Chapter 83
"I said *no pickles*," Raditz growled, shoving the sandwich back into James' hands. The older boy's dark hair stuck up in wild angles, matching the irritation in his voice. Outside, the farmhouse windows rattled under the first gusts of wind.
Gine sighed, rubbing her temples. "Raditz, you're seventeen. Act like it." She shot a glance toward the kitchen where Bardock stood silently sharpening a hunting knife, his usual way of avoiding domestic nonsense. The blade's rhythmic scrape filled the tense air.
Little Kakarot, oblivious as ever, pressed his face against the rain-streaked glass. "It's gonna flood!" he announced cheerfully, bouncing on his toes. The farmer's wife, Mrs. Harlow, chuckled and ruffled his hair before turning toward the pantry. "Best check the cellar, dear. Storm like this could knock the power out for days."
Beyond the fields, the sky churned an unnatural green-black, lightning spiderwebbing between the clouds. Bardock finally looked up from his knife. "Move the truck closer to the house," he muttered to no one in particular. James and Raditz exchanged a glance—when their father spoke that quietly, it meant trouble.
Mrs. Harlow emerged from the cellar with an armful of mason jars, her floral apron fluttering in the draft. "We're low on kerosene," she said, just as the first hailstones pinged against the tin roof like gunfire. Kakarot whooped and tried to catch one through the open door before Gine yanked him back by his overall straps.
The farmer, old Tom, stomped mud off his boots in the doorway. "Barn roof won't hold," he grunted, wiping rainwater from his beard. Bardock was already moving, tossing Raditz a coil of rope. "Tie down what you can." The unspoken tension crackled between them—this wasn't just wind. This smelled like the atmospheric upheavals Bardock remembered from Planet Vegeta.
Upstairs, a window shattered. Glass rained onto the porch as Gine instinctively shielded Kakarot with her body. When the boy peeked out from under her arm, his pupils dilated—not with fear, but with something eerier. "Mama," he whispered, pointing at the storm. "Something's laughing in there."
Bardock froze mid-step, rope slack in his hands. He'd heard that sound before—the predatory, high-pitched crackling of atmospheric re-entry. His tail twitched under his earth-made trousers as he scanned the roiling clouds. "Raditz," he barked, "get the scouter."
Mrs. Harlow dropped a jar of peaches. It exploded at her feet in sticky shards as she stared at Bardock's now-visible tail. "Sweet merciful—" Tom clamped a calloused hand over her mouth, his own eyes wide. "Quiet, woman. They ain't the only unnatural thing out tonight."
Lightning struck the scarecrow in the south field. For three heartbeats, its burning silhouette stood upright—then the straw man took a jerking step forward. Kakarot giggled. "See?" he said, as the thing's flaming head turned toward the house. "Told you it was funny."
Raditz fumbled with the scouter, its cracked screen flickering with erratic power levels as he jammed it over one ear. "Nine-thousand and climbing," he lied through gritted teeth, because the real number would send Tom sprinting for his shotgun.
The air pressure dropped so suddenly their eardrums popped. Mrs. Harlow moaned into Tom's palm as the first tractor flipped end-over-end across the pasture like a kicked toy. Gine felt it before she saw it—that old, familiar prickle along her spine—and her hands flew to the kitchen knives as the farmhouse walls began to vibrate.
Bardock's voice cut through the rising wind, low and lethal: "Not a storm." The rope in his hands snapped taut as something colossal and unseen began dragging the entire barn toward the tree line. "Hunt."
Kakarot wriggled free from Gine's grip, his small face alight with manic glee. "I see him!" he shrieked, pointing at the writhing clouds where three jagged shadows now circled—too angular for birds, too deliberate for debris. Mrs. Harlow's crucifix swung wildly as the floorboards trembled under some terrible, approaching weight.
Raditz's scouter finally sparked to life, its robotic voice stuttering: "P-power level... e-error." Then, with eerie clarity, it announced: "Welcome back, Team Bardock." The screen illuminated his pale face with sickly green light as decades-old battle protocols flickered across the display.
Tom's shotgun clattered to the floor. "Christ almighty," he breathed, because the scarecrow wasn't alone anymore. Dozens of them now shambled from the cornfields—burning, always burning—and at their center stood a figure in armor too familiar to Bardock. The last person he'd ever expected to see on Earth. The first person he'd ever betrayed. "Fasha," he growled, and the storm answered with her laughter.