HOME | DD

Description
Three Wishes
Chapter 1: Falling Down

There were only three things in the world Yamcha wanted in his life; a career he truly enjoyed, a loving wife, and children of his own. One would say that these were quite common, perhaps even admirable goals for a man his age to have. At one point in his life, he thought he had the first two in the bag, and assumed the third would follow soon enough, but now? Sure, one could argue that he had a dream job. He was the star player for a national baseball team, he’d never lost a game, and he’d smashed every record in the book a dozen times over, yet somehow… somehow being the best didn’t make him happy. It was too easy. There was no challenge anymore. It was the same old “play, win, get paid,” routine day in and day out. He may as well have a desk job, for all the joy he got from it.

Then there was his love life. He’d been so sure that he’d marry Bulma someday, that they’d settle down together and eventually start a family. He’d done everything she’d asked of him; he’d cut his hair, he’d dressed more to her tastes, he moved into the city for her, he treated her like a goddess… but it was never enough. He should have known it would never be enough. What could he possibly give to the richest woman in the world that she would actually value?

Still, he was blinded by love, and he continued on trying to keep hold of her heart. At least, until Vegeta arrived. That’s when it all came crumbling down. That smug jackass didn’t even love Bulma, yet she immediately flung herself all over him. And then, hardly a year later, came Trunks.

As it happened, it was Trunks’ first birthday, and everyone was currently gathered at Capsule Corp. for one of the multi-billionaire’s extravagant parties. Yamcha had been invited to come, but he found that he couldn’t stand to be there for more than ten minutes. He could hardly bear to look at Trunks without feeling a bitter knot in his heart. That could have been his son. That should have been his son.

Perhaps it would come as no surprise that, rather than hanging out at said infant’s birthday party, Yamcha instead found himself in some back-alley dive bar on the less affluent side of West City, staring emptily down into what little remained of his fifth glass of whiskey. He tossed it back and set the dingy glass back down a bit harder than he intended, one of the ice cubes bouncing out onto the rough wooden surface of the bar. He was far too drunk to feel bad about it, and at least it had gotten the attention of the bartender.

“Gimmie ‘nother…” he slurred out, mostly under his breath. Still, the bartender seemed to hear him and made his way over.

“I think perhaps you’ve had enough for one night,” was his calm reply. Yamcha became particularly aggrieved by this, and lifted his head to give the man an indignant stare that probably looked tougher in his swirling, drunken mind. He blinked hard to force his vision to steady before the person before him finally coalesced into something he could comprehend. This wasn’t the grizzled old man that had been serving him up to this point. It was a younger man, probably about his own age, his long, wavy blond hair tied back into a low ponytail. His almost-pretty face didn’t seem to match with his deep voice and impressive height. Of course, that could have been the whiskey talking.

He might have drunk himself cross-eyed, but Yamcha could tell just by looking that this younger bartender wasn’t about to be talked into giving him more drinks. Actually, perhaps that was a sign he should stop. He let out a resigned sigh, pushing himself up out of his barstool and wobbling up to his feet. Before he could stagger away, the bartender held an upturned palm out to him. He squinted down at it, his confusion plastered across his equally plastered face. The bartender gave a gentle smile as he explained.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you drive in the state you’re in, sir.”

Yamcha’s shoulders slumped as he let out a grumble of discontent. Even so, he dug around in his pants pocket and fished out a small capsule. He reluctantly slapped it down into the bartender’s expectant hand, again a tad harder than he’d intended. The bartender didn’t even flinch, dropping the capsule into the pocket of his apron.

“Would you like me to call you a cab?”

“N-nah, m’good,” Yamcha replied, stumbling away towards the door before he could be held up any longer. He burst through the door and out into the trash-cluttered streets, holding himself up against the doorframe for a moment as he adjusted to the drastic change in temperature from the warm bar to the cold night outside. The late November air bit at his already reddened face, but he hadn’t the presence of mind to pull his coat around him for warmth. He didn’t even bother to look around him to see if anyone was watching before he floated up into the air.

He flew off towards… Honestly, he didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t much care either. He just wanted to get away – the farther from West City, the better. He didn’t even bother to look ahead of him as he flew, instead staring down at the land below. He knew he was far too drunk to attempt navigating somewhere. Besides, there was something almost hypnotizing about watching the landscape drift slowly away behind him as he listed unsteadily through the air. Unfortunately, hypnotizing was probably the last thing he needed in his current state. He managed to get just far enough north that the ground was starting to turn white, then promptly fell out of the sky.

__________________________

Yamcha let out an uneasy groan as consciousness invaded his still-cloudy mind. He kept his eyes squeezed closed for a while, lifting a hand to rest against his pounding head. It took him a moment to recall what had happened the night before, but it all soon came back to him. Man, that was pretty stupid of him. What was he thinking, flying off into the night while shit-faced drunk? Well, he supposed the fact that he was indeed shit-faced drunk was all the explanation he needed.

As the events of the previous night came into focus, he just barely recalled passing out while flying over a snow-covered field. Was that where he still was? Shit, he must have caught hypothermia or something, because he didn’t even feel cold. He finally willed his eyes to open so he could have a look around.

Much to his surprise, he didn’t find himself half-buried in a snowdrift. Instead, he was lying on a couch in front of the smoldering remains of a fire in a stone fireplace, which seemed to be the only source of light in the room. Everything around him looked so old, like he’d fallen straight through the roof of a Victorian-era mansion. Fearing that exact scenario may have occurred, he quickly looked up to inspect the ceiling, letting out a sigh of relief when he didn’t find a gaping hole above his head.

“Finally awake, I see.”

Yamcha let out a yelp of surprise when a deep male voice suddenly addressed him from somewhere beyond the back of the couch. A moment later, a figure came into view, and he found himself suddenly staring up at a very familiar face.

“P-Piccolo?! What the… How did you..?” Yamcha stammered out, far too confused to settle on one question long enough to ask it in full. Rather than answering any of his half-finished queries, Piccolo wordlessly offered him a mug of coffee. Yamcha stared at the mug for a moment, having not expected the gesture from the gruff alien, but eventually accepted it with some hesitation. He stared down into the inky blackness of the beverage, taking in the rich aroma. It sure smelled a hell of a lot better than what he usually drank, and he didn’t exactly get the cheap stuff.

He tentatively took a sip and immediately pulled the mug away from his lips in surprise, staring at it as though it were just as alien as the man who’d given it to him. It was clearly black coffee, but it tasted like it had cream in it. How did he even do that? Beyond that, he couldn’t think of a better way to describe it other than the best damn coffee he’d ever tasted. If it wasn’t so hot, he’d be tempted to down it in one gulp.

He was distracted from the coffee only when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Piccolo walked around the couch before settling himself into an armchair positioned on the opposite side of the fireplace. He wasn’t wearing his bulky cape or turban, but he still looked a bit out of place in such an old-fashioned house. The thought immediately sparked a slight panic in Yamcha.

“H-hey, where the hell are we? Whose house is this? Shouldn’t we get out of here before the owners come back?”

Piccolo replied with an exacerbated sigh, shooting the other man a very annoyed glare.

“Is it so hard to believe that this is my house?”

“Y-yours?!” Yamcha nearly shouted in surprise, all but proving the Namekian’s point. He took another glance around the room, taking it in with this new bit of information in mind. Everything from the wall-mounted light fixtures to the furniture to the artwork covering the walls held a regal elegance typical of the aristocracy of Victorian-era Europe. It was the sort of thing you only ever saw in movies and museums.

“N-no, it’s just… Not the sort of place I expected you to live in.”

The conversation died into a deafening silence after that. Yamcha occupied himself with sipping at his coffee, letting his eyes drift over towards the smoldering fire. He never knew how to speak to Piccolo. The guy was an absolute enigma, a stoic giant with whom he’d never had anything in common. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that the two of them would have considered themselves enemies. How exactly was he supposed to engage in small talk with someone who once held the titles of both the Great Demon King and God Himself? Luckily it was Piccolo who eventually broke the silence.

“Look, I’m just going to cut to the chase: are you alright?”

Yamcha glanced up at the sudden question, blinking in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“You left the party in a hurry last night.”

Oh, that’s right. He’d completely forgotten that Piccolo was there at the party. He must have been such a wallflower that Yamcha hadn’t noticed him there. Then again, he didn’t really stay long himself. He let out a chuckle that he hoped sounded convincing, scratching idly at the back of his head.

“Yeah, I’m not really one for little kid parties, y’know? I just stepped out for a real drink.”

“Or five.”

That immediate retort caught him off guard, and he found himself staring up at Piccolo’s stony expression with a bit more suspicion.

“You… you followed me?”

Piccolo replied with a small shrug of his shoulders.

“I’m not really one for parties in general,” he began, hesitating for a moment before continuing somewhat awkwardly, “Besides… I was a bit worried about you…”

Here Yamcha had thought that he couldn’t have been more taken aback by the current situation, but he found himself at a complete loss for words. Piccolo was worried about him? Was he really that obvious about it? Piccolo seemed to read the confusion on his face and decided to explain himself.

“I’ve been watching people for centuries. People who drink like that are either alcoholics or are in some sort of mental distress. You don’t strike me as the former.”

Yamcha wasn’t sure what to say to that. To have the whole situation instantly deconstructed like that in a matter of seconds… it was a little unnerving, to say the least. For a moment he was tempted to cling to his façade that everything was okay, that the whole situation with Bulma didn’t bother him, but he thought better of it. Piccolo’s stern black eyes seemed to bore right past his defenses, peering straight into his soul. He felt as though he was being read like a book, and that anything he told the former guardian wouldn’t be anything new to him. Finally, he gave a heavy sigh of defeat, letting his eyes fall to the floor.

“I’ve just… been having a rough time of it lately, is all…” he admitted, but he couldn’t bring himself to say any more than that. Talking about his personal problems, his most intimate feelings… that wasn’t something he’d ever been good at with anyone, let alone someone as cold and uncaring as he’d always seen Piccolo to be. Then again, perhaps the Namekian was more empathetic than he’d first thought, having picked up on his emotional state right away at the party. Or perhaps that was one of the side effects of him having merged with Kami once more.

Yamcha heard Piccolo rise from his seat and make his way around the couch once more. There was a shuffling of fabric behind him, and when he looked he found that his coat had been draped over the back of the couch next to him.

“You can stay here as long as you need. Make sure you’re okay to fly before you leave. I might not be there to catch you next time.”

And with that, he heard Piccolo’s footsteps fade as he left the room.

____________________________________

Yamcha decided not to linger at Piccolo’s place for very long. Partly because it felt awkward wandering around a house without the owner escorting him, but also because he was somewhat afraid of breaking something irreplaceable. Everything in the house looked as though it had been taken right out of the late 19th century; things they just didn’t make anymore and in a style all but lost to time. As he tried to find his way to the main door, he couldn’t help but look at it all and wonder why. Why would Piccolo live in a place like this? How’d he even come upon it? Why did a house like this still exist at all? Something was missing in this picture, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Honestly, he didn’t know why he cared. Perhaps he was just using it as a distraction from thinking too hard on his own problems. Piccolo could live however he liked, even if his tastes were quite dated. It wasn’t really any of his business.

Once he located the door, he took a peek behind him to see if Piccolo was anywhere to be seen. All that greeted him was a deserted dark foyer. He supposed that was just as well. Saying goodbye would probably be awkward after their conversation earlier. He shrugged his coat on over his shoulders and opened the door to leave.

The blinding white of the outside world was like knives digging into his brain. He let out a startled grunt, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes, but it was of little help. The sun’s light reflected off the vast field of snow before him, making it even brighter than usual. It was even less pleasant for someone with a massive hangover. After giving himself a moment to get used to it, he stepped outside and took off into the air, heading towards West City.

_____________________________________

Yamcha didn’t head home straight away. Instead, he flew well past it towards the dingy part of town where the bar from last night was located. Plastered though he was at the time, he still remembered handing over his car to that blond bartender. He’d better get that back before anyone caught him flying through the sky on his own. He landed outside the little dive and let himself in.

He walked in on an almost deserted building. All of the chairs and barstools were stacked upside-down on the scattered tables, and only the one television behind the bar was on. An old man with a thick grey moustache was sweeping the floor behind the main bar, though his attention was mostly taken up by the news show he was watching. Yamcha approached the bar, giving the surface a quick knock to alert the bartender to his presence.

“Hey, I left my car here last night. Can I have it back?”

The old man never bothered to look away from the television screen as he replied with a gruff, “Color and model number,” as though it was something he’d been asked on a daily basis.

“Oh, uhh… Blue, model 4583.”

The man then set his broom aside, retrieving a small bowl from behind the counter which contained a few capsules. He quickly identified Yamcha’s and handed it over to him.

“Thanks. Oh, and tell that other bartender thanks for me as well. I would have gotten into a hell of a lot of trouble if I’d tried driving home last night,” Yamcha said with a chuckle. Rather than ignoring the comment and continuing to watch his show as expected, the old man turned to him with his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Other bartender?” he repeated.

“Yeah, the really tall blond guy. He was working here last night.”

“Son, I’ve been runnin’ this place for over forty-five years, and in all that time I’ve been the only one tendin’ to this here bar. I don’t have any other employees.”

“Y-you don’t?! Then who the hell was that guy?”

The old man merely shrugged.

“From what you told me, I figure he was some random good Samaritan. Don’t get too many of those nowadays, ‘specially in this part of town. I’m surprised he didn’t up an’ steal yer car. You best count your lucky stars for that, boy.”

And with that, the old man returned to his sweeping and Yamcha was left more confused than ever.

Description
Three Wishes
Chapter 1: Falling Down

There were only three things in the world Yamcha wanted in his life; a career he truly enjoyed, a loving wife, and children of his own. One would say that these were quite common, perhaps even admirable goals for a man his age to have. At one point in his life, he thought he had the first two in the bag, and assumed the third would follow soon enough, but now? Sure, one could argue that he had a dream job. He was the star player for a national baseball team, he’d never lost a game, and he’d smashed every record in the book a dozen times over, yet somehow… somehow being the best didn’t make him happy. It was too easy. There was no challenge anymore. It was the same old “play, win, get paid,” routine day in and day out. He may as well have a desk job, for all the joy he got from it.

Then there was his love life. He’d been so sure that he’d marry Bulma someday, that they’d settle down together and eventually start a family. He’d done everything she’d asked of him; he’d cut his hair, he’d dressed more to her tastes, he moved into the city for her, he treated her like a goddess… but it was never enough. He should have known it would never be enough. What could he possibly give to the richest woman in the world that she would actually value?

Still, he was blinded by love, and he continued on trying to keep hold of her heart. At least, until Vegeta arrived. That’s when it all came crumbling down. That smug jackass didn’t even love Bulma, yet she immediately flung herself all over him. And then, hardly a year later, came Trunks.

As it happened, it was Trunks’ first birthday, and everyone was currently gathered at Capsule Corp. for one of the multi-billionaire’s extravagant parties. Yamcha had been invited to come, but he found that he couldn’t stand to be there for more than ten minutes. He could hardly bear to look at Trunks without feeling a bitter knot in his heart. That could have been his son. That should have been his son.

Perhaps it would come as no surprise that, rather than hanging out at said infant’s birthday party, Yamcha instead found himself in some back-alley dive bar on the less affluent side of West City, staring emptily down into what little remained of his fifth glass of whiskey. He tossed it back and set the dingy glass back down a bit harder than he intended, one of the ice cubes bouncing out onto the rough wooden surface of the bar. He was far too drunk to feel bad about it, and at least it had gotten the attention of the bartender.

“Gimmie ‘nother…” he slurred out, mostly under his breath. Still, the bartender seemed to hear him and made his way over.

“I think perhaps you’ve had enough for one night,” was his calm reply. Yamcha became particularly aggrieved by this, and lifted his head to give the man an indignant stare that probably looked tougher in his swirling, drunken mind. He blinked hard to force his vision to steady before the person before him finally coalesced into something he could comprehend. This wasn’t the grizzled old man that had been serving him up to this point. It was a younger man, probably about his own age, his long, wavy blond hair tied back into a low ponytail. His almost-pretty face didn’t seem to match with his deep voice and impressive height. Of course, that could have been the whiskey talking.

He might have drunk himself cross-eyed, but Yamcha could tell just by looking that this younger bartender wasn’t about to be talked into giving him more drinks. Actually, perhaps that was a sign he should stop. He let out a resigned sigh, pushing himself up out of his barstool and wobbling up to his feet. Before he could stagger away, the bartender held an upturned palm out to him. He squinted down at it, his confusion plastered across his equally plastered face. The bartender gave a gentle smile as he explained.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you drive in the state you’re in, sir.”

Yamcha’s shoulders slumped as he let out a grumble of discontent. Even so, he dug around in his pants pocket and fished out a small capsule. He reluctantly slapped it down into the bartender’s expectant hand, again a tad harder than he’d intended. The bartender didn’t even flinch, dropping the capsule into the pocket of his apron.

“Would you like me to call you a cab?”

“N-nah, m’good,” Yamcha replied, stumbling away towards the door before he could be held up any longer. He burst through the door and out into the trash-cluttered streets, holding himself up against the doorframe for a moment as he adjusted to the drastic change in temperature from the warm bar to the cold night outside. The late November air bit at his already reddened face, but he hadn’t the presence of mind to pull his coat around him for warmth. He didn’t even bother to look around him to see if anyone was watching before he floated up into the air.

He flew off towards… Honestly, he didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t much care either. He just wanted to get away – the farther from West City, the better. He didn’t even bother to look ahead of him as he flew, instead staring down at the land below. He knew he was far too drunk to attempt navigating somewhere. Besides, there was something almost hypnotizing about watching the landscape drift slowly away behind him as he listed unsteadily through the air. Unfortunately, hypnotizing was probably the last thing he needed in his current state. He managed to get just far enough north that the ground was starting to turn white, then promptly fell out of the sky.

__________________________

Yamcha let out an uneasy groan as consciousness invaded his still-cloudy mind. He kept his eyes squeezed closed for a while, lifting a hand to rest against his pounding head. It took him a moment to recall what had happened the night before, but it all soon came back to him. Man, that was pretty stupid of him. What was he thinking, flying off into the night while shit-faced drunk? Well, he supposed the fact that he was indeed shit-faced drunk was all the explanation he needed.

As the events of the previous night came into focus, he just barely recalled passing out while flying over a snow-covered field. Was that where he still was? Shit, he must have caught hypothermia or something, because he didn’t even feel cold. He finally willed his eyes to open so he could have a look around.

Much to his surprise, he didn’t find himself half-buried in a snowdrift. Instead, he was lying on a couch in front of the smoldering remains of a fire in a stone fireplace, which seemed to be the only source of light in the room. Everything around him looked so old, like he’d fallen straight through the roof of a Victorian-era mansion. Fearing that exact scenario may have occurred, he quickly looked up to inspect the ceiling, letting out a sigh of relief when he didn’t find a gaping hole above his head.

“Finally awake, I see.”

Yamcha let out a yelp of surprise when a deep male voice suddenly addressed him from somewhere beyond the back of the couch. A moment later, a figure came into view, and he found himself suddenly staring up at a very familiar face.

“P-Piccolo?! What the… How did you..?” Yamcha stammered out, far too confused to settle on one question long enough to ask it in full. Rather than answering any of his half-finished queries, Piccolo wordlessly offered him a mug of coffee. Yamcha stared at the mug for a moment, having not expected the gesture from the gruff alien, but eventually accepted it with some hesitation. He stared down into the inky blackness of the beverage, taking in the rich aroma. It sure smelled a hell of a lot better than what he usually drank, and he didn’t exactly get the cheap stuff.

He tentatively took a sip and immediately pulled the mug away from his lips in surprise, staring at it as though it were just as alien as the man who’d given it to him. It was clearly black coffee, but it tasted like it had cream in it. How did he even do that? Beyond that, he couldn’t think of a better way to describe it other than the best damn coffee he’d ever tasted. If it wasn’t so hot, he’d be tempted to down it in one gulp.

He was distracted from the coffee only when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Piccolo walked around the couch before settling himself into an armchair positioned on the opposite side of the fireplace. He wasn’t wearing his bulky cape or turban, but he still looked a bit out of place in such an old-fashioned house. The thought immediately sparked a slight panic in Yamcha.

“H-hey, where the hell are we? Whose house is this? Shouldn’t we get out of here before the owners come back?”

Piccolo replied with an exacerbated sigh, shooting the other man a very annoyed glare.

“Is it so hard to believe that this is my house?”

“Y-yours?!” Yamcha nearly shouted in surprise, all but proving the Namekian’s point. He took another glance around the room, taking it in with this new bit of information in mind. Everything from the wall-mounted light fixtures to the furniture to the artwork covering the walls held a regal elegance typical of the aristocracy of Victorian-era Europe. It was the sort of thing you only ever saw in movies and museums.

“N-no, it’s just… Not the sort of place I expected you to live in.”

The conversation died into a deafening silence after that. Yamcha occupied himself with sipping at his coffee, letting his eyes drift over towards the smoldering fire. He never knew how to speak to Piccolo. The guy was an absolute enigma, a stoic giant with whom he’d never had anything in common. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that the two of them would have considered themselves enemies. How exactly was he supposed to engage in small talk with someone who once held the titles of both the Great Demon King and God Himself? Luckily it was Piccolo who eventually broke the silence.

“Look, I’m just going to cut to the chase: are you alright?”

Yamcha glanced up at the sudden question, blinking in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“You left the party in a hurry last night.”

Oh, that’s right. He’d completely forgotten that Piccolo was there at the party. He must have been such a wallflower that Yamcha hadn’t noticed him there. Then again, he didn’t really stay long himself. He let out a chuckle that he hoped sounded convincing, scratching idly at the back of his head.

“Yeah, I’m not really one for little kid parties, y’know? I just stepped out for a real drink.”

“Or five.”

That immediate retort caught him off guard, and he found himself staring up at Piccolo’s stony expression with a bit more suspicion.

“You… you followed me?”

Piccolo replied with a small shrug of his shoulders.

“I’m not really one for parties in general,” he began, hesitating for a moment before continuing somewhat awkwardly, “Besides… I was a bit worried about you…”

Here Yamcha had thought that he couldn’t have been more taken aback by the current situation, but he found himself at a complete loss for words. Piccolo was worried about him? Was he really that obvious about it? Piccolo seemed to read the confusion on his face and decided to explain himself.

“I’ve been watching people for centuries. People who drink like that are either alcoholics or are in some sort of mental distress. You don’t strike me as the former.”

Yamcha wasn’t sure what to say to that. To have the whole situation instantly deconstructed like that in a matter of seconds… it was a little unnerving, to say the least. For a moment he was tempted to cling to his façade that everything was okay, that the whole situation with Bulma didn’t bother him, but he thought better of it. Piccolo’s stern black eyes seemed to bore right past his defenses, peering straight into his soul. He felt as though he was being read like a book, and that anything he told the former guardian wouldn’t be anything new to him. Finally, he gave a heavy sigh of defeat, letting his eyes fall to the floor.

“I’ve just… been having a rough time of it lately, is all…” he admitted, but he couldn’t bring himself to say any more than that. Talking about his personal problems, his most intimate feelings… that wasn’t something he’d ever been good at with anyone, let alone someone as cold and uncaring as he’d always seen Piccolo to be. Then again, perhaps the Namekian was more empathetic than he’d first thought, having picked up on his emotional state right away at the party. Or perhaps that was one of the side effects of him having merged with Kami once more.

Yamcha heard Piccolo rise from his seat and make his way around the couch once more. There was a shuffling of fabric behind him, and when he looked he found that his coat had been draped over the back of the couch next to him.

“You can stay here as long as you need. Make sure you’re okay to fly before you leave. I might not be there to catch you next time.”

And with that, he heard Piccolo’s footsteps fade as he left the room.

____________________________________

Yamcha decided not to linger at Piccolo’s place for very long. Partly because it felt awkward wandering around a house without the owner escorting him, but also because he was somewhat afraid of breaking something irreplaceable. Everything in the house looked as though it had been taken right out of the late 19th century; things they just didn’t make anymore and in a style all but lost to time. As he tried to find his way to the main door, he couldn’t help but look at it all and wonder why. Why would Piccolo live in a place like this? How’d he even come upon it? Why did a house like this still exist at all? Something was missing in this picture, yet he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Honestly, he didn’t know why he cared. Perhaps he was just using it as a distraction from thinking too hard on his own problems. Piccolo could live however he liked, even if his tastes were quite dated. It wasn’t really any of his business.

Once he located the door, he took a peek behind him to see if Piccolo was anywhere to be seen. All that greeted him was a deserted dark foyer. He supposed that was just as well. Saying goodbye would probably be awkward after their conversation earlier. He shrugged his coat on over his shoulders and opened the door to leave.

The blinding white of the outside world was like knives digging into his brain. He let out a startled grunt, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes, but it was of little help. The sun’s light reflected off the vast field of snow before him, making it even brighter than usual. It was even less pleasant for someone with a massive hangover. After giving himself a moment to get used to it, he stepped outside and took off into the air, heading towards West City.

_____________________________________

Yamcha didn’t head home straight away. Instead, he flew well past it towards the dingy part of town where the bar from last night was located. Plastered though he was at the time, he still remembered handing over his car to that blond bartender. He’d better get that back before anyone caught him flying through the sky on his own. He landed outside the little dive and let himself in.

He walked in on an almost deserted building. All of the chairs and barstools were stacked upside-down on the scattered tables, and only the one television behind the bar was on. An old man with a thick grey moustache was sweeping the floor behind the main bar, though his attention was mostly taken up by the news show he was watching. Yamcha approached the bar, giving the surface a quick knock to alert the bartender to his presence.

“Hey, I left my car here last night. Can I have it back?”

The old man never bothered to look away from the television screen as he replied with a gruff, “Color and model number,” as though it was something he’d been asked on a daily basis.

“Oh, uhh… Blue, model 4583.”

The man then set his broom aside, retrieving a small bowl from behind the counter which contained a few capsules. He quickly identified Yamcha’s and handed it over to him.

“Thanks. Oh, and tell that other bartender thanks for me as well. I would have gotten into a hell of a lot of trouble if I’d tried driving home last night,” Yamcha said with a chuckle. Rather than ignoring the comment and continuing to watch his show as expected, the old man turned to him with his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Other bartender?” he repeated.

“Yeah, the really tall blond guy. He was working here last night.”

“Son, I’ve been runnin’ this place for over forty-five years, and in all that time I’ve been the only one tendin’ to this here bar. I don’t have any other employees.”

“Y-you don’t?! Then who the hell was that guy?”

The old man merely shrugged.

“From what you told me, I figure he was some random good Samaritan. Don’t get too many of those nowadays, ‘specially in this part of town. I’m surprised he didn’t up an’ steal yer car. You best count your lucky stars for that, boy.”

And with that, the old man returned to his sweeping and Yamcha was left more confused than ever.