Chapter 41 - A thousand terrible suns

Flute, formerly known as General Blue, even formerly known by a name he now had not used in years, was not used to things not going his way. This was no surprise; after all, his skill, of which he'd slowly grown aware since childhood, making it a part of himself, and whose secrets he jealously guarded, was a terrifying weapon that had protected him and propelled him forward in almost any endeavour he ever attempted. To this day, he had not encountered anyone that could resist it. As long as he could get to cross eyes with someone else, they would become his slave.

Which was of course why it was so annoying for him to wake up with a blindfold.

The first time he had woken up must have been less than a minute after being knocked out. He came to his senses for a moment, finding himself pained and defeated on the ground. He felt unsteady enough to not be sure about whether he could stand, and decided to take his time to get a sense of the situation. He remained immobile, as if he was still unconscious, and no one seemed to pay attention to him. But as he stayed there, maybe because of the lingering drowsiness from the concussion, maybe because relaxing for even those few minutes was enough to let all the battle exhaustion he'd kept at bay for hours with stimulants wash over him at once, he ended up drifting into sleep right away.

When he woke up again, he was blindfolded, tied, and clearly in a moving vehicle. The vehicle was not being driven too well. It mostly kept going straight for long stretches of time, then would jerk badly and brusquely, then jerk back a bit in the opposite direction as if to correct the previous steering. Flute wasn't sure what time it was, but he guessed at least eight hours had passed since daylight filtered through his blindfold, and he wasn't sure where he was, but he guessed it mustn't be an actual road, both because of how bumpy it felt and because he doubted such a driver would live long on one.

"T- uh- teammate, he woke up!"

The squeaky, high-pitched voice was instantly recognisable to Flute, who'd met the boy... creature that very same day.

"Do not try to free yourself," said a different voice, purposefully made gruffer, "we can subdue you easily."

Flute considered this. Given who the two kidnappers were, they had a point. He could, of course, subjugate one of them if he managed to pull down his blindfold. The ropes were easy to snap. They didn't know that. But he still needed to get to look one in the eyes, the quarters were cramped, and what if he picked the weaker one? He was fairly sure the strongest of the two was the one at the wheel, so getting to look at him in the eyes would be hard. The situation called for a less straightforward approach.

"I thought you decided to ally yourselves with us after I brought you here today," he replied, with a friendliness rarely seen from bound and blindfolded people. "Why the manhandling, now? What's up with the blindfold?"

There was a pause.

"We have never met before," replied the driver. "You must be mistaken."

"Yeah, you're bluffing!," chimed in the one with the squeaky voice. "You're blindfolded! You can't see our faces."

"Tien and Chiaotzu, right?," asked Flute, affably. "Your voices are pretty easy to recognise."

More silence.

"Well, I'm still not taking off the blindfold," said Chiaotzu, disappointed.

"I told you it was a waste of time," sighed Tien. "Listen well, then. You are our prisoner. Your comrades brought back Piccolo, and he killed our master. We are following them right now. You will help us infiltrate them and give us all the information we need to get our revenge."

Flute considered this for a moment. "Sure," he finally said, with a shrug. "I'm in."

"We are ready to... wait, seriously? Don't try to trick us!"

"Why would I?," the young man leaned back on the side wall of the van in whose back he was being carried in. "Look, I was never into this because I'm some brainwashed goon like everyone else. I'm into this for myself. The world to the strong, remember? So if we can strike a deal, and you can find a way to bring down the Maestro himself, that works wonderfully for me. I get to be the strongest one left in the Instruments, and I get to have you two as friends. That makes me the guy you don't fuck with. It makes me the new boss."

"You have no loyalty and no honour," muttered Tien, disapprovingly.

"What, are you trying to convince me to tell you I'd rather die under torture than betray my comrades? Not going to happen. If you had spent more than just a few hours among our ranks you'd know how it works. I'm just smarter about how I play the game than most of those guys."

There was a resigned sigh. It seemed like the two kidnappers were looking forward to something a bit more dramatic.

"Listen, then. Your comrades are marching north west right now. We're moving in that direction too, but I can't fly a plane, so we're a lot slower. The radio says they've almost reached the Capital..."

"So we're almost there, huh?"

Cymbal grunted and huffed from the effort of the march, but tried to not let it show too much. The column he was part of was advancing on foot next to a column of tanks. After the battle with the RDF earlier that morning they'd lost enough air vehicles that they couldn't keep moving everyone that way, and had to mostly advance with wheeled or threaded vehicles. The last stretch of the trip had been thus quite slow, but the forced march had finally led the Instruments close to the Capital, where they had started to unload more materials and march into formations at Piccolo's command.

"I thought you had eyes to see by yourself," commented dryly Tambourine, whom the other ptero had just walked to.

"Yeah, I got 'em. I got 'em also to see that half our troops are dead and half are getting to that point. What's the plan here?"

"To win, surely?," replied the other.

"Well, we can't do that if we all drop to the ground before His Majesty takes down the King. My men have been fighting and travelling non-stop for twenty-four hours now. It's getting to the point where they're not much use except as meat shields."

"Judging by the last battle, we don't need them for much more than that, do we?," Tambourine chuckled. "And that was the biggest force they could still throw at us. His Majesty will take care of everything."

"They still have those things," the ptero pointed at one of the defence towers surrounding the Capital, just a massive metal pylon with what looked like a bunker perked up on top. "What are those?"

"We should have asked Piano to look into it. That guy was really good at intel, gotta hand it to him," mused the other. "But whatever they are, do you think they could be a danger to His Majesty?"

Cymbal shook his head. "To him, not a chance. Not so sure about us, though."

"What, you're scared of dying now?"

"Don't fuck with me. We both fought long and hard for this. We fucking deserve to reap a few of the rewards, yeah? I'm not kicking the bucket until I get to go back to our village and kick in the face of every coward who would want us to just stay in that shithole and die out."

Tambourine smiled. "That'd be fun, yes."

"So you get what I'm saying. We knew His Majesty would be strong. But we didn't expect His Majesty would be so strong he doesn't really need us at all. What do we do if this," and Cymbal gestured broadly at the exhausted and disorganised column of soldiers, just as one more dropped to the ground, foaming at the mouth, and was promptly left behind, "goes on much longer?"

Tambourine frowned slightly. "I don't think it will. His Majesty wants to go back to sitting on the throne. Once that is done, I am sure the campaign will slow down. We will have won."

The other nodded, in half-hearted agreement.

"Besides, suppose it didn't stop there. What would you have us do?"

Tambourine's stare fixated on Cymbal. Hard to decide if it was a genuine question, or an attempt at probing for treachery.

"Follow His Majesty, of course," concluded Cymbal, scoffing. "To Hell if necessary."

"Piccolo's army has arrived! They're here!"

Someone shouted in the crowd first. The news would reach pretty much everyone in an instant anyway, but someone had to be first. The shout was almost lost in the chaos that was the demonstration, now engaged in multiple clashes with either the police or demonstrators of a different sign, but silently, messages travelled from phone to phone much more reliably. Slowly, the crowd's focus changed. Pressure on the lines defending the King's Palace eased up, as more and more of the demonstrators flowed away from it, through a side avenue.

"Keep the position for now, agents. We're analysing the situation."

Evans took the chance to breathe a bit. He had never been asked to use his HEP II chip offensively, but he'd still needed to tap into it merely to prevent the massing crowd from crushing him and his teammates with sheer numbers. He kneeled, shield still erected in front of him as a defence from any flying objects, and took off his helmet for a second, wiping out his sweat. The air felt fresh at first, but it was far from such - it was still acrid with the lingering smell of tear gas and smoke bombs.

"They're moving towards the southern perimeter tower! Squads one to five, move to contain along Corgi Street!"

And so went the short moment of peace. Evans pushed a button on the back of his shield after unlocking a safety, and it vanished in a puff of smoke, returning into the shape of a capsule for easier transport. Him and a number of others retreated, the remaining policemen closing ranks to still keep a cordon around the Palace. Someone in the constant stream of messaging and discussion that loosely kept together the crowd had figured out that the tower would be a sensitive spot, and an important one since it was the one facing the direction Piccolo was coming from. If it came to the point of the King opting for resistance at all costs, that would be a key spot - even though no one but a few at the highest level of clearance knew precisely what weapons had been fielded, it was pretty clear what the tower was meant for. So the demonstrators had good reason to put pressure on it. In fact, given their composition, it was hard to figure out whether the suggestion must have originally come from one of the people who simply believed there was no chance of stopping Piccolo and surrender was the wisest option, or from the straight up Piccolo supporters. Not that it mattered much, at this point.

The crowd would be hard to catch up with. Using a secondary route and moving fast, Evans' squad tried to circle around them, and hopefully set up another cordon to defend the tower before the worst happened.

"Why don't they just shoot them! Damn idiots, the lot of them."

"That would be a bit haphazard, doctor. They outnumber them by far. You wouldn't really want a crowd trying to lynch the King right now, no?"

"What nonsense. They could make mincemeat of them if-"

Bulma came downstairs to find the group still in front of the TV, with most watching intently, while Dr. Gero and Lapis argued noisily about the best way to manage a crowd. Or rather, Lapis argued for managing it, while Dr. Gero advocated mindless slaughter, which was pretty much in character for him.

"All they'd need is a few little tanks! Here, if they just-"

"If they still had tanks, they'd send them against Piccolo," interrupted Lazuli, exasperated. "Besides, the King isn't some sort of insane tyrant."

"Are you suggesting I'm insane instead?!," screeched back the doctor. "How insolent! Back at the lab-"

"Well, we're not in the lab any more, are we, doctor?"

That left Gero speechless for a moment, before he went back to his rant. Lazuli's father leaned in towards her.

"Say," he asked, under his breath. "Was it really like this all the time, back at the base?"

"Worse. I told you. You wouldn't believe me."

While the group of the new guests that Bulma had brought from Red Ribbon HQ bickered, tense but still somewhat functional, her mother seemed to be somewhat dissociated from reality. Bulma sat down next to her on the coach and found her sitting in a rigid, elegant manner that behoved a high society lady having guests. She turned to acknowledge her with a nod and a slightly vacuous stare.

"Hey sweetie. So, did you and dad come up with some good ideas?"

"Uh, hope so, mom," mumbled Bulma. "He says it'll be all right."

"That's good! That's good."

The girl propped up a tablet she'd brought on the table, putting it in a position in which it faced them, like a photo holder. With a couple touches, she then brought on it the live image of her father, in video call from the Capital. He'd moved from the council to a smaller conference room, where he was sitting alone.

"Hi, Honey. How have you been doing?," he called out. "Are you holding up?"

Panchy's smile widened a bit and became more natural. "Yes, dear, don't worry. Bulma says you have this figured out."

"Oh, yes, we're going to... well I can't just tell you, sorry. Unsecured line and all that," replied Dr. Briefs. "Though if they still have the witch with them... oh, well. Anyway, just watch the TV and you will see."

"Sure, dad."

Bulma hesitated a moment, eyeing the guests, then when she realised they were all otherwise distracted she huddled a bit up closer to her mother, grabbing her arm, and leaning her head on her shoulder. Panchy squeezed back her hand in return.

On TV, the clashes had been replaced by an aerial view of the countryside outside the city, strewn with the many vehicles of the Instruments, their tracks and boot prints.

"Our helicopter has managed to come this close to the enemy army, and we can see them clearly. According to the King's press office, a delegation should be now about to meet up with the Instruments, though it is still unknown what their goal will be. Amidst the growing chaos in the Capital, people are asking-"

"Another flying machine?," growled Piccolo, turning his gaze towards the buzzing sound that came from the sky.

The Demon King was sitting on a throne that he'd made for himself out of bent metal, guns and plates of armour from the enemies he'd crushed, all pressed, tangled and amalgamated together like putty with his bare hands. The construct had then been welded to the top of a tank by his followers, and now he could be paraded around at the head of the army while sitting on it.

"Just journalists, Your Majesty," explained Drum, who was acting as an aide for the time being. Then, when the demon shot him an angry, uncomprehending stare, "messengers, Your Majesty," he hurried to add. "Couriers and bearers of news. Like those we met tonight and had announce your greatness to the world. They likely are here to bear witness to our arrival."

"Hm." Piccolo stood for a moment, seemingly about to raise a hand and quickly end the career of whatever reporters had been daring enough to come this close to him, but then, someone else called, grabbing his attention instead.

"Your Majesty!," shouted Tambourine, running to the front of his tank, that came to a stop. The ptero prostrated himself, head to the ground. "Your Majesty, I am terribly sorry to interrupt your advance, but a delegation is coming to meet us."

Piccolo grinned. "Enemies?"

"Certainly, Your Majesty. They bear the flag of the Ki- of the person who sits on the throne right now. However, they also bring a white flag. I believe they wish to talk."

"Talk?"

The Demon King didn't have to think that over for long.

"Just kill them."

Commander Black looked at the two men that had stopped them and were holding them at gunpoint, wary. His own escorts were currently on high alert too, albeit they tried to look natural. He had insisted that they not come, but these two, survivors of the RDF who were part of a tiny garrison left in the Capital, didn't back down one bit. He had at least extorted from them the promise that they would not engage in depth, and would retreat as soon as possible. He could use the help, but he was not willing to have others walk the same road as him. Duty was one thing, but he was never a fan of throwing away one's life in search of revenge. From what he'd seen of people seeking revenge, their enthusiasm tended to deflate a lot after the deed was done. Dying for it would doubtlessly be a regrettable decision, if one were alive to regret it.

Of course, he didn't expect to be easily admitted to an audience with the Demon King. That was why he was wary, and why his two companions had been selected from a small group of Royal forces who had received a HEP II chip installed, and why he himself finally had gotten one, less than an hour ago. Political concerns and his lack of involvement in any direct combat plans had prevented that from the beginning, but now it had seemed essential, and after all, how could things go worse?, must have thought the King's ministers. He wasn't used to it, but a few quick tests had shown that it was really easy to activate, so hopefully it would serve its purpose.

One of the two guards pressed his hand to his ear, listening to some incoming order. Here we go, thought Black, and readied himself. He couldn't let any signs show, so he hoped his two companions had caught on too. The time they had gained served their purpose. Both he and the other two were unarmed, but what the guards ignored was that, of course, they had a much better weapons than guns inside their own bodies. They wore civilian clothes; Black himself was in a regular business suit, with the additional touch of a pair of mirror sunglasses that made him look like a bodyguard or bouncer posted outside of a night club. Of course, those too served a purpose that wasn't just a fashion statement. Like many of the other custom such glasses provided to various fighters across their forces, they contained a small detector able to track down ki emissions and use them to map out the positions of any nearby enemy. In his case, the few seconds that they'd gained while waiting here had been enough to pinpoint where Piccolo was with the precision he needed. The monster shone like a beacon amidst all other soldiers, of course.

The orders ended. The guard who had received them gave a nod and a snicker at his companion, then his finger started squeezing the trigger. Instantly, Black and his two men entered into action. He crouched and swept his leg in a wide semicircle, sending both the enemies flying forward. The other two soldiers stepped forward and hit one enemy each with an elbow to the nape while they were too surprised to react. Almost no aid from the HEP II chip was needed. At their feet lay two unconscious bodies.

"Grab their guns and give me some cover," ordered Black.

The two obeyed, and now armed more traditionally, started running towards a pickup truck to use as low cover against the first wave of incoming enemies. That would be enough as a distraction, hoped Black - Piccolo was close. He ran towards him while bullets started zipping around. Before anyone can take aim at him, he was in earshot of the enemy leader.

There had been a lot of research, and a lot of plans, in preparation of this one war. Most of it had been scientific and technological research, developing new weapons and equipment, but not all of it. For example, there had been a large team of historians who had performed an extensive review of all known sources about Piccolo's previous appearance, three hundred years before. They had read through hundreds of texts from the period as well as later ones, identified the points where they agreed and the contradictions, separated the ones that appeared somewhat believable from the ones that were blatantly myth, fancy, or propaganda. Through this painstaking work, they had then produced a guess at a psychological and tactical profile for Piccolo. This contained various guesses, of different likelihood, about what the Demon King tended to do in certain situations, how he acted, and what his responses were to various circumstances. Black's survival for the next few seconds as well as the success of his plan depended on one such guess being right. The Commander hoped those historians had done their job well.

"Call back your minions, Piccolo!," he shouted, planting himself firm on the ground. "And prove that you're not a coward! I challenge you, one on one!"

There was a notable recorded history of the Demon King accepting duels against individuals or even small groups. Most of those instances had ended with the opponent being brutally mauled, which made sense and explained why he would be so confident. The last, however, had ended with his imprisonment. So there was a fair chance that he'd have wisened up by this point. But he had also often proven himself to be, as the psychological profile put it, "extremely arrogant and with a short attention span," so maybe he hadn't.

The firing stopped. In the distance, the figure that was sitting on a throne of scrap metal on top of a tank slowly got up and stepped down. It came closer, and soon Commander Black could distinguish his features - he could see him in person, the bald, green-skinned man, with antennae on his head and a fanged mouth. He stood firm, even though the sight sent a shiver down his spine.

"You want a fight, little soldier?," growled the creature, his eyes already lit with the anticipation of a savage pleasure. "Let's play."

The occupants of the hoverplane circling the area knew what they were doing was dangerous, but never realised just how close they'd come to their death. What had saved them was, of course, the arrival of the man who was now the target of their zoom lenses.

"Is that Commander Black?," asked the cameraman. "Did the King release any statements about him meeting the enemy?"

"No idea," replied the reporter next to him. "Just keep shooting. We need to go live with this."

She exchanged a nod with the director that was managing the contact with their news network's central hub. A switch was flicked.

"People of the world! We're here now live from right above Piccolo's camp outside of the Capital, risking our very lives to bring you the latest news! We are just now seeing what looks like Commander Black of the Red Ribbon approaching the Demon King, perhaps on a diplomatic mission. And now Piccolo has gotten up from his throne and-"

"What is he doing?," screamed Bulma, gesticulating towards the screen. "He can't win! He's just going to get himself killed! What, did he get a HEP II chip and suddenly think he's invincible or-"

"Bulma, calm down," said Dr. Briefs, from the tablet. "This is all part of the plan. We discussed it with him."

"You didn't mention this."

"I couldn't give you the details. He knows the risks," replied the man. "He's doing - well, he's doing a really big thing. You should respect him for it."

"He is-" Bulma's voice choked in her throat.

Everyone else leaned forward, intently watching the scene that was being shown on the screen. However shaky, and distant, and unclear, it was still the best view they had of a battle that would have an impact on the fate of the world.

"Well, whatever happens to him, at worst I'm bringing him back with the Dragon Balls like everyone else," muttered the girl, in the end. "He doesn't get to pull off this whole heroic sacrifice crap."

She went back to watching.

Piccolo walked forward, steadily, and put out one clawed hand, ready to tear apart his enemy's body. Black knew that just because he'd accepted a duel, it didn't mean it would be an especially formal affair. Mostly it just meant Piccolo would come at him personally rather than sending his goons to finish him. He had to act quick.

The capsule he was holding in his hand was a leftover of his early days in the Ribbon, when he'd cut his teeth in the armoured infantry division. It had been a long time ago, but he'd never stopped occasionally practising, either in simulators or real life, and some skills you just didn't forget. Right now, that was his best chance of survival. He'd pushed the button already and kept it pressed, like with a grenade ready to be tossed. The countdown would start only once he let go of it. He threw it.

There was an explosion of smoke, and out of it appeared a standard issue exoskeleton suit, with the front hatch open. Black jumped in in a single leap enhanced by his chip, closed the door, and put his hands on the steering controls. Piccolo had remained slightly surprised and bemused at the sight, which gained him a couple of seconds.

"Let's see how well you follow me in the air," mumbled Black, and he pulled hard on the throttle. The mecha's rear jets fired up, and amidst a cloud of dust, the suit took off with a dizzying acceleration.

Piccolo stared at it from below, while it went up and far again. He drew his lips and bared his fangs, irritated. Black had no illusions of escaping him - footage and data had shown clearly that he could fly. As Dr. Briefs' had put it when they had discussed the topic, it was not too farfetched; Bulma had already shown how sufficient ki emissions produced recoil, so a small but steady and well controlled output could certainly produced the force necessary to keep someone in the air. The key was only to have a sufficient reserve of energy and enough control over it, and Piccolo seemed to possess both. Still, it also looked like his flight abilities were somewhat sluggish. He could levitate and move laterally in a limited way, but he wasn't nearly as fast or precise as when he ran on land. But that would not be enough to make him back off. When Black saw Piccolo slowly lift off, silently ascending from the ground and picking up speed as he went, he knew he now had him where he wanted. As good as that might be.

He gained some more altitude. Now the ground was far enough that people looked like tiny dots. The only one still growing bigger was Piccolo's, who was by this point halfway past the distance that separated them. He was significantly faster than the mecha, but Black suspected not quite as agile. Still, that wouldn't matter much until he was in close quarters, and by then, the danger would skyrocket anyway.

Black took a deep breath, clenched the controls, and used his HEP II chip to a moderate degree, to enhance his reflexes and his sight. His body could suffer from the prolonged and intense use, possibly even permanent damage. But at this point, that didn't matter.

The fight exploded. Piccolo reached him and launched himself at his cockpit, at a blinding speed that the man couldn't react to. The demon grabbed one arm of the suit and started pulling, and the metal joints creaked threateningly as wires and connection snapped one after the other and the entire arm went dead. But it didn't come off immediately - on a scale of milliseconds, at least, which was the one Black could now operate at - and that was time enough for him to point the other arm at Piccolo, and fire a missile point blank.

The explosion tossed the demon away, together with the part of the arm he'd managed to rip. No damage outside of some superficial charring and a lot of burned clothes, but even so, since Piccolo had not been levitating at the time, hanging onto his enemy instead, he could not avoid the push of the shockwave. It took him a few metres to recover his bearing and stabilise his position, and once he could stand upright again mid air, he gave an angry growl, as he prepared to attack again.

"Commander, we have our firing solution," said a voice in Black's earbud. "Ready when you are."

And that was it, of course. He couldn't drag this one second longer - even this little was the limit of what a single human with so little weaponry could achieve against the Demon King. Now it was the time for the final gambit.

Black pushed the jets forward, and the mecha fled straight towards Piccolo, who was ready to welcome it, with a grin. The demon's claws, outstretched, sunk into the metal, trying to grab it and rip it apart in two, to reveal the human inside. The hands plunged through the armour as if it was a paper screen. One went through the lower part of the cockpit, off enough to not hit the pilot. At that point, there was one last thing to do. With a sudden jerk, the pilot pulled the control stick to the side, sending the exoskeleton into a spin, until the city was behind him, and he stood in between it and Piccolo, still hanging to his armour. He could have hesitated now, he would have had all the right to, but he knew he didn't have the time. The metal was creaking and ready to burst open in a matter of instants. As he had done for most of his life, he let his instinct and training, his drive towards accomplishing an objective, take the helm and lead him, without second thoughts. It made it easy.

"Fire," he said, calmly, into the microphone.

"Commander, we have our firing solution. Ready when you are."

The artilleryman waited, tense, one finger on a trigger, targeting computer in front of him, sitting next to the weapon. He had been told the bare minimum about its workings - all information about how it operated was classified. He only knew the performance data, which frankly was insane, especially for something that looked like little more than a fancy machine gun. But he was told not to question and to assume that much smarter people than him had calculated those numbers, so he stuck to what he understood. From below he could hear a crashing noise, as the crowd clashed with the police, ever closer to the tower's entrance. The clamour worried him, but right now, his mind was focused only on his job.

"Fire," came the order, one instant later.

He squeezed the trigger.

"Do you have a moment, Commander?"

Black turned around, right before he left the conference room where the strategy meeting had been adjourned. Dr. Briefs was standing behind him, with a grave look on his face.

"Just a few," he replied. "If this is about the mission."

"It is. Commander, I know I am the one who suggested this plan, but the risks-"

"If you want to apologize to me, please stop right there," said the Commander, firmly. "I am fully aware of what I am doing, and I respect your expertise enough to do what needs to be done. I have made up my mind about that."

"That is not what I meant," Briefs shook his head. "As ugly as that may sound, I did feel a tinge of relief when you stepped forward. Even knowing what it meant for you. Because mostly, for me it means I have a chance of seeing my daughter in person again, after all."

The other raised his eyebrows. "Really. I appreciate the honesty. What is this about risks, then?"

"I did say we would have a chance. I did not say how large a chance."

"...not very, I guess?"

"Yes. Not very large," the scientist pinched his nose, troubled. "Commander, if you - if this plan fails, then there's no telling what's happening to us. I understand we have to resist, it would be impossible not to. But I believe we are far from being in the best position to pull this off, or get the best out of our new weaponry. If we could use it in conjunction with some of our best fighters and technologies, it would be a different story."

"I can understand that. But this is the hand we were dealt with," said Black.

"True. But to keep with that metaphor, in case we won't succeed - I think we should try to keep our cards still as hidden as possible from the enemy."

The Commander took a moment of pause at that. "So what you're asking me," he replied, slowly, "is to use the last of my life not only to draw Piccolo into your trap, but to make it so that he can't understand what precisely hit him? So that even if it fails this time, it might perhaps work again in the future?"

"Yes. As selfish as that sounds from someone who will simply sit and look as you fight. I do not know if I will get to actually see my daughter again."

He clenched his fist.

"But at the very least, I want to leave a road to victory still open for her."

Piccolo sank his claws into the insolent little metal thing, a strange armour that seemed bigger than its wearer. He'd seen enough odd new things since coming back - it seemed like humans had been busy while he was locked away, building weird contraptions with which to kill each other better. But they did not pose a threat to him, so he did not bother giving them any thought. This was the first time he encountered something that was not a hindrance, but at the very least, unpredictable enough to have escaped immediate destruction. Forcing him to fly meant he was slower to move, and that had allowed the thing to gain a microscopic advantage. But it was of no consequence, except that Piccolo's anger had been fuelled again, and now, he wished to personally see the eyes and face of the man he was going to kill as he did it. Nothing less would have given him at least a faint sense of satisfaction.

As he clung onto the armour, it spun, and because he was now only hanging from his opponent, it carried him with it. Being swung around by this flimsy thing would have been insulting if he wasn't already in the process of tearing it open. He certainly wouldn't let go of it so easily. It seemed like a pointless manoeuvre anyway. All it had accomplished was less than a turn; now, the big, bulky armour was just in between him and the city that he had come to-

A blaze of heat. A blinding light. A booming sound so loud it was a physical attack on the ears. Metal coming apart, shredding like paper between his fingers. A force that tossed him backwards, at great speed, until he managed to pick himself up. And most surprisingly, most incredibly of all, pain.

Something had hit him. Something had come from a direction he couldn't see, had gone straight through his enemy, completely destroying it in an explosion, and then had gone through him. His reflexes had made him move away slightly as the armour exploded for unknown causes, and still, the thing had hit him. Piccolo felt a sting, a burning that he did not remember since forever. Not since his childhood had he ever been wounded. And now, now, now!

The Demon King raised his left arm, where the sharpest pain could be felt. He stared at its end, incredulous, transfixed. It ended just below the elbow. Everything else, hand, wrist, had been blown away, pulped into nothing. The freshly mangled limb was gushing out purple blood, in small splurts, at the rhythm of his own heart.

Blinded by an anger greater than what he had ever felt, Piccolo screamed.

"They hit him!," shouted Bulma, jumping up from the chair. Even in the shaky, grainy picture taken by the news helicopter, what had happened was obvious enough. Suddenly, the exoskeleton that Commander Black had been piloting had burst out into fragments and flames, and Piccolo had been violently tossed back. She meant Piccolo, of course, but then she realised her words applied well to the leader of the Red Ribbon too. They hadn't been properly friends, perhaps, but they'd shared their amount of hardships, and worked together. Bulma sat down, feeling like perhaps she ought to show a little less excitement. At least it must have been a quick and entirely painless affair - the mecha had been all but vaporized in a single instant. But even the death of an ally was not the most important thing right then. Not with Piccolo around. Bulma kept her eyes glued to the screen, still brimming with adrenaline.

"They hit him," confirmed Dr. Briefs, concerned, "but..."

"What the fuck was that?," shouted Cymbal, looking up at the sky, ears still ringing with the deafening explosion from before. "How's His Majesty?!"

Tambourine checked with a pair of binoculars, and his hands trembled a bit. "He's wounded."

"He's what?!"

"He's lost a hand," he explained. "He's bleeding, I can see a stump."

"What the fuck?! What are they firing at us? If it can do that to him - shit, everyone, take cover!," he roared in a walkie talkie.

"Cover from that isn't possible," replied Tambourine. "It must be a stationary weapon they'd have difficulty transporting around if they didn't use it against us before. Or maybe it's so powerful they could only agree on using it defensively. But regardless-"

He stopped talking as Piccolo dropped out of the sky, letting himself fall to reach the ground faster, and landing on his feet with a loud bang and a lot of dust. Kneeling over the cracked ground, the Demon King screamed again in rage, clenching his mutilated arm with the other hand.

"You," Tambourine addressed a trembling soldier near him. "Go provide first aid to His Majesty."

The soldier blinked and was about to back off, terrified, but then the officer promptly put his hand to his gun, making the price of disobedience clear enough. The man nodded hurriedly and pulled out a kit from a backpack, walking towards Piccolo. The ptero kept an eye on him as he slowly and carefully approached their leader.

A single, furious swat of the Demon King's right hand ended the soldier's life quickly.

"Figures," sighed Tambourine, walking back to Cymbal. "Well, it was worth a try. We'll have to wait for him to calm down."

But Piccolo didn't calm down. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, both in rage and in what seemed to be pain. But it wasn't just that. As he screamed, it was like energy was concentrating around him. At one point, it felt like there was a pulsing, a humming in the air itself. A circle of people started to form as many gathered close to see, while at the same time keeping a respectful distance. Drum was among them, and joined his two fellow officers.

"Is this... him?," he asked, puzzled.

The other two turned to look at him. He had uncovered his forearm up to the elbow; the two pteros could now see clearly his hair slowly starting to stand on end, raising, as if charged with static electricity. Cymbal's walkie-talkie emitted an unpleasant feedback screech. They started all feeling warm, as if heat was bubbling up inside their own bodies, out of nowhere.

"We may be better off getting some more distance," mumbled Tambourine, and all three stepped back. The rest of the soldiers in the circle, without getting any orders, still followed their example. A slight, warm wind started blowing, and unusually, it did not seem to come from any fixed direction. Wherever you were, it seemed to be coming from where Piccolo was. Around him, the air was trembling, like a mirage over blazing hot asphalt.

With a final, strained scream, Piccolo extended his left arm, and as he did, the stump bubbled and pulsated, and in a sudden jolt, a new hand and wrist grew out of it, almost too fast to see, taking perfectly the place of those that had been blasted away.

"Ha-ha, that was it," said Drum, relieved. "Amazing! Well, too bad for our enemies, guess His Majesty isn't that easy to wound-"

"That was not it," commented Tambourine, frowning. "Let's do as Cymbal said earlier and find some cover."

"...oh come on that just isn't fair!," shouted Bulma, seeing the image of the Demon King healing a lost hand faster than a human would a single scratch. "How much energy must that even cost!?"

"There are animals that can regrow whole limbs," said Lapis, "but they would take enough time at least to eat enough mass to compensate for what they lost. That's just - I don't know what that is."

"It's cheating, is what it is! Dad, we can fire a second shot, right?," asked Bulma, grabbing the tablet. "We know it hurts him now. We can get that bastard in the head. See if he recovers from that."

Dr. Briefs looked aghast.

"Bulma, that's the only tower that had a clear solution on him," he said. "And it's going to take it one minute to reload fully. The others are too far."

"Ok, but it's one minute! He doesn't know what hit him yet, and he's just standing there, like-"

When they came, the shot and the following explosion shook both the crowd and the cops that were still barely containing it at the foot of the tower to their very bones. There was a single moment of quiet in which everyone seemed to stunned to keep brawling; then the push renewed, stronger than before.

"We're authorising the use of the HEP II chip!," shouted the commander in Evans' earpiece. "Let them have it!"

The man readied himself. The crowd in front of him was getting desperate - many shouted and screamed that the attack had to be stopped as soon as possible, that Piccolo was not to be angered any further, that his revenge would be terrible. Evans was not meant to worry about any of that. Behind him was the door to the tower, and he was the only man in the immediate vicinity of it to possess a chip. Therefore, it fell to him to stop the crowd right then, right there, at the critical juncture.

He put forward his shield, and with the help of his teammates, linked it with the nearby ones into a single interlocked barrier, as they were designed to do. Then he put all his weight behind it, focused on the base of his back like he'd been taught to, and pushed. Incredible, superhuman strength flowed through his legs, and the crowd gave way, slowly but surely pushed by the barrier, like a fluid pressed against a piston. There were screams. They didn't expect or understand what was going on at first; so much pressure shouldn't have been possible in such a small space. The crowd couldn't organise itself, and as the cops pushed back, the ones further away pushed forward, unaware of the situation, so that those caught in the middle were getting crushed.

"Look here, man! Look here!"

Someone shouted from in front of him, and waved a smartphone right above the shield wall. Evans could not help but see - it was a blurry, poor quality video of a green-skinned man - Piccolo, for sure. He had a mutilated arm - then, one moment later, he didn't any more. He was screaming, and glowing. Evans' back was suddenly traversed by a cold chill. That was happening right now. What was he going to do...?

The distraction disrupted his ki flow, and suddenly, the crowd's push was too much for him to sustain. The shield wall tilted and eventually shattered, poorly held, and the crowd broke through. The crowd itself was hardly under control of its own movements right now - the push from behind alone forced them to advance. Evans was swept with it, as they started hitting on the tower's door, bashing it with irons and rocks.

"Authorising the use of firearms! Repeat, the use of firearms is authorised!"

The last order came as the door was near to coming loose. Someone from a window at the top was screaming, pleading the crowd to stop. The crowd screamed back. Then, suddenly, a light brighter than the sun bathed everything.

"WHAT'S HE DOING?!"

Cymbal shouted his question, because at that point, between the screaming and all the other noise, it was impossible to be heard by speaking normally. The wind had grown and grown in intensity and heat, to the point of being painful if one was exposed directly to it. Him, Tambourine and Drum had all crouched behind a semi truck, using it as a temporary repair from the storm.

"HELL IF I KNOW!," answered Tambourine. "HE'S GLOWING MORE AND MORE!"

The wind started getting stronger again, but, they realised, this was due to it changing direction. It didn't come from just in front of them now; it came from above. They peered out a bit to see that Piccolo had started hovering, and had now pulled back his right arm. His hand seemed to be where most of the energy was focusing, now. Lightning sparks would occasionally crackle between his extended fingers. The light concentrated there, surrounded it like a halo, a glowing ball of plasma that now emitted an intolerable radiant heat. Some soldier had dropped a beret on the ground close to where Piccolo was, and it spontaneously caught fire.

"FURTHER! LET'S GET FURTHER AWAY!," screamed Drum, and together, they all ran a bit more to a nearby tank. The few seconds they had to spend exposed directly to the wind and heat were already painful. Drum ended up losing his crutch and dragging himself by crawling next to the other two.

There was a moment of quiet, almost. The crackling noises and the wind were still there, but the screaming had ceased. Piccolo was heaving, his small personal sun still held in the palm of his hand, a cruel smile on his lips. His eyes were fixed on the city in front of him. The thing that had dared hurt him.

"Wait, is he-" started Cymbal, eyes bulging.

The Demon King pulled his hand back further, giving it some run up, then with a perfectly arcing motion tossed the ball of light towards the Capital.

"What- what-" Bulma stammered incoherently at the sight of Piccolo's light show. She looked around, at everyone. They were awed, dismayed, terrified perhaps, but none of them could be quite as her. She remembered a night in which she'd dragged Goku on a ceiling. She remembered having him fire a bolt of energy into the night. She remembered his strength back then was nothing compared to what Piccolo could boast of right now.

Panchy put her hand in front of her own mouth, and hugged her daughter with the other. Bulma looked at her, then at her father, that she could only see through a screen, something so simple, so natural, yet she knew that meant he was close to that thing, right in its crosshairs.

"Dad," she said, with a hoarse voice, "dad, you have to go underground. Just, run downstairs, you have to have some shelter."

"You know it wouldn't make a difference."

Dr. Briefs sighed, shook his head, and tried his best to show her a smile.

"You hold up strong, ok?"

Bulma choked.

"You have all still a chance. You can get him. And you have the Dragon Balls."

"Dad-"

"See you later."

The video call ended.

Crouched behind the tank, the first thing Cymbal and the others could see was the light. It came from behind them, but it was so violent, so blinding, it might as well have been spilling over edges and filling the entire air, like a glowing liquid. Everywhere it reflected from, it still looked brighter than the sun. Screaming in pain, they were all forced to shield their eyes, plant them against the ground to not lose their sight. Then, with a small delay, came the deafening sound, and an air blast that flattened trees and sent the semi truck they'd been using as cover before rolling like a tumbleweed. The tank behind them dangerously tilted too, but in the end, its mass and low centre of gravity won over, and it slammed back into the ground. Around them, the world screamed and was torn to shreds, trees were uprooted, and a few unlucky soldiers who had not properly taken cover were tossed around.

A few more moments had to pass before the dust arrived, roiling past in hot, stinging clouds full of pulverised concrete and bigger shards of glass or steel. As well as probably the remains of human beings, mixed in and utterly vaporised by the explosion.

And then, finally, after all of Hell finished riding past, it felt quiet enough for it to be safe again to come out.

The first one to emerge was Tambourine, and the scene he saw was one he'd never have believed possible.

The news plane was violently shaken, and seemed to lose contact for an instant. The blinding light sent the camera's sensor into overload, and even when it recovered, the image appeared occasionally scratched and disturbed, like some of it had been permanently damaged. But eventually, the turbulence calmed down, and as the plane recovered control, its cameras turned back to what was left of the Capital. The anchor speaking over it started describing the scene, but her voice descended more and more into an incoherent string of adjectives and exclamations until she simply broke into sobs, and couldn't say a word more. Not that the images didn't speak loud enough already.

Bulma looked at those images. She had thought it was possible, she knew they were real, and it still took a long, long minute for the reality of it to sink into her. Shells broke buildings down, bombs made them crumble into ruins, and this was neither of that. That was just the level of damage you could see at the edges of the blast zone, in the areas that had been lucky. What was in the centre was just - nothing. No buildings, not even their burnt skeletons, not even the ground they rested upon. All had been incinerated, vaporised, turned into dust and ash that was now raising in a dark column hotter than any of the air surrounding it, up, up into the stratosphere, where it roiled into a mushroom shaped cloud. Of the city had only remained an open, gaping wound, a crater, a conspicuous nothingness that had replaced in a single instant centuries of human work and millions of lives, one of which had been very dear to her.

Bulma looked, and as she did, the horror finally managed to become real, and to hit the core of her being. And when it did, something broke, deep inside her, and she started screaming.

Drum and Cymbal came up behind Tambourine, all still stunned by the blast. Their legs were shaking, their eyes still hurt and their sense of balance was messed up, and they could barely hide any of it. They looked at the crater, at the burning outskirts of the city, at the massive cloud as well as all the pulverised heavier debris that was now raining all around them. Then they looked at each other, as if to ask, now what?

Still heaving from the effort, Piccolo slowly hovered back to the ground. As soon as he touched it, he turned on his heels and walked right to them. They managed to hurriedly put up a salute, sure that nothing in the circumstances, however exceptional, would get any sloppiness forgiven.

"Take me to my apartments. I need to rest," said Piccolo, raucously. "Then we'll deal with the rest of them."