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Chapter 10: Broken

Compared to the darkness of the Pendulum Room, even the light from the dreary, overcast day he now found himself standing beneath was enough to make him snap his eyes shut instantly. After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and he was able to look around a bit. He was standing off to the side of a structure that was so large that he hesitated to call it a tent, even though that was clearly what it was. Several more such tents peppered the area, and the snow-packed dirt tracks that connected it all were populated by military personnel, doctors, and nurses, as well as the occasional jeep passing through. He’d have been confused about where he was, but luckily he was presented this orgy of evidence that he was standing on the grounds of a military field hospital.

“You! Hey, you!”

Yamcha jumped at the sudden shout which, as his luck would have it, was clearly directed at him. Dammit, and here he’d thought the clothes Mr. Popo had given him were meant to make him blend in more! He turned, spotting a man jogging towards him. Thankfully it hadn’t been one of the soldiers milling about the area, but one of the doctors. He approached with purpose, clearly looking to reprimand him for being in an area he clearly wasn’t permitted to be in. As he neared, however, his demeanor seemed to change.

The doctor seemed to be staring at Yamcha’s breast pocket, where there was a small badge pinned. Yamcha hadn’t known what it said back when he’d put it on at the Lookout, the lettering having been in Russian, but it clearly meant something to this man. He went slightly pale, looking back up at Yamcha as though he was the one who’d stepped out of line.

“M-my, apologies, sir! I hadn’t realized… W-we weren’t expecting you for another several hours, so I merely assumed you were…”

As the doctor rambled on nervously, Yamcha noticed that he was doing so in Russian, but just like the dream he’d shared with Piccolo, he was able to understand. Did this magical translation work both ways, he wondered? He was just daring enough to give it a shot.

“Nevermind all that,” he began, trying to hide his surprise at his own voice as the words passed his lips in perfect Russian. It almost gave him chills to hear it. Everything sounded so much more intimidating in that language. It kind of made him feel like a badass. He definitely had to convince Piccolo to teach it to him when he got back. In the meantime, however, he supposed he had work to do. He just hoped he could get this fellow to tell him exactly what that work was, because he hadn’t the foggiest idea.

“I assume that, since you know who I am, you also know why I’m here.”

“O-oh, yes, of course! Right this way!”

With that, the doctor turned and led Yamcha through the door of the very tent he’d been standing next to. Inside was one of what he assumed was the hospital’s many post-op wards, rows of cots packed together like sardines lining each wall. The faces of the cots’ occupants were those of broken and battered men, each staring off into nothingness with empty, hopeless expressions. Many were missing limbs, while others were so emaciated that they looked like barely-living skeletons with skin pulled taught over their bones. As he passed down the corridor between the beds, each of them stared at him as though he was the grim reaper himself. Theirs was not a look of horror, though. Merely one of resignation.

“The one you’re looking for is here,” the doctor explained, gesturing to a bed at the far wall. Unlike the others, this one had a white curtain set up around it to keep anyone from seeing the wretched soul that lay behind it. As they neared it, Yamcha could sense a ki that was weak by his standards, but far greater than anyone that was currently around him. Furthermore, this ki felt familiar. He quickened his pace slightly, getting ahead of the doctor.

“Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.”

The doctor stopped in his tracks at the order, clearly confused but not brave enough to question him.

“Err… Y-yes, of course. If you need anything, merely ask one of the nurses to fetch it for you.”

And with that, the doctor hurried away, clearly relieved to be free from him. Once it seemed like no one was looking, Yamcha took a quick look down at his badge. As he’d hoped, the Pendulum Room’s translation worked for reading as well. Though he could understand the letters, however, it didn’t seem to help him. NKGB… It must have been an acronym for something, but the meaning was lost upon him. He supposed it was enough for him to know that he was some sort government agent that no one really wanted to mess with. This was turning out to be a bit more like James Bond than he’d initially thought, but he’d roll with it as long as he could.

Turning back to the curtain-obscured bed, Yamcha’s newfound badassery seemed to melt away into a queasy nervousness. He knew exactly who was behind the curtain, but he wasn’t sure he could stomach seeing it for himself. The reports had said that Ivan was pulled from one of the ovens, burnt so badly that they couldn’t even tell he wasn’t human. What a horrifying sight that must have been, and he knew it would only pain him more to see it because he knew and loved the man he would one day become.

Preparing himself for the worst, Yamcha parted the curtains and slipped inside. What lay before him seemed to be more bandage than man, a veritable mummy wrapped head to toe in gauze rolls. Only his eyes and mouth were left exposed, and what little Yamcha could see through those openings looked like black leather, dark purple flesh barely visible between the cracks in his charred skin. He seemed far thinner than usual even with the bandages, likely just as malnourished as all the other men he’d seen. That would explain why he hadn’t healed himself yet; he hadn’t enough energy left to do so.

The dark eyes that stared up at him held the same look of hopeless resignation as all the other men, his breaths haggard and strained, his lungs clearly as burnt as the rest of his body.

“So… my turn now, is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse, spoken through gritted teeth. Yamcha couldn’t imagine the pain he must be in at that moment, especially since he highly doubted this hospital was well stocked in pain killers.

“Your turn for what?” he asked, earning him a bitter hiss from Ivan.

“Do not play coy with me… I have heard the questions they ask any soldier rescued from Auschwitz. We are all assumed to be traitors; we are assumed to have been tortured onto giving information to those Nazi bastards, and there’s nothing I nor anyone else could say that will convince you otherwise. Our fates are already decided in your eyes, so just skip to the end and put a bullet in my head right now…”

“Th-that’s… That’s horrible! Why would they do such a thing?” Yamcha asked, momentarily forgetting the roll he was meant to be playing.

“You tell me, ‘comrade,’” he replied, spitting out that last word with particular venom. Ivan then turned his eyes away, the most he could do to communicate that he was done talking. Yamcha wasn’t going to just let it end there, though. He leaned over so that it was impossible for him to avoid looking at him, drawing closer to Ivan’s face as a result.

“W-wait… What if I told you I’m not really who you think I am?”

Ivan seemed to stare at him incredulously at this point, glancing down at his badge before looking up at his face once more.

“You must think I’m an idiot. Why should I believe something any five-year-old could see through? You think I will talk if you say you aren’t a government agent? Fine, I’ll humor you. I spent nearly a year in that hellhole, subjected over and over to the knife of a madman who had the nerve to call himself a doctor. I was asked many things about the Soviet Union and their plans, none of which I knew. I was a goddamned field medic. What the hell would I know that either side would care about? I wasn’t told a damn thing that would make a difference in this war. Now, if you’re satisfied, either kill me or leave me to rot in peace…”

Yamcha had to admit he was impressed by how Ivan managed to maintain that kind of standoffish attitude in the condition he was in, already starting to sound like the Piccolo he knew. Had he always been so hard and stubborn, or was it a result of the year he’d spent in the death camp?

Yamcha wasn’t going to back down, though. He couldn’t just leave him there, not like this. He had to find some way to get Ivan out of there before the agent he was impersonating showed up for real. But what would convince the understandably-wary alien that he was telling the truth?

“Listen…” he began, lowering his voice to a whisper so he couldn’t be overheard, “I know what you are. I know you’re not human.”

Ivan seemed to tense at that, but didn’t seem terribly surprised. There was a small hint of fear in his eyes now, though.

“I see…” Ivan replied, his voice lowering to match, “So now you threaten me with a lifetime of medical torture the likes of which I’ve already experienced over this past agonizing year? I had hoped I could blame such treatment on the evil of the Nazis, but now I see that I can expect no better from the country I had fought for, the country I call home… And I expect I would have been treated no different had I been recovered by the British or the Americans. I suppose, then, that such cruelty is merely in the nature of all humans, regardless of nationality or ideology. If that is the case, then all hope is lost, and the only way to put an end to all of this pain and suffering is death…”

Yamcha found himself at a loss for words. Not only was this the third time in the span of about five minutes that Ivan had subtly suggested that he kill him, but he felt that he was witnessing the moment that Kami had lost his faith in humanity, paving the way to Piccolo’s emergence as the Great Demon King. Though such an evolution was inevitable, and obviously unstoppable, Yamcha felt the urge to try and correct course.

“Th-that’s not true! Look, I know you probably won’t believe me, but despite all of the horror you’ve seen here, there are still good humans out there! What about your mother? And your sister? Surely they’re still good people in your eyes! I know it may not seem like it now, but there are many more good humans just like them all over the world; people who are willing and able to look past your outward appearance and love you for the man you are inside! Please, you can’t give up hope! I… I won’t let you!”

Yamcha wasn’t sure where all that had come from, unsure of what he was saying before he’d blurted it all out. Ivan seemed equally as stunned, merely staring up at him for a long while. Finally, when he replied, his voice came out in an incredulous whisper that was barely audible, his dark eyes staring wide and unbelieving.

“You… You really aren’t here to interrogate me, are you?”

“No,” Yamcha replied with a newfound burst of confidence, resting his hand on the injured man’s chest, “I’m here to bust you out.”

With that, he pumped as much energy through his palm into Ivan’s body as he thought he could handle. Ivan drew in a sharp gasp, his back arching up off the cot he lay in as ki surged though his depleted veins. Once the transfer was complete, the bandaged alien sat bolt upright where he was barely able to move before, his charred, blackened skin giving way to fresh greenish purple flesh under his bandages as his cells began regenerating at their optimal rate. Ivan stared for a moment at his hands, as if amazed that he was able to move them once again after so long confined helplessly to a hospital bed. He looked up towards Yamcha in amazement, to which the ex-bandit could only answer with a cocky smirk.

“Let’s get you home, buddy.”

________________________________

Yamcha realized quite rapidly that his decision to break Ivan out of the medical camp was the most spontaneous thing he’d ever thought to do. As soon as Ivan was able to walk, he led him out by the hand through the packed ward, drawing stunned stares from nursing staff and patients alike. He honestly hadn’t thought out even the semblance of a plan, instead relying on his knack for quick thinking and improvisation. As they burst through the doors out into the snow-covered campsite, Yamcha immediately turned to Ivan and grasped him by the wrist, pulling him close.

“Just play along, got it?” he whispered so low that he could barely hear himself. Ivan heard well enough anyway, giving a sharp nod of understanding. When he turned back to the now gawking crowd of doctors and military personnel, he made sure to put on his best “pompous government agent” face.

“Come on, then! That’s enough struggling out of you! You’ll be coming with me, and that’s that!”

“Fuck you, you sorry son of a bitch! I have done nothing wrong! I am a true patriot! Your accusations are a stain on the Motherland and all she represents! I will not stand for such insult! Stalin himself can go fuck himself, for all I care!!” Ivan shouted, pretending to fight against Yamcha’s grip with all his might, but to no avail. Honestly, Yamcha was a tad surprised at the man’s level of acting, but he supposed it did the trick. A member of the military police approached them, his rifle drawn and aimed squarely towards his bandaged prisoner.

“What’s going on here?!” he asked, glancing between the two of them in confusion, yet clearly deciding that Yamcha was the one in the right here. As if to emphasize what this soldier clearly already knew, he tapped his free hand against his prominent NKGB badge.

“I have orders to take this man back for a thorough interrogation! Quickly, give me anything you may have to restrain him and get me some transport immediately!”

“I have served my country faithfully, yet this is the thanks I get?! Lenin would be rolling in his grave if only he knew of this sorry state of affairs!”

The MP looked between the two of them almost in a panic, clearly distracted by the scene Ivan was making. Eventually, he produced a pair of handcuffs, handing them over to who he perceived to be a superior government officer. Yamcha quickly used them to bind Ivan’s hands behind his back, though the injured prisoner fought him the entire way. Once he was secure, Yamcha turned back to the soldier and motioned with his head to hurry up and bring him a vehicle. The MP, still caught off-guard by the whole situation, rushed off to do just that. Soon enough, an army jeep rolled up before them, the MP jumping out of the driver’s seat to allow Yamcha to take control. Yamcha made a show of shoving Ivan into the passenger seat, and Ivan was a good enough actor to look like he was resisting the entire time. Only when he had his “prisoner” secured did he turn to the MP and give him a nod of thanks.

“You have my appreciation. I will be sure to inform Comrade Stalin of your assistance in this matter upon my return to the capitol,” he said, using language he remembered reading in that old propaganda piece back at Dr. Briefs’ lab. It seemed to do the trick, as the MP seemed quite glad to salute him on his way as Yamcha took the wheel and rumbled down the dirt track out of the army hospital camp. As soon as the camp faded from view behind them, he let out a giddy laugh, unable to believe they’d just gotten away with the shit they’d just pulled. Ivan, for his part, couldn’t help but laugh lightly along with him, despite his clear reservations and lingering pain. He supposed he must simply be glad to taste freedom for the first time in over a year of captivity.

_______________________

The two of them headed as far east as they could after escaping Poland, making a beeline towards Russia proper. Mr. Popo, to his credit, had been correct in assuring that the documents Yamcha held would get them where they needed to go. So long as Ivan acted the part of the weary, unwilling prisoner, the contents of the envelope Yamcha held was enough to whisk them effortlessly through any Russian military checkpoint they came across – which, east of Berlin, was pretty much all of them at this point in the conflict. It was clear to the both of them that the war was winding down. The news of Adolf Hitler’s death was quick to spread, and no general was willing to continue hostilities now that the chain of command had all but dissolved on the German side of the conflict. It was over now, and the Soviet Union had swooped in to claim their own chunk of Europe in the aftermath. This was a good thing, as far as their immediate goals were concerned. It was Soviet checkpoints as far as the eye could see, and he was lucky enough to have Soviet documents to see them through each and every one.

Even so, they could not make it from Poland to Ivan’s home in a day, even though they drove all day and partially through the night. The two of them had to make camp on the Russian border of the Ukraine, well within the Soviet states yet far from their ultimate destination. They made camp in a frozen wood, the two of them sitting with their backs against their stolen jeep as they watched the flames of the fire before them dance in the night, casting flickering shadows that were equally mesmerizing as they were panic-inducing. It was during such a lull in their flight that they finally found a moment to relax slightly, a semblance of a conversation sprouting between the two of them.

“You…” began Ivan hesitantly, “You are the only adult human that I’ve ever met since leaving my home that has accepted my existence without question. I’d hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I can’t help but ask… Why? You clearly know what I am, yet I do not feel fear from you. Instead, I feel the same sentiment from you as I’ve felt from my own mother and sister – an unconditional love that I have yet to be able to comprehend. It is… baffling, to say the least.”

“H-hey, you’re not reading my mind, are you?” Yamcha asked in a slight panic. If Ivan read his mind and saw some of the events of the far future, there was no telling what would happen. Luckily, Ivan shook his head, though he seemed amazed that he knew of his telepathic abilities.

“I don’t make a habit of prying where I am not invited. I got the sense of it when you gave me some of your energy before. I could feel your emotions in that moment, which is probably the only reason I decided to trust you at all.”

“I see…” Yamcha replied, letting out a sigh of relief. “Well, you’re free now. We’ll have you home by midday tomorrow, then you can go back to your research and music and everything else.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” he interrupted. “Why do you feel love for me, someone you’ve never even met before?”

Yamcha looked over to meet Ivan’s dark eyes, their intense gaze fixed on him and refusing to let go until he had his answer. Yamcha couldn’t help but stare for a long while. He’d removed his bandages once they’d made camp, exposing his still-regenerating flesh. It had mostly healed, but there were still great sections that looked like scars that had years to heal rather than hours, the light from the fire deepening the shadows in his face and making him look like an alien Freddy Krueger. It was certainly one of the more intimidating, if not outright frightening sights he’d ever seen, but he tried not to let it sway him. He gave the other man a soft smile.

“Sorry. Spoilers.”

______________________

The two of them only got a few hours of sleep before hitting the road once more before the break of dawn. The trip was uneventful for the most part, aside from the occasional military checkpoint they had to cross through. These were growing fewer and fewer the further into Russia they went, and soon they found themselves in the wide-open countryside. Once the chances of being seen were all but gone, Ivan removed his bandages again, which served more as a disguise now than to keep his wounds covered.

“We’re very close now. I’m starting to recognize this area,” Ivan commented before turning to face Yamcha, who was still driving. “How do I look? The burns, they don’t hurt anymore, but they haven’t healed completely yet, have they?”

Yamcha glanced over for a moment to take a look. He certainly looked a lot better than he had last night, but whether that was due to the change in lighting or further healing, Yamcha couldn’t tell. Much of his skin had returned to its normal green state, but there were patches of raw purple here and there where he was still healing. He gave the taller man a lopsided smirk.

“What, you expecting to go join a beauty pageant after this? You look fine. Nothing another day or two won’t clear up.”

Ivan let out a small sigh of relief at that, settling back into his seat once more.

“Good, just as long as I’m recognizable. Of course, mother would worry over me if I showed up with so much as a paper cut, so I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it anyway.”

Yamcha let out a small chuckle at that, but something caught his eye up ahead that made his witty retort catch in his throat. Above the rolling white hills and against a sky of dismal grey rose a tower of black smoke in the distance. In an instant, he felt all the warmth drain from his body, his eyes widening. No… It couldn’t be…

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ivan asked in concern as the jeep accelerated sharply. He didn’t need an answer, however, as he soon noticed the smoke in the distance. He said nothing more, but Yamcha could practically feel the dread welling up in the man’s body as though he, too, knew what was happening.

As they crested the hill, Yamcha came to a sudden stop. The sight that greeted them was as stunning as it was horrifying. A huge mansion engulfed in flames, ashes raining from the sky, the heat of the blaze able to be felt even from that great distance. Soon, however, something else caught his attention. There were three people standing before the burning estate; two men clad in dark suits not unlike the one Yamcha was currently wearing, a woman in a calf-length blue dress between the two of them. The woman struggled against the grasp of one of the men, shouting loudly but just far enough away that he couldn’t understand her. The other man, standing before her, was shouting as well in a commanding fashion, but his words were also drowned out by distance and the roar of the blaze. This second man, clearly growing frustrated with her lack of cooperation, reached under his coat and retrieved something, holding it against the woman’s head and prompting more shouting and sobbing from her. After a moment, Yamcha realized it was a gun.

“No!” Ivan shouted, vaulting over the front of the jeep and taking off at full sprint towards the scene below. Yamcha was slower to react, but soon did the same, taking off down the hill as fast as he could, but still somehow trailing behind Ivan. Even though the two of them ran faster than any human alive was capable of, they couldn’t make it in time. The crack of gunfire pierced the air, and the woman fell limp in her captor’s arms.

Description
Chapter 10: Broken

Compared to the darkness of the Pendulum Room, even the light from the dreary, overcast day he now found himself standing beneath was enough to make him snap his eyes shut instantly. After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and he was able to look around a bit. He was standing off to the side of a structure that was so large that he hesitated to call it a tent, even though that was clearly what it was. Several more such tents peppered the area, and the snow-packed dirt tracks that connected it all were populated by military personnel, doctors, and nurses, as well as the occasional jeep passing through. He’d have been confused about where he was, but luckily he was presented this orgy of evidence that he was standing on the grounds of a military field hospital.

“You! Hey, you!”

Yamcha jumped at the sudden shout which, as his luck would have it, was clearly directed at him. Dammit, and here he’d thought the clothes Mr. Popo had given him were meant to make him blend in more! He turned, spotting a man jogging towards him. Thankfully it hadn’t been one of the soldiers milling about the area, but one of the doctors. He approached with purpose, clearly looking to reprimand him for being in an area he clearly wasn’t permitted to be in. As he neared, however, his demeanor seemed to change.

The doctor seemed to be staring at Yamcha’s breast pocket, where there was a small badge pinned. Yamcha hadn’t known what it said back when he’d put it on at the Lookout, the lettering having been in Russian, but it clearly meant something to this man. He went slightly pale, looking back up at Yamcha as though he was the one who’d stepped out of line.

“M-my, apologies, sir! I hadn’t realized… W-we weren’t expecting you for another several hours, so I merely assumed you were…”

As the doctor rambled on nervously, Yamcha noticed that he was doing so in Russian, but just like the dream he’d shared with Piccolo, he was able to understand. Did this magical translation work both ways, he wondered? He was just daring enough to give it a shot.

“Nevermind all that,” he began, trying to hide his surprise at his own voice as the words passed his lips in perfect Russian. It almost gave him chills to hear it. Everything sounded so much more intimidating in that language. It kind of made him feel like a badass. He definitely had to convince Piccolo to teach it to him when he got back. In the meantime, however, he supposed he had work to do. He just hoped he could get this fellow to tell him exactly what that work was, because he hadn’t the foggiest idea.

“I assume that, since you know who I am, you also know why I’m here.”

“O-oh, yes, of course! Right this way!”

With that, the doctor turned and led Yamcha through the door of the very tent he’d been standing next to. Inside was one of what he assumed was the hospital’s many post-op wards, rows of cots packed together like sardines lining each wall. The faces of the cots’ occupants were those of broken and battered men, each staring off into nothingness with empty, hopeless expressions. Many were missing limbs, while others were so emaciated that they looked like barely-living skeletons with skin pulled taught over their bones. As he passed down the corridor between the beds, each of them stared at him as though he was the grim reaper himself. Theirs was not a look of horror, though. Merely one of resignation.

“The one you’re looking for is here,” the doctor explained, gesturing to a bed at the far wall. Unlike the others, this one had a white curtain set up around it to keep anyone from seeing the wretched soul that lay behind it. As they neared it, Yamcha could sense a ki that was weak by his standards, but far greater than anyone that was currently around him. Furthermore, this ki felt familiar. He quickened his pace slightly, getting ahead of the doctor.

“Thank you for your help. I’ll take it from here.”

The doctor stopped in his tracks at the order, clearly confused but not brave enough to question him.

“Err… Y-yes, of course. If you need anything, merely ask one of the nurses to fetch it for you.”

And with that, the doctor hurried away, clearly relieved to be free from him. Once it seemed like no one was looking, Yamcha took a quick look down at his badge. As he’d hoped, the Pendulum Room’s translation worked for reading as well. Though he could understand the letters, however, it didn’t seem to help him. NKGB… It must have been an acronym for something, but the meaning was lost upon him. He supposed it was enough for him to know that he was some sort government agent that no one really wanted to mess with. This was turning out to be a bit more like James Bond than he’d initially thought, but he’d roll with it as long as he could.

Turning back to the curtain-obscured bed, Yamcha’s newfound badassery seemed to melt away into a queasy nervousness. He knew exactly who was behind the curtain, but he wasn’t sure he could stomach seeing it for himself. The reports had said that Ivan was pulled from one of the ovens, burnt so badly that they couldn’t even tell he wasn’t human. What a horrifying sight that must have been, and he knew it would only pain him more to see it because he knew and loved the man he would one day become.

Preparing himself for the worst, Yamcha parted the curtains and slipped inside. What lay before him seemed to be more bandage than man, a veritable mummy wrapped head to toe in gauze rolls. Only his eyes and mouth were left exposed, and what little Yamcha could see through those openings looked like black leather, dark purple flesh barely visible between the cracks in his charred skin. He seemed far thinner than usual even with the bandages, likely just as malnourished as all the other men he’d seen. That would explain why he hadn’t healed himself yet; he hadn’t enough energy left to do so.

The dark eyes that stared up at him held the same look of hopeless resignation as all the other men, his breaths haggard and strained, his lungs clearly as burnt as the rest of his body.

“So… my turn now, is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse, spoken through gritted teeth. Yamcha couldn’t imagine the pain he must be in at that moment, especially since he highly doubted this hospital was well stocked in pain killers.

“Your turn for what?” he asked, earning him a bitter hiss from Ivan.

“Do not play coy with me… I have heard the questions they ask any soldier rescued from Auschwitz. We are all assumed to be traitors; we are assumed to have been tortured onto giving information to those Nazi bastards, and there’s nothing I nor anyone else could say that will convince you otherwise. Our fates are already decided in your eyes, so just skip to the end and put a bullet in my head right now…”

“Th-that’s… That’s horrible! Why would they do such a thing?” Yamcha asked, momentarily forgetting the roll he was meant to be playing.

“You tell me, ‘comrade,’” he replied, spitting out that last word with particular venom. Ivan then turned his eyes away, the most he could do to communicate that he was done talking. Yamcha wasn’t going to just let it end there, though. He leaned over so that it was impossible for him to avoid looking at him, drawing closer to Ivan’s face as a result.

“W-wait… What if I told you I’m not really who you think I am?”

Ivan seemed to stare at him incredulously at this point, glancing down at his badge before looking up at his face once more.

“You must think I’m an idiot. Why should I believe something any five-year-old could see through? You think I will talk if you say you aren’t a government agent? Fine, I’ll humor you. I spent nearly a year in that hellhole, subjected over and over to the knife of a madman who had the nerve to call himself a doctor. I was asked many things about the Soviet Union and their plans, none of which I knew. I was a goddamned field medic. What the hell would I know that either side would care about? I wasn’t told a damn thing that would make a difference in this war. Now, if you’re satisfied, either kill me or leave me to rot in peace…”

Yamcha had to admit he was impressed by how Ivan managed to maintain that kind of standoffish attitude in the condition he was in, already starting to sound like the Piccolo he knew. Had he always been so hard and stubborn, or was it a result of the year he’d spent in the death camp?

Yamcha wasn’t going to back down, though. He couldn’t just leave him there, not like this. He had to find some way to get Ivan out of there before the agent he was impersonating showed up for real. But what would convince the understandably-wary alien that he was telling the truth?

“Listen…” he began, lowering his voice to a whisper so he couldn’t be overheard, “I know what you are. I know you’re not human.”

Ivan seemed to tense at that, but didn’t seem terribly surprised. There was a small hint of fear in his eyes now, though.

“I see…” Ivan replied, his voice lowering to match, “So now you threaten me with a lifetime of medical torture the likes of which I’ve already experienced over this past agonizing year? I had hoped I could blame such treatment on the evil of the Nazis, but now I see that I can expect no better from the country I had fought for, the country I call home… And I expect I would have been treated no different had I been recovered by the British or the Americans. I suppose, then, that such cruelty is merely in the nature of all humans, regardless of nationality or ideology. If that is the case, then all hope is lost, and the only way to put an end to all of this pain and suffering is death…”

Yamcha found himself at a loss for words. Not only was this the third time in the span of about five minutes that Ivan had subtly suggested that he kill him, but he felt that he was witnessing the moment that Kami had lost his faith in humanity, paving the way to Piccolo’s emergence as the Great Demon King. Though such an evolution was inevitable, and obviously unstoppable, Yamcha felt the urge to try and correct course.

“Th-that’s not true! Look, I know you probably won’t believe me, but despite all of the horror you’ve seen here, there are still good humans out there! What about your mother? And your sister? Surely they’re still good people in your eyes! I know it may not seem like it now, but there are many more good humans just like them all over the world; people who are willing and able to look past your outward appearance and love you for the man you are inside! Please, you can’t give up hope! I… I won’t let you!”

Yamcha wasn’t sure where all that had come from, unsure of what he was saying before he’d blurted it all out. Ivan seemed equally as stunned, merely staring up at him for a long while. Finally, when he replied, his voice came out in an incredulous whisper that was barely audible, his dark eyes staring wide and unbelieving.

“You… You really aren’t here to interrogate me, are you?”

“No,” Yamcha replied with a newfound burst of confidence, resting his hand on the injured man’s chest, “I’m here to bust you out.”

With that, he pumped as much energy through his palm into Ivan’s body as he thought he could handle. Ivan drew in a sharp gasp, his back arching up off the cot he lay in as ki surged though his depleted veins. Once the transfer was complete, the bandaged alien sat bolt upright where he was barely able to move before, his charred, blackened skin giving way to fresh greenish purple flesh under his bandages as his cells began regenerating at their optimal rate. Ivan stared for a moment at his hands, as if amazed that he was able to move them once again after so long confined helplessly to a hospital bed. He looked up towards Yamcha in amazement, to which the ex-bandit could only answer with a cocky smirk.

“Let’s get you home, buddy.”

________________________________

Yamcha realized quite rapidly that his decision to break Ivan out of the medical camp was the most spontaneous thing he’d ever thought to do. As soon as Ivan was able to walk, he led him out by the hand through the packed ward, drawing stunned stares from nursing staff and patients alike. He honestly hadn’t thought out even the semblance of a plan, instead relying on his knack for quick thinking and improvisation. As they burst through the doors out into the snow-covered campsite, Yamcha immediately turned to Ivan and grasped him by the wrist, pulling him close.

“Just play along, got it?” he whispered so low that he could barely hear himself. Ivan heard well enough anyway, giving a sharp nod of understanding. When he turned back to the now gawking crowd of doctors and military personnel, he made sure to put on his best “pompous government agent” face.

“Come on, then! That’s enough struggling out of you! You’ll be coming with me, and that’s that!”

“Fuck you, you sorry son of a bitch! I have done nothing wrong! I am a true patriot! Your accusations are a stain on the Motherland and all she represents! I will not stand for such insult! Stalin himself can go fuck himself, for all I care!!” Ivan shouted, pretending to fight against Yamcha’s grip with all his might, but to no avail. Honestly, Yamcha was a tad surprised at the man’s level of acting, but he supposed it did the trick. A member of the military police approached them, his rifle drawn and aimed squarely towards his bandaged prisoner.

“What’s going on here?!” he asked, glancing between the two of them in confusion, yet clearly deciding that Yamcha was the one in the right here. As if to emphasize what this soldier clearly already knew, he tapped his free hand against his prominent NKGB badge.

“I have orders to take this man back for a thorough interrogation! Quickly, give me anything you may have to restrain him and get me some transport immediately!”

“I have served my country faithfully, yet this is the thanks I get?! Lenin would be rolling in his grave if only he knew of this sorry state of affairs!”

The MP looked between the two of them almost in a panic, clearly distracted by the scene Ivan was making. Eventually, he produced a pair of handcuffs, handing them over to who he perceived to be a superior government officer. Yamcha quickly used them to bind Ivan’s hands behind his back, though the injured prisoner fought him the entire way. Once he was secure, Yamcha turned back to the soldier and motioned with his head to hurry up and bring him a vehicle. The MP, still caught off-guard by the whole situation, rushed off to do just that. Soon enough, an army jeep rolled up before them, the MP jumping out of the driver’s seat to allow Yamcha to take control. Yamcha made a show of shoving Ivan into the passenger seat, and Ivan was a good enough actor to look like he was resisting the entire time. Only when he had his “prisoner” secured did he turn to the MP and give him a nod of thanks.

“You have my appreciation. I will be sure to inform Comrade Stalin of your assistance in this matter upon my return to the capitol,” he said, using language he remembered reading in that old propaganda piece back at Dr. Briefs’ lab. It seemed to do the trick, as the MP seemed quite glad to salute him on his way as Yamcha took the wheel and rumbled down the dirt track out of the army hospital camp. As soon as the camp faded from view behind them, he let out a giddy laugh, unable to believe they’d just gotten away with the shit they’d just pulled. Ivan, for his part, couldn’t help but laugh lightly along with him, despite his clear reservations and lingering pain. He supposed he must simply be glad to taste freedom for the first time in over a year of captivity.

_______________________

The two of them headed as far east as they could after escaping Poland, making a beeline towards Russia proper. Mr. Popo, to his credit, had been correct in assuring that the documents Yamcha held would get them where they needed to go. So long as Ivan acted the part of the weary, unwilling prisoner, the contents of the envelope Yamcha held was enough to whisk them effortlessly through any Russian military checkpoint they came across – which, east of Berlin, was pretty much all of them at this point in the conflict. It was clear to the both of them that the war was winding down. The news of Adolf Hitler’s death was quick to spread, and no general was willing to continue hostilities now that the chain of command had all but dissolved on the German side of the conflict. It was over now, and the Soviet Union had swooped in to claim their own chunk of Europe in the aftermath. This was a good thing, as far as their immediate goals were concerned. It was Soviet checkpoints as far as the eye could see, and he was lucky enough to have Soviet documents to see them through each and every one.

Even so, they could not make it from Poland to Ivan’s home in a day, even though they drove all day and partially through the night. The two of them had to make camp on the Russian border of the Ukraine, well within the Soviet states yet far from their ultimate destination. They made camp in a frozen wood, the two of them sitting with their backs against their stolen jeep as they watched the flames of the fire before them dance in the night, casting flickering shadows that were equally mesmerizing as they were panic-inducing. It was during such a lull in their flight that they finally found a moment to relax slightly, a semblance of a conversation sprouting between the two of them.

“You…” began Ivan hesitantly, “You are the only adult human that I’ve ever met since leaving my home that has accepted my existence without question. I’d hate to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I can’t help but ask… Why? You clearly know what I am, yet I do not feel fear from you. Instead, I feel the same sentiment from you as I’ve felt from my own mother and sister – an unconditional love that I have yet to be able to comprehend. It is… baffling, to say the least.”

“H-hey, you’re not reading my mind, are you?” Yamcha asked in a slight panic. If Ivan read his mind and saw some of the events of the far future, there was no telling what would happen. Luckily, Ivan shook his head, though he seemed amazed that he knew of his telepathic abilities.

“I don’t make a habit of prying where I am not invited. I got the sense of it when you gave me some of your energy before. I could feel your emotions in that moment, which is probably the only reason I decided to trust you at all.”

“I see…” Yamcha replied, letting out a sigh of relief. “Well, you’re free now. We’ll have you home by midday tomorrow, then you can go back to your research and music and everything else.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” he interrupted. “Why do you feel love for me, someone you’ve never even met before?”

Yamcha looked over to meet Ivan’s dark eyes, their intense gaze fixed on him and refusing to let go until he had his answer. Yamcha couldn’t help but stare for a long while. He’d removed his bandages once they’d made camp, exposing his still-regenerating flesh. It had mostly healed, but there were still great sections that looked like scars that had years to heal rather than hours, the light from the fire deepening the shadows in his face and making him look like an alien Freddy Krueger. It was certainly one of the more intimidating, if not outright frightening sights he’d ever seen, but he tried not to let it sway him. He gave the other man a soft smile.

“Sorry. Spoilers.”

______________________

The two of them only got a few hours of sleep before hitting the road once more before the break of dawn. The trip was uneventful for the most part, aside from the occasional military checkpoint they had to cross through. These were growing fewer and fewer the further into Russia they went, and soon they found themselves in the wide-open countryside. Once the chances of being seen were all but gone, Ivan removed his bandages again, which served more as a disguise now than to keep his wounds covered.

“We’re very close now. I’m starting to recognize this area,” Ivan commented before turning to face Yamcha, who was still driving. “How do I look? The burns, they don’t hurt anymore, but they haven’t healed completely yet, have they?”

Yamcha glanced over for a moment to take a look. He certainly looked a lot better than he had last night, but whether that was due to the change in lighting or further healing, Yamcha couldn’t tell. Much of his skin had returned to its normal green state, but there were patches of raw purple here and there where he was still healing. He gave the taller man a lopsided smirk.

“What, you expecting to go join a beauty pageant after this? You look fine. Nothing another day or two won’t clear up.”

Ivan let out a small sigh of relief at that, settling back into his seat once more.

“Good, just as long as I’m recognizable. Of course, mother would worry over me if I showed up with so much as a paper cut, so I’m sure I’ll never hear the end of it anyway.”

Yamcha let out a small chuckle at that, but something caught his eye up ahead that made his witty retort catch in his throat. Above the rolling white hills and against a sky of dismal grey rose a tower of black smoke in the distance. In an instant, he felt all the warmth drain from his body, his eyes widening. No… It couldn’t be…

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Ivan asked in concern as the jeep accelerated sharply. He didn’t need an answer, however, as he soon noticed the smoke in the distance. He said nothing more, but Yamcha could practically feel the dread welling up in the man’s body as though he, too, knew what was happening.

As they crested the hill, Yamcha came to a sudden stop. The sight that greeted them was as stunning as it was horrifying. A huge mansion engulfed in flames, ashes raining from the sky, the heat of the blaze able to be felt even from that great distance. Soon, however, something else caught his attention. There were three people standing before the burning estate; two men clad in dark suits not unlike the one Yamcha was currently wearing, a woman in a calf-length blue dress between the two of them. The woman struggled against the grasp of one of the men, shouting loudly but just far enough away that he couldn’t understand her. The other man, standing before her, was shouting as well in a commanding fashion, but his words were also drowned out by distance and the roar of the blaze. This second man, clearly growing frustrated with her lack of cooperation, reached under his coat and retrieved something, holding it against the woman’s head and prompting more shouting and sobbing from her. After a moment, Yamcha realized it was a gun.

“No!” Ivan shouted, vaulting over the front of the jeep and taking off at full sprint towards the scene below. Yamcha was slower to react, but soon did the same, taking off down the hill as fast as he could, but still somehow trailing behind Ivan. Even though the two of them ran faster than any human alive was capable of, they couldn’t make it in time. The crack of gunfire pierced the air, and the woman fell limp in her captor’s arms.