Kings, Tyrants, and Demons

(Now Beta’d by Pixelgoddess)

Chapter Ten: New Namek


“I’m sorry, my friend, but I can see no lasting damage.” He thumbed through crumbling pieces of parchment bound loosely in the corroded skin of some long dead animal. “Admittedly we don’t have many records before the Dark Wind, but there is nothing in our history that touches on your…condition.” He sighed, “Physically you are sound.”

“Yes,” the warrior bit out, “I’m aware of that.”

Morie raised a brow, seemingly unimpressed with his guest’s lack of patience. He carefully shut the ancient tome and moved it back to its proper place in the circular room. He let his visitor stew for a few moments, browsing a number of tablets before he finally took the time to address the warrior, though he did not bother to look up from what he was reading.

“The sages agree more time is needed to discuss this matter. Your situation is very unique,” he stressed with a hint of exasperation. After another long moment of scanning the archaic document in his hand the cracks in his cool exterior began to show. In agitation he tossed the tablet aside allowing it to clang noisily on a nearby table. “It’s simply unheard of,” he exclaimed, turning to look at the younger man before him. “that a joined individual lose his partnered soul— or souls in your case,” he amended with a disconcerted wave, “by an outside force!”

“I didn’t lose anybody. And I told you it wasn’t an outside force. My…” he trailed off. “The person I bound myself to did this. He had access to my thoughts, feelings; everything - including Kami and Nail.”

Morie shook his head in mingled disgust and sorrow, “What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

He received no answer.

Seemingly defeated, the old man sat himself down heavily on a throne of bleached bone, identical to his auspicious predecessor’s. He grunted in relief. Since he had accepted the role of supreme elder he had inherited the responsibilities that came with it; this included the assurance of future generations. Continuous child bearing had widened his frame and loosened his skin, making mobility difficult. Though he was only slightly larger than he was twenty years ago, it did not diminish the fact he had birthed nearly fifty offspring, with more on the way.

“Forgive me,” Morie said quietly, his voice regaining its calm lucidity, “Nail was a beloved brother and friend. He was the strongest of our kind and protector of our most blessed Guru. The thought of him gone—murdered in such a matter…” He seemed unable to say anything further.

His guest made no comment, electing to allow the older man time to collect himself. He busied himself in the meantime, pretending to show interest in a few of the tablets that were stacked neatly on a nearby ledge. He selected one and to all appearances immersed himself in its content.

Morie, though wary, watched him under hooded lids. He was not fooled by the act for a second. His visitor’s restless behavior was apparent to his experienced eyes; it added to the anxiety he was trying so desperately to conceal from the younger man who had traveled so far to seek his help. Part of him felt a sense of guilt, but it was easily dismissed when he considered the fact his guest had not been exactly forthcoming upon arriving on their humble planet.

“You still refuse to tell me exactly whom you bound yourself to,” the older Namek continued, breaking the silence. “It might help matters if we had that information.”

Black eyes snapped on him, narrowing in warning.

Morie made a noise of frustration.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait then. The sages will have to dive your mind again. As I said before, they will have to discuss the matter in depth.”

“And how long will that take?”

“Hard to say.” He slumped in his chair, apparently exhausted. “You will be summoned when they arrive. Now I’m afraid I must rest. A child shall soon be born.”

Piccolo gave a short nod of acknowledgment, fighting not to make a face of repugnance, and quickly left the room. He had absolutely no desire to bear witness to Namekian birthing practices.

Once outside he allowed himself the luxury of a full blown scowl. Needless to say, he expected a warmer reception. They were friendly enough upon his arrival, and he had to admit most of them, rather annoyingly, still were. It was these so-called sages that had cooled towards him once they had performed their mind diving. He was no fool. Undoubtedly they saw the rage that churned in his heart and balked. They were a peaceful people and unused to individuals such as himself. This was confirmed to him moreso when they gave them the third degree about his lineage.

“Who was your father?” they had asked immediately after they had done their ‘diving’, “What did you say your clan name was again?”

When he told them they had scoffed and scolded him on his use of ‘colloquialisms’, and then asked for his real name.

“I will not say it again,” he had snarled, insulted they were not taking his word. “Piccolo Daimaou is my real name.”

“Then your father had a sick sense of humor.”

“I’ve no doubt, but what exactly do you mean by that?”

They didn’t answer him, but instead grilled him further about his heritage - only this time about Kami. They could not have made it more clear by this line of questioning: he was not one of them.

Disheartened, he had answered their questions indifferently, eager to be rid of them.

“The word ‘Kami’ is generic for ‘god’ or ‘protector’,” they explained. “Do you know what his proper name was?”

“No, Kami had no memory of how he initially got to Earth. But apparently he was of the line of Kitat, or so I’ve been told by a secondary source.”

They had stared at him.

From the looks they were gracing him with he assumed Kitat must have been a mass-murderer.

‘Just what I fucking need,’ he had thought sourly, ‘more homicidal forefathers. This can’t get any worse.’

However, they quickly composed themselves and attempted to lead him to his accommodation. However, having had quite enough by that point, he told them rather coldly the quarters weren’t necessary as he had no intention of staying.

They had appeared rather shocked by this declaration and frantically begged him to stay.

He had not known what to make of this situation. He finally did agree to stay, but only after he strung them along for a good hour. It was the least he could do after such rude treatment. That had been a week ago to the day; since then he remained a curiosity among the inhabitants. He fully expected to be a subject of interest; Namek wasn’t exactly a hub of activity. What he hadn’t foreseen was the mass amount of attention from the locals.

They absolutely refused to leave him alone, even when he asked them to. They seemed utterly incapable of fathoming why he would not want to be the center of attention and shadowed his footsteps nearly everywhere he went.

Upon landing, Piccolo was startled to find just how social these people were. They lived in small villages with at least two dozen housed in each. Although he hated to say it, he found it a bit primitive. But then he supposed it added to its charm.

Village life was simple; children ran underfoot of the old while the mature worked in the nearby fields planting and tending their treasured jeon trees. Personally, Piccolo didn’t think too highly of these arboreal eyesores; in fact he thought they were quite ridiculous when compared to a ‘real’ tree with proper branches. Not even a month away and he already missed Earth. He missed a lot of things at the moment.

Surrounded by his own kind he never felt so alone. He ached for his bedmates’ touch. He missed…anger hit soundly in the chest. But this had become the norm when his thoughts dwelled on spiky-haired Saiyans so he wisely shook it from his mind. He forced himself to focus on the present, pondering further the strange habits of his Namekian ‘brothers’.

Along with the trees, he didn’t think much of the mass amounts of ‘P.D.A’ that seemed to be absolutely everywhere. Young and old couples alike held hands, kissed openly in public (not that they had any sense of ‘private’), and otherwise molested each other for communal entertainment. It made the Earth-born Namek cringe and on more than one occasion he had snapped at someone foolish enough to invade his personal space.

Rather than being put-off by such anti-social behavior it created a ‘buzz’ in an otherwise sleepy community. He constantly had to fend off inquisitive children, meddling geezers, and nosy adults. “What’s Earth like?” “How’s Dende?” “Why are you wearing weird clothes?” “Come join me and the lads and tell us about the big battle on Old Namek.” “Do you know that Goku guy personally? What’s he like?”—He really hated that question. “Why do you have a funny accent?” “So you’re the guy Nail fused with…whoa you must be pretty strong, care to give us a demonstration? “Aren’t the jeon beautiful today? Would you like to help us in the field?” “You know, if you keep snarling like that people are going to get the wrong idea.” On and on it went.

What the hell was the matter with these people?

He endured this torture for six long days while Morie and the sages discussed his dilemma. It was not only rude, but in his opinion inhumane to draw this out any longer than necessary. He wanted stability, damn it! Growling to himself, he walked towards his guest chamber, sadly housed in the home of an elderly couple—who seemed oblivious as to why their guest would be uncomfortable if they displayed their affection for one another in front of him.

As he mulled—others would say sulk—on how much longer he would have to stay on the infuriating planet, a short rotund Namek approached him. Immediately Piccolo’s face darkened; after the unproductive visit with Morie he was not in the mood to deal with any of the annoying locals.

“Oh my, you’re as moody as everyone says you are.” The intruder clucked in the back of his throat, “Better stop that unless you want everyone making it their personal quest to socialize you into a ‘proper’ Namek.”

“Oh?” Piccolo drawled disinterestedly, eager to be rid of the newcomer.

“Yep,” he chirped with a nod. For some reason Piccolo was reminded of Nail. “The name is Lyre by the way, I come from an island in the south,” he answered with a lop-sided grin, gesturing over his shoulder as if the island were right behind him. “I heard that the Namek from Earth was here and I’ve come to take a look-see. Would have come sooner but I was off-planet.”

Piccolo’s raised a brow, irritated to be a tourist attraction. “I was unaware that you people traveled in space. From the local attitude I assumed you lot were quite content tending your shrubs.”

“Most are,” Lyre replied unaffected by the rudeness, “but there are those of us who travel to other planets who have dreams that go further than our ‘shrubs’.” Apparently he felt the need to elaborate, “Personally I never thought about leaving the planet,” his jovial face grew dark, “at least,” he added, “until our village was destroyed and we were all killed by one of Frieza’s bastard henchmen searching for our Dragonball.”

Piccolo flinched. He had a feeling he knew which bastard henchmen he was speaking of; luckily Lyre didn’t notice as he continued to relay his tale.

“Since Frieza didn’t bother to kill us himself we had to wait an extra year before we could be revived with our Dragonballs, since the first wish was used to revive everyone that fiend killed with his own hand.” His face flushed with anger. “During that time I had a lot of time to think about what I hadn’t done while I was alive. Thus here I am.” He shrugged again, his anger fleeing as quickly as it had come. “The elders don’t approve of course. They say straying too far from our homeland can corrupt our minds. Heh,” a wide grin split his face, “they used you as an example. Well, your father anyway.”

A tiny snarl unwillingly pulled at the taller man’s lips.

“Did they?”

“Oh yeah, his very name made the children cry,” he paused looking concerned, “you do know what it means, don’t you? Your name that is.”

Piccolo scowled, his patience all but spent.

“I am speaking to you in Namekian, am I not?”

“Yes, and you have a lovely accent. Very exotic.”

“Thank you,” the taller Namek replied dryly, swiftly deciding to let the matter slip as he was curious, very mildly so of course, what this idiot was driveling about. He relaxed a fraction. “However,” he said in a more conversational tenor, “I fail to see what’s so intimidating about the title ‘Demon from another world.’ It is a bit dramatic, but not worthy of making babes cry.” His eyes narrowed as something suddenly occurred to him. “If your elders already know about my father then why in the hell are they questioning me about my lineage?”

Lyre shrugged, “How should I know? What we know about you we learned from Guru after he spoke with that Earthling child, which wasn’t much. As for your name, well, that has to do with an old legend about the end of the universe.”

Considering his luck thus far, Piccolo was not surprised. It was with a heavy sigh he urged Lyre to continue.

“Well before the Dark Wind, Namek used to be a world of several civilizations, each with their own religious beliefs. One, I can’t recall which, had a myth that’s been handed down to this day about the ending of time and a sort of messiah that would either bring life or force the world into oblivion.” He held his breath, perhaps in an attempt of a dramatic pause, though Piccolo wasn’t exactly wringing his hands in suspense. “The messiah was referred to as ‘he from another world’.”

“So?”

Lyre looked a bit crestfallen that he hadn’t awed his audience, “Well,” he continued flatly, “the fact your father tacked on the word ‘demon’ to it quite plainly tells us which side of the messiah he likened himself to. He handed the name to you, which is probably why the sages would be curious about your bloodline.”

“I see, but—”

“Lyre!” another voice snapped, effectively cutting him off. Piccolo turned to see the newcomer and was surprised to find that, though the colors were different, he was clothed in garments similar to those of the Saiyans or Frieza’s men. Alarmed, he watched as the figure neared. Unlike Lyre, who was short and on the plump side, this Namek was nearly as tall as himself but thinner with sharp almost shrunken features. His voice was shrill and harsh, bearing a rasping quality that was drawn out by his demanding words.

“I told you to get those damn routers off of the ship!”

“Yeah yeah, I’m coming,” Lyre said half-heartedly before turning to Piccolo. He leaned in close and whispered, “That’s Vorosu. He’s from my village, but he’s a bit of an assho—”

“NOW!’

“OK!”

Without further delay Lyre ran down the hill on his short little legs, tripping as he did so. Vorosu growled at him as he past but continued his approach and sneered once he was in spiting range of the other Namek.

“And who the hell are you?”

Piccolo smirked; he was in a foul mood and picking a fight with this harping twit sounded like just the thing to help alleviate his frustration.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern. But I’d like to know who you are and why you’re dolled up like one of Frieza’s lackeys.”

A muscle jumped in Vorosu’s cheek, his body tensed and he slipped into a fighting stance. Piccolo prepared himself for it, his blood pumping at the prospect of a fight, as short and pathetic as it would inevitably be. However, and rather disappointedly, Vorosu suddenly stopped short. An incongruous smile formed on his thin lips.

“You are Piccolo, aren’t you?” he asked, a hopeful glint in his eye. “I know of no other Namek who would show such cheek.”

Piccolo gave a short nod of accent, dissatisfied he wasn’t currently beating the other Namek to the ground.

The thin Namek gave a formal bow, “My apologies for my earlier harshness. As my dim-witted friend most likely informed you, my name is Vorosu. I am an emissary of the Rijux; a former rival of the Planet Trade. It is an honor to finally meet you.”