The world slowly swam back into focus for Oolong.
Pain throbbed in his head.
The first thing he registered was the tight sensation of ropes binding his arms and legs to a metal chair.
He shook his head, to his left, Bulma was tied to a similar chair.
To his right, Launch was struggling against her bindings, muttering curses under her breath.
"Oh no..." Oolong whimpered, looking forward.
The entire scrappers high command was assembled in the dimly lit room.
Yamcha was there, cleaning his fingernails with a knife.
Puar hovered anxiously by his shoulder.
Grizzlo, now freed from the foam but looking extremely grumpy, stood with his arms crossed.
Diesella leaned against the wall, nursing a burn mark on her arm.
And in the center of them all stood Dimcha.
The older man paced back and forth, chewing on an unlit cigar. He stopped, looking at the captives with a squinted eye and a jaw set like granite.
"Well now, looks like sleeping beauty finally decided to join the land of the livin'."
He walked over to Oolong, he leaned down, getting uncomfortably close to the pig's snout.
"I gotta say... you folks sure know how to make an entrance. You came into my house, you broke my furniture, you roughed up my staff... you made a hell of a mess in my parlor."
"I... I can explain—"
"Explain? Son, there ain't nothin' to explain. What I'm tryin' to figure out is the sheer mechanics of your brain."
Dimcha straightened up, pointing the cigar at Oolong.
"I mean, you gotta have a staggering amount of gall to show your face 'round these parts again. After what you did? After the theft?"
Dimcha shook his head, looking almost impressed.
"That ain't bravery. That's just a death wish."
"Leave him alone!" Bulma shouted, struggling against her ropes.
"He never intended to be here. I brought him along because I wanted to repay him by taking care of you people myself. If anyone deserves punishment, it should be me."
Dimcha stopped pacing.
He turned slowly toward Bulma.
His expression was unreadable.
He looked her up and down, then shifted his gaze to Launch.
"Well, I'll be damned, i gotta hand it to you, pig. You got terrible judgment, but you got excellent taste in company."
He walked over to Bulma, leaning in slightly.
"You brought two bonafide peaches to a slaughterhouse. Now, I don't know if that makes you a ladies' man or just a cold hearted bastard, but it sure makes the party more interestin'."
"Hey! Listen here, grandpa!" Launch snapped, yanking violently at her ropes.
"I got nothing to do with this shit! I don't know this pig, I don't know the girl, and I definitely don't know you! I was just hitching a ride!"
Dimcha looked at Launch, then chuckled darkly.
"Is that a fact? Well, darlin', guilt by association is a real bitch in this desert. You're here now. And you're part of the show."
Dimcha walked to the center of the room, clasping his hands behind his back.
He stopped in front of the window that overlooked the dusty pit below.
Even through the glass, the roar of the gathering crowd was audible, a bloodthirsty hum.
"Now, i reckon you're wonderin' about your exit strategy. Well, let me lay it out for you. It's real simple."
He pointed a finger toward the pit outside.
"We call it 'The Gauntlet.' You see, my boys out there? They work hard. They sweat, they bleed, they scavenge. And at the end of the day, they demand a little entertainment. They want a show."
Oolong went pale.
"A... a show?"
"That's right. We're gonna throw the three of you down there. And we're gonna unleash everything we got. Every hungry fighter lookin' to make a name for himself. It's gonna be a grand spectacle. A real biblical affair."
"You're insane! We're not gladiators!" Bulma yelled.
Dimcha ignored her. He walked over and crouched down again, resting his elbows on his knees, looking Oolong directly in the eye.
"However, i don't want you thinkin' I'm a cruel man. No, sir. I consider myself a man of principle. A pragmatist."
He gestured loosely to Bulma and Launch.
"These ladies? They're just baggage in your bad decision making process. So, I'm gonna offer you a gentleman's agreement."
Dimcha smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
It was the grin of a man offering a rope to a drowning victim, knowing the rope was made of razor wire.
"When that gate opens... if you step up, Oolong... if you take the heat, if you draw the fire, if you bleed for them... maybe the crowd gets satisfied early. Maybe the ladies get to walk away with just a few scratches instead of leavin' in body bags."
He patted Oolong hard on the cheek.
"It all depends on you, son. Are you a leader? Or are you just livestock? The Arena is where we find out."
"Wait! Just hold on a second!" Oolong stammered, sweat pouring down his forehead.
"You've got it all wrong! There's a context here you're missing!"
Dimcha turned his back on them.
"Grizzlo. Diesella. Escort our guests to the staging area. Make sure they're comfortable before the show."
"With pleasure." Grizzlo grunted, grabbing the back of Oolong's chair with a massive paw.
"Get moving." Diesella yelled, shoving Launch and Bulma toward the iron doors.
"NO! YAMCHA, LISTEN TO ME!" Oolong screamed, his voice cracking with desperation as he was dragged backward across the metal floor.
He locked eyes with the Desert Wolf, who was watching the scene with bored indifference.
"I DIDN'T STEAL THE DRAGON BALL FOR MYSELF! I DID IT BECAUSE HE ASKED ME TO! YOUR BROTHER BEGGED ME TO TAKE IT!"
Yamcha, who had been leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, went rigid.
"Stop." Yamcha whispered.
It wasn't a shout, but the command was absolute.
Grizzlo froze in his tracks. Diesella took a step back.
Yamcha slowly lifted his head.
His eyes were no longer bored. They were wide, burning with confusion and fury.
"What did you say?"
"He... he didn't want the money, Yamcha!" Oolong cried out, his voice shaking.
"He knew where that money was coming from! He knew who you were working for!"
Yamcha didn't move.
He stared at Oolong.
"He called me to his bedside right after you left that night. Don't you remember? The night the Red Ribbon raided Browntown. The night everything changed..."
//////////////////////////////////////////
Two weeks ago...
The room was tidy, a stark contrast to the grime of the rest of the compound.
It smelled of medicine.
Mugicha lay in bed, propped up by pillows.
He was younger than Yamcha, with the same dark hair, but his features were softer, lacking the scars and the hardness of the desert life.
He was frail, his skin pale and translucent, the result of the rare degenerative condition that was slowly eating away at his vitality.
Oolong, was bustling around the room, adjusting the blankets and placing a glass of water on the nightstand.
"Here, is that better? Do you need the window open? Or closed? I can get more blankets."
Mugicha smiled weakly. It was a kind smile, the kind that made everyone in the ruthless gang fiercely protective of him.
"I'm fine, Oolong. You worry too much. You're a better nurse than you are a bandit, you know."
The door creaked open.
Yamcha stepped in. He looked tired, dust coating his hair, but when he saw his brother, his face lit up with a warmth he showed to no one else.
"Hey, kid." Yamcha said softly, walking over to the bed.
"Big bro..." Mugicha greeted him, trying to sit up straighter.
Yamcha sat on the edge of the mattress.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out two objects wrapped in cloth. He slowly unwrapped them, revealing two glowing orange spheres.
"Look at this." Yamcha picked one, the six star ball and placed it gently into Mugicha's hands.
"They're... beautiful," Mugicha murmured.
"What are they?"
"Dragon balls, we found the second one today. A client contacted us. A big shot from Rokki. He's paying a fortune for these, enough to buy this whole desert."
Yamcha placed his hand over his brother's.
"We're going to get you into the best hospital in Empire city. The best doctors, the best treatment... we're finally going to cure you."
Mugicha's smile faltered.
His fingers tightened slightly around the orange sphere.
"A client? Who is it, Yamcha? Who has that kind of money to throw at dusty bandits?"
Yamcha waved his hand dismissively.
"Does it matter? Some eccentric collector. The point is, he's our ticket out of here. He's your ticket to a life where you don't have to live in a bed."
Mugicha looked at his brother, seeing the desperation masked as confidence.
"Yamcha... if it's dangerous... if it hurts people..."
"It saves you, that's the only thing that matters."
Suddenly, the door banged open.
Grizzlo filled the frame, looking frantic.
He was breathing hard.
"Yamcha! We got trouble. Red ribbon scouts just rolled into Browntown."
Yamcha's expression hardened instantly.
He stood up.
Yamcha looked back at Mugicha, forcing a reassuring smile.
"Rest up, kid. I have to go handle this trash. We'll celebrate when I get back."
He turned to Oolong, pointing a stern finger.
"Oolong, keep an eye on him. Make sure he drinks his medicine. Don't leave this room."
"You got it, boss." Oolong nodded, standing at attention.
Yamcha grabbed his scimitar from by the door and stormed out, Grizzlo following close behind. The door slammed shut, leaving Oolong and Mugicha alone.
"You heard him." Oolong said, turning back to the bed and nervously wringing his hands.
"Yamcha... Grizzlo... the whole crew. They're out there right now, risking their necks against the Red Ribbon army just for you. Just so we can afford this... whatever this is."
Mugicha's hand shot out from under the covers, surprisingly fast, and clamped around Oolong's wrist.
His grip was weak, trembling, but the intent behind it was iron.
"I don't want it, Oolong." Mugicha whispered.
Oolong blinked, confused.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I'm dying, Oolong."
Oolong opened his mouth to argue, but Mugicha suddenly convulsed. A violent, wet cough tore through his frail chest. He hunched over, his whole body shaking with the effort.
"Mugicha!"
When Mugicha pulled away, he gasped for air. A stark, bright red stain bloomed on the white bedsheet.
"It doesn't matter what he brings me. It doesn't matter how much money he throws at the doctors. I can feel it. My body is shutting down."
"Okay, that's it." Oolong panicked, rushing toward the medicine cabinet.
"You're getting worse. I'm getting the syrup. I'm getting the sedative. You need to sleep—"
"No! I don't... want it."
Oolong stopped, the bottle of medicine in his hand.
He turned around, his face flushed with frustration and fear.
"Have you lost your mind?! Your brother is out there fighting a war for you! The least you can do is stay alive long enough for him to win it!"
Mugicha fell back against the pillows, sweat beading on his pale forehead.
He looked up at the ceiling, tears pooling in his eyes.
"I'm tired, Oolong." Mugicha whispered, his voice barely audible.
"I'm so tired. Not just of the sickness. I'm tired of watching him destroy himself."
He turned his head to look at Oolong.
"I don't recognize him anymore. My brother... he used to be kind. He used to share his food."
Mugicha's voice trembled with shame.
"I heard the stories… taking over Browntown, making people pay too much… raiding their wagons… even starving families just to get richer."
Mugicha closed his eyes, a single tear tracking through the dust on his cheek.
"He's doing all that… turning into a monster… just so I can stay alive. I can't do it, Oolong. I can't be saved with blood money. I don't want my life if it means everyone else has to suffer for it."
"Mugicha..." Oolong whispered, the name escaping his lips like a prayer.
He looked down at the floor, unable to meet the dying boy's gaze.
Deep down, he knew the truth. Yamcha's "love" had turned into a crusade of violence, and Mugicha was the one bearing the weight of that guilt.
Mugicha reached out, his frail hand seeking Oolong's.
"Oolong… you were the only friend I had."
He squeezed Oolong's hand weakly.
"You stayed with me. You told me stories about the world outside these walls. You made me laugh when it hurt just to breathe. You reminded me what it felt like to be happy."
Mugicha's expression grew serious.
"I have one last favor to ask you, my friend."
"Stop it!" Oolong snapped, pulling his hand away as tears began to spill from his eyes.
"Stop talking like that! You're not going anywhere! Not tonight, not tomorrow! Just... stop acting like this is the end!"
He sniffled loudly, wiping his snout with his arm, trying desperately to hold back the flood of grief.
"We're gonna fix you! Yamcha said so! He's gonna come back through that door and everything will be fine!"
...
Mugicha didn't argue.
He slowly reached up and placed his cold palm against Oolong's wet cheek.
The touch was gentle, forgiving.
"...You don't belong here, Oolong. Not in a place built on cruelty. You have a good heart. You… you're a good person."
Mugicha reached over to the nightstand, wrapping around the six star dragon ball.
With an effort that seemed to drain the last of his strength, he pushed it into Oolong's hands.
"Take it… take the Dragon Ball and run. Run, Oolong. And don't… don't you dare look back."
Oolong stared at the orange sphere in his hooves as if it were a live grenade.
His ears pinned back against his head.
"Are you insane?" Oolong hissed, panic rising in his chest.
"Yamcha will hunt me down! I can't just steal his hope!"
"It's not hope, Oolong… it's a curse. This client… the person paying all that money… they're not doing it to help anyone. I can feel it… they're… they're evil."
Mugicha coughed again, a harsh, rattling sound, but he didn't let go.
"If Yamcha gives them what they want… if he hands over ultimate power just to save one sick boy… he'll be the one who causes whatever darkness comes next."
Tears streamed down Mugicha's face.
"I don't want big bro to be the reason the world burns. I don't want him to have his soul stained forever… because of me."
He looked deep into Oolong's eyes, pleading.
"Save him, Oolong. Save him from himself. Take it away from here."
Oolong looked down at the orange orb in his shaking hands.
It felt heavy, heavier than anything he had ever stolen.
He looked back up at the boy in the bed.
Mugicha was fading, his breathing shallow, but his eyes were bright and peaceful. He gave Oolong a small, encouraging nod.
"Thank you, Oolong… thank you for everything. Thank you for being my friend."
Mugicha closed his eyes for a moment, smiling faintly.
"Don't be afraid of the world. You have a good heart. You'll find others out there… real friends who will care about you just like I do."
Oolong wanted to scream, to throw the ball away, to stay there and hold his friend's hand until the end.
But he knew Mugicha was right.
Staying meant Yamcha would win.
Staying meant Mugicha's death would be in vain.
"I... I..." Oolong choked, tears spilling over his snout.
He couldn't say goodbye.
It hurt too much.
Oolong clutched the six star ball to his chest, turned on his heels, and sprinted.
He burst out of the room and into the cold corridor of the scrappers base.
Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't look back.
Tears streamed down his face, blinding him, flying off into the air as he ran.
He ran past the armory, past the mess hall, past the life he was leaving behind.
He ran away from the only person who had ever truly seen him, carrying the burden of his dying wish into the night.