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Description
Chapter 2: The Gilded Cage

Yamcha was already well into the Northern District, but he still hadn’t come up with a good excuse for why he was heading back towards Piccolo’s place. He hadn’t headed back immediately, of course. He’d returned to his West City apartment immediately after retrieving his car from the bar. It was a good thing, too, because poor Puar was absolutely beside herself with worry when he hadn’t come home the night before. She’d tackled him the instant he opened the door, sobbing against his chest as she squeaked out about how she thought he was dead in a ditch somewhere. He managed to dismiss her concerns with his usual cockiness, weaving some contrived story about how he’d met a woman at the bar and spent the night at her house – all expected innuendos present and accounted for, of course. He could tell she didn’t quite believe him, but it had the desired effect of getting her off his back. She was still a little fearful of Piccolo, so he thought telling her about that whole thing would only get her worrying more.

Currently, it was the next day. He’d had plenty of time to sleep off his hangover and get his wits about him. He knew roughly where he was going, but flying the same path as he had the night of the party felt like he was traversing a completely different landscape than before. It was surely the same white snowy fields, but now that he wasn’t drunk as hell, it didn’t threaten to lull him into unconsciousness. He noticed when he’d gotten past the point where he must have fallen when he no longer remembered anything about where he was.

Soon enough, the old mansion where Piccolo called home came into view. And a mansion it surely was. He never thought to look back at the place when he’d left the day before, but now that he saw it in full he realized just how huge it was. It had to be at least three stories with additional attic spaces at certain points, and it spanned several acres just for the building alone. He wasn’t sure how far the property stretched, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it rivaled that of Capsule Corp’s headquarters.

Yamcha landed at the front door and took a moment to appreciate just how big the entrance was. A marble staircase curved upward to the porch that wrapped around the front of the house. Tall columns framed a massive hardwood door with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. He took hold of the ring and gave the door three solid knocks before waiting for an answer.

‘I’m at the back of the house. Just fly around.’

Yamcha couldn’t help but jump in surprise at the sudden reply, not only because he couldn’t see to whom the disembodied voice belonged, but that it seemed to come from inside his own head. Still, it was clearly Piccolo’s voice, and he knew Piccolo was capable of telepathic communication, so he wasn’t too bothered by it. He did as instructed, floating up into the air and making his way around towards the opposite side of the house. He hadn’t noticed from his view of the front, but the house was apparently under construction of some kind, though whether it was major repairs or new additions Yamcha couldn’t tell.

He spotted Piccolo fairly quickly, the vibrant colors of his clothes and skin standing out splendidly against the background of white fields. Despite wearing thin fabrics and no sleeves, he seemed perfectly comfortable in such a cold environment. Yamcha supposed he’d just grown accustomed to the temperature of the area.

Piccolo was currently standing atop the bare frame of a portion of unfinished roof, a long beam of wood held effortlessly against one shoulder. He didn’t bother to look up as Yamcha approached, instead moving the beam into place at an angle against a centermost beam.

“Did you forget something?” Piccolo asked dryly before the other man could get a word of greeting out.

“Uhh, n-no,” Yamcha replied awkwardly as he touched down next to him, “I just wanted to swing by and say thank you for helping me the other day. I really owe ya one.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Namekian dismissed before thinking for a moment. Finally, he turned to look Yamcha in the eye. “Actually, since you came all the way out here, I don’t suppose you have any plans for today.”

“No, not really.”

“Good. In that case, if you want to repay me, I could always use an extra pair of hands for a bit.”

“Oh. Well, sure, I guess I could do that.”

As soon as Yamcha agreed to help, Piccolo instructed him to hold the beam in place for him. Once he grabbed hold as directed, he watched as the Namekian floated up towards the top and started attaching the beam to the central one it leaned against. He had no need for a hammer, merely inserting nails into the wood by hand as easily as if he was sliding a pin into a piece of cloth. Yamcha tried to wait for a moment when he wasn’t so focused on his task to attempt to strike up a conversation.

“So, what happened? Storm damage?”

“No. I just haven’t finished building it yet.”

“Wh-what?!” Yamcha stammered out, his surprise nearly causing him to drop the beam he was holding, “You built this whole thing?! By yourself?!”

“I suppose ‘rebuilt’ would be a better word for it, but yes.”

“Rebuilt? What happened to it?”

“It burned down about eight hundred and fifty years ago.”

Yamcha was struck speechless for a moment. Eight hundred and fifty years? Damn, this place was way older than he thought. Then again, if he thought back to what little he knew of history, he supposed the 19th century was over nine hundred years ago by their current calendar. He’d just figured the house was a later recreation of some sort.

“Wait, why are you rebuilding it, then? If it was that long ago, how did you even know it was ever here in the first place?”

Piccolo paused before answering, as though he was considering whether to tell him or not.

“It’s sort of a long story,” is what he eventually settled on.

“Well, you already know I don’t have any plans for today. Besides, you’ve got me curious. It’d bug the hell out of me if I just dropped a scoop like this now.”

Piccolo let out a small chuckle at that, shaking his head.

“Stick to baseball, Yamcha. You’d make a shitty journalist.”

Yamcha couldn’t stop a small grin from spreading across his face. Did he actually manage to make Piccolo laugh? Sure, it wasn’t much, but even that was an accomplishment.

“So, are you gonna tell me, or are you gonna keep dodging the question?”

“Yeah, alright.”

As Piccolo began explaining, the two of them continued to work on building, their conversation hardly pausing whenever Yamcha needed to be directed what to do.

“Alright, how do I explain this… After I merged with Kami, I learned from Mr. Popo that there was a little more to our initial split than either of us knew about. The split itself was largely guided by Kami’s master, the guardian before him. When he split us, he made sure to fragment all of our memories between us so that neither of us could remember anything. He gave Kami a few replacement memories, but it wasn’t much, and in retrospect they seem obviously fabricated.

“In any case, after Cell was defeated and everything started to calm down, I began slowly remembering those fragmented memories. I haven’t recovered much so far, just bits and pieces of my childhood and teenage years, but it’s been enough to let me know that I’m missing out on a hell of a lot more than I know.”

“Wow, no kidding… I had no idea that was even possible,” Yamcha commented, genuinely intrigued by the notion. He couldn’t imagine forgetting a good chunk of his life only for it to come trickling back bit by bit many years later.

“What sort of things do you remember?”

“Just a few basic facts for the most part. That story about us waiting in the mountains for forty years for our parents to rescue us was the biggest lie Kami was made to believe. While we did land in those mountains, we didn’t stay there long. We were found by someone. They rescued us from the wasteland, took us in… took us here.”

“Oh, okay. I think I get it. The humans who found you adopted you, and this was the house you grew up in.”

“That’s right. I have a very good memory of the way this place looked, so I thought perhaps if I rebuilt it and stayed here, it would help me recover more memories.”

“Hey, that sounds like a good idea to me. Has it worked at all?”

“A bit, yes. I remembered a little about the people I lived with. There was a woman I called mother, a girl a few years older than me, and a handful of servants. I don’t recall a male in the house, unless you count me.”

Piccolo paused in his explanation, finally looking up from his work.

“It’s starting to get a bit dark out here. That should be good enough for today.”

Yamcha had been so engrossed in hearing Piccolo’s story that he hadn’t noticed that the sun was starting to set. He furrowed his brow in confusion, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time.

“What the hell? It’s barely five, though.”

“We’re a lot farther north than you’re used to. The days get a lot shorter here in the winter. Come. We could use a break anyway.”

Well, he wasn’t about to argue with that. He watched as Piccolo dropped down through the unfinished roof to the bare floor below, following immediately behind. They passed through a curtain of plastic draped across the nearest doorway and entered the house proper. Compared to the darkening orange sky outside, the interior halls were pitch black. This was quickly remedied when Piccolo reached over to the wall and pushed a switch, turning on the wall-mounted light fixtures running the length of the hall. He then proceeded down the hallway, clearly expecting Yamcha to follow.

Yamcha followed for a while, but was soon distracted by his elaborate surroundings. He nearly passed by a small table set against the wall. It wasn’t terribly remarkable except for the small framed picture resting on its surface. He stopped, picking up the picture. It was an old black and white photo of a man in a library. That was strange. Didn’t Piccolo say he didn’t remember a man in the house? He was sitting at a small table with a pile of books scattered about, and he seemed to be reading intently from an open book in his lap. He wore an old three-piece suit that was probably grey or a light brown, but he couldn’t really tell. It was only when he was trying to get a better look at the man’s thin-framed glasses that he realized that he recognized this man.

“H-holy shit…” he mumbled under his breath. This was a picture of Piccolo! Or was it Kami? He supposed it was so long ago that it didn’t matter. They were the same thing back then. Either way, this was pretty surreal. This picture had to have been taken, what? Nearly nine hundred years ago? Then his story was true…

“Something wrong?”

Yamcha nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Piccolo address him suddenly. He had to scramble to keep from dropping the picture he was holding, but managed to keep his grip on it.

“N-no! Everything’s fine!” he insisted perhaps a bit more forcefully than was necessary. Piccolo merely arched his brow, clearly not believing him. Yamcha relented soon enough, showing him the picture he’d found.

“Sorry. This just caught my eye.” He admitted, handing the elegant frame over. Piccolo took it and stared at it for a moment.

“Hmm… I don’t recall placing this there. Of course, I suppose I did create much of this en mass from subconscious memories…” he explained, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Yamcha, “I… I think I remember this… My older sister took this. She liked to try to sneak pictures of me, even though mother had strictly forbidden it. She didn’t want my existence getting out, lest the government come to take me away. My sister was stubborn, though. She liked to catch me in the library, where I was most likely too distracted by my research to notice before she snapped the photo.”

He paused, a somewhat bittersweet smile forming on his lips.

“I heard the shutter close, though. I chased her through the house, but she was quick and I hadn’t come into my power yet. I suppose being locked away in a gilded cage for eighteen years didn’t help that, nor did spending all of my waking hours with my nose buried in books. I guess I saw more of myself in Gohan than even I realized at the time…”

Yamcha didn’t dare interrupt as Piccolo spoke of the memory. The Namekian’s eyes seemed to stare through the photograph rather than directly at it, as though he was seeing the scene play out in his mind. The younger man got the impression that he might have just witnessed Piccolo recovering another little piece of his old life.

Of course, Yamcha’s self-restraint lasted but a moment before he felt the need to chime in again.

“You know, you looked pretty good back then. That style of clothing really suits you. You should try dressing like that again sometime. Hell, you might even snag yourself a girlfriend!” he said with a grin, giving him a friendly nudge in the arm with his elbow. Piccolo flinched at the contact, as though just realizing that he wasn’t merely talking to himself. A faint tinge of purple spread over his cheeks as he quickly turned away, returning the framed photo where it belonged before swiftly continuing down the hallway once more.

“D-don’t be stupid…” he mumbled half-heartedly under his breath, trying his best to dismiss the entire conversation. Yamcha merely stared at the back of his billowing white cape as Piccolo retreated from the rare friendly interaction. Was that what he looked like when he was blushing? It was very disarming. Humanizing even. In fact, if it were anyone else, he may have even thought it cute. A small smirk spread itself across Yamcha’s face. Maybe hanging out with Piccolo could be fun after all.

Description
Chapter 2: The Gilded Cage

Yamcha was already well into the Northern District, but he still hadn’t come up with a good excuse for why he was heading back towards Piccolo’s place. He hadn’t headed back immediately, of course. He’d returned to his West City apartment immediately after retrieving his car from the bar. It was a good thing, too, because poor Puar was absolutely beside herself with worry when he hadn’t come home the night before. She’d tackled him the instant he opened the door, sobbing against his chest as she squeaked out about how she thought he was dead in a ditch somewhere. He managed to dismiss her concerns with his usual cockiness, weaving some contrived story about how he’d met a woman at the bar and spent the night at her house – all expected innuendos present and accounted for, of course. He could tell she didn’t quite believe him, but it had the desired effect of getting her off his back. She was still a little fearful of Piccolo, so he thought telling her about that whole thing would only get her worrying more.

Currently, it was the next day. He’d had plenty of time to sleep off his hangover and get his wits about him. He knew roughly where he was going, but flying the same path as he had the night of the party felt like he was traversing a completely different landscape than before. It was surely the same white snowy fields, but now that he wasn’t drunk as hell, it didn’t threaten to lull him into unconsciousness. He noticed when he’d gotten past the point where he must have fallen when he no longer remembered anything about where he was.

Soon enough, the old mansion where Piccolo called home came into view. And a mansion it surely was. He never thought to look back at the place when he’d left the day before, but now that he saw it in full he realized just how huge it was. It had to be at least three stories with additional attic spaces at certain points, and it spanned several acres just for the building alone. He wasn’t sure how far the property stretched, but he wouldn’t be surprised if it rivaled that of Capsule Corp’s headquarters.

Yamcha landed at the front door and took a moment to appreciate just how big the entrance was. A marble staircase curved upward to the porch that wrapped around the front of the house. Tall columns framed a massive hardwood door with a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth. He took hold of the ring and gave the door three solid knocks before waiting for an answer.

‘I’m at the back of the house. Just fly around.’

Yamcha couldn’t help but jump in surprise at the sudden reply, not only because he couldn’t see to whom the disembodied voice belonged, but that it seemed to come from inside his own head. Still, it was clearly Piccolo’s voice, and he knew Piccolo was capable of telepathic communication, so he wasn’t too bothered by it. He did as instructed, floating up into the air and making his way around towards the opposite side of the house. He hadn’t noticed from his view of the front, but the house was apparently under construction of some kind, though whether it was major repairs or new additions Yamcha couldn’t tell.

He spotted Piccolo fairly quickly, the vibrant colors of his clothes and skin standing out splendidly against the background of white fields. Despite wearing thin fabrics and no sleeves, he seemed perfectly comfortable in such a cold environment. Yamcha supposed he’d just grown accustomed to the temperature of the area.

Piccolo was currently standing atop the bare frame of a portion of unfinished roof, a long beam of wood held effortlessly against one shoulder. He didn’t bother to look up as Yamcha approached, instead moving the beam into place at an angle against a centermost beam.

“Did you forget something?” Piccolo asked dryly before the other man could get a word of greeting out.

“Uhh, n-no,” Yamcha replied awkwardly as he touched down next to him, “I just wanted to swing by and say thank you for helping me the other day. I really owe ya one.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Namekian dismissed before thinking for a moment. Finally, he turned to look Yamcha in the eye. “Actually, since you came all the way out here, I don’t suppose you have any plans for today.”

“No, not really.”

“Good. In that case, if you want to repay me, I could always use an extra pair of hands for a bit.”

“Oh. Well, sure, I guess I could do that.”

As soon as Yamcha agreed to help, Piccolo instructed him to hold the beam in place for him. Once he grabbed hold as directed, he watched as the Namekian floated up towards the top and started attaching the beam to the central one it leaned against. He had no need for a hammer, merely inserting nails into the wood by hand as easily as if he was sliding a pin into a piece of cloth. Yamcha tried to wait for a moment when he wasn’t so focused on his task to attempt to strike up a conversation.

“So, what happened? Storm damage?”

“No. I just haven’t finished building it yet.”

“Wh-what?!” Yamcha stammered out, his surprise nearly causing him to drop the beam he was holding, “You built this whole thing?! By yourself?!”

“I suppose ‘rebuilt’ would be a better word for it, but yes.”

“Rebuilt? What happened to it?”

“It burned down about eight hundred and fifty years ago.”

Yamcha was struck speechless for a moment. Eight hundred and fifty years? Damn, this place was way older than he thought. Then again, if he thought back to what little he knew of history, he supposed the 19th century was over nine hundred years ago by their current calendar. He’d just figured the house was a later recreation of some sort.

“Wait, why are you rebuilding it, then? If it was that long ago, how did you even know it was ever here in the first place?”

Piccolo paused before answering, as though he was considering whether to tell him or not.

“It’s sort of a long story,” is what he eventually settled on.

“Well, you already know I don’t have any plans for today. Besides, you’ve got me curious. It’d bug the hell out of me if I just dropped a scoop like this now.”

Piccolo let out a small chuckle at that, shaking his head.

“Stick to baseball, Yamcha. You’d make a shitty journalist.”

Yamcha couldn’t stop a small grin from spreading across his face. Did he actually manage to make Piccolo laugh? Sure, it wasn’t much, but even that was an accomplishment.

“So, are you gonna tell me, or are you gonna keep dodging the question?”

“Yeah, alright.”

As Piccolo began explaining, the two of them continued to work on building, their conversation hardly pausing whenever Yamcha needed to be directed what to do.

“Alright, how do I explain this… After I merged with Kami, I learned from Mr. Popo that there was a little more to our initial split than either of us knew about. The split itself was largely guided by Kami’s master, the guardian before him. When he split us, he made sure to fragment all of our memories between us so that neither of us could remember anything. He gave Kami a few replacement memories, but it wasn’t much, and in retrospect they seem obviously fabricated.

“In any case, after Cell was defeated and everything started to calm down, I began slowly remembering those fragmented memories. I haven’t recovered much so far, just bits and pieces of my childhood and teenage years, but it’s been enough to let me know that I’m missing out on a hell of a lot more than I know.”

“Wow, no kidding… I had no idea that was even possible,” Yamcha commented, genuinely intrigued by the notion. He couldn’t imagine forgetting a good chunk of his life only for it to come trickling back bit by bit many years later.

“What sort of things do you remember?”

“Just a few basic facts for the most part. That story about us waiting in the mountains for forty years for our parents to rescue us was the biggest lie Kami was made to believe. While we did land in those mountains, we didn’t stay there long. We were found by someone. They rescued us from the wasteland, took us in… took us here.”

“Oh, okay. I think I get it. The humans who found you adopted you, and this was the house you grew up in.”

“That’s right. I have a very good memory of the way this place looked, so I thought perhaps if I rebuilt it and stayed here, it would help me recover more memories.”

“Hey, that sounds like a good idea to me. Has it worked at all?”

“A bit, yes. I remembered a little about the people I lived with. There was a woman I called mother, a girl a few years older than me, and a handful of servants. I don’t recall a male in the house, unless you count me.”

Piccolo paused in his explanation, finally looking up from his work.

“It’s starting to get a bit dark out here. That should be good enough for today.”

Yamcha had been so engrossed in hearing Piccolo’s story that he hadn’t noticed that the sun was starting to set. He furrowed his brow in confusion, pulling his phone from his pocket to check the time.

“What the hell? It’s barely five, though.”

“We’re a lot farther north than you’re used to. The days get a lot shorter here in the winter. Come. We could use a break anyway.”

Well, he wasn’t about to argue with that. He watched as Piccolo dropped down through the unfinished roof to the bare floor below, following immediately behind. They passed through a curtain of plastic draped across the nearest doorway and entered the house proper. Compared to the darkening orange sky outside, the interior halls were pitch black. This was quickly remedied when Piccolo reached over to the wall and pushed a switch, turning on the wall-mounted light fixtures running the length of the hall. He then proceeded down the hallway, clearly expecting Yamcha to follow.

Yamcha followed for a while, but was soon distracted by his elaborate surroundings. He nearly passed by a small table set against the wall. It wasn’t terribly remarkable except for the small framed picture resting on its surface. He stopped, picking up the picture. It was an old black and white photo of a man in a library. That was strange. Didn’t Piccolo say he didn’t remember a man in the house? He was sitting at a small table with a pile of books scattered about, and he seemed to be reading intently from an open book in his lap. He wore an old three-piece suit that was probably grey or a light brown, but he couldn’t really tell. It was only when he was trying to get a better look at the man’s thin-framed glasses that he realized that he recognized this man.

“H-holy shit…” he mumbled under his breath. This was a picture of Piccolo! Or was it Kami? He supposed it was so long ago that it didn’t matter. They were the same thing back then. Either way, this was pretty surreal. This picture had to have been taken, what? Nearly nine hundred years ago? Then his story was true…

“Something wrong?”

Yamcha nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Piccolo address him suddenly. He had to scramble to keep from dropping the picture he was holding, but managed to keep his grip on it.

“N-no! Everything’s fine!” he insisted perhaps a bit more forcefully than was necessary. Piccolo merely arched his brow, clearly not believing him. Yamcha relented soon enough, showing him the picture he’d found.

“Sorry. This just caught my eye.” He admitted, handing the elegant frame over. Piccolo took it and stared at it for a moment.

“Hmm… I don’t recall placing this there. Of course, I suppose I did create much of this en mass from subconscious memories…” he explained, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Yamcha, “I… I think I remember this… My older sister took this. She liked to try to sneak pictures of me, even though mother had strictly forbidden it. She didn’t want my existence getting out, lest the government come to take me away. My sister was stubborn, though. She liked to catch me in the library, where I was most likely too distracted by my research to notice before she snapped the photo.”

He paused, a somewhat bittersweet smile forming on his lips.

“I heard the shutter close, though. I chased her through the house, but she was quick and I hadn’t come into my power yet. I suppose being locked away in a gilded cage for eighteen years didn’t help that, nor did spending all of my waking hours with my nose buried in books. I guess I saw more of myself in Gohan than even I realized at the time…”

Yamcha didn’t dare interrupt as Piccolo spoke of the memory. The Namekian’s eyes seemed to stare through the photograph rather than directly at it, as though he was seeing the scene play out in his mind. The younger man got the impression that he might have just witnessed Piccolo recovering another little piece of his old life.

Of course, Yamcha’s self-restraint lasted but a moment before he felt the need to chime in again.

“You know, you looked pretty good back then. That style of clothing really suits you. You should try dressing like that again sometime. Hell, you might even snag yourself a girlfriend!” he said with a grin, giving him a friendly nudge in the arm with his elbow. Piccolo flinched at the contact, as though just realizing that he wasn’t merely talking to himself. A faint tinge of purple spread over his cheeks as he quickly turned away, returning the framed photo where it belonged before swiftly continuing down the hallway once more.

“D-don’t be stupid…” he mumbled half-heartedly under his breath, trying his best to dismiss the entire conversation. Yamcha merely stared at the back of his billowing white cape as Piccolo retreated from the rare friendly interaction. Was that what he looked like when he was blushing? It was very disarming. Humanizing even. In fact, if it were anyone else, he may have even thought it cute. A small smirk spread itself across Yamcha’s face. Maybe hanging out with Piccolo could be fun after all.