beg’ A flint-on-flint ticking – and there he is, Trim and dandy – in square miles of bracken And bogs and boulders a tiny work of art, Bright as an illumination on a monkish parchment. I queue up to watch him. He makes me a group of solemn connoisseurs trying to see the brushstrokes. I want to thumb the air in their knowing way. I murmur Chinese black, I murmur alizarin. But the little picture with four flirts and a delicate Up-swinging’s landed on another boulder. He gives me a stained-glass look and keeps Chick-chacking at me. I suppose he’s swearing. You’d expect something like oboes or piccolos (Though other birds, too, have pebbles in their throats – And of them I love best the airy skylark Twittering like marbles squeezed in your fist). Cul Beg looks away – his show’s been stolen. And the up-staged loch would yawn if it could. Only the benign sun in his fatherly way Beams on his bright child throwing a tantrum." -- Norman MacCaig

The poem ‘Stonechat on Cul Beg’ was written by Norman MacCaig who was born in Edinburgh in 1910. He often wrote about nature, people, animals and places and often during his visits to his spiritual home of Assynt, Scotland, in the northwest Highlands. He is said to be one of Scotland’s best loved poets.

The Filey Bird Observatory & Group (FBOG)

‘The Filey Bird Observatory & Group (FBOG) aims include the recording and studying of Filey’s birds, and protecting and enhancing local habitats for wildlife (including ownership and management of several nature reserves). Our work is entirely voluntary and reliant on our membership and their generosity. Members receive a range of benefits, as well as regular newsletters, the annual report, and the satisfaction of helping the study and protection of local wildlife.’

‘Membership now stands at over 120, our reserves are in fine fettle, dedicated bird study and wildlife recording are at the forefront of our work, the bird report is going from strength to strength, and FBOG is flourishing in a challenging era.’ - Filey Bird Observatory and Group. History – Filey Bird Observatory and Group (fbog.org.uk)

#becky #birds #stone chat

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jflashandclash · 6 years

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Attrition of Peace

Forty: Euna

Parka Fluff Hugs

(or: A Stony Disposition)

Even the gods fear nothingness.

Euna couldn’t place where she’d heard it before, or why her brain was slogging over it, but the words kept repeating like the mundane mantra of a school pledge—something you repeat everyday without really caring why. She stared off into Camp Half-Blood, where Phobetor had been severing people’s limbs as a timer to torment his little brother.

Some uncomfortable part of her understood Phobetor’s absentmindedness. Some part of her agreed with Alabaster—or as much as she got out of Alabaster’s rant—that they should kill the unworthy god.

Something she’d heard the plants whisper— the plants? farmers? worsphipers?--- slithered through her mind, They manufacture us in mass quantity until perfection is reached, while the unworthy and weak are tossed without concern, and the perfected are consumed by a thankless, thoughtless overseer.

Demigods harvested like plants. Or plants harvested like demigods. That sounded like something stupid her English teacher would say about some book she’d say she read, and actually read through the glory of SparkNotes. Did the gods weed out their unwanted children, to force the others to grow stronger?

Euna shook her head. What was wrong with her? She never had thoughts like that before. One of her favorite past times had been not thinking about things. Blank walls could be as captivating as the plot for Game of Thrones when you were good at zoning out.

“I heard what happened to Joey.”

Euna jumped. Apparently, she was still really good at zoning out.

She’d been trying to listen to Thalia and Christiana—something about Lesedi waking up, and sound coming from inside the camp. And something about a dragon rolling in toilet paper? Christiana had left…

When she focused her eyes on Thalia, she registered what Thalia had said.

Joey.

Euna opened her mouth to respond, and was confused to find she couldn’t. Her voice wouldn’t work. Her face felt warm, except for a tiny line of cold streaking down her cheek. At first, Euna thought it was just a side effect of such a weird sleep schedule and constant fighting and running, but…

For the first time since they’d left Santiago’s horrible Mayan temple, Euna could feel a tear leak out, like her body needed to emit a worn down, desperate sigh.

Thalia’s stunning blue eyes softened with understanding. Euna wondered how many sisters this huntress had buried.

Thalia didn’t try to say she was sorry or something stupid like that. Instead, she pulled Euna into a tight hug.

Euna felt the fluff of Thalia’s silver parka compress against her face. The fur lining was so warm. The material acted like a muffler, and Euna enjoyed how the sounds of the Romans attending to bodies and the sounds of a waking camp all quieted to a murmur of fluffy silence.

Euna patted Thalia’s back with one hand. Without realizing it, she’d left her other on the pommel of Backbiter.

“Hey, if you ever need anything, you know where I am,” Thalia said.

“All over the wilderness,” Euna noted. Thalia smelled like the wild. “That narrows it down.”

She’d meant the comment legitimately—there wasn’t a lot of wilderness left. But she realized how ridiculous it sounded when Thalia laughed.

“I think I want to be with you,” Euna said.

Thalia’s grip tensed. She stopped laughing.

“Assuming the offer is still there,” Euna continued, “I don’t have a reason not to be a huntress anymore, and it sounds like a cool gig.”

“You wanna be a huntress,” Thalia said like she was clarifying Euna’s comment, though Euna didn’t think there was much to clarify.

“Yea.” Maybe Euna could find some peace like that.

She thought about her father—how warm his face was when they were gardening and how stern it was when scolding. She didn’t want to see how he’d be without Joey around. Especially since Euna wouldn’t be able to replace Joey’s ambition and strength.

She couldn’t go back to her old life after watching her sister die like that either. She couldn’t bother with school. After seeing the little taste of Santiago’s corpoerate meeting and his league, she could never be part of an office space. What if she zoned out during a holiday party and strangled everyone with the laurel and mistletoe because she was having flashbacks?[1]

Backbiter’s pommel became uncomfortably icy to Euna’s touch. She withdrew from Thalia. The world came back to its loud harshness: Romans shouting, confusion in Camp Half-Blood, injured screaming—

Euna thought about how the Romans might come after her when this was done. “I guess it would be a good place for you to keep an eye on me too.”

Thalia raised an eyebrow. “If you mean to keep you safe, sure. We take care of our own.”

Someone shouted from behind Euna.

Thalia made a face, then waved in return. “Looks like Lesedi’s up. That means the other campers are waking up. You should come—”

“I’ll be over in a minute,” Euna said.

Thalia nodded, her black, choppy hair dipping momentarily to cover her tiara. She squeezed Euna’s shoulder.

Then she was gone, running back towards the others.

Euna stood there, in the small patch of shadow between two floodlights, almost at the end of the strawberry fields. Something moved dimly in the shadow.

There was a bustle of strawberries near the edge of the caution tape. When Euna focused on it, she could see a tiny, grey piglet staring at her through it.

Despite Euna’s hatred of Phobetor, she knew how it felt to be pigballed and had some sympathy.

But only enough to hold off for a second before drawing Backbiter. Maybe some people had qualms with killing cute things, but Euna could go for some pork belly from this jerk.

The piglet huffed before melting into black tar.

The tar warped and twisted upward until the minstrel-adorned, bird-skulled piccolo player stood before her with a hatchet.

Someone yelped.

The monster turned and Euna could see Alabaster and Pax nearby.

Back by the barracks, none of the Romans or conscious Greeks seemed to see the God of Nightmares.

He took a step closer to Alabaster, twisting his hatchet.

The child of Hecate looked unarmed. She thought she’d seen him poof his staff earlier. Alabaster withdrew his card deck from his pocket, but neither he nor Pax looked ready for another fight. However, the head on Pax’s beltline looked ready to belt out a battle cry.

“How dare you make me something cute,” Phobetor huffed at Alabaster.

Pax looked more offended by that comment than scared. “Dude, how are we related?” he asked while stepping between the god and child of magic.

Euna knew Pax was comfortable having dumb conversations with gods, but she’d rather be more practical.

Euna lunged forward.

Phobetor stumbled away from her, further beyond the caution tape. A disgruntled sound sputtered from his mouth, and she realized something valuable—he was afraid of her.

Ikelos, twisted coward, one who refused to side with me to spite his brother, Backbiter hissed.

Oh, now you can talk, Euna thought. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was collecting this god’s head.

Phobetor held up his hands as she took a step forward.

“Wait--!” Pax squeaked.

Alabaster reached around Pax for her arm, probably to stop her from falling asleep beyond the camp’s boundaries.

But nothing happened. She stepped into the caution tape and felt it stretch against her arms.

Phobetor sputtered again, “Wait—young child of Demeter—your sister—don’t you want to see your sister again?”

Euna wanted to call his bluff. Her sister was dead. Nothing the God of Nightmares could do would change that.

“My dearest aunt said you should see Joey finish off her quest in Hera’s cabin. It will be quite the fun spectacle. I’ll let you in.”

Although she didn’t see eyes in the kiwi bird skull, she could sense his gaze lingering on Backbiter’s blade.

“Uh—we shouldn’t do anything my mom considers ‘fun,’” Pax whispered.

Euna paused. What quest could Phobetor be talking about? The convoluted Traitor’s Prophecy could hardly be called a quest. But—

Hera. Hera’s quest box. Where Hera wanted Joey to bring her the key to a happy marriage in exchange for her blessing Joey and Apollo’s… relationship? Euna felt slow when her mind clicked all the pieces together.

“When she comes to me for aid, I will do what I can,” Persephone had told Euna. Had Joey visited Persephone after death? Her godly sister lived in the Underworld during this time of year, right?

Euna ran forward into camp, past Phobetor. She felt the caution tape snap against her and flutter down in the freezing breeze. The world didn’t blink or anything to signify that she’d fallen into Phobetor’s dream world. Instead, she felt the temperature rise slightly.

Camp was still too cold compared to its normal temperature. With each step, her vision diminished; the shadows inside the camp swallowed the floodlight’s illumination. The smashed strawberry field and gnarled trees became dark twists as she ran past. In the distance, she could hear the whisper of the camp’s river, but—other than that hushed din—there was nothing.

No pegasus clopping. No campers laughing. Not even a monster snarling out of the trees. Euna couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t their camp, but an eerie abandoned memory.

Shouts trailed dimly behind her, and Euna was aware Alabaster and Pax had come after her. Their rushed footfalls meshed together with the sound of hers—

Euna tripped on something.

She stumbled and kept going without looking back. By now, she could see the soft flames of the central hearth, silhouetting the newer, small cabins—except Hecate’s, which cast its own green flicker. The central fire’s amber light glowed off the larger monoliths, making Zeus and Hera’s marbled columns look like those of mausoleums.

The bodies of campers were scattered all over the camp’s center. Everyone was wearing PJs. Phobetor must have lurked into camp at night, just early enough for someone to sound the alarm. Then everyone fell among the sleep.

“Just asleep,” she caught Alabaster’s hiss. He and Pax were almost directly behind her.

A few campers looked like they might be stirring, but she didn’t have time to check.

She instinctively slowed down when she saw the light from Cabin Two’s ajar door. There was another fire inside. A giant marble statue sat on a throne in the far end of the cabin. More like a temple than a cabin.

When Euna got to the doorway, she paused.

There were two figures inside. They were so faint, like holograms in mist, she thought they were tricks of the light.

One was a Caucasian, pale haired boy with a giant crack in his skull and blood staining his unsteady visage.

The other was her sister.

What was left of her sister.

Joey’s black and pink bob had been singed. From what Euna could see of the shade, her sister’s pale skin was charred black. Euna wasn’t even sure how she knew it was her sister, but—

“—whatever, Will. Like I’m going to sit around waiting for a goddess. I’ve got better things to be doing, you know.”

That was definitely her sister.

Will sighed. “I guess we could be trying to scare the campers awake outside.”

Joey huffed—a motion that would have normally puffed her hair out of her eyes if her ghostly hair hadn’t been so crisped. “I’m still creeped out that Al and Clubber—”

“Kléber.”

“—said most of those bad guy spirits were funneling out here. You don’t… you don’t think this is what Persephone was talking about, right? The whole strife following this thing?” Joey gestured with a small box in her hand.

Will shook his head, considering Hera’s statue. “No, I don’t think us coming here caused any of this… I just wish the gods gave us better instructions. I don’t even know where to look for Nico or Melinoe—”

“Joey?! Will!”

Pax shattered the hushed conversation.

Until that moment, Euna could pretend this was all a dream Phobetor had rigged.

When Joey jumped, and turned to them, Euna felt some part of her give.

Joey’s face was almost completely destroyed. Her jaw bone was cleanly exposed. There weren’t any eyes in her sockets.

“Pax?!” the ghost squeaked in indignation. “You’re not supposed to be here! Augh—I haven’t touched up my make up since before hearing Mr. Charon’s horrible taste in Christmas muzak.”

Euna could hear Pax’s voice quiver with sobs. “It’s okay, I’m sure you would still look like you’ve been through Hades and back.”

“You know you can alter your appearance from that of a corpse,” Alabaster said calmly.

Joey turned on Will and Euna got the feeling her sister was glaring. “Did you know we could do that? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“It was in the pamphlet I gave you,” Will said. As he said it, the blood receded from his face, and the crack in his skull vanished. “I didn’t find it necessary when it was just us.”

Joey huffed again. Then her burnt out face turned towards Euna. “Stupid pamphlet,” Joey grumbled. She fumbled something out of… her pocket?

After a second of scanning the pamphlet, Joey’s skin reappeared in its pale glow. Her black bob with the pink streak fluffed back out—still looking disheveled, but there. Her face reconstructed, down to the mascara tear-streaks on her cheeks. Euna forgot that Joey would still be in their dark clothing from when Miranda had ordered a stealth hit on the Hermes cabin. That had been so long ago. Joey had tied her black shirt to the side to expose her midrift.

Then Euna’s fourteen-year-old sister was before her, hands on her hips, giving Euna a skeptical scowl. “I’m sure you’ve been just as lazy as ever since I’ve been gone.” Joey rolled her eyes. Although her words sounded scathing, Euna could see the red rim around Joey’s dark gaze and the way she bit her lower lip to keep from sobbing.

Euna choked back some tears. The world felt like it was dissolving. Her sister was here.

She tried to think of something—anything—to say. Finally, she settled on, “Joey, I told you not to talk back to people like that—“

Joey folded her arms. “Santiago pulled a thing of thorns through Pax’s tongue—”

“I have a cool tongue ring because of it—”

“—I couldn’t just sit around like the rest of you—”

Euna thought about how her body wouldn’t react that day—how she couldn’t think after taking Hemera’s god droplets until she heard Joey’s death scream. But her words were now coming out of reflex, not thought. “But you’re always getting us in trouble because of that stupid mouth of yours! And I’m your older sister—I’m—I’m supposed—I’m supposed to protect you—”

“’Because I’m the oldest,’” Joey mimicked with the deadest expression she could. The tears lingering on the edge of her eyes disappeared. Although she was shouting, and trying to look angry, Euna could see a smile tugging at the corner of Joey’s lips. “Just like how you’re supposed to get all the highest scores and kick the most butt at the dojo?”

Euna felt herself smile. If she wasn’t certain her hand would go through Joey, she probably would have slapped her sister.

Will glanced over to Pax and Alabaster in confusion.

“As far as I can tell, the species of Song children express affection through acts of anger,” Pax explained.

Joey snorted, gesturing at Alabaster. “Who is this guy with you? And why do you have that sword, Euna? And Pax—EW! Is that a HEAD attached to your belt?! Is it HUMMING?!”

From behind her, Euna could hear Jack’s screeching chuckle as he said, “A spitfire. I like your personality, kid.”

“Oh, that is disgusting,” Joey complained.

Will’s face fell. “Is that the psychopath’s head?! Holy Apollo—did the gods give him Orpheus’s curse?”

“QUIET!” someone thundered.

The room shook.

The voice seemed to resonate from the walls themselves. The fire pit in the center dimmed.

The massive statue in the back of the room leaned forward from its throne. Those cold, white eyes emitted contempt. Euna remembered how colorful this goddess looked when she first saw her: the glisten of peacock feathers, the vibrancy of her cloak, the gold of her hair ribbons. But here, she looked cold.

“How dare you use my sacred cabin as a place for revelry and ruckus!”

“Hera,” Will said in awe, dropping to one knee. He shot the rest of them a look. Euna didn’t really feel like kneeling. The effort to get back up would be annoying, but she figured the consequences for not doing so would require further effort.

Something scraped behind her.

Euna glanced back in enough time to see someone dart out of the cabin. Alabaster and Pax weren’t anywhere to be seen.

“Ah, the girl who thought she could handle the same trials and tribulations of Psyche and Hercules for the hand of a god. Have you returned to finish your quest? The Underworld appears to have treated you well,” Hera sneered.

When Euna turned around, Joey still looked stunned. She shook her head, cleared her throat, then made a face. “Wait—augh—was that really why I got that quest? For Apollo? Gross.”

“Hey,” Will protested, “Still my dad.”

Joey sighed. “At least I got a quest out of it. One ahead of Miranda Gardener and my sister.” She stepped—really hovered—forward. She paused, glanced back over to Euna, and gave her a warm smile, like she had when they were little and Joey won her first dojo competition. She turned back around to set the rosewood container at the feet of Hera’s statue. “Here’s Persephone’s box with the ‘secrets to a happy marriage’ or whatever.”

Despite everything, an expansion of happiness warmed Euna’s chest. Maybe Euna would have to visit home after this. Then she could tell her dad that Joey had done the Song family proud. Maybe Euna could get Pax to make a trophy that said Heroes First Solo Mission.

Hera glowered. “You no longer want Apollo’s hand in marriage? Fickle girl. Marriage takes dedication and work.”

“Yea, we have this wonderful invention called dating to figure that out if we wanna marry someone, now.” Joey waved her hand and Will looked like he might pass out from her flippant reaction. Euna felt it justified. Apollo was way too old for her sister. “Apollo made me realize I should prioritize good looks and dancing below making me laugh and caring when I get shoved into a sacrificial fire pit. If I would want anything for what I did, it wouldn’t involve him.”

“Want?” Hera sounded livid. The statue gripped its armrest. “You heroes, always seeking rewards for the tribulations you bring upon yourselves.”

Joey raised her chin. “No—I mean—yea, I’d like to not look like a corpse as a reward. But… no…”

Joey stared off to the side for a moment, her right hand tightening into a fist. Euna wasn’t used to seeing Joey hesitate. That was something Euna thought was pretty awesome and annoying about her sister: her resolve. Joey knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to go after it.

This was new and—for the first time—Euna wondered what Joey had gone through since she died. What could make her sound so uncertain?

“I… I want a chance to be important in the scheme of things,” Joey said, her voice shaking. “I don’t want to fade away or be forgotten or forget. Hera,” Joey made eye contact with the goddess again. Er—stone to eye contact. Could Hera see through this rock? “I… I would like to complete another trial. I would like to do another tribulation. Let me do a quest for you.”

“Also,” Will piped up. “If you could warn the other gods of what’s happening in Camp Half-Blood—”

Hera’s face twisted towards Will. “This camp wouldn’t exist if the gods would honor their marriages,” she snarled. “Why should I help the children of whores?”

“Irony alert! Because none of our parents had to wreck a marriage to have us!” a voice came from outside. “My mom may be a horrible whatever, but she’s not a whore, you b—”

“Ajax, shut up,” another whispered.

Hera snorted. Her face turned, like she was surveying the occupants of the room. Then, the statue leaned over to pluck Persephone’s box off the floor. The room shook with the movement and the grinding of rocks reverberated off the walls.

“Um—Persephone said not to—” Joey started.

“Heroes don’t usually volunteer themselves to me, Joey Song, daughter of Demeter. I need to check that you completed the quest sufficiently before I can give you another.”

Hera opened the box.

Everything hushed. The light from the central fire dimmed further. All Euna could focus on—all any of them could focus on—was the small slip of paper Hera withdrew from the box.

When she shut the lid and set the box on the ground, the universe seemed to sigh in relief.

Except Joey. Joey swallowed audibly.

Hera went completely quiet. There was no expression on that stony face. After a few more moments, Euna thought Hera’s statue had gone back to doing what statues normally do: be a statue.

Enough time had passed that Euna was about to ask Joey, Will, Alabaster, and Pax if they could consider their breakfast options. She was feeling some breakfast burritos.

Then, Hera spoke, in a voice too sweet, “Joey Song… I can give you everything you want. You won’t look like a corpse anymore. And you won’t fade away or be forgotten.”

“Wait—you’re—you’re okay with what Persephone gave you?” Joey asked. Although Joey was facing Hera, Euna could envision her sister’s gape. Joey scrambled to gain her composure while saying, with much more confidence, “You’ll give me another quest?”

Joey twisted to give Euna another grin, as though to say two quests a head of you. Get on my level.

“Oh no. A quest won’t be necessary. I know a fitting reward for conspiring with Persephone,” Hera said, and snapped her fingers.

Nothing seemed to change. Euna couldn’t understand what was wrong, though she knew something was. Her sister was still smiling at her. Hera’s statue resumed its original position of glowering down at them.

Will stared at Joey in horror.

Euna didn’t get why. Even if Hera hadn’t given Joey another quest, at least Joey had completed this one. They could go get breakfast, swap stories, and exchange their goodbyes. Joey could scold Euna for joining the huntresses of Artemis and for not trying to get in Calex’s pants. Joey could depart for the Elysian Fields with a proper party. That’s where ghosts like Joey would go now, right?

Would it be rude to eat in front of ghosts? Could they get ghostly meals for Will and Joey in a mini celebration? Euna knew how terrible it was to watch others eat when you didn’t have anything.

But Joey didn’t continue to gloat. Nor did she shout indignantly when Hera’s presence exited and they were left with this icy, silent room.

She kept grinning at Euna with that same proud smile. Euna couldn’t see through Joey anymore. Her sister’s skin looked ashy. Euna hadn’t understood when a grey-white color spread from Joey’s foot, up through the rest of her. Not until Euna stepped forward and touched Joey’s cheek, now as cold as the walls of Hera’s cabin.

Everything was so quiet. All this time, Euna had been hoping for silence. She’d wanted the plant and farmer prayers to quiet. She’d wanted to get her sister’s scream out of her head. She’d wanted everyone to stop asking her if she was okay.

Now, all Euna could do was stare at her sister’s form—frozen in a life-size statue, matching the one of Hera behind her—wishing Joey would talk.

Euna’s fist shook around Backbiter’s hilt. Her gaze drifted over to the rosewood box. The silence was filled when Backbiter reminded her, Even the gods fear nothingness.

Soundtrack time! Written to Arai Tasuku’s Aileen’ Unseen Things and Time Passing Bell.

Mel Beta-comment: “I NOW WANT EUNA TO GO AFTER HERA AND CHOP HER UP!”

Thank you for reading! Mel is ready to pass out Camp Othrys Part II: The Fillet of Hera shirts. Stay tuned for next week’s chapter: Ajax: We Could Have Had a Slide or a Fireman’s Pole to see who else joins in that shirt party.

Footnote:

[1] What Euna doesn’t realize: office parties inspire this type of anger in anyone. The traumatic past is unnecessary.

#The Attrition of Peace #HOO #PJO #Heroes of Olympus #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #fanfiction #Traitors of Olympus #Euna is piiiiiissssseeeeedddd #I absolutely couldn't sleep and now I'm in the horrible debate of whether or not it is better to just stay up or not #Dear Phobetor--why meeee?!? Please just knock me out!#I want to be among the sleep!!!!#Na--that sounds morbid. I'll sit here editing chapters #I hope you enjoy!

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slugmanslime · 7 years

Text

Coming Undone (Ch. 3)

As previously mentioned, this is a re-write of Cant Get Enough, all leading up to the final chapter, soon to be posted! If you’ve read the original story, you might be able to tell where I changed or edited things– hopefully for the better! My betas have told me that the pace and flow is much improved!

You can also find all the chapters of this story and more on my AO3 and FF.net accounts ^~^

Chapter Three: Cut Your Losses

Pairings: past!Son Goku/ChiChi, Piccolo/ChiChi Warnings: Mentions of MC Death, Male/Female Violence, Blood Mention, Things are Heating Up ™, Faint DubCon Fic Type: Multi-Chapter 3 /4 Word Count: 2,647

She wrapped her grubby fingers around his wrist, holding his hand in place as if she didn’t want her episode to drive him away as she fought for control over her subsiding giggles. Once in control again, ChiChi shot him an apologetic look, her lips still crooked upwards as she took in the bafflement etched into his features.

Slowly, she disentangled his fingers from her hair, and his stomach dropped. This was it, this was going to be round two. When she withdrew, leaving his skin cooler than normal, she was still smirking but at least looked abashed, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. By the time ChiChi made direct eye contact with him, the despair she had been fighting earlier had lessened but was still ever present. Piccolo’s bold display of physical comfort left her simultaneously yearning for more and disgusted with herself. She was still married!… Wasn’t she?

“Goodness gracious, Piccolo… I would hope that ain’t how you comfort all of yer friends…” Chichi teased him, hoping to mask her own discomfort and unease with the turn that the night had taken. He responded by flashing his fangs, a sneer lingering on his face as he dragged a clawed appendage over the blood tracks from his busted lip.

A bloody gob of spit landed near her right, a back-handed affront that needed no explanation. “I don’t have any friends to comfort. Besides, I just slipped, accidents happen.” That was a total lie, and they both knew it, but the fact that she was willing to injure his pride to salvage hers wasn’t worth the argument it would erupt into.

“You… slipped? Piccolo, don’t be childish.”

“Me? The childish one? Says the woman who can’t have a rational talk about emotions without bashing someone’s head in. Goten can discuss his feelings better than you can.” With a flurry of fabric, Piccolo towers over her, casting a bleaker darkness over the spot in which she knelt with his broad shoulders. That youthful malcontent ChiChi had noted earlier in the evening was back with a vengeance, and it suddenly dawned on her just what it was Piccolo was doing.

When was the last time he had engaged in a meaningful conversation with anyone about emotions? How much practice did he have in exerting empathy or sympathy for others? This process was most likely just as awkward and painful for him as it was for her, and here she was, riling him up like a hunting dog on the scent of game. His inexperience was the ham hock on the cutting block, and she held the cleaver—which was how she usually liked it, but somehow, right now, it felt… wrong, almost rude. She had been awful to him tonight, the only person who she could count on consistently to look after not only her family but herself included. Oh Kami… ChiChi wilted under the weight of her own thoughts, her doubts and fears swirling inside her mind like a hurricane. There was no way she could apologize now, the damage had been done.

For a moment, the harsh, brooding Namekian that had practically adopted her sons and trained them, guided them, had opened himself up to her. Piccolo had been vulnerable with her for a split second, and ChiChi stomped all over him. Not only did she just rebuff his attempts at being an outlet for her internalized agony and self-depreciating loneliness, but he was… openly affectionate. It made her chest constrict painfully, thinking of how Goku rarely kissed her, or held her. She knew he loved her when it counted—she had two beautiful sons thanks to him—but to be around for them, and to give her company when she needed it most? She had Piccolo to thank for that. ChiChi felt sick.

A cold sweat broke out on her skin, dewing in the chilled night air. Her epiphany ran through her mind lightning quick, although it felt like it took her ages to connect the dots. Disdain fell away in the face of mortification, and ChiChi blinked, wringing her hands abashedly as she searched for the right words. “Look, Piccolo, I… I appreciate what yer doin’ here and all, but I…”

“You what, ChiChi? I refuse to let myself be embarrassed here. If you lie, I can lie too. You don’t need any help? Then I slipped.” With every syllable his voice slipped closer and closer to a hiss, arms wrapped tightly across his chest. After a moment of clambering, ChiChi stood as well, fists clenched at her sides while she floundered for an appropriate response that didn’t involve an outright apology.

“You got me tah admit that I was scared, at least! Whadya you want, a medal or something?” Angry fists splayed out into exasperated jazz hands as ChiChi threw out her arms, expectant for some kind of validation for such a simple act. After a brief moment, her posture slumped, arms falling back to her side once more.

Shining fangs peeked out from Piccolo’s scoff, resentment burning like bile in the back of his throat; this wasn’t his ChiChi, pathetic and shaken. His ChiChi was strong, determined, kind and loving and above all understanding. She was the stubborn current guiding the people she loved in the right direction even when they tried to stray. Now here she was, floundering in the spray, unable to determine up from down.

“You shouldn’t have allowed it to get this bad, ChiChi. Look at you.” A single, thick finger curls under her dimpled chin, tilting her face upwards. Her brow was puckered, her embarrassed frown out of place on her expression; she chewed her lip as he spoke, nervous about his proximity. “You’re gonna let Goku make you grey before your prime, and he’s been buried for years now. Isn’t it time you let him be in peace?”

Of course, at the mention of her deceased husband, a light flickered on in her eyes, her lips drawing up into something feral; Piccolo set off yet another landmine. In the back of his mind he wondered when the day will come that he managed to catch a break from these Sons. They had too many damn emotions for him to deal with and get out alive.

Any other thoughts he could have had are drawn short as hands, tiny compared to his own, shoved at his diaphragm; not chest, exactly, ChiChi wasn’t quite tall enough, but her palms jammed into the space right below his ribcage once, then twice, and thrice with increasing force. Another gust of warm summer wind rustled through the clearing, pushing errant wisps of long hair into both of their faces as she glared up at him, hands still splayed on his midsection while her chest heaved.

The moon had reached its crescendo in the sky while the pair drug on their stare down, both unwilling to move a muscle let alone blink. ChiChi’s palms were pinpricks of warmth against the cool, rough fabric of Piccolo’s gi, digits twitching every few seconds as she battled against pulling away. Toads bellowed in the distance, their croaking mimicking the rhythm of her heartbeat. Whether it meant he won or lost, Piccolo was the first to move; one massive hand snaked atop both of her own, effectively pinning her in place. Her stunned and mildly offended expression was enough to crack his hard veneer, a smirk quirking on his lips, before his fingers curled around her hands and he pulled upwards. ChiChi, unsuspecting of such callous behavior, was yanked against his chest abruptly, a startled noise spilling from her lips crossly.

“Now jus’ what do you think yer doin’? If you want to fight, then let me go and hit me like a real—” Piccolo used his grip on her hands to jostle her, the shake he gave her wiggling her down to her toes and summarily shutting her up for a moment.

“When are you going to let go, ChiChi? Goku did what he could with his life, and now it’s your turn. You get to make your own decisions, and live your own life how you want to.”

His grip is bordering on bruising, his aim not to hurt so much as to get her attention, and while ChiChi understood, she didn’t have to like it. She writhed in his grip, twisting this way and that as she groused at him. “I know that! Why won’t yah let this go? Why does it bother you so badly?” It was kind of amusing, watching her wiggle and fuss in his grip, like a snake in the talons of a falcon. What wasn’t so amusing is when ChiChi kicked him in his poor, unguarded shin with all her might.

Piccolo uttered a guttural growl and released his grip on her almost immediately, shoving her away with a fraction of the power he actually possessed, yanking up his leg to hold the offended calf. ChiChi hit the ground with a soft ‘oof’, catching herself before she sprawled on the ground and sitting on her rump, fingers spread out to her sides as they pressed into the wet dirt.

When the line shifted from an argument back to the fight was unclear, but aggression was mounting, tension crackling in the air. Piccolo stooped with a whirl of his cape to crouch atop the smaller woman, soaking the knees of his pants in dewy patch of grass they were flopped on. His broad chest blocked out any watery moonlight that could have allowed her a better view, and yet, the darkness where his eyes would be was all she could focus on. A heavy white drape formed around the duo, Piccolo’s cape creating a cocoon and trapping their simmering emotions. ChiChi wasn’t going to take that laying down of course, and wriggled beneath him, shoving at his chest and kicking her legs with little snarls and stinging curses.

His agitation mounting, Piccolo fisted a hand in her hair, not pulling enough to hurt her but definitely tugging it enough to put them face to face.

He quietly observed her writhing beneath him, pawing at his chest, fingers scrabbling in the fabric of his gi while her eyes squeezed shut; he knew that after their earlier fight, she was going to wear herself out sooner or later and well… he liked the view. It was an out of body ordeal, something he would never admit to of course; there was just something so intoxicating about the expressions she made, the breathy rasping groans she released into the space between them, her hand’s frantic search for purchase against his skin.

“ChiChi…” Piccolo’s usual gravelly baritone was an uneven whisper, stunning his own ears. His grip slacked fractionally, enough for his captive to open those stunning, flaming eyes and glare up at him with enough fury to set a weaker man ablaze. Of course, he would deny the open way he gazed down at her, soaking in every minute detail of her face, glowing with anger and a youth he remembered from so long ago.

What Piccolo couldn’t deny was the way his lips felt pressed against hers. Anxious and harsh, there was no finesse to the way he mashed their mouths together, breathing harshly through his nose. And it was the last thing ChiChi was wanting or expecting at that very second.

Calloused hands shoved at his face, blunt nails digging into his cheeks, but they found no purchase against the residual spit and blood coating his cheeks. Something akin to an enraged howl bubbled in her throat and spilled hotly against his lips. It did not serve its intended purpose to dissuade the dogged Namekian; instead, it elicited a much fiercer growl from him, reverberating in the space between them. Heat washed over her body, lighting all her senses on fire—her scalp was aching, lips and skin tingling, hands sweating as they balled into the Piccolo’s gi… and pulled him closer.

Stunned by her sudden attitude adjustment, Piccolo’s lips retreated from hers by a hair, their shared panting mingling in the space left between. There was no light, no way to see, but he didn’t need light to know exactly how she looked, he could feel it. Their noses, one small and blunt, the other large and curved at the tip, skimmed each other, the unconscious trembling caused by the adrenaline that had flooded their systems going by unnoticed.

“I spent my life waiting on him… Now he ain’t comin’ back.” If not for his incredible hearing, Piccolo would have missed her whispered confession. Her fists were clenching and unclenching in his gi, pulling the fabric taut across his back every so often. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this…”

“As if you could control anything, ChiChi. This isn’t your fault.” Piccolo sent a silent thanks to Kami for the brief swell of compassion he felt. Feather-light and nervous, wide, flat lips brushed against plump, chapped ones—more of a silent query than the brutish demand he exerted earlier. ChiChi responded with a peck, a press of lips followed by a retreat. She was being… shy? After everything that just happened?

“Piccolo, you never answered me. What are you doin’?”

“You said you were lonely. I’m… I’m proving you wrong.” That was a smaller truth, one he felt comfortable admitting. Of course, it felt like his chest was going to explode, but how was he supposed to tell her that if he didn’t kiss her he would combust? If he ended up making something awkward, or if he said something callous, he would just have to deal with it. “Being the mate of a Saiyan has worn you down to this pitiful state. But I’ve known you long enough to be sure that this isn’t who you are.” Years had come and gone, battles and wounds, heartache and happiness and family, and Piccolo had always been there, an unwilling fixture in ChiChi’s life since the day Son Goku asked her to be his wife.

“You think yah know me so well, don’t yah?” Her nose drew up in a scrunch, he could feel her skin sliding against his own. In the darkness, his mouth drew up into an rare genuine smile—one that she couldn’t possibly see.

“I’d say so. The ChiChi I know is a fighter—I thought I saw her earlier when you were handing my ass to me.”

ChiChi scoffed. “Of course, I’m still a fighter! The rascals I hang around keep me on my toes, no matter how much I want a simple life.” Her grip relaxed, releasing the fabric and instead she clasped her hands around his neck, arms hanging limp. She wondered if he could tell that her glare lacked any heat. Who was he to assume that just because she was down on her luck that she’d lost herself?

“Oh yeah?” Was he… was he laughing at her? She might not have been able to see him, but there was a kind of humor in his voice that was unmistakable—she heard it in Gohan’s all the time. Just when she managed to get her heart rate back under control, it stumbled inside her chest thinking of Piccolo’s devilish toothy smile—the one he liked to hide but she was so fond of. Fumbling as it was, when he spoke again, ChiChi’s heart did a faceplant.

“I think you miss the adventure sometimes, even with your simple life. Maybe I can help you with that?”

A pert, pink tongue darted out to wet her lips before she responded. “And just how do yah plan on doin’ that?”

Piccolo hummed thoughtfully, sending shivers of gooseflesh up her spine as he nosed the shell of her ear. “Why don’t I start by showing you what it feels like to not be lonely?”

#Coming Undone #Cant Get Enough #fanfiction #DBZ #rewrite #Chiccolo #ChiChi #Piccolo #violence #slowburn

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thelearningcurv · 5 years

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Heres more progress in the #DBZ #sketches I've done for practice. The fun part of collaging character sketches is seeing if they end up fitting together as you envisioned they would and/or seeing how they need to fit if that doesn't happen as seamlessly as you may want. It's like a puzzle with characters rather than tiny pieces. I've got a few more characters that I want to try my hand at and then some villains who will litter the foreground=] hope you're enjoying the ride! . . . #dragonball #DragonBallZ #DragonBallSuper #FutureTrunks #Krillin #tien #chiaotzu #piccolo #zfighters #supersaiyan #namakian #anime #manga #cartoon #cartooncharacter #cartoonnetwork #cn #toomami #fanart #art #drawing #sketch #inks #inking #characterstudy #JavierCruzWinnik https://www.instagram.com/p/BxaTgBahSCY/?igshid=1jis3nj6bmha5

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magicalgirlmascot · 7 years

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Can I request number 6 in "For want a Nail" form 🙏. Pretty sure piccolo would be the that kind of partner in a relationship

“You can’t kick me out! This is my bed!”

Piccolo rubbed at his eyes, half swaying on his feet. He’d never been this tired before. His eyes hurt and his head pounded and it was a struggle to concentrate. He never should have started skipping out on his meditations. And for what? More sparring, more training, more excuses to spend time with Nail. It was pitiful. Weak and pitiful. And now he was going to pass out for it.

“You’ve been neglecting your body again, haven’t you.”

Nail’s comment was not a question. He propped his hands on his hips, looking at Piccolo impassively. Piccolo shrugged. “What, you care or something?” His voice was rough with exhaustion and he winced to hear it. Disgusting.

“Yeah, actually, I do.” Nail shook his head. “This may shock you, Piccolo, but most people have this thing called ‘compassion’ that compels them to feel bad for others.”

“I know what compassion is,” Piccolo growled, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It helped ground him and woke him up a touch, but he was still bone tired. He was going to collapse from exhaustion at this rate.

“Here.” Hands were on his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. “You need to sleep.”

Piccolo tried to glare at him, but he wasn’t sure how successful it was. “I don’t sleep. You don’t sleep. Our entire species doesn’t sleep.”

“We do if we’ve been forgetting to actually take a rest for a week straight,” Nail shot back. “Just for a little while. Humans call it a ‘power nap,’ I think. Come on.” He tugged, and Piccolo followed, not bothering to resist. There wouldn’t be much point, anyway; in his state he could only put up a token resistance. Nail could overpower him easily, and he refused to give the bastard that satisfaction.

Nail led him down the hallway to the room he’d taken over when he and Piccolo first defused and Nail started living on the Lookout. From what Piccolo knew, he mostly used it as storage for the things he collected when they went sparring–rocks, branches, dried plants, living plants in tiny jars or pieces of broken pottery. There wasn’t much other use for it, since they didn’t sleep. Piccolo certainly never used the room that Mr. Popo insisted belonged to him. The only one who ever slept there was Gohan on the rare occasion he stayed on the Lookout overnight.

To Piccolo’s surprise, though, the bed in the corner looked fairly well used. He raised a brow at Nail, who shrugged. “It’s comfortable, and sometimes I like somewhere quiet to relax with a good book. Now come on, lie down.” Grumbling, Piccolo crossed to the bed and started to crawl onto it. “Hold on.” Nail’s hands gently lifted Piccolo’s turban off. “You don’t want to have your weighted clothes on for this. I swear, Piccolo, that’s half the reason you’re so tired all the time.”

“Some of us aren’t happy getting complacent during peace time,” Piccolo muttered, but he tugged his cape off and let it fall to the floor before crawling onto the bed.

As soon as his body hit the mattress, it was a struggle to keep his eyes open. Shit. Nail had been right. Piccolo needed this. The last thing he registered before dozing off was a slight dip in the mattress behind him.

When Piccolo woke, it was dark, and he peered blearily around to see if he could figure out where he was. It was comfortable, and warm. His eyes started to drift shut again. Surely a few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

Something shifted behind him and his eyes blinked open again. There was an arm across his waist, pulling him flush against a body. He rolled over and squinted through the darkness. It was Nail, of course it was Nail. Piccolo couldn’t even be surprised.

Although wait, yes he could. It was all coming back to him now–he’d been so tired, and Nail had dragged him to his bed to sleep, and there he was, and there Nail was, except why was Nail with him? Such proximity was making Piccolo feel things, uncomfortable things, the same things that drove him to seek Nail out every waking minute while also screaming at himself to push Nail away. It took a long time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when they did his vision was filled with Nail’s calm, sleeping face, and he swallowed.

Nail was so…attractive. There was really no other word for him. His full lips were parted slightly and Piccolo wanted to touch them. But that would be so inappropriate, so he held back, instead resting a hand on Nail’s side and closing his eyes again. He still needed his sleep.

The second time Piccolo woke up, it was to Nail’s smiling face. “Hi there,” he murmured. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Piccolo mumbled, blinking sleep from his eyes. The situation suddenly registered, far clearer than it had while he was still half-asleep, and he shoved away from Nail, his back slamming into the wall. His eyes went wide and panicked. “What the hell?” he demanded. “Why–why are you here?”

“I needed some sleep too.” Nail shrugged with one shoulder. “Come on, can’t a guy sleep in his own bed?”

“But–” Piccolo rubbed his forehead. “I’m sleeping here. Get out.”

Nail jerked back in shock. “I–you can’t kick me out! This is my bed!”

“Well I–you–we can’t be in the same bed, that’s just weird.” Piccolo shook his head and sat up. “I’m not sleeping with you. If you won’t go, I will.”

“What, so you can work yourself half to death again?” Nail grabbed Piccolo’s shoulder and shoved him back down. “I don’t think so.”

Something in Piccolo’s stomach twisted about how easily Nail could push him around, but that wasn’t the problem right now. The problem was Nail’s very handsome face directly over his, and the colour creeping up Piccolo’s exposed neck. “Let go of me before I do something we’re both going to regret.”

Nail leaned down, fangs bared. “Try me.”

Without thinking, Piccolo grabbed both sides of Nail’s face and pulled their foreheads together with an audible clack. He squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his antennae around Nail’s in a searing kiss. Yes, this is what he’d wanted, what he’d really been searching Nail out for. Nail didn’t move against him, but he didn’t struggle either, and Piccolo opened his eyes to see Nail staring bewilderedly at him.

“What…” he whispered hoarsely. One hand came up to cup Piccolo’s face. “What are you doing?”

Piccolo swallowed. “I can’t sleep with you because I don’t understand what these feelings are yet.” It was only a partial truth, but it was easier than the full truth. He understood his feelings just fine–better than usual, a little too well, even. He just didn’t want to admit them. “I want to kiss you and–other things.”

“Other things?” Nail smirked and slid one antenna up Piccolo’s, drawing a startled gasp. “Well. Lucky for you,” he said, brushing a thumb over Piccolo’s cheekbone, “I want to kiss you too.”

#ask ed #WHOOO STUPID SHIT GOOD NIGHT ALL #ALSO just so everyone knows the ship tag is mean and green #for want of a nail is nail's tag #picconail #dbz #dragon ball z #fanfiction #writing #tsundad #for want of a nail #mean and green

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