Chapter 42 - The Piccoloist

The ride was a long and painful affair, but at some point, it was finally over. Flute only wished he could have slept through the rest of it as he'd done at the beginning, but once he'd woken up, it would have been impossible to close his eyes again. Normally, this would all have been enough for him to have a personal vendetta against anyone inflicting such torture on him, but if there was one thing he'd learned how to do in his days in the Red Ribbon, it was how to bide his time. His abilities were powerful, but not invincible, and he needed to use them when they were the most effective.

The van came to a stop not long after Chiaotzu's childish voice had squealed excitedly about seeing something. After they halted, the back of the van opened, and the hands of the bigger guy grabbed him. He was dragged out, unceremoniously dumped off the van, and finally had his blindfold taken off. Flute squeezed his eyes closed and open a couple of times, trying to get used to the light again, then raised them to look at the horizon.

He could see tents and temporary capsule buildings propped up in a chaotic pattern similar to the base he'd been captured in. Beyond that, he could see an image of what he could only think of as hell on Earth. A vast blackened crater, still burning and releasing smoke in a titanic column that seemed to rise so tall it could hold up the skies.

"The explosion we heard earlier?," he asked, getting back on his feet.

"The news say Piccolo destroyed the Capital," replied Tien. "He's incredibly powerful. Not even master could have done this much."

"Well, Piccolo bodied your master, didn't he?," commented Flute with a smirk. The little dig hit its mark, and both Chiaotzu and Tien flinched at that. But even Tien didn't answer with anything more than a threatening stare.

"We're going to give you the keys of the van, and take your place hiding in the back," he said, coldly. "You will drive to your friends' base and do what you promised. If you show any signs of betraying us-"

You wouldn't even notice, you morons, thought Flute. But of course, he had no reason to actually betray them. Yet. "You'll blow up the van from the inside?"

The young man nodded. "We would survive easily. You wouldn't. So don't play tricks."

"Fine, fine. I told you, I have everything to gain from working with you on this."

"Very well. Let's go meet your friends, then," replied Tien. "Both our master and the people of that city will be avenged soon."

For a meeting held by the leadership of an army that had gone from criminals and underdogs to razing the greatest city in the world and upending centuries of monarchic rule in a single day, the atmosphere was extremely glum. Sitting around in a closed off room with no doors or windows - the clouds of smoke and dust kept being blown on the camp from the remains of the city, and from the smell of them, breathing them in for too long didn't sound like a good idea - the leaders of the Instruments stared at each other, each hesitant to speak first.

"Well, so what the fuck do we do?," finally said Cymbal, succinctly summing up the meeting's agenda.

"What is there to decide?," asked Oboe, dry. "We reorganise. We prepare. We wait for our King's orders."

Tambourine tapped a finger on the table, with a thoughtful look. "Far from me to question the rule of our leader, and his power is certainly amazing, but I think many of our troops at this point feel that he might lack some... strategic finesse."

The old officer raised an eyebrow. "Less than one day and you're already ready to betray him? What amazing loyalty."

"Spare us the sarcasm, Oboe. You know full well what we mean. He blew up the fucking Capital!," Cymbal smashed his hand on the table. "We were supposed to conquer that."

"It opposed resistance. He made it into an example. What's the problem?"

Tuba intervened next, huffing and wiping sweat off his face. "Logistics are. Our leader might not have to worry about ammo or fuel or even food-"

"He's refused all food except for water," confirmed Tambourine. "And killed the guy we sent in with the second tray."

"-but we do. The Capital managed a significant fraction of the industrial output we needed to keep our troops on the move for any longer. We're already stretched as is, as we're running out of the stocks we seized from the Red Ribbon on the day of the Concerto, and not many have been willing to trade with us."

"But that will soon change, right?," pointed out Drum. "Now that people can see where the wind is blowing."

"It won't matter if the actual supply chains get disrupted bad enough," explained Tuba. "The Capital was the second producer of all sorts of high tech goods, electronics, medical supplies, just after West City. First producer for some things. Plus all the trade that moved through it means-"

"Do you plan to explain all of that to His Majesty? Because I'm already thrilled. I'm sure he would barely be able to contain his excitement."

"Oboe-"

"Maybe you could make it even more fun. Add some statistics in. Give him a good piece of that accounting action-"

"Right, so if that bores you, how about this?," shouted Cymbal. "I've lost 20% of my battalion in the explosion! One in five! They were closer to the city and didn't take cover and they were just fucking burned to death! At this rate, I'm not going to have a battalion in a few more days! And don't delude yourselves - you're all going to be next. Great bunch of commanders we'll make, without even a single fucking soldier to command."

"I think that much is clear to all of us," said Tambourine, his beak creasing. "The real problem is, what should we do about it? No one can even as much as make a suggestion to His Majesty without getting killed. Explaining this whole situation is-"

"Howdy, everyone! Enjoying your well-deserved victory?"

Everyone turned to look at the door. Through it had just waltzed in a pretty blonde man, bare-chested as his uniform was completely ripped off from the waist up, with a cheerful smile and a carefree attitude.

"Flute!," exclaimed Drum. "Why, we thought you were dead."

"Sure left me for it, at least," he replied, without much apparent resentment. He pulled a chair and slumped down on it, nonchalantly putting a leg up on the table. "Can't blame you though, I was out cold for a while. It took me some time to catch up, sorry if I missed something. Where's Piano?"

"Dead," said Cymbal. "For sure, in his case."

Flute was unfazed. "Oh, you can't win them all, I guess. He had a good run. So, what's the topic of the day?"

The others exchanged looks. There was a lot of unspoken understanding between them; understanding about how useful it could be to have someone who wasn't any one of them dealing with the problem, and about how they never really liked this uppity young guy anyway. In fact, sometimes they wondered why was he among them at all, but it just seemed that whenever necessary, someone would feel charmed just enough by him to make sure he'd have his way.

"We're discussing," started explaining Tambourine, "how should we approach His Majesty Piccolo about certain... complaints we have concerning his strategic leadership."

"Not that we think he's inadequate!," interjected Cymbal. "He's great."

"Yeah, he's amazing," agreed Drum.

"He's very capable for sure," continued the first ptero. "But there are some things where we're afraid he's not quite up to date with the necessities of modern military logistics - technology has advanced since his days, see, so-"

"You would rather that he had not blown up the Capital," finished Flute for him.

"Among... other things. We need to bring the matter to his attention in a way that will however be sufficiently respectful and deferential. His Majesty detests insubordination."

"As he should, of course," added Tuba, nodding vigorously. The others joined in in assent, except for Oboe, who merely scoffed and said nothing.

Flute made a show of thinking about it for a while. "I see. I have an idea then," he finally said. "Why don't I go talking to him? I need to introduce myself and swear my loyalty to him, of course. That could be a good occasion."

The rest of the Instruments glanced at each other. It would have been appropriate to at least oppose some token resistance to the idea; point out how Flute's inexperience might be detrimental to such a delicate task, or warn him of the danger that he was incurring. If the objection was expressed weakly enough, the likelihood of actually discouraging him was minimal, but it was still a risk, in theory.

"Sounds good to me," finally spoke up Cymbal. "When are you going?"

The other shrugged. "Oh, just give me the rundown of your grievances, and I'll go right now. Though I don't guarantee you that I won't take credit for some of your best ideas."

No one seemed especially fazed at the notion of someone else 'taking credit' for such proposals.

"Very well then. Tuba, sum up again all you were talking about earlier," asked Tambourine. "Hopefully, Flute will be able to present them to His Majesty in a way that better suits his interests and holds his attention."

"Oh, you shouldn't worry about that! You know me," said the young man, laughing. "I have a way with words."

Standing there, quiet, while the old man examined him with very little tact, squeezing or prodding his muscles to feel their tone, and even pulling his third eye open, like a farmer appraising a horse he was about to buy, wasn't easy. But the boy had never been one to shy away from difficult tasks. He had been raised since he remembered in rigour and discipline, and knew no other way of life. Do your chores, listen to your teachers, and follow their wisdom. That was how he lived, because that was how the old abbot that used to run the temple had always preached that virtuous men lived.

"And you say he can come right away?," asked the old man, finally putting an end to his humiliating inspection. "No strings attached?"

"Please, yes," insisted the young monk, bowing profusely. "We would not know what else to do. He was very attached to the abbot, and was only trained by him. But the boy has incredible talent. It would be a waste if-"

"Yes, yes, I can judge that myself. Hey, boy. Try and punch me."

Tien looked slightly aghast at the mere suggestion. He said nothing, but neither did he do as told.

"Seems kinda shy, though," commented the man. "What's that? You don't got it in you? Explain yourself. Or do you also lack a tongue?"

"One shouldn't hit one's elders," mumbled the boy, embarrassed, "sir."

The old man laughed. "I like that. He's respectful. But I'm telling you to do it, and one should also listen to the elders, right? What, you never sparred with the old abbot? How'd you learn martial arts?"

"He had me train with the others," replied Tien, keeping his head low. "With him, I only tried defensive moves or grapples. He would never let any of us raise a hand against him."

"Seriously? Gods damn him, what a hack! Let's hope your talent is enough to make sure you weren't completely ruined by such a half-assed education. Guess whoever rid us of him did you a favour, huh?"

The young boy's fist darted towards the man's chin in a flash; the other shifted almost instantly backwards, but as he did so, the boy instantly changed the course of his blow, twisting his wrist and aiming for the other's neck instead. When it hit, there was a yelp of pain. It was the boy's. His hand had been caught one instant before it hit, clenched in between the man's chin and his sternum.

"He has just a bit of spunk," observed the master, with a pleased, wry smile. He raised his head and let the boy's hand go. "Easily fixed. But he's not all talk, it seems. That's some good moves. I'll take him with me."

The monk bowed again and thanked the master repeatedly, but was dismissed with a curt gesture, as the old man walked away, telling the boy to follow him. Tien did as he was told.

"You understand that I am stronger than you, yes? That you would be wise to learn from me?," asked the old man.

Tien nodded. "Good. My name is Shen, and I am the Hermit of the Crane Style of martial arts. I was told about what happened to the abbot, and that he'd left a few promising orphans without anyone to take care of them. And I needed an apprentice."

"I hope I will be worthy of it, master," said the boy.

"Oh, you will be. Or I'll kill you and be rid of one more nuisance. Simple as that," replied the master, flat. "This is how my school works. You better start putting in the effort right away."

Saying so, he slung off his shoulder the heavy sack he was carrying, almost as tall as the boy was, and handed it to him. Tien grabbed it without hesitation, and kept walking almost as speedily as before.

"Good," said Shen, satisfied. "Maybe this trip will amount to more than me cleaning up one of my brother's messes."

"Tien, do you think we can win?"

They were sitting in the back of the van where they had kept their prisoner until minutes before. It was dark, except for a bit of sunlight that filtered through the spaces in the back door. Even the small window connecting the load space to the cockpit was slid shut, to avoid someone seeing them.

"Keep your voice down," murmured Tien. "Someone might hear us."

"Do you think we can win?," repeated Chiaotzu, this time at a lower volume. Combined with his usual high pitch, it made it sound even more like he was a little child.

"Every battle can be won," said the other. "Find the enemy's weak points. Strike when their guard is down. Remember master's teachings."

Chiaotzu's tone was unconvinced. "But master is dead."

"Master did not have the time to do those things. We will. Just trust him."

"But he's not here any more," insisted the small one. "We're alone. Tien, I'm-"

"We're not alone," replied Tien, and then he caught himself as he'd raised his own voice. "Our plan does not change. The Dragon Balls still exist. After our revenge has been carried out, we will use them to bring back both master Shen and master Tao. It's up to us now, and we cannot fail them."

There was some noise and the whole van oscillated a bit as someone climbed into the cockpit and slammed the door close behind them.

"Hey, you two!," called Flute's voice, as the van engine started. "I'm driving to Piccolo's quarters right now. I'm going to park in a good position, and after that, you follow the plan as agreed. Here, grab this."

He opened the window separating their spaces and tossed something in, which Tien caught it mid-air. It was a small radio-like device.

"I'll be wearing a concealed microphone. That's the receiver. Stay hidden, keep an ear out for our conversation, and barge in when I use the signal word, in any context. The signal word is sleep. Is it all clear?"

"Sure," replied the fighter. "But you make sure to do your part."

"Stop being so paranoid. You do your part, I'll certainly do mine," said Flute. "Now let's stop talking. No one should be seeing or hearing us, but I'd rather not raise suspicions."

The van got in motion, with a smooth acceleration. Tien tried looking at where Chiaotzu's eyes were, slightly visible in the low light. He was staring at him, wide eyed, still scared. Looking for reassurance, for someone to guide him. But master was dead, and Tien had never guided anyone. He'd always known how to follow, himself. That was all he could muster, right then and there. The sense of the duty that they shared to their school, the need to follow their master even after his death, to pay respect to his legacy. And to find their revenge.

Tien's eyes glowed slightly, as his concentration heightened and energy built up around his body.

"We will win," he said, with confidence.

The day General Blue learned about the Instruments, right after the end of the campaign against Frypan Mountain, he had plenty of time to think, while travelling back to HQ.

Mostly, he thought about how the enterprise itself seemed dangerously prone to failure. Not in terms of taking over the Red Ribbon - that would be the easy part. But in how the resulting army would end up pitted against the whole world afterwards. It wasn't a certain thing, but surely, Blue had a sense their chances were pretty slim. His addition would actually give them a better shot, but not enough for the overall odds to be to his liking. Blue had not gotten where he was by taking bets. His entire life had been a smooth, safe ride, with everyone around bending themselves over to please him. Once he'd grown fully conscious of his power, he'd learned to use it judiciously, in ways that minimised the chances of it being even noticed. Secrecy was his greatest weapon. There were things his power couldn't get him, but not many.

There was one possibility that would have flipped the entire calculation on its head, though. The thing General Olive, who'd introduced him to the Instruments' creed and motives, had been waxing about for half their conversation. The Instruments had this cult-like devotion to the figure of Demon King Piccolo, and their goal was to revive him. Now, if such a legendary powerful being truly existed, and could be brought to their cause, that would certainly change things. But Blue couldn't help but be sceptical of it. It sounded like the ramblings of a religious fanatic, and little more.

But the possibility did niggle at him. If Piccolo existed and could be revived, then the world truly could be subjugated. If that happened, Blue wouldn't want to find himself in the losing camp. Most importantly, if it could happen, then joining the Instruments would be the easiest, safest way he would have to get a chance to get close to this King Piccolo, to meet him, to talk to him.

And most importantly, to look him in the eyes.

Exhausted by his earlier feat of power, the Demon King had had his quarters properly set up, and had taken his place on them, sitting on the bare metal throne. There he'd remained asleep for a while, his head reclined on one side and held up by an elbow propped on the throne's arm rest. No one had dared thinking of disturbing him while in this state, of course. When Flute reached the door of the apartments, though, he had been awake for a while. Or so informed him one of the guards posted at the entrance. It was unclear who would Piccolo need guarding from, but protocol demanded things to be done this way.

"He is awake, sure," confirmed the guard as he admitted his superior in the antechamber. "We have a security feed from the throne room. But His Majesty is not in a good mood."

"Is he ever?," asked Flute.

The other flinched, and instinctively lowered his voice when answering. "Not really."

"Then I might as well take my chances. Announce my visit and see if His Majesty is willing to give me audience."

"Uh." The guard paused for a moment, shooting a glance at his companion, who kept standing perfectly still, on attention, in front of the door, as if nothing was happening. "Sure, sir."

He went to the surveillance booth and punched a button on a phone. "Your Majesty, there is here Flute who wishes for an audience."

There was a moment of soft white noise before Piccolo's rough voice could be heard. "And who is this Flute?"

"Ah, Your Majesty, he's one of our high officers. He was missing in action and presumed dead, but he rejoined us and wishes to pledge his services and loyalty to-"

"Send him in."

The peremptory tone didn't leave much room for adding anything, and the guard quickly shut down the call, before he could cause any more irritation to the Demon King. "Here we go, sir. You can enter at any time."

Flute smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, then reached for the door to the throne room and pushed it open slowly.

Inside, the room looked very different from how it had when the quarters were first deployed. Windows were half closed, and it was dark enough that shapes could be distinguished, but not colours. Many of the items and furnishing had been demolished in some way; drawers and doors had been partially smashed, and concrete, metal and wood alike often bore the marks of claws ripping through them.

"What do you want?," asked Piccolo.

Flute came closer, bowing deeply on the carpet laid in front of the throne. It was hard to distinguish, but from the smell alone he could tell there had been blood splattered on it recently. "Your Majesty, I come to submit myself to your orders. I congratulate you with your return, and the vanquishing of the false king who usurped your throne."

The Demon King emitted a low growl. "Just that?"

"Ah, besides-" Flute hesitated for a moment. He could feel his impatience already growing, and knew that he had to measure his next words very carefully. "I have come to offer you my personal services as well."

"Personal?" The hint of doubt and curiosity in the voice was genuine. Flute took it as his cue to raise his head a bit. Still kneeling, he allowed himself to slowly raise his gaze towards Piccolo's, albeit still keeping it respectfully below eye level.

"Your Majesty has many duties, and has been long away from this world. Humans have changed a lot during that time, and there are trivialities that may need to be handled on your behalf. If you wish to have me, I offer myself to that purpose, and am ready to employ my knowledge and experience to relieve you of the most tedious tasks-"

"You wish to speak for me, then? To give orders in my stead?"

Piccolo clasped the armrests of his throne, and made a movement as if we was about to get up. Flute didn't like it - he couldn't wait any longer. He rose his head, and tried to make it so that his pleading expression and humble words could make up for the apparent defiance of the gesture.

"I wouldn't dare, your Majesty. I spoke out of turn. I will explain myself better," and here a quick flash of his eyes, crossing Piccolo's, for just a moment, "if your Majesty were so magnanimous as to forgive me."

Flute's power had limits. He had never met anyone able to resist it, of course; but whether the target realised what had happened was a different matter. For the most part, it depended on how natural the instruction was within the scope of both the conversation and the target's usual behaviour. His influence couldn't be felt per se, but anyone could look back at their behaviour and notice strangeness enough to recognise that there must have been compulsion at work, or at least, that their mind had been playing tricks on them. Here, all his hopes had to be pinned on this not happening with Piccolo. If it did, and he realised, Flute's options would become awfully limited.

There was a long moment of silence, during which Piccolo's eyes, seemingly still as alight with anger as always, remained fixated on Flute, and for that instant he thought he must have failed, and would die in a matter of moments. But then something imperceptibly eased up in them, and a thin grin spread on the green creature's lips.

"Very well," said the Demon King, relaxing back in his seat. "You have another chance. Do not waste it."

Had it worked? Flute had no reason to believe otherwise - that did seem to be a change in Piccolo's attitude, one that would have been hard to explain otherwise. He decided to test the ground a bit.

"Your Majesty, what I meant is, if you have any questions, I can answer them - I daresay, perhaps, somewhat better than some of your other subjects you're already acquainted with."

He tried a slight smile, and found that Piccolo answered with a similarly amused expression. The dig at the others had worked, obviously. "Not that it would be hard," he snarled. "Then I will put you to the test. I have a question for you to answer. What were you sent here to tell me?"

"I-" Flute hesitated. He could deny it, but that was not likely to meet much favour with Piccolo. He could try to force his way using his power again, but that had its own risks, and if he had to tip his hand that way anyway, he might as well save it as his very last resort. The situation was already slightly different from what he'd expected could be possible, probably as a result of his earlier compulsion. Piccolo was not showing any signs of anger, despite apparently being unconvinced of Flute's sincerity. That could still be the effect of the 'forgiveness' command, of course, but what would happen when that wore off was anyone's guess. Flute swallowed down and, after frantically running all these thoughts through his head in as short a time as he could afford before the Demon King lost his brief moment of calm, he decided that all in all, the truth might be the best option. "The men have been discussing about some, uh, strategic implications of the latest battle."

"They wish I had not destroyed the Capital," said Piccolo.

The young man nodded. "Your Majesty, please understand, it is not out of disrespect, nor pity for our enemies in any way. But there were assets in the city that would have been useful for the sake of the future of our campaign - your campaign, Your Majesty. It would have been easier to subjugate the rest of our enemies if-"

"Easier than it is already?," said Piccolo, and he laughed. And it was all the more disquieting because it sounded like a hearty laugh, not his usual cruel sneers. Though there still were endless depths of malice in it. "That sounds boring."

"Of course, Your Majesty," said Flute, bowing deeply. "I did not mean to imply that you could not do without such help, Your Majesty. But one could say that perhaps, even to just destroy one's enemies, there are more interesting paths than the straightforward one."

Piccolo's eyes widened a bit. "Oh, yes," he said, "yes. More interesting paths, I can see that."

He grinned and stood up from his throne.

"So I guess that, for example, I shouldn't just kill you and your friends waiting outside?"

Every alarm bell instantly rang inside Flute's head. He had less than a fraction of a second to react - and even that was only as much time as Piccolo was conceding to him, in his complacency.

"Your Majesty," he said, straightening up and looking back into his eyes again, "should sleep."

The order had been peremptory, and it landed like a blow, sending Piccolo reeling. His eyes closed halfway through, and his legs gave up on him, as his body slowly started falling down, strength having left it. At the same time, the wall of the room exploded. The debris flew through the room, Flute deftly took a step back to avoid being hit by it as well as to put some distance between himself and the heart of the battle. Piccolo's body was going limp, about to slump back on the chair, when it stopped in mid-air. From the breach in the wall had jumped in Tien and Chiaotzu, and the latter had pushed out his little hands towards Piccolo, and started exerting his telekinetic hold. The Demon King stopped in mid air, held in place by an invisible force in an unnatural pose. Tien had him already in his sights, dead centre within a triangle shape he'd formed with his hands. They were glowing with energy, and as the air of the whole room got electrified, that energy concentrated more and more, and eventually took shape into a blindingly bright aura centred on them.

"KIKOHO!"

A single powerful beam of light bolted out of Tien's hands, engulfed Piccolo entirely, and went on to blast a hole in the opposing wall and the ground, blowing up a large amount of dust and shrapnel. The power of the attack was impressive - Flute had gauged that Tien was indeed the stronger of the pair, but this removed any doubt for him; Piccolo aside, he would have been baffled even just by this level of power alone. It would be a good reason to worry about whether it would be possible to control him effectively if they succeeded in killing Piccolo - but that, he realised, was a big 'if'.

As a way to instantly confirm his worst fears, out of the cloud of concrete and dirt that had obfuscated the air of the room jutted a green arm, covered in now tattered clothing, and slightly bruised here and there, with small cuts that leaked purple blood but were rapidly closing. Chiaotzu yelped in pain, as he tried to keep Piccolo in his clutch and failed; his hands and arms strained, feeling directly the pressure that was applied on his telekinetic bindings, and quickly gave up, at which point he let them slump against his body and stopped levitating, falling to the floor with a small cry. Piccolo's claw grasped Tien's head, covering his mouth and nose, and leaving only his three eyes to stare at him with fury. He lifted the martial artists from the ground effortlessly, and kept him at enough of a distance that Tien's flailing attempts to kick and punch couldn't reach him. When the young man managed to shoot a smaller energy beam - not quite as powerful as what had come before - Piccolo simply turned to the side, letting it only graze him, then retaliated by clutching his head harder. Tien made a muffled scream.

"So," said Piccolo, slowly turning to face Flute, with a devious grin. "What should I do? What's the most interesting path here, huh?"

Flute hesitated. His heart was hammering in his chest; for the first time in years, hell, in pretty much all he could remember of his life, he was genuinely terrified. The Demon King must have understood how his power worked, it was clear he had realised what was going on, but still he was staring straight into his eyes. What was the meaning of it? Just a way to challenge him into defiance?

"I'm losing my patience here, my loyal attendant," said Piccolo. His hand tightened again, eliciting one more scream from Tien, which he then shut with a quick tap to the solar plexus taking away his breath entirely. "I feel like I may just kill this would be assassin."

Tien had not been much use. But he'd come closer to at least harming Piccolo than Flute could ever hope to. There was no time to second guess any choice, it could all end up in disaster anyway. Flute drew in a breath.

"Let him go," he said, staring deeply into Piccolo's eyes.

The demon went through a quick cycle of expressions. He looked surprised, then suddenly relaxed, then amused. His hand opened up slowly, and Tien fell, crashing onto the ground, where he remained huddled in pain. Chiaotzu ran to him to help him, and meanwhile, Piccolo simply stood where he was, and he burst out in a laugh.

"Amazing! I could feel it as you told me what to do - what an amusing little gift."

He turned to face Flute again, but this time, he put forward a finger.

"Now," he said, "no talking again unless I say so, all right? You open those lips of yours, you lose your head before you get to make a sound."

Flute swallowed and nodded. Piccolo walked closer.

"Here is what you will do. You will stay at my side. You will be my attendant, just as you wished. You will carry out my orders, and you will use that little useful skill you have to make things go smoother when I say so. All those morons out there are fair game. I care nothing about them."

The Demon King's claw touched Flute's cheek. Slowly and deliberately it slid down, from his cheekbone down to the corner of the mouth, pressing slightly, the sharp tip eventually drawing blood and cutting a thin, red line through his face.

"You will not use that power on me any more unless told to, and only in the ways I will tell you to. When we're in front of the others, you will not use it in ways that will make them realise what is going on. Don't think you can hold me long enough and fast enough to escape punishment for breaking any of these rules. Don't think I need you, either."

Flute nodded again.

"You need you," he continued, and this time, his voice turned into a low growl. His nostrils dilated, as he took in a heavier breath, and his claw got more threatening, running down to the other's jugular. "I do not enjoy being made a fool of, ordered around, attacked, or used by any of you worms. I am very, very angry at all that has happened here. And there is only one thing you can say or do right now that will allow you to continue living. What do you have to say, little man?"

The other hesitated. He kept his chin raised as the claw was pushing against his neck, where only a little more pressure, just a tiny bit, would make the difference between life and death.

"SAY IT!," shouted Piccolo, stomping so hard his foot sunk in the concrete and left a visible print.

"Please, Your Majesty," mumbled Flute, with pleading eyes. "Please forgive my transgressions. Please find it in your heart to have some compassion. Please allow me to continue serving you."

The claw was lowered. The angry scowl turned again into an entertained grin.

"So that is settled," he said. "You've really got your uses, attendant."

"If it pleases you, Your Majesty," replied the other, kneeling and bowing deeply.

"It does. For now. You, and you," he shouted then, pointing at Tien and Chiaotzu. "Were you just hired by this guy to try and kill me? Or do you have a grudge of your own?"

"You killed our master," hissed Tien. He had recovered enough to stand up again, though leaning on a levitating Chiaotzu for support. "And we will avenge him."

"Ah, a good answer," Piccolo's teeth flashed in a grin. "With me, then."

The two martial artists exchanged a single glance of understanding. Tien let go of Chiaotzu, and took his own fighting stance.

"Oh, don't give me that!," the demon laughed. "You hit me at full force, taking me by surprise, while I was half incapacitated, and I don't even have a scratch any more. What do you think you can do to me?"

"I-" Tien hesitated.

"We will never serve you!," shouted back Chiaotzu. "You... you monster!"

"You will. But you will hate every moment of it," Piccolo walked towards them. "Because you will have no better hope. Who knows. Maybe one day I will show you a weak point, right? Maybe I will lower my guard? Isn't that what you're thinking, insects?"

They stood petrified, as the green demon towered above them, hands raised, ready to give them a swift, unavoidable death if so he just chose.

"It will never happen. But it does not matter. You will hope, and hope will be the leash that makes you my dogs. And beware: the next time you attack me, I will kill you. So you better choose the time right! Even if it looks the perfect chance, well, who knows? A better one might arise in the future. You wouldn't want to disappoint your dear old dead master, would you? Face him in the afterlife and tell him that you're failures?"

It would have been easy. He was right in front of them. All they had to do was attack, put their everything into it, and whatever their fate would have been, it would have been sealed then and there. Chiaotzu was about to move, his hands ready to open.

Then Tien's muscles relaxed. Defeated, he abandoned his fighting stance, and lowered his eyes.

"Now come with, before I lose my patience again," hissed Piccolo, and with him, now, it was clear that expression was a lot more literal and deadly than it would mean out of anyone else's mouth. They both obeyed.

"Let's go talk with the rest of those buffoons who sent you here," he said, gesturing to Flute to likewise follow him out of the throne room. "Let's tell them that we've stopped being straightforward."

He laughed again.

"And that things are about to get interesting."

The leaders of the Instruments gathered in meeting had expected many different possible endings for Flute's little expedition, but very few of them involved him coming back alive. Some worried that Piccolo wouldn't be happy simply killing him and would then seek out anyone who had also agreed with him, or put him to it, which would be disastrous for them all. Most counted on his wrath being too swift and incoherent for anything that well planned out to happen. Had they taken bets, though, the one thing that would have gotten you an absolute fortune even by just putting a single Zeni on it was the possibility that Piccolo would come visit the meeting, walking in a swift and regal but overall pretty relaxed manner up to the door, accompanied in tow by both Flute and the two guys that only some of them had seen very briefly at the base before the dragon was summoned, and that he would then reach the door and wait for the fraction of a second it took the sensor to acknowledge him and slide it open automatically.

The Demon King walked amid a room of stunned officers waiting with bated breath.

"It has been brought to my attention," he said, "that there have been some complaints about some of my leadership choices levied among you."

Many eyes widened in alarm. Many mental calculations started at the same time. The door was only one, distant, and not wide enough to pass through if everyone bolted at the same time. The windows were small. Also Piccolo was fast enough and powerful enough that he could just blow up the whole building.

No one budged an inch.

"Now I'm sure that some of you - perhaps many of you - expect such a thing to be met with my ire. Expect maybe that I should kill the whole useless lot of you."

"But of course," interjected Flute, taking a step forward, then sending a quick sideways glance to Piccolo, "His Majesty would not show such unrestrained cruelty without reason."

"Of course," agreed the Demon King, with a smile. "I am, in fact, willing to accept meaningful and well-argumented suggestions, on occasion."

The relief that this sentence had generated was quickly followed by general surprise, then varying degrees of jealousy and resentment. It was clear that something had happened, because this almost wasn't the same Demon King they'd all witnessed until a matter of hours before. It was also clear that it must have been Flute's doing, in accordance with his track record of being awfully good at getting on the good side of whoever he needed to in order to climb the ranks. And from the way he behaved now, he seemed to have made it all the way to second in command in a single leap. Much of this was only happening in everyone's mind, with only limited displays on the outside. The most transparent one was Cymbal, who visibly seethed and sent a meaningful stare at Tambourine, seeking his approval, while the other ptero limited himself to appear as unshaken and stone-faced as possible. Drum frowned, but little more. Tuba was moving his eyes around quickly, looking out for everyone's reaction. Oboe fixated his piercing gaze on Flute.

"Let it not be said, however, that I enjoy having my authority challenged freely," continued Piccolo, and suddenly all internal politics were silenced, as new survival alarms rang in everyone's mind, "because that would incite complacency. My time and attention are not to be wasted either. So it is just a matter of fixing a steep enough price for submitting such a challenge to my authority. If you are willing to pay the price, I will believe you are serious enough about it to lend you my ear. Only fair, is not it?"

"As wise and magnanimous as I would expect of Your Majesty," said Tambourine, slightly bowing his head. "And of course, such a price would be...?"

"One of your lives," replied the Demon King, casually. "Anyone who wishes me to hear their suggestion must be ready to kill themselves in front of me. Of course, that is just what gets you my attention - I do not guarantee I will accept your suggestion."

The officers froze. Flute limited himself to standing next to Piccolo and smiling, while the other two warriors - what the hell were they even doing there anyway? - only looked dejected and submissive. They started looking at each other, seeking agreement, alliance, suspicion.

"As I have said, I already have accepted this one particular suggestion. From now on, I will pay some more mind to the needs of conquest and looting, and keep destruction to a minimum in the course of this campaign. So, now, who will pay the price?"

"Your Majesty," said Tambourine. "I believe Flute brought you this particular-"

"As I understand it, he was only the messenger," cut him short Piccolo. "Or are you suggesting that you don't care? I have no problem going back to my previous course of action instead."

"No, we-" The ptero stopped himself mid-sentence, took a step back. He realised he was getting too much visibility. He quickly exchanged a look with Cymbal, who seemed to understand the meaning. There were team lines already well delineated among them. And there was an easy choice that could be made.

Piccolo waited, smiling, arms crossed. His finger tapped lightly on his forearm at a perfect rhythm. Tap, tap, tap.

Cymbal came close to Oboe. "You wanted to show off your loyalty to him," he mumbled. "You go."

"What?," the man's eyes bulged out with anger. "You insolent...! Why would I have to do this when I was the only one who didn't-"

"Because if you don't do it now by yourself, we'll do it outside as soon as we leave," replied Cymbal, under his breath. "And it will be a lot more painful."

Oboe panicked. He looked around quickly, seeking help, assurance from someone. Tambourine and Drum were staring in front of themselves, unfazed. Tuba hesitated a moment, taken by surprise by the development, but then turned away his eyes as well.

"You-" hissed Oboe at the ptero next to him. He only got a half crooked smile and a shrug.

Slowly, hands trembling, Oboe walked forward. He stood in front of Piccolo, who didn't say a thing. Just kept tapping his finger.

"I will pay the price," announced Oboe. He waited for a moment, then drew a sharp breath, and in a quick motion extracted his gun, removed the safety, and pointed it at his own head.

"The world to the strong!," he shouted proudly, chest out, then he pulled the trigger.

Piccolo's smile widened.

He changed his position and walked forward, deliberately stepping over Oboe's corpse. The others kneeled and bowed their head.

"So that's decided, then," said the Demon King. "Now tell me, what should be our next target?"

The others hesitated for a moment.

"His Majesty is asking for information, not advice," explained Flute, stepping behind their line, so that he could face the King. "I am sure no price will be required for this, and he will be plenty understanding."

"Correct," agreed Piccolo. "Now, speak up."

"Headquarters," suggested Tambourine. "Red Ribbon Headquarters. That is probably where most of the remaining forces who could oppose us would gather. They have plenty of equipment and weaponry."

"Anything like what the Capital had?"

"No, Your Majesty. Not to our knowledge. There was no great trust between the Red Ribbon and the false king; I believe they would not have been given such powerful defences."

"Good enough. We'll start from there then," Piccolo nodded. "How long would it take to get there?"

"Your Majesty-" Tambourine hesitated. "If we left immediately, at the expense of only packing the essentials, and travelled without pause, it would take less than eight hours to-"

"But that is not how long you would take normally, right? Come on. Don't let me pluck the words from your mouth."

"Of course if Your Majesty wishes... but our soldiers are exhausted and our supplies are, huh..."

"I ASKED HOW MUCH!," suddenly shouted Piccolo in anger that he'd not displayed until now. There was a gush of wind emanating from him that swirled through the room.

"Your Majesty, the most prudent course of action would be to take three days," stuttered Tambourine. "We will be able to pack up all our equipment and lose nothing, as well as stock up on the necessities and let the soldiers get enough off time to be back at peak combat efficiency."

"Very well," growled the other, his anger slowly subsiding. "We will take our time then. Three days. Was it so hard?"

"No, Your Majesty. I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

"Very well. I will also require some addition to my quarters. Send me some engineers. Flute, you two, with me."

With a curt gesture, Piccolo called back Tien and Chiaotzu to his side. Together, the four walked out of the room, leaving everyone in a state of overwhelmed confusion, and a single corpse in the middle of it, still slowly leaking out blood from the hole that passed its head side to side.

There was a minute of awkward silence from all.

"You know," finally spoke up Cymbal, "all in all, that went well."