THE PHANTOM OF THE TOURNAMENT
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball Z in any way, shape, or form. If I did, I would be rich, sitting on a big pile of money, and laughing at all of you.
OVERTURE
The darkness of the old tournament arena was intruded upon by the lone figure of a blue-haired woman, carrying with her the feeling of an untold loss that had been festering for years unchecked. Her footsteps echoed against the enclosed stands and walls of the old coliseum, resurfacing old memories that had been thought to be buried long ago. Her feet, seemingly of their own volition, stepped onto the tiled floor of the ring, stopping slightly to the left of the centre. The very place . . .
*^*^*^*
"Yamcha, don't go!" she clung to his form like a woman drowning.
"Bulma," the dark haired man stated softly, "I have to go . . . these battles . . . this tour means everything. I will prove myself as a fighter . . . this could be my only chance. You know how much becoming a professional fighter in the tournament means to me. Don't make me choose between you and my dream, Bulma. Please . . ." he pleaded with his soft black eyes.
"Yamcha," Bulma said sadly, "We don't know how this tour could change you . . . or how our time apart could change me. When you come back, we could be completely different people! Why can't you just stay here?" she begged from behind forming tears.
He stroked her hair gently, letting the permed strands trickle between his fingers. "You know I can't do that, no matter how much I love you. I have to follow my dreams. I've been training all my life for this. I promise you . . . nothing will change. None of this will change. When I come back, whether I've made it onto a team or not, I will come back to you first. You have my word on that, Bulma," the scar on his right eye began to shimmer as a silver tear began to flow.
Bulma choked back a sob as she hugged him closer to her. She knew there was no winning this argument. He had to follow his dream. She had to let him go. She stayed in his arms for a moment, absorbing everything around her and committing it to memory. Finally, she lifted her head and created a weak, sad smile on her face. "Don't forget me."
He kissed her deeply, her arms entwining around his back, and his hand still in her hair, possibly for the last time. From the open entrance of the stadium, a chilling breeze blew in, ruffling their hair in a lingering caress of farewell. As they broke their embrace, Bulma's tear fell to the tiled floor, splashing with a note of finality. Yamcha gazed into her crying eyes with a look pleading forgiveness and a bit of hope for that day when he should return.
"I promise . . ."
*^*^*^*
Five years later, a crystalline tear fell once again to the floor of the tiled arena, splashing to the ground as if still caught in a memory. Bulma looked down upon where the drop had landed, staring at it, marveling in how ironically similar that tear was to the one that had fallen that day so many years ago. Her eyes widened slightly at the onslaught of memories that attacked her from the place of reminiscence, making her back away slowly, down the stairs that led up to the elevated arena, and on to the turf below. Relaxed now that she was out of her wandering memory's reach, she walked along the ring with her hand trailing on the outer edge. But memories are very persistent..
On the wall housing the stands, a flyer fluttered in a slight breeze from the unclosed entrance, capturing Bulma's attention. Not knowing exactly why she was so compelled to look upon it, she proceeded to approach it. She wished she had not.
*Join up for the Grand Tour!
Travel the world and achieve fame and fortune by becoming a professional tournament fighter!
Take a shot at your destiny and see if it leads you to the arena!
Only those brave and strong enough can become true fighters.
Do you have what it takes?
Find out by coming to the tryouts at-*
The rest of the paper was ripped and worn from flailing in the wind for so many years and even if it had not been, the date and time of the tryouts would have meant nothing to Bulma. The only words that registered in her mind were "Grand Tour." Those words had taken away her life, her love, and her only chance at ever becoming happy in this world. The moment she had heard those words, she had known they would be trouble for her relationship with Yamcha. The eyes that had previously been shedding tears of sadness and longing now smoldered with rage.
She punched the flyer taped to the wall as hard as she could.
It did more damage to her hand that the wall, but it felt good to Bulma to find some way to release the anger she had kept bottled up inside. Again and again she struck at the wall, until the pain in her hand became too much and she had to cease her self-destructive actions. A trickle of blood fell from her knuckles as she pulled her hand away and it took a moment for her to realize that she was in pain.
She leaned against the wall to support herself as she applied pressure to the wound. Why she had come here, she did not know. Subconsciously she had known that this would happen, that the memories would return to her at the sight of where it had all occurred. She had paid her subconscious no heed however, but whether she had been summoned here by her own volition, or some disembodied force, was unclear to her. Her hand began to throb, and her reflections were cut short as a sound other than that of the emptiness of the stadium emerged.
A breeze blew from the open entrance, making the dust from the arena's years of decay spring back to life and swirl in the gently whipping wind. Her hair began to thrash wildly around her, lifting off her neck and allowing the finer hairs to stand on end, and for some reason, she was acutely aware of the beating of her heart, though the actual sound in her ears was lost to the song the wind sang.
It laughed at her.
The sound was a chuckle, like that which is made when one is watching the antics of a favourite pet as it does something silly or stupid. The low pitch and unseen origins made gooseflesh form on Bulma's arms as she frantically searched around the arena for the one who found her self- inflicted pain worthy of such mirth. It would seem she was alone, but the laughter and an undeniable sense of *someone* made her believe otherwise. The wind let out one more titanic gust, and then, much like a candle flickers wildly before it is extinguished, stopped dead. The laughter ceased, and it was a few moments before Bulma realized that someone, or some*thing,* had shut the door, sealing her inside in the process. Then she was left to the silence of the room.
A faint rustle in the upper level of the stands caught her attention, but when she turned her head, it had already disappeared. That feeling that someone was watching her increased as she heard the same sound on the other side of the arena, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling. Her heart beat faster and a chill went up her spine as the sound seemed to be all around her, but could only be isolated in random directions, until, like the wind, it abruptly stopped. She was left with a silence that was only permeated by the beating of her heart . . . and footsteps coming towards her.
She whirled her head in the direction of the approaching steps, but only found the emptiness of the coliseum. She felt a presence in the room, inky like the darkness and just as chilling. It swirled and flowed around the arena, circling around her body until it felt like she was surrounded. A voice deep and grating, yet underlain with a strange tenderness and vulnerability, emerged from the presence to whisper in her ear, though there seemed to be no one in the room but herself.
"You should bend your wrist more to the left. You won't hurt your knuckles so much."
She jumped at the sound, still feeling the breath tickling her ear. There *was* someone else here.
"Who are you?!" she demanded with frightened eyes and falling into a weak fighting stance.
Once again, the presence laughed. She felt as though it was floating around the dark arena, weaving through the darkness like adept creature of the night. If it could be seen through blackness, Bulma's face would have appeared pale and drained of all colour. Her breathing quickened and she held a hand to her chest to try to calm her wild pulse. The wind whispered through its laughter from behind her, making another shiver trickle down her spine.
"That's for me to know."
The tone of voice that this strange presence still remained that dark and ominous timbre, but for some reason, this strange mirth that it emitted tapered Bulma's fear. It seemed to posses an unusual dark humour that was almost contagious. The way she could feel it circling around her and chuckling in her ear made her feel as though she were only being teased.
Her breathing calmed and she gave a wry chuckle. "And for me to find out, right?"
"Perhaps," the room echoed with the low rumble of laughter.
Bulma had to smile in spite of herself. After all, she was talking to an empty room. "Well I'm glad that you find my pain so amusing then. Now if you would just open the door, I-"
"It is not your pain I find so amusing, Woman," the room seemed to smile back through the night's darkness. "You have great potential, but your technique is so pitiful it's laughable."
"Hey!" Bulma yelled back to the room indignantly. "I didn't come here to be insulted by an empty room, you know!"
Another chuckle resonated from around her. "No, you didn't," the emptiness stated.
The fear returned to Bulma now. It felt as though he knew exactly why she was here, what she was thinking, how she felt at that very moment. Not for the first time since she had entered the stadium that night she wondered whether this was all a dream.
"I can teach you, you know," the voice silkily enveloped her ears. "I can make you faster . . . stronger . . . I can make you the greatest fighter since the tournament was invented. You could rule the fighting world. You have only but to ask for my assistance," it tempted.
"I . . . I could enter the tournaments?" Bulma stammered, dumbfounded at the idea.
"Yes . . ." the voice assured her. "Can't you just hear the crowd cheering for you? Can you see how they adore you? Can you feel the power you have over them? You are their queen . . . you are the champion of the world . . . you have no limits to your power . . . the power that I give you . . . "
"I . . . I could be fighter . . ." Bulma said to herself almost dreamily.
"Yes," the room said to her again. "Listen . . .they are calling to you, cheering for you."
The room seemed to come alive with the sounds of a roaring crowd, exalting a name above all others. Was she just imagining this? Or was this some trick that the voice had created to affect her judgement? What was that name they were cheering?
*Bulma! Bulma! Bulma!*
If she entered the tournament, she could see Yamcha again. She could take back that which time had taken from her. Her dreams could coincide with her love's now and they could be together at last. She could love once more. The choice was no contest.
"Will you train me?"
She could almost feel the room smiling at her knowingly. "Of course, Woman."
"Great! I'll just-"
"-But you must promise me one thing . . ."
Bulma cringed at the word 'promise'. Promises meant deceptions, lies . . . they were never good. She looked up around her unsure, but nodded her head as her resolution returned at the thought of seeing her Yamcha again.
"Anything."
The room chuckled once more. "Good, Woman. You must promise never to tell anyone of our sessions, of who I am, or that you even have these lessons. No one must know. No one. Do you swear it?"
"Uh . . . sure," Bulma said, confused by this sudden secrecy. "But how will we be able to have lessons without anyone seeing us and finding out?"
"Meet me in the fourth training room beneath the arena at sunset tomorrow and every night after that. The doors will be locked, but if you knock seven times slowly, I will unlock it for you," the room rang mysteriously.
"Sunset tomorrow. Got it," Bulma smiled.
The entrance to the stadium opened with a click and the harsh artificial lights of the city flooded the room in the shape of a slanted rectangle on the floor. The wind from outside blew into the room and Bulma was surprised to find that it was colder than that which the eerie voice had seemed to emerge from. She pulled her jacket closer around her as she stepped towards the door and hesitated for a moment.
"I'll see you then I guess."
The once seemingly omnipresent voice now appeared to be focused in one place up in the higher level of the stands. Bulma could just make out a dark figure standing before a shadow, but could not judge anything more than the fact that it was there and it was a person. The figure seemed to melt into the shadow as it spoke in a tone that was frightening and strangely alluring at the same time.
"Until the sun sets."
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball Z in any way, shape, or form. If I did, I would be rich, sitting on a big pile of money, and laughing at all of you.
OVERTURE
The darkness of the old tournament arena was intruded upon by the lone figure of a blue-haired woman, carrying with her the feeling of an untold loss that had been festering for years unchecked. Her footsteps echoed against the enclosed stands and walls of the old coliseum, resurfacing old memories that had been thought to be buried long ago. Her feet, seemingly of their own volition, stepped onto the tiled floor of the ring, stopping slightly to the left of the centre. The very place . . .
*^*^*^*
"Yamcha, don't go!" she clung to his form like a woman drowning.
"Bulma," the dark haired man stated softly, "I have to go . . . these battles . . . this tour means everything. I will prove myself as a fighter . . . this could be my only chance. You know how much becoming a professional fighter in the tournament means to me. Don't make me choose between you and my dream, Bulma. Please . . ." he pleaded with his soft black eyes.
"Yamcha," Bulma said sadly, "We don't know how this tour could change you . . . or how our time apart could change me. When you come back, we could be completely different people! Why can't you just stay here?" she begged from behind forming tears.
He stroked her hair gently, letting the permed strands trickle between his fingers. "You know I can't do that, no matter how much I love you. I have to follow my dreams. I've been training all my life for this. I promise you . . . nothing will change. None of this will change. When I come back, whether I've made it onto a team or not, I will come back to you first. You have my word on that, Bulma," the scar on his right eye began to shimmer as a silver tear began to flow.
Bulma choked back a sob as she hugged him closer to her. She knew there was no winning this argument. He had to follow his dream. She had to let him go. She stayed in his arms for a moment, absorbing everything around her and committing it to memory. Finally, she lifted her head and created a weak, sad smile on her face. "Don't forget me."
He kissed her deeply, her arms entwining around his back, and his hand still in her hair, possibly for the last time. From the open entrance of the stadium, a chilling breeze blew in, ruffling their hair in a lingering caress of farewell. As they broke their embrace, Bulma's tear fell to the tiled floor, splashing with a note of finality. Yamcha gazed into her crying eyes with a look pleading forgiveness and a bit of hope for that day when he should return.
"I promise . . ."
*^*^*^*
Five years later, a crystalline tear fell once again to the floor of the tiled arena, splashing to the ground as if still caught in a memory. Bulma looked down upon where the drop had landed, staring at it, marveling in how ironically similar that tear was to the one that had fallen that day so many years ago. Her eyes widened slightly at the onslaught of memories that attacked her from the place of reminiscence, making her back away slowly, down the stairs that led up to the elevated arena, and on to the turf below. Relaxed now that she was out of her wandering memory's reach, she walked along the ring with her hand trailing on the outer edge. But memories are very persistent..
On the wall housing the stands, a flyer fluttered in a slight breeze from the unclosed entrance, capturing Bulma's attention. Not knowing exactly why she was so compelled to look upon it, she proceeded to approach it. She wished she had not.
*Join up for the Grand Tour!
Travel the world and achieve fame and fortune by becoming a professional tournament fighter!
Take a shot at your destiny and see if it leads you to the arena!
Only those brave and strong enough can become true fighters.
Do you have what it takes?
Find out by coming to the tryouts at-*
The rest of the paper was ripped and worn from flailing in the wind for so many years and even if it had not been, the date and time of the tryouts would have meant nothing to Bulma. The only words that registered in her mind were "Grand Tour." Those words had taken away her life, her love, and her only chance at ever becoming happy in this world. The moment she had heard those words, she had known they would be trouble for her relationship with Yamcha. The eyes that had previously been shedding tears of sadness and longing now smoldered with rage.
She punched the flyer taped to the wall as hard as she could.
It did more damage to her hand that the wall, but it felt good to Bulma to find some way to release the anger she had kept bottled up inside. Again and again she struck at the wall, until the pain in her hand became too much and she had to cease her self-destructive actions. A trickle of blood fell from her knuckles as she pulled her hand away and it took a moment for her to realize that she was in pain.
She leaned against the wall to support herself as she applied pressure to the wound. Why she had come here, she did not know. Subconsciously she had known that this would happen, that the memories would return to her at the sight of where it had all occurred. She had paid her subconscious no heed however, but whether she had been summoned here by her own volition, or some disembodied force, was unclear to her. Her hand began to throb, and her reflections were cut short as a sound other than that of the emptiness of the stadium emerged.
A breeze blew from the open entrance, making the dust from the arena's years of decay spring back to life and swirl in the gently whipping wind. Her hair began to thrash wildly around her, lifting off her neck and allowing the finer hairs to stand on end, and for some reason, she was acutely aware of the beating of her heart, though the actual sound in her ears was lost to the song the wind sang.
It laughed at her.
The sound was a chuckle, like that which is made when one is watching the antics of a favourite pet as it does something silly or stupid. The low pitch and unseen origins made gooseflesh form on Bulma's arms as she frantically searched around the arena for the one who found her self- inflicted pain worthy of such mirth. It would seem she was alone, but the laughter and an undeniable sense of *someone* made her believe otherwise. The wind let out one more titanic gust, and then, much like a candle flickers wildly before it is extinguished, stopped dead. The laughter ceased, and it was a few moments before Bulma realized that someone, or some*thing,* had shut the door, sealing her inside in the process. Then she was left to the silence of the room.
A faint rustle in the upper level of the stands caught her attention, but when she turned her head, it had already disappeared. That feeling that someone was watching her increased as she heard the same sound on the other side of the arena, echoing off the high vaulted ceiling. Her heart beat faster and a chill went up her spine as the sound seemed to be all around her, but could only be isolated in random directions, until, like the wind, it abruptly stopped. She was left with a silence that was only permeated by the beating of her heart . . . and footsteps coming towards her.
She whirled her head in the direction of the approaching steps, but only found the emptiness of the coliseum. She felt a presence in the room, inky like the darkness and just as chilling. It swirled and flowed around the arena, circling around her body until it felt like she was surrounded. A voice deep and grating, yet underlain with a strange tenderness and vulnerability, emerged from the presence to whisper in her ear, though there seemed to be no one in the room but herself.
"You should bend your wrist more to the left. You won't hurt your knuckles so much."
She jumped at the sound, still feeling the breath tickling her ear. There *was* someone else here.
"Who are you?!" she demanded with frightened eyes and falling into a weak fighting stance.
Once again, the presence laughed. She felt as though it was floating around the dark arena, weaving through the darkness like adept creature of the night. If it could be seen through blackness, Bulma's face would have appeared pale and drained of all colour. Her breathing quickened and she held a hand to her chest to try to calm her wild pulse. The wind whispered through its laughter from behind her, making another shiver trickle down her spine.
"That's for me to know."
The tone of voice that this strange presence still remained that dark and ominous timbre, but for some reason, this strange mirth that it emitted tapered Bulma's fear. It seemed to posses an unusual dark humour that was almost contagious. The way she could feel it circling around her and chuckling in her ear made her feel as though she were only being teased.
Her breathing calmed and she gave a wry chuckle. "And for me to find out, right?"
"Perhaps," the room echoed with the low rumble of laughter.
Bulma had to smile in spite of herself. After all, she was talking to an empty room. "Well I'm glad that you find my pain so amusing then. Now if you would just open the door, I-"
"It is not your pain I find so amusing, Woman," the room seemed to smile back through the night's darkness. "You have great potential, but your technique is so pitiful it's laughable."
"Hey!" Bulma yelled back to the room indignantly. "I didn't come here to be insulted by an empty room, you know!"
Another chuckle resonated from around her. "No, you didn't," the emptiness stated.
The fear returned to Bulma now. It felt as though he knew exactly why she was here, what she was thinking, how she felt at that very moment. Not for the first time since she had entered the stadium that night she wondered whether this was all a dream.
"I can teach you, you know," the voice silkily enveloped her ears. "I can make you faster . . . stronger . . . I can make you the greatest fighter since the tournament was invented. You could rule the fighting world. You have only but to ask for my assistance," it tempted.
"I . . . I could enter the tournaments?" Bulma stammered, dumbfounded at the idea.
"Yes . . ." the voice assured her. "Can't you just hear the crowd cheering for you? Can you see how they adore you? Can you feel the power you have over them? You are their queen . . . you are the champion of the world . . . you have no limits to your power . . . the power that I give you . . . "
"I . . . I could be fighter . . ." Bulma said to herself almost dreamily.
"Yes," the room said to her again. "Listen . . .they are calling to you, cheering for you."
The room seemed to come alive with the sounds of a roaring crowd, exalting a name above all others. Was she just imagining this? Or was this some trick that the voice had created to affect her judgement? What was that name they were cheering?
*Bulma! Bulma! Bulma!*
If she entered the tournament, she could see Yamcha again. She could take back that which time had taken from her. Her dreams could coincide with her love's now and they could be together at last. She could love once more. The choice was no contest.
"Will you train me?"
She could almost feel the room smiling at her knowingly. "Of course, Woman."
"Great! I'll just-"
"-But you must promise me one thing . . ."
Bulma cringed at the word 'promise'. Promises meant deceptions, lies . . . they were never good. She looked up around her unsure, but nodded her head as her resolution returned at the thought of seeing her Yamcha again.
"Anything."
The room chuckled once more. "Good, Woman. You must promise never to tell anyone of our sessions, of who I am, or that you even have these lessons. No one must know. No one. Do you swear it?"
"Uh . . . sure," Bulma said, confused by this sudden secrecy. "But how will we be able to have lessons without anyone seeing us and finding out?"
"Meet me in the fourth training room beneath the arena at sunset tomorrow and every night after that. The doors will be locked, but if you knock seven times slowly, I will unlock it for you," the room rang mysteriously.
"Sunset tomorrow. Got it," Bulma smiled.
The entrance to the stadium opened with a click and the harsh artificial lights of the city flooded the room in the shape of a slanted rectangle on the floor. The wind from outside blew into the room and Bulma was surprised to find that it was colder than that which the eerie voice had seemed to emerge from. She pulled her jacket closer around her as she stepped towards the door and hesitated for a moment.
"I'll see you then I guess."
The once seemingly omnipresent voice now appeared to be focused in one place up in the higher level of the stands. Bulma could just make out a dark figure standing before a shadow, but could not judge anything more than the fact that it was there and it was a person. The figure seemed to melt into the shadow as it spoke in a tone that was frightening and strangely alluring at the same time.
"Until the sun sets."