Chapter 27 - Wake me up when September begins

Her sleep was deep, but not dreamless.

Images kept flashing incoherently through her mind. Dreams of strength and power. She could take bullets head on, she could overthrow tanks, she could uproot entire buildings and turn them on the head of her enemies. As strong as Goku. Stronger, even.

She had nothing to fear. She could bring justice and repair all torts and have some fun in the process. She could be adored as a saviour. She felt her chest swell with pride, joy and an inebriating sense of freedom.

She could do anything. She was powerful.

June 23, 750

Red Ribbon Headquarters

When Bulma came to her senses, the pain was the first thing that came back. Dull, throbbing pain in all muscles and tendons and joints. Then, slowly, came back hearing and sight, and full consciousness. After squinting a bit in front of the bright light (her eyes were hypersensitive too), she managed to get a sense of her surroundings. She was in the white environment of an infirmary, lying on a cot. A sharp pain in her right arm - slightly different from the pain she felt in everything else - made her notice that there was an IV dripping something into her. She also thought there was someone else in the room, but couldn't well turn her head to see.

"How long," she asked, and each word, too, was painful, "how long was I out?"

"Barely fifteen minutes," answered the deep voice of Commander Black. "I apologize, miss Bulma. I thought it would be fine to leave you alone with that man, since you had a bodyguard. It did not occur to me that the biggest danger to your safety could come from yourself."

"Shows that you don't know me," chuckled Bulma. The Commander didn't show any sign of being amused. "How bad is it?"

"Not as bad as I'm sure it feels," he replied. "All your bones are intact, if that's your worry. The nurse was very confused. You're perfectly healthy, other than for the fact that you look like you managed to exhaust yourself utterly, the way a human body would after days and days of continued, extenuating physical labour."

The man paused.

"I left you alone for twenty minutes, miss Bulma."

The girl pushed herself a bit up. It cost effort and more pain, but she didn't like talking without seeing her interlocutor. Black, it turned out, had an expression between reproach and bafflement.

"There's a trick to it, of course," she said. "I'm afraid that falls within the, ah, scope of those things I'm not supposed to divulge too much into detail."

"Of course," Black sighed. "I will not inform your father. You should recover soon anyway, from what the doctor says, with just rest and a healthy dose of nutrients to replenish everything you used up. I think our relationship is strained enough without him knowing I allowed his daughter to get into an infirmary within one hour since when she was left in my care."

"Why, thank you, partner in crime." Bulma grinned. Then she frowned in worry. "That makes me think - who brought me here?"

"I did," said Bandages stepping from the side. "Gotcha right up after you fell down. That lecher old doctor, why, he was already going for you. Grabbing and touching you around. I got him to take his paws off."

"What!," Black was outraged. "I knew he could be unscrupled but I didn't think-"

"Ah, relax, Commander." Bulma raised a hand weakly. "I'm sure it's a, huh, misunderstanding. Dr. Gero couldn't resist his need to know what am I hiding under my clothes, is all."

Bandages frowned. "Yeah, that's what I said."

The commander was quicker on the uptake. "Your trick, I guess?"

She nodded. "Well, I'll have to tell him something of course, or we won't be able to work together. But it will be on my terms - sorry, Commander, you understand. Still, it's good that he's hooked on this little mystery now. Maybe he'll stop being such a bore."

"You intend to use your tech as... bait?" Black was baffled. "To get him to cooperate?"

"You know a better way?"

The Commander paused for a while, thinking back to years, decades of working with doctor Gero as the leader of the research division. Years of amazing technological advances and even more amazing headaches.

"Just try your best to stay safe, miss Bulma," he concluded. "I'll go back to my job."

In the dream, the city was under siege. Malicious, nameless power had grasped at it; the cowards and the sicophants had jumped at the chance of serving it, while the weak suffered under its boot. She was alone, with a few loyal friends, fighting a battle with no end and no hope of victory.

But there, at the core of the strife, she felt free.

June 26, 750

West City

The room was a lounging space with a couple sofas, ill assorted chairs and other random furniture, as well as a couple shelves full of books. The night before, there had been laughing, and music, and endless debating and arguing about how to best continue opposing those who wanted their city turned into an ugly replica of a military fortress. Now there was none of that - just a bit of morning light filtering through the windows, a lingering smell of alcohol, and the snoring of a couple of the louder guys.

Erasa got up from the sofa she'd fallen asleep on with a start, then, realising after a moment where she was, and feeling the dizziness of an imminent hangover, she groaned and let herself fall back. Some of the guys were more in the habit of sleeping at the venue after a meeting, but she usually would go back home. Last night, though, she'd lost control a bit.

She was startled when she put down a foot and instead of the floor found someone. Sure enough, on the floor right next to her was sleeping Yamcha, the guy she'd invited to the meeting in provocation at the protest against Capsule Corporation and who had actually shown up the night before, all sweaty and slightly worked up, but not a minute late. She'd asked why he'd felt the need to run, he'd replied that it was just an evening jog.

She looked at him, then at herself. She focused really hard to think about last night. She was pretty sure she'd not lost control that much, though.

He didn't show any signs of waking up; she needed to get off the sofa. Well, he looked tough built, he probably could take some punishment. So she just stepped on his chest and used him as a step. Coffee needed to be made.

"What's the big idea?," mumbled the boy, turning around and rubbing his eyes.

"Breakfast," answered Erasa, deadpan. She tossed a few spoons of sugar in each of two cups. "If you want to be functioning today, you'll need it."

"Uh, sure. What time is it?"

She checked the wall clock. "Half past seven," she replied.

"Oh, crap! I have to go!"

Yamcha jumped up from the floor, suddenly fully awake. He didn't even wait for Erasa to pour any coffee, since it was still boiling - he just grabbed the cup and chugged down the sugar as it was.

"What's the rush?," she asked, amused. "That Bulma works you that hard? You know, you have rights-"

"That's not it," he said, running to the door. "This is more of a, huh, volunteering thing. A hero thing. A save-the-world kind of thing."

"Well, now that's my kind of thing." Erasa smiled. "Am I invited?"

Yamcha stumbled a bit. "Problem is, it's a bit far." he said, looking away from her.

She scoffed. "How far can it be?"

"About 2,000 kilometres," replied Yamcha, and he zoomed out of the door, closing it behind him.

Erasa blinked. Why, all in all, it wouldn't be too bad if he showed up again, she thought.

There was gunfire all around him, and raging war machines running over trees and across muddy terrain, and planes screaming through the sky, and bombs and artillery shell tearing holes in it all. He'd seen it often. He'd dreamed of it even more often.

He'd never been so afraid of it before.

July 2, 750

The plains west of the Capital

The soldier woke up. The soldier walked quickly into the field showers that were part of the large capsule barracks, got washed in his three minutes of allotted time, dressed in uniform and geared up. He tied the red bandana that was the symbol and pride of his army to his left arm last. He checked his gun. He checked his ammunition.

The sergeant gave a quick briefing. They had been stationed there to stand guard in case something happened. Well, something had happened. A small force of the traitors had been spotted and seemed to be marching south-west. It was probably just a minor action; perhaps they were trying to recover some of the material dropped during their rushed abandonment of Desert Fox Den. But harassing such small forces was what they were there for. It was hardly the stuff that wins wars, but someone ought to do it. That someone was them. So they damn better do it properly.

The soldier marched with hundreds of his companions next to him. They spread out, camouflaged and prepared an ambush. The terrain didn't offer much for that, so they would need to move fast. They would be spotted soon. There would be a lot of firing, and very little cover to hide behind. There were some of those new incredible civilians back at HQ; the soldier had seen them, and even trained with them, once. But they were too important to incommodate for something like this. One does not play their best card so early in the match. The soldier knew he wasn't one of the best cards at all.

The firing started. The soldier shot back when necessary, tossed grenades when necessary, took cover when necessary. Training made it all automatic. He just had to rely on those instincts to do what they needed and get him out alive. Shoot, toss, cover. Easy.

There was something though. A feeling of unease on the back of his mind. Something lingering from when he'd woken up - he was not sure what. But his reactions, he thought, were slower today. He tossed when he should have shot. He didn't take cover until one second too late. The bullets were already zipping above him, and missed him by sheer dumb luck.

He breathed and steadied himself. This was work. He'd done it a hundred times before. He was trained for it. It was easy.

He was sure he had it now. He got up, with renewed confidence.

He should have shot. He knew he should. The enemy was in his crosshair. But his finger betrayed him - just a trembling, an instant of weakness, in which it didn't squeeze the trigger quite hard enough.

Someone else shot first, and the feeling of unease went away, and so did everything else.

He was surrounded by allies, and it felt worse than being surrounded by enemies. He could not see their faces; it was as if a thousand blank mannequins walked next to him, a thousand puppets whose strings ended in unknown hands. He knew the attack would come, eventually. He kept ready to meet it in kind; his gun ready, his attention sharp as it had never been before. Yet he also knew it would still not be enough. A blade would lift, and it would sink in his back, and no matter how keen he was, he would not be fast, sharp, distrustful enough to see where it was coming from.

He'd never felt so betrayed.

July 5, 750

"-and the attacking force managed to retreat with minimal losses, which at this point is, huh..."

The soldier giving the report trailed off, as he realised his boss wasn't really listening any more. Commander Black was half bent over his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"That's enough, soldier," he said, with a weary voice. "You are dismissed."

The soldier saluted and walked out of the office. Black was left alone with his thoughts, the printouts of many reports like the one he'd just heard from the days before, and a heavy, oppressive silence.

"Who is it?," he mumbled to himself, shuffling around all the reports.

Because it had to be someone. One loss in conditions where they should have had all the advantages could be a coincidence. Two were the sign that something may be wrong. Four in a row meant there was a big problem. It was either incompetence or treachery at work, and he didn't think of himself as being incompetent.

These were all minor skirmishes, of course, nothing decisive, but all part of the vast game of chess he was playing on the world's board against - who was leading the Instruments again?, they didn't really know. Maybe Colonel Green, he saw his hand behind some of the sneaky tactics he was facing. Control of information, of transport, of territory was going to be key, come the day the Dragon Balls awaken again. Whoever could start maneuver their troops closer, and faster, would win. And it was only a few cities out there, and an awful lot of scarcely populated and often inhospitable lands that the King himself had a hard time upholding his law over.

And they were losing that game.

The pattern was irregular but unmistakeable. They would launch a few attacks, obtain some wins, usually with the enemy retreating a bit too fast, fighting not hard enough. Then they would get intel about a safe opportunity and find themselves facing instead twice the numbers they thought they would; or suddenly forced to confront the opponent from an unfavourable position. And none of that could happen if the enemy didn't have reliable information on them. Which meant someone was passing it to them.

And really, he should have seen it coming. They had been betrayed once already. Why not twice? Why couldn't the Instruments just do the smart thing, and leave aside a few soldiers with the order to not participate in the global mutiny, but stay behind, pretend they were still loyal, and then pass around the occasional hint?

Black raised himself from his seat and left the office. He walked through the corridors of strategic command and downstairs to the entertainment and training facilities, where the gym was. He stripped himself to only a pair of trunks, bandaged his hands, put on gloves, and started punching.

As he hit the sandbag time and time again, with all the anger he would have rather unleashed on his enemies, his mind cleared up. He knew well the way forward in this kind of situation, after all. When only one logical path is open to you, there is no reason to hesitate taking it. He would have to operate in the assumption that everyone could be compromised; simple as that. He would have to devise operations planned as honey pots to draw the traitors out. He would redouble controls over everyone who had miraculously escaped from bases that had otherwise been overwhelmed by the Instruments; and for every soldier there would be limits placed on their ability to communicate with the outside. It wouldn't be popular with them, but this was not the time for worrying about popularity. And the final plan, of course, needed to be designed with all this in mind. They could take one or two leaks now, however damaging they might be. They could not take any weakness once the day of the all-out battle came.

That was all there was to it. Just trust no one. How hard could it be?

She was in a large room, in a big castle. She was surrounded by mounds, mountains of toys. Dolls and plushies and rocking horses. She had a beautiful canopy bed and a wardrobe full of beautiful dresses, worthy of a princess, like she was.

But she was alone.

July 7, 750

King Pilaf's castle

"And well, the Ki- I mean, the usurper has called us again, suggesting that there are some common training exercises that-"

"YER NOT DRAGGING ME TO THOSE DEAD! IF YA WEREN'T MY FUTURE SON-IN-LAW, I'D SPLIT YER HEAD WITH MY AXE FOR SUGGESTING IT!"

Pilaf ran speedily to barely keep pace with the Ox King, who was striding purposefully through one door after the other in the castle, slamming them open at his passage. They entered the main hall.

"I'm the big bad wolf!," was saying Shu, with eyes wide open and an exaggerated, ferocious grimace, "and I'm here to eaaaaahuuuuumpff-"

As the Ox King passed him, his billowing cape caught Shu's head in it, dragging him on the floor. Chichi, whose voice was already ringing with laughter from the impression, started literally rolling on the floor. Then she tossed herself on Shu, sinking the hands in his fur. After all, there were good sides to both big brothers and puppies, and here she had a perfect hybrid of both.

"Hey, boss," whispered Shu from the floor, eyeing Pilaf, who was tailing the Ox King, "what's the big fight about?"

The other didn't answer, just made an alarmed face and a gesture meaning I'll explain later. Then caught to his angry guest.

"You agreed to fight, right?," he said, "So why would you not-"

"I agreed to fight alright!" the Ox King crossed his arms and wore an angry scowl. "These guys don't just threaten our unified kingdom, they want to revive Piccolo! Piccolo, of all things! I have to do this as a former disciple of Muten, not just as yer ally! It is my duty as a man!"

"Very well," Pilaf smiled, "so why not fight together with those who already are, you know, fighting it? It only makes our chances better!"

"Ha! Better! A whole lot of nothings is still nothing! I won't be caught fighting with those Red Ribbon murderers dead! They want to do their own thing, long as they don't get in my way, they're welcome to it. I'll listen to what that Bulma girl has to suggest, she's a smart lass, and to Master Muten allright. But yer not making me rank and file with those - with those-!"

Chichi got up from the floor, and squeezed Shu's arm. She had lost her hilarity, now. He could see she was a bit scared by her father's outburst of anger, or perhaps she was thinking of something else. He thought to try and distract her with some more faces, but she didn't look like she'd care much for that now.

"Can't you do it at least for Chichi's sake?," asked Pilaf. "If it helps you be safer, shouldn't you-"

A massive finger pushing on his head stopped him in his tracks. Pilaf raised his eyes, terrified, as the Ox King kept him effortlessly pinned in place and bent over to talk to him face-to-face.

"Yer not convincing me by bringing my daughter into it," he said, quietly, and somehow that was even scarier than when he'd been shouting before. "Red Ribbon soldiers these, and Red Ribbon that, they're all the same. I'm going to slaughter the ones who want to revive Piccolo, and the others get a pass. For now. But I'm not helping them, I'm not fighting next to them, I'm not training with them. Ya want me to do it for Chichi? Do ya know who tried to take my kingdom, years ago? Do ya know why she doesn't have a mother?"

Pilaf didn't know. But, he felt now, he had an inkling. Defeated, he averted his eyes and said nothing.

Chichi, however, probably knew all too well, he realised, when he saw her come forward with an expression close to crying. He felt bad for having created the situation - but what was going through her father's head, too, to say that sort of stuff in front of her?

She ran up to her dad, and without saying anything, she hugged his giant leg, which she could barely circle with both her arms. The Ox King let Pilaf go and used his hand to pat her head. He looked at her for a long moment, thinking about something, but he had his helmet on, covering his eyes, and so whatever his thoughts were, they remained his own.

"I have to do it this way," he said, finally. "As a man."

He marched in unison with a thousand more. Where was cynicism, he felt inspiration. Where had been skepticism, he felt the joy of being the part of a whole and a purpose.

He wasn't afraid, he didn't doubt, he didn't hesitate. He had faith.

July 12, 750

Ptero tribe village

The shaman's hut was a cramped affair, so chock full of trinkets, dead animals' skulls and skins, amulets, and who knows what else, that it was hard to move inside without hitting something, especially for someone as large as Giran. There was a pungent smell, a mix of the many medicinal, magical and hallucinogenic herbs the shaman always had a reserve of in his pots, and, Giran suspected, some of those skins not being properly tanned.

In the middle, giving the ptero his back, was another of his tribe, an old, grizzled thing; thin, skeletal arms and wings, and a skin stained by age, or too many poisons, maybe. He did not turn around; just raised one sharp claw, in acknowledgement of his guest.

"It's not often I see you here, Giran," he said, in a raspy voice. "In fact, I may not have seen you until you were barely a hatchling."

"Not surprising. This place scared the heck out of me when I was a child."

Giran clumsily sat down, legs crossed, trying not to topple anything. He swatted away some annoying thread that kept obstinately dangling on his forehead from the hut's roof.

"I'd say it perhaps scared you even more as an adult, hmmm?"

The old shaman turned around. He was blind; but he still stared at Giran in a penetrating, fixed way that made him feel uneasy. His eyes were bleached by the disease, and never blinked.

"Me, scared? Of your quackery?" protested the ptero. "I simply did not need it."

The shaman inclined his head to one side, amused, not offended. "And now you do, though?"

"Perhaps." Giran turned quickly to look behind himself, as if to make sure that no one was about to enter the hut. The curtain at the door didn't move, it just lightly swayed in the wind. "I've been... dreaming. A lot."

"Ah. Dreams." The old ptero nodded. "I've heard about them by your father, Giran. About your mission."

"You should not have." grumbled the other. "I swear, he's going to be the death of me-"

"Your father simply needed to confide in someone, to be reassured about the fate of his son. I am with you on this, Giran. You need not fear."

"I know you are. Not everyone is. But listen," Giran leaned in, closer, and lowered his voice, "the mission was completed, and even I can tell that was hardly a coincidence. But there's more. I keep dreaming."

"Oh." The shaman's beak creased. "One loved by the spirits, you are."

"Loved, I would hardly say. The dreams are-," the ptero looked for words, and was at an impasse for a few seconds, "-horrible. Not nightmares, not the usual way. But in them, I'm me, but I'm not me. I feel things that I should not feel, that I do not want to feel."

The other shook his head. "Do we ever feel what we want, Giran? It is more like, our feelings want for us. Perhaps your dreams merely rip away the fiction - but no, I can see from your distress, this goes beyond. What do you fear, though, is what I must wonder? The dreams guided you true the first time. You may have averted a disaster, thanks to them."

"I can heed the spirits' advice," replied Giran, frowning. "I refuse to become their puppet."

"That is not what spirits do, Giran. For generations they have spoken to us, through dreams, at times, when someone needed to hear them. They advised, they warned, they admonished. But never forced or controlled. The spirits, the dreams, can not bring up something that is not in you already somehow. They can mix and piece together to form a new message. But not create. What you saw is a part of you. You can reject it. Though it would be wise to stop and think if you really want to."

Giran seemed to consider that for a moment. "Then answer me this, old wizard. Do our spirits talk to outsiders? I have heard myself the King speak of a dream that sounded just as prophetic as mine. Is this what our spirits would do?"

For a good minute, the shaman pondered. He did not answer; he stayed so immobile that at one point Giran wonder if he should check whether he was dead for good. But then, when he had almost extended his hand to touch him, he found his word again.

"I can not recall of anything like this," he said, "but who knows? Maybe they do. It is a great danger that our tribe faces, to our lives and to our souls. If our spirits may better protect us by whispering in the ears of foreigners and kings, I am sure that as long as it is in their power, they would do so."

"Hah!"

Giran rose to his feet and ambled towards the door.

"I knew I wouldn't hear much of use from you," he said, standing before the curtain. "You really trust your spirits, do you?"

"I am sorry; you must have known, if you looked for someone fuelling your fear and suspicion, it would not be me." The old shaman smiled. "But in the end, you will do what is in you already. And I trust the spirits know that and showed what you needed to see anyway. Let me ask you - could you interpret the meaning of your dreams?"

"Yes," replied Giran. "I believe the spirits want me to join the training with the Red Ribbon I've been invited to, in preparation for the coming war."

The shaman nodded. "I see. And will you do it?"

"No," muttered Giran, and he traversed the curtain, to emerge in the light of day, out of the dark, dusty, smelly hut.

He was reliving memories he often came back to; but this time they were distorted, bundled together in ways that twisted time and the order of events. Where in real life there had always been time to think, to heal, here the blows came one after another, relentless. Every time he'd been defeated, every time his face had been kicked into the mud, every time he'd felt powerless, ashamed, humiliated, unable to protect someone or something.

Every time he'd felt weak.

July 15, 750

Kame Island

Sherry scooped the meal from a large wok into each plate, and Muten nodded approvingly at the pleasant smile that was spreading from them. Krillin would have immediately wolfed it all down too if his master hadn't made it very clear that bad table manners earned you one hundred more push-ups for each infraction, subtracted from the usual daily hour of rest. So he limited himself to looking at the food with very greedy eyes and a slightly drooling mouth.

"Spicy fried rice with chicken and steamed vegetables?," asked Muten, looking at the dish. "Sherry, you're surpassing yourself lately!"

"Spicy egg fried rice," she pointed out, sitting down at the table to join them. "But, huh, not really. It's just that Goku's been pestering me about the microwaved stuff, and he's been suggesting the recipes."

She paused for a moment as she ate the first spoonful.

"And chopping the vegetables." she added.

She took another, and made a pleased, appreciative sound.

"And cooking it, really." she finished.

"Goku, is that true?," Muten was genuinely surprised. "Is that why you asked me to start training earlier so you could have half an hour free before lunch?"

"Well, nutritional balance is very important when training," he said, very seriously, "especially protein to build muscle, and I felt that the ready made meals were not quite up to-"

He couldn't finish as Krillin leaned over the table to grab his spoon, fill it with rice and forcefully stuffing it into his mouth. Goku almost spat all the rice as he was still trying to speak, Muten laughed, Sherry laughed, Krillin laughed, Muten said however funny this still counted as bad manners so he'd have to do the push-ups, Krillin stopped laughing, good times were had.

When it all calmed down, Muten pinched his beard thoughtfully.

"I must say, you're right, Goku," he said. "The body is built of what we eat, after all; without good food there is no good body. I compliment you on your initiative. In fact, I think we can just make it official. I'll change your schedule a bit so we can make cooking a part of it, and Krillin can join you."

"Really?!," said the kid, dropping the pout he'd worn since getting the push-ups. Cooking seemed very light work, compared to everything they were doing before.

The master nodded. "Sure! Chopping and cutting can be great exercise for lighter control of your wrist and forearm muscles. Of course, I'll have you use weighted wristbands and knives."

Krillin groaned.

They ate the rice for a while in silence, as especially Goku and Krillin barely paused between one spoonful and the next. They had a lot of energies to recover.

"So," said Muten, munching on his food much more slowly than the kids, "Sherry, I may have to leave you the house for a while. I've received an invitation to go to Red Ribbon Headquarters for a training session."

The two pupils' ears perked up

"Really." Sherry wasn't enthusiastic. "I'm not a housekeeper, I'll remind you."

"Oh, uh, you do remind me of course, quite often-" Muten's chuckling was instantly shut down by a glare from the woman, "-but it will just be a few days, and I'll only take Goku with me."

"What!" Krillin jumped up to his feet. "Master, why does he get to go, but not me?"

"Because he will take part in the war," replied Muten. "But you won't."

"That's not fair! I want to go too!" the kid scowled. "To the training, and to the war."

"Krillin..."

"It's really important, right? The fate of the whole world depends on it! I want to do my part!"

"Now listen..."

"I won't get frozen or scared any more! And I'm stronger now, thanks to your training! I can-"

"Krillin!"

Muten had slammed his spoon right on the table, producing a resounding bang that immediately shut down the kid. When he lifted it again, there was a slight dent in the wooden surface.

"Since you are my pupil, I am responsible for your safety and your life, and I will not let you go into a warzone," said Muten, calmly. "The world will not be in danger. Plenty of competent and strong people will be there to help. It will all be over before Piccolo gets brought back."

"Then why does Goku get to go?," grumbled Krillin, dejected.

"Because he made it clear from the beginning that he's only training with us to prepare for the war, and come September, he'll leave my school regardless," explained the other. "But I swear, disobey me or try to join against my wishes, and so will you."

The pupil gasped. A threat of expulsion - from the Turtle Master, no less - was no joke.

"I think the kid has a point," said suddenly Sherry, breaking the silence.

The old man looked at her with some puzzlement. "Sherry, dear, you don't really have the experience-"

"I'm not a big fighter," she replied, piqued, "but there are things I have experience of. You know, some years ago I was rooming with a few friends of mine - colleagues, you get my drift? - and one of them had, a, well, customer who wasn't very nice. Left her all bruised and with some nasty bleeding cuts. She came home crying, the poor thing."

"So we decided that we needed to make it clear that you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us. We all went to his apartment with whatever weapons we could find. And well, in the end we didn't find him there, so we just trashed his car, then turned it into a capsule and tossed it through the window like a grenade. Wish I'd seen his living room after that."

Sherry concluded the story with a satisfied smile.

Muten cleared his voice. "Nice story, but what did this have to do with us?" he asked.

"What I mean is," replied Sherry, "I wasn't a fighter, but when it was about helping a friend, I went along. And I was scared and sure, I could even have gotten hurt. But that's just the kind of thing you do, you know? It would have hurt even more if I didn't go, things went south, and then I'd have been left wondering if I could have made the difference."

"Yeah! Exactly!" shouted Krillin. "That!"

The old master paused for a long time, massaging his beard.

"I get what you mean," he said finally, slowly. "I really do."

"Then I can...?" tried asking his pupil, hopeful.

"You can join us for the training," replied Muten, quick. "Maybe that will reassure you about our hopes of success. I will not agree to you joining us for the war proper, but at least you'll get an idea of what we're up to."

"Yay!" Krillin jumped up from the chair. "I'm sure I'll be so amazing that the Commander will beg you to let me join!"

"Hey, wait a second," Sherry frowned. "Does this mean I get left here on this island, alone? Let me come too."

"We will be busy anyway," said Muten. "What would you do, alone, in a base full of soldiers?"

The woman looked at him and raised her eyebrows in an expression that said, really?.

Muten shook his head.

"Well, fine, you come too then. Come on, boys, finish eating, then let's go back to training and tomorrow we'll think about preparing for the trip..."

It was all too easy. They fell one after another, no challenge, no resistance. It suited him, sure; the money was good.

But it was also way too boring.

July 22, 750

A small town in the eastern lands

The ptero stepped in the saloon, wearing local garments, a large hat and a loose kind of vest, that conveniently made it hard to see his face clearly. He stopped at the bar to get a drink, exchanging a few friendly words, while his eyes darted around the room until they found what he was looking for. Then he bought a second pint of beer and brought it to a certain table, where a certain man was slouching, feet up, his fingers lazily playing with the hair of his moustache.

The owner would have probably rebuked any other patron who put his shoes on the table like that, but that man was infamous enough that no one would dare complain about anything like it. Similarly, some idiot drunkard might have made fun of his pink vest, or the neat little bow that tied the single braid of his long hair. But both those things marked him as being, well, him, and no one would dare mess with him.

That's why even the stranger sitting down at his table with a drink raised a few eyebrows. But then again, those weren't usually the kind of conversations you were supposed to listen in to, so everyone quickly pretended the pair was not even there and went back to their own activities.

"How did you find me?," asked the man, unperturbed.

Piano took off his hat, and pushed the beer towards the other. "I have a source. Professional secret, I'm afraid. You of all people should understand. If it reassures you, nothing that anyone else could have access to right now."

"Hmm."

The man took his feet down and examined his new guest with an inquisitive stare.

"I don't mind," he said, finally. "Anyone who can't even find me is not someone I would bother working for."

"Down to business, I see," Piano smiled. "Very well. Then, here's your contract."

He plunged his hand into a pocket and drew a scrap of paper, handing it to the other man, who picked it up and examined it. Then he quickly drew out a pencil, scribbled something on the same paper and handed it back.

"That's my price."

Piano looked at the paper and colour went away from his face. "That much?," he said. "I don't think that's possible."

"You're from that bunch that's been causing trouble recently, are you not?," replied the other. "That's my price."

"This is a bit more of a... personal initiative. But even if I could draw from our full resources, it would still be way too much. Aren't you perhaps overestimating the difficulty of the task?"

The man chuckled. "Overestimating? Really, mister-prospective-customer, you insult me."

Piano felt a chill. But his guest didn't seem altered.

"She's an easy target. Way too easy, in fact. She's rich and from a powerful family. There are many who would want one like her dead. It is simply a matter of offer and demand. I do not want for money. And I certainly don't intend to spend my days running errands for whoever has such trivial enemies. That's my price."

"I see," the other sighed, albeit trying to conceal his relief. "But then we are at an impasse, I'm afraid. I can not still envision for sure what would be the best target, but I am sure we could use your services at some point. You wouldn't by any chance agree to meet at some point in the future?"

"I can only be hired to kill, mister," said the man. "Name a name, get a price. I don't do home visits."

"Hm." Piano thought about it for a moment, then his eyes lighted up with a flash of insight. He grabbed the pencil that had been left on the table, wrote back another name, as well as a place and a time, and pushed it back.

"And who is this?," asked the other, scrutinising the paper.

"Someone useless," explained Piano. "I can guarantee you will find him where and when I said."

"It's an appointment."

"It's a job."

The assassin waited in silence for a long while, and Piano wondered again if he didn't go overboard and managed to irritate him. But in the end, instead, he chuckled.

"I can appreciate creativity, so I will play along this time." He grabbed the pencil again and wrote down a price. "But do not think that you could pull such a stunt again."

When Piano got to read the price, he was relieved to see an amount much more bearable for his pockets.

"Consider those my travel expenses," said the assassin. "And the real target better be more interesting."

"Oh, I'm sure they will be." Piano smiled. "We have a deal, then."

He slept soundly through all night.

He did not dream once.

August 03, 750

An isolated farm in the south east

"Hey, Jing! Did you order a package?"

Having collected a signature, the mailman tipped his hat, put away the note and scurried away. Fu was left with the box in her hands, wondering what the hell it was, where the hell did it come from, and most importantly, what the hell did it cost. The thing felt heavy and came from some distant address in the west. There were already enough problems with the harvest looking like it'd be ruined by seemingly unkillable parasites. Last thing they needed was an appliance shopping spree.

Jing ran down from the stairs in a hurry.

"Give me that, wife! It's my-"

"Not before you explain!" Fu raised the box with one arm above her head, away from the man's reach. "What's this? How much did you pay for it?"

He scratched his head. "Huh. Nothing."

"Really, Jing? So some foreigner is just sending us heavy packages out of the goodness of their heart? Oh, for the sake of-"

"It's the truth!" the husband joined his hands, pleadingly. "I didn't tell you because I was afraid you'd think it shady or something. But it's a job."

She raised her eyebrows. "Really, now. A job."

"Promise! There was a, huh, ad. You wrote to a certain address and they'd send you a package and instructions, and I'd get money for doing as told. I'm supposed to go drop this thing somewhere near here. Just a couple hours walk."

Well, that did sound shady. But also like it might not be their business any more once the thing was out of their hair.

"How much money?," asked Fu.

The summer passed and turned to its end. As the nights got cooler, still in every bed, in every part of the world, people slept and people dreamed, and now and then, one of those dreams would feel a bit more meaningful, would leave something behind. A thought, a mood, a wish.

There was nothing strange with that.

That's what dreams are like, after all.

September 12, 750

Muscle Tower, Headquarters of the Instruments

Activity in the last weeks at the core of the power of those who followed Piccolo and wished for his return had grown to a paroxysm, and now it was all coming to a head. The day was finally here; the Dragon Balls would return to be active in a matter of minutes. A number of squadrons, specially trained for the occasion, was ready to be deployed from the various bases their forces held across world, as well as infiltrated in areas they didn't control. The orders however would all come from here, where most of the coordinating efforts would take place. The base was fortified and ready to defend itself - the Tower alone was only the core of a vast fortress, with multiple lines of defence, minefields and trenches and palissades spread for kilometres all around it. It wouldn't be enough to stop entirely the full enemy force, but that was not expected to be a problem. Just like the forces of the Instruments would have to spread around the world to seek the Dragon Balls, so would their enemies'.

"Piano, sir, I'm happy to see you join us."

"At ease, soldier."

Piano walked in the main command room, followed closely by Mai, or rather, Violin. The woman was wearing an old Red Ribbon uniform, like most of the soldiers in the base, but the signature bandanna tied around her arm had been removed, and all logos had been partially scrubbed with a black marker. Now the two triangles that made up the original sign of the ribbon had been reduced to a shape reminiscent of a trumpet. Similar markings had been painted on the equipment that the Instruments had subtracted to their previous organisation - that is, almost all of it.

"You show up finally, Piano."

"Cymbal."

The older, smaller ptero nodded in acknowledgement towards his companion. He only spared the barest of courtesies for him. Their rivalry had only brewed more throughout the months that had passed since the Tournament. Cymbal was now firmly convinced that he'd pushed Piano into irrelevance, and taken full control of the operation. He had put all of his efforts into preparing for the main war, and was now ready to lead it and hog all the glory, whereas Piano had been relegated to coordinating the lesser operations that had preceded it. It was a token gesture, but the older officer had not objected to it. It suited him just fine.

"He's been insolent for a while, now," hissed Violin, eyeing the large, fat ptero. "He'd deserve a lesson."

"A lesson he'll have, Violin," replied Piano, smiling. "Just not now, and not from you. There are better shows of strength than a punch. However much your metallic fist would hurt."

The woman shook her head. "I just wish I had more to do. This job you assigned me-"

"-is of the utmost importance. And in fact is a key part of teaching our friend there to stay in his place. Besides, you already made all of this available to us to begin with. Take some pride in that."

His hand gestured towards the massive screen in front of them, showing the map of the world, ready to turn on and glow. Their terminal for a fully functioning Dragon Radar, a design copied from the one used and designed by Pilaf, which Violin had subtracted during the course of her infiltration.

"That was a year ago," replied the woman. "Strength should be tested more often than that."

"Oh, trust me, it will. Now keep it down - here comes Drum."

The large man, with a head of gray hair and his stocky torso stuffed inside a thick sweater, walked to Piano grinning and hit him with a pat on the back. Formerly known as General White, Drum had been in charge of the base since the days in which they were all Red Ribbon. The honour of giving the order would be his.

"Piano, old lizard," he greeted. "Ready for some action?"

"Always, of course." replied Piano. "I live for the challenge."

"You won't have much of that I'm afraid!" Drum laughed. "This will be way too easy. The King's forces are just amassed near his cities, ready to defend them. We're only facing the Ribbon's remnants, it seems. Piece of cake."

With a curt gesture, Drum excused himself, and ran to howl orders again. Their estimate of the exact time at which the Dragon Balls would return active was only approximative, but they had narrowed it down to a twenty minutes interval around midday, Capital time. Because their enemies would probably know the exact time, it was all the more important to react quickly at exactly the right moment. Once the Dragon Balls lighted up and became detectable, it was going to be a race, and whoever reached them first would win.

On their table was a thick metallic box, with a transparent window traversed by a fine metallic mesh. From the opening one could see the inside, where a small stone sphere rested on a foam bottom.

"Turn on the radar!," ordered Drum, and the screen in front of them finally lit up, but showed nothing but noise. A couple technicians started twisting knobs around to remove or cancel the noise coming from other sources, and finally, the map got clear, the screen showing mostly a deep, dark green.

"Now we wait," muttered Cymbal. The large ptero showed signs of impatience and nervousness - his beak curled and twitched, and his hand clinged hard on the edge of a metal console, the claws producing an unpleasant sound when they occasionally slid and scratched the surface.

And then the screen lit up. Small bright dots, like stars, begun appearing all over it, their light showing the way; one, two, three...

There was a collective gasp. But slowly, the elation turned in puzzlement, then in anger.

"What does this-" whispered Violin, but the hand of her commander stopped her.

"Exactly what I hoped," replied Piano. "This is the moment to act. You go back to our guest. It's time to show Cymbal we're not the chumps he thinks we are. Run, quick, I'll get in touch via phone. For no reason you should leave the room or let anyone else come in."

Violin clicked her heels and left the room at a speedy pace. Piano, meanwhile, turned back at the scene in front of him, which he couldn't help find incredibly amusing.

Of course, it wasn't all too hard to imagine this would be the enemy's plan of action, from what they knew from Violin's report. In fact, they could have done the same themselves, if only someone in charge had the brains to come up with it.

Well, no matter. It had been a small sacrifice to let the idiots run the show for a while, but it could be amply compensated by the satisfaction of finally showing them back into their place, and taking control again, for good. After all, with his little trump card, nothing was lost yet.

Still, he could well see how without knowing about that, the situation could appear confusing and terrifying. He didn't envy his poor, clueless colleagues.

"What is...," muttered Cymbal, staring at the screen in disbelief, "what the fuck is going on...?"

On the table, inside the metal box, the Dragon Ball was back to its former glory, gleaming of a bright orange colour, three red stars inside. Meanwhile, on the massive map screen, not six, not ten or a hundred, but thousands of bright spots lighted up the entire world in an intricate, utterly random constellation.