Dragon Ball Fanfic Yamcha Insert (Patreon)

A dry wind buffeted the flaps of a small tent, pitched under a large rock formation. It stood in the shade, protected from the desert’s scorching rays. Inside, a boy, appearing around thirteen years old, lay on his back with his eyes closed. He seemed asleep, but the occasional irregular movement suggested he was merely resting.

Time passed, the rocky spires’ shadows shifting on the white sand dunes, blinding on account of the afternoon sun. Heat waves distorted the air like a baking furnace, a nearly inhospitable climate, unsuitable but for the most tough and resilient creatures. However, a droning sound soon cut through the wind, drifting toward the isolated little tent. It grew louder and louder, its source becoming clear as a convoy of vehicles crested the dunes near the horizon.

Having sensed the vibrations before the sound even reached him, the boy’s eyes were already open. He sighed to himself, getting up and dusting sand from his trousers.

“Damn, today was going to be a rest day. For better or worse, I’m just a human, so I can’t spend every waking moment training, unlike those freaks.”

Shirtless, he stretched his arms above his head, showing off an impressively toned physique. Under his dusky skin, muscles tensed and relaxed like coiling serpents. His level of fitness was evident, a sculped body which could only be the result of thousands upon thousands of hours of exhaustive training.

After putting on a shirt and a hat, more to shield himself from the sun than any other reason, he took a flask from somewhere. Pouring a small amount of water into one hand, he dabbed his face and neck. Despite his age, he was handsome in a rogueish sort of way, with sharp eyebrows, dark eyes and smirking, mischievous lips. His features were a mix of Asian and western, not that unusual in this world.

“Let’s get it over with, then. This time, those morons won’t think about bothering me again.”

Suddenly, he vanished from inside the tent, transforming into a blurred shadow, leaping from one rock to another. In the space of a few seconds, he was standing on top of the tallest spire, staring into the distance. Even without enhanced vision, the dozen-or-so motorcycles blitzing across the sand were easy to spot.

It wasn’t long before they reached the spire’s base, surrounding his tent in a half-circle of droning and sputtering engines. The motorcycles looked a bit strange, almost like they’d been salvaged out of various parts. Some were smaller or normally sized, while others were more menacing, reflecting their owner’s status in the gang. However, there was a trait they shared. A dog’s head, painted red and growling ferociously with sharp teeth, was painted on every fuel-tank.

“Yamcha, you arrogant little prick! Get your ass out here, or we blow your kneecaps off and leave you to die in this blasted desert!”

The leader, a bearded man on a big, four wheeled quadbike shouted furiously, spittle flying from his mouth. Under one arm, he held a custom pump-action shotgun, feeding shells into the chamber one by one. The other bandits followed his lead, shouting profanities while wagging their weapons in the air. Frankly, it was a miracle they didn’t shoot each other by mistake.

A hundred feet in the air, crouched on top of the spire, ‘Yamcha’s’ eyes flashed dangerously. The gang didn’t come to negotiate, but even if they did, he wasn’t willing. They were a bunch of scum, hiding out here in the boonies where the long arm of the law couldn’t reach them. Thieves, smugglers, drug lords, murderers, rapists… he could comb through a hundred of their sort and not find one decent person. Having grown up among their number, he knew better than anyone.

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, his grip tightening minutely on the uneven granite surface under him. Over the years, he’d gotten pretty good at drawing on his energy. There was a buzzing feeling under his skin as it welled inside him, sufficing every muscle, nerve and tendon, every blood vessel down to the tiniest capillary. Ki surged through his body, a rush of strength that exhilarated him like nothing else.

Opening his eyes, he gazed at the crowd below. It was barely noticeable, a fraction of a fraction of a second, but he could feel his sense of time dilating, his thoughts speeding up, his senses tuned to the limit. The next moment, he was in the air, shooting downward like a bullet from a rifle. The wind rushed in his ears, whipping his dark hair wildly. There was no fear, despite the near hundred-foot drop. Nearly weightless, he felt invincible, gravity having no hold over him.

The bandits’ expressions morphed to shock, turning their heads upward. Though Yamcha barely exerted himself, it was enough to shift the rock under his feet, causing stones and gravel to rain from above. They spotted him then, turning their weapons to fire, but it was too late.

The next second, there was an explosion in their midst, kicking up a tremendous amount of sand and dirt. Motorcycles toppled over, sending their riders to the ground. At least one scream rang out, the victim of an accidental misfire.

Already, Yamcha was moving again, no worse for wear despite his tremendous fall. He skimmed over the sand like a pebble on water, appearing and disappearing between the bandits like a ghost. More gunshots rang out, followed by pained screams, but none of the bullets found their target.

Despite his Ki-enhanced durability, Yamcha didn’t want to get hit. He was shot before, and while it didn’t kill him, it wasn’t pleasant. The experience was similar to being shot point-blank with a frozen paintball. Not deadly, but boy, did it leave a nasty bruise.

Within the span of a few seconds, nearly a dozen figures were prone on the sand, clutching their heads, torsos or limbs and groaning. Some had fingers or arms pointing in the wrong directions. Others coughed up blood, or were entirely unconscious, blood dripping from broken noses and split lips. Only the leader remained standing, breathing heavily.

He watched Yamcha approach, the boy seeming no worse for wear. Aside from a thin sheen of sweat on his dark skin, he showed no signs of exertion.

“Drop the gun, Boss. I won’t tell you twice.”

Despite Yamcha’s demand, ‘Boss’ didn’t oblige. Clenching his jaw, he backed up slightly, the barrel still trained unerringly on the boy’s figure.

“You owe me, brat! Or have you forgotten that I was the one who took you in! If it weren’t for me, you’d be dead or worse!”

Yamcha licked his lips, his dark eyes meeting the Boss’ own. If he was bothered by the big man’s words, he didn’t show it.

“I don’t owe you shit, Boss. You and me, we’re square. I told you, when I turn thirteen, I’m out. I helped you guys out, worked as your muscle for years.”

The Boss chuckled angrily, a vein pulsing near his temple.

“You leave when I say you leave! You’re part of this gang, and that won’t ever change!”

Yamcha shook his head, letting out a long sigh.

“You can’t keep me, and you know that. Put that thing down before you hurt yourself.”

Suddenly, the Boss made to reach inside his rotten denim jacket, but before he could, a streak of white, glowing energy shot toward him, striking his hand dead-on. With an agonized yell, he tumbled backward.

Fire bloomed from the barrel of his gun, a last-ditch effort, but he hit nothing but thin air. Before his finger even pulled the trigger, Yamcha was already ducking low to the ground. In an instant, he covered the distance between them. A blur of movement sent the shotgun flying into the air, the Boss’ fingers all but destroyed by a blindingly fast kick.

Beaten and broken, the bandit's bulk smashed against the sand, three fingers on one hand dislocated. The other was smoking, a tiny hole about an inch across burned through his palm.

“Let’s see what you have there, Boss.”

Putting a foot on the man’s neck, Yamcha bent down, reaching inside his vest. His hands found something smooth and glassy, a round orb about the size of a pool-ball.

His breath catching in his throat, Yamcha withdrew it slowly.

In the harsh afternoon light, it shone brilliantly, catching and dispersing the rays in hues of orange and gold. Suspended in the middle were six stars, colored deep crimson.

It was a long while before Yamcha collected himself, tearing his eyes away from the dragon ball to look at the Boss.

By now, he was getting up slowly, his body trembling from pain and exhaustion.

“…where did you get this?”

The bearded man shook his head, his breaths coming in ragged bursts. A drop of sweat slid down his forehead to the tip of his nose.

“Doesn’t matter. Only… one. Heard you – cough – wanted them.”

Yamcha looked at him incredulously.

“You were attempting to buy me with this? Only if all other means failed, I suspect. It was a stupid plan, all things considered. What made you think I couldn’t just take it?”

“…wouldn’t. Not like… us.”

There was a period of tense silence between them.

Eventually, Yamcha turned around, throwing and catching the dragon ball absentmindedly.

“You're wrong, of course. In fact, I should kill you bastards, you’d do worse to me, but I’ll accept this as payment for your lives. Get out of here, and don’t let me see you again. Next time, I won’t be so merciful.”

The Boss’ mouth moved to say something, but Yamcha was already gone.

Unfortunately, his earlier stunt had sent a shower of rocks down on his belongings, burying and crushing them to pieces. He lamented the situation briefly, but then again, maybe he’d spent enough time in the desert.

It was time to move on.

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Please comment with a title for this thing if you guys can think of one. I'm pretty bad at naming stories.