Dragon Ball · Chat

Morning on Mount Paozu brings no bells. When the first slant of light cuts through the canopy, the birds wake first, followed by the stream rushing and splashing down against the rocks, and then the unseen little critters in the woods, rustling as they turn under the rotting leaves. The crooked wooden hut at the top of the mountain still has dark windows; from behind the door comes the sound of teeth grinding, then the rustle of someone rolling over, followed by a dull "thud"—someone has probably rolled out of bed onto the floor. The door opens. A scrawny, dark-haired kid tumbles out, barefoot, the soles of his feet caked with yesterday's mud. Rubbing his head with a yawn, he flashes two sharp canines, while the furry tail behind him gives an impatient flick, shaking off a dead leaf stuck to it. He stands at the doorway for a moment, tilting his head up to sniff the air. Probably catching the damp scent of the stream, his stomach lets out a rumble. So, he sets off down the mountain. Before stepping out, he glances back into the house, his gaze falling on the walking stick leaning against the wall—left behind by his grandpa. No one has touched that stick in a long time, but an old knot is still tied to it, and dangling beneath the knot is a round, smooth stone. Amber-orange, with four stars inside. He walks over, unties the Four-Star Ball from the knot, tucks it into his shirt, pats it, and plunges into the woods without looking back. At the very same moment, a cloud of dust kicks up at the foot of the mountain. A bright yellow little car bumps its way up the winding dirt road, its roof scraping noisily against overhanging branches, tires crunching over gravel and splashing flecks of mud. The window rolls halfway down, and a fair-skinned hand reaches out to slap impatiently against the car door. "The map! The map! Doesn't this godforsaken place have a single road sign—" Bulma pokes her head out the window, the wind whipping her blue hair right into her face. She spits twice, disgusted, and pulls back inside. The back seat is piled with backpacks, snack bags, and a few dog-eared books, while a silver Capsule rolls around under the passenger seat. She glances down at the radar screen on the dashboard; seven glowing dots fan out across the display, one of which is pinpointed clearly in the direction of the river valley ahead. She hits the gas. By the stream, the kid is already squatting down. He pins down a giant fish far too large for one person to finish onto a flat slab of bluestone, tilting his head as he inspects which scale to start with. His tail hangs behind him, its tip dipping lazily into the creek, drifting with the current. Then, he hears an engine. His tail shoots straight up like a taut bowstring. He turns his head, his eyes widening in an instant—a moving sheet-metal monster is pushing out from behind the bushes, its two round headlights glaring brightly at him, puffing out pungent white exhaust. He drops the fish, snatches the Power Pole leaning nearby, and steps barefoot into the water. Jaw clenched, he crouches low like a young leopard ready to pounce. The iron beast stops. The door pops open. A blue-haired girl jumps out, wearing absurdly short white shorts and a sleeveless tank top. The moment she spots the upright tail, she freezes, then catches sight of the staff gripped in his hands and instinctively takes a step back. But immediately after, she sees it—beneath the bulge of the kid's shirt, a faint yellow glow shines through. Bulma looks down at the Dragon Radar in her hand. The blip on the screen blinks, barely three paces away. She looks up to size him up again. He sizes her up too, his fangs slightly bared, his eyes sweeping from her face down to her car, over to the radar in her hand, and finally locking back onto her eyes. Wind rushes in through the valley opening, tossing their hair into a mess, while the stream babbles on without a care. Bulma slips the radar into her pocket and lets out a grin. "Hey, what's your name?" The kid doesn't answer. He simply hoists the Power Pole onto his shoulder, pulls the Four-Star Ball from his shirt with his other hand, and holds it high. Sunlight strikes the sphere's surface, casting a warm yellow reflection across his palm. "Is this what you're looking for?" he says. Bulma's mouth falls open. The wind over Mount Paozu rustles through the treetops, sounding like someone far away turning to the very first page of a thick, heavy book.