Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ The Drummer's March ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: srusse87 
In which the editor arrives and we meet Gohan.
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Drama | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 02.18.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.8K | Visits: 227 | Status: Work In Progress
In which the editor arrives and we meet Gohan.
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Drama | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 02.18.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.8K | Visits: 227 | Status: Work In Progress
“The Drummer’s March”
Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of DragonBall Z. Though we do own DragonBall Z Budakai 1, 2 & 3
Chapter 2
She wasn’t surprised to find that Sam Maxwell’s house sat all by itself on a cliff over looking the ocean. While it wasn’t really desolate, it was certainly isolated. It had taken her hours to drive here from the nearest town.
Climbing the broad steps to the front door, she marveled at the many plants and flowers that grew around the house. Tulips and Irises of every color had lined the pathway to the porch while vines trailed up the pillars themselves.
There wasn’t a bell, instead a giant knocker rested in the middle of the large wooden door. Taking a deep breath she lifted the handle and rapped twice, stepping back nervously at its surprisingly loud echo.
“Yeah yeah!” Running feet followed by a thud and the door opened upon a young teenage boy with striking purple hair.
“Yes?” He looked at her expectantly.
Clearing her throat nervously she offered a smile, “I’m Maggie Ford. I’m here to see Sam Maxwell.”
He looked puzzled for a moment and then his expression cleared, “Oh you mean the professor. Sure thing, come in.”
She shut the door slowly behind her and followed the boy down the hall until they reached a kitchen. It was quite large and brightly lit from the sun, which shown through the windows that made up the far wall.
“Hey Goten, the editors here. Where’s your dad?” The purple haired boy seemed to be addressing an empty room until she noticed the open refrigerator. A head poked around the side of the door and studied her for a moment before disappearing again.
“Out fishing.”
The voice was slightly muffled but she could still make out the words. “He doesn’t know you’re here though, so he probably won’t be gone much longer.”
The purple haired boy threw himself into a chair next to a large table and grinned. “Yeah, if he knew you were here he’d stay out as long as he thought he could get away with.”
The fridge door closed and she got her first good look at the other boy. The son? So Mr. Maxwell was married. And judging from the kids’ age, he was probably in his early to late forties. The boy at the door had called him a professor though. He could be even older. That would certainly explain his surliness.
The son was quite cute though. Short black hair spiking all over in that style teenage boys seemed to love, though looking closer, she couldn’t detect any hair gel. Actually they were both rather cute, as far as teenagers went. About fourteen or fifteen, they had an air of poised energy, without the awkwardness you’d expect from kids that age.
The black-haired boy had dumped what looked like half the fridge onto the table and was handing items to the other boy who was constructing the biggest sandwich she had ever seen in her life.
“So you don’t think he’ll be gone long?” She wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. Who knew how long it would take to drive back to town.
A head was shook, before quickly looking up at her. “Nah, he’s usually home when I get back from school and if not he’ll be here shortly.” Pausing he seemed to remember something, and suddenly grinned.
“Sorry. Here sit down.” He nudged a chair in her direction. “Can I get you something to drink? There’s some ice tea.”
She nodded and smiled a little, sitting down and smoothing her skirt. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
But the boy was already across the kitchen and back into the fridge, which she now realized was much larger than the average refrigerator. Abruptness must run in the family she mused.
A moment later and a glass was set down on the table next to her and operation on the sandwich resumed.
“That’s going to be quite a meal when you’re finished.”
The boys looked up in surprise and then back down at the sandwich which took up the length of the table. Throwing what appeared to be guilty looks at each other they just ducked their heads and mumbled, “Yeah.”
The next few minutes were silent as the sandwich was completed and the two boys sat in their chairs throwing looks at each other and then back at her. Suddenly they looked up, relief on their faces and she turned to see through the kitchen window, a man coming up a path toward the kitchen.
He was quite young, possibly in his early twenties, and obviously related to the black-haired boy in the kitchen. He had the same hair, though it was cut longer in the front. So Mr. Maxwell has two sons. I wonder where the wife is, maybe; he’s only grouchy on the telephone. Her thoughts were cut short however by the arrival of the young man as he stood in the doorway looking at her in surprise.
His feet were bare and he wore tan cargo pants, slightly loose and riding low on his hips. Sleeves rolled up, his white shirt wasn’t buttoned, exposing a nicely built and quite tanned chest.
He stared at her a moment longer before running a hand over his face and slumping. “Damn.”
She heard snickers from the two teenagers sitting down and finally gathered her wits enough to stand and offer her hand.
“Hello. I’m Maggie Ford. I’m here to see Mr. Maxwell about some paperwork. You must also be his son; it’s very nice to meet you.”
The snickers had evolved to chuckles and the young man glared at the two boys before muttering another, “Damn.” And walked past her.
She turned, confused and rather put off by the young man’s rudeness. “I’m sorry, are you not his son? You look so much like this other boy I just assumed . . . ”
The young man grabbed a glass from a cabinet while the two boys at the table roared with laughter. Turning he pointed a finger at them and scowled. “Oh I know you think this is absolutely hysterical. Keep it up though and I’ll tell Piccolo you both volunteered to spend your next vacation repainting the lookout.”
The two boys calmed down and the black-haired one took on an injured expression. “Oh come on, that’s not fair.”
She coughed and held up a hand cautiously, afraid to jump in but not really wanting the two other boys to get into trouble. “Um, I’m sorry. So you’re not Mr. Maxwell’s son?”
The young man threw an irritated glance her way and then walked over to the fridge where he poured himself a glass of tea.
“No, I am not Mr. Maxwell’s son.” Slamming the door he turned to her and scowled. “I am Sam Maxwell.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dad isn’t necessarily a violent guy. Vegeta definitely takes all the credit for being the Saiyan with the hottest temper this side of the other world. But dad can do this thing with his eyes that makes the weak run screaming and the strong check their pants to make sure they didn’t accidently shit themselves. Dad can actually be a lot more scary than Vegeta. I mean, Vegeta shouts and bellows and stomps around breaking things but I think a lot of its just noise. Dad on the other hand . . . he gets really still and quiet and his eyes go hard and cold. It’s as if something switches off inside him.
It doesn’t happen very often. He doesn’t like me to know, but sometimes he has nightmares. He’ll wake up in a sweat, a silent scream jerking him out of bed. His eyes always have that cold frightening look for a while afterward. Somehow Piccolo seems to know when it happens and usually shows up the next day. He’ll stick around for a couple weeks and they spend a lot of time sitting on the balcony drinking tea.
They never spar during that time though. And when he doesn’t think I’m looking, a dark shadow seems to fill his eyes.
He comes to my room on those nights and sits next to me, occasionally running a hand through my hair softly, watching as if he expects me to disappear any moment.
Sometimes he talks to Goku. Dad’ll sit outside in the garden, Piccolo close by and they’ll chat mind to mind about this and that: the weather, dad’s latest book, me, the state of the world in general . . .
And after a few days he seems lighter, as if the weight of the nightmare has finally lifted. The shadows are gone and he’ll spar again with Piccolo.
I thought of all this while I watched in amusement as the editor’s eyes fought with her mouth as to which should open wider.
For a moment dad’s eyes had flashed, not the dead look that made your skin crawl, but a look of irritation and impatience. It was gone quickly though, replaced with a sort of resigned disgust, and he came to sit down next to me lightly ruffling my hair as he went past.
Nevertheless, I had a feeling we’d be getting a visit from Piccolo soon.
TBC . . .
(And so ends chapter two. Thank you to everyone who reviewed. It was great to see some returning readers from my first story. I hope this chapter is acceptable . . . I’m having difficulty finding the right tone for Goten, it was easier when he was just a little kid. Ah well. More next week.)Converting /tmp/phpVcMy8c to /dev/stdout
Disclaimer: I don’t own any part of DragonBall Z. Though we do own DragonBall Z Budakai 1, 2 & 3
Chapter 2
She wasn’t surprised to find that Sam Maxwell’s house sat all by itself on a cliff over looking the ocean. While it wasn’t really desolate, it was certainly isolated. It had taken her hours to drive here from the nearest town.
Climbing the broad steps to the front door, she marveled at the many plants and flowers that grew around the house. Tulips and Irises of every color had lined the pathway to the porch while vines trailed up the pillars themselves.
There wasn’t a bell, instead a giant knocker rested in the middle of the large wooden door. Taking a deep breath she lifted the handle and rapped twice, stepping back nervously at its surprisingly loud echo.
“Yeah yeah!” Running feet followed by a thud and the door opened upon a young teenage boy with striking purple hair.
“Yes?” He looked at her expectantly.
Clearing her throat nervously she offered a smile, “I’m Maggie Ford. I’m here to see Sam Maxwell.”
He looked puzzled for a moment and then his expression cleared, “Oh you mean the professor. Sure thing, come in.”
She shut the door slowly behind her and followed the boy down the hall until they reached a kitchen. It was quite large and brightly lit from the sun, which shown through the windows that made up the far wall.
“Hey Goten, the editors here. Where’s your dad?” The purple haired boy seemed to be addressing an empty room until she noticed the open refrigerator. A head poked around the side of the door and studied her for a moment before disappearing again.
“Out fishing.”
The voice was slightly muffled but she could still make out the words. “He doesn’t know you’re here though, so he probably won’t be gone much longer.”
The purple haired boy threw himself into a chair next to a large table and grinned. “Yeah, if he knew you were here he’d stay out as long as he thought he could get away with.”
The fridge door closed and she got her first good look at the other boy. The son? So Mr. Maxwell was married. And judging from the kids’ age, he was probably in his early to late forties. The boy at the door had called him a professor though. He could be even older. That would certainly explain his surliness.
The son was quite cute though. Short black hair spiking all over in that style teenage boys seemed to love, though looking closer, she couldn’t detect any hair gel. Actually they were both rather cute, as far as teenagers went. About fourteen or fifteen, they had an air of poised energy, without the awkwardness you’d expect from kids that age.
The black-haired boy had dumped what looked like half the fridge onto the table and was handing items to the other boy who was constructing the biggest sandwich she had ever seen in her life.
“So you don’t think he’ll be gone long?” She wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. Who knew how long it would take to drive back to town.
A head was shook, before quickly looking up at her. “Nah, he’s usually home when I get back from school and if not he’ll be here shortly.” Pausing he seemed to remember something, and suddenly grinned.
“Sorry. Here sit down.” He nudged a chair in her direction. “Can I get you something to drink? There’s some ice tea.”
She nodded and smiled a little, sitting down and smoothing her skirt. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
But the boy was already across the kitchen and back into the fridge, which she now realized was much larger than the average refrigerator. Abruptness must run in the family she mused.
A moment later and a glass was set down on the table next to her and operation on the sandwich resumed.
“That’s going to be quite a meal when you’re finished.”
The boys looked up in surprise and then back down at the sandwich which took up the length of the table. Throwing what appeared to be guilty looks at each other they just ducked their heads and mumbled, “Yeah.”
The next few minutes were silent as the sandwich was completed and the two boys sat in their chairs throwing looks at each other and then back at her. Suddenly they looked up, relief on their faces and she turned to see through the kitchen window, a man coming up a path toward the kitchen.
He was quite young, possibly in his early twenties, and obviously related to the black-haired boy in the kitchen. He had the same hair, though it was cut longer in the front. So Mr. Maxwell has two sons. I wonder where the wife is, maybe; he’s only grouchy on the telephone. Her thoughts were cut short however by the arrival of the young man as he stood in the doorway looking at her in surprise.
His feet were bare and he wore tan cargo pants, slightly loose and riding low on his hips. Sleeves rolled up, his white shirt wasn’t buttoned, exposing a nicely built and quite tanned chest.
He stared at her a moment longer before running a hand over his face and slumping. “Damn.”
She heard snickers from the two teenagers sitting down and finally gathered her wits enough to stand and offer her hand.
“Hello. I’m Maggie Ford. I’m here to see Mr. Maxwell about some paperwork. You must also be his son; it’s very nice to meet you.”
The snickers had evolved to chuckles and the young man glared at the two boys before muttering another, “Damn.” And walked past her.
She turned, confused and rather put off by the young man’s rudeness. “I’m sorry, are you not his son? You look so much like this other boy I just assumed . . . ”
The young man grabbed a glass from a cabinet while the two boys at the table roared with laughter. Turning he pointed a finger at them and scowled. “Oh I know you think this is absolutely hysterical. Keep it up though and I’ll tell Piccolo you both volunteered to spend your next vacation repainting the lookout.”
The two boys calmed down and the black-haired one took on an injured expression. “Oh come on, that’s not fair.”
She coughed and held up a hand cautiously, afraid to jump in but not really wanting the two other boys to get into trouble. “Um, I’m sorry. So you’re not Mr. Maxwell’s son?”
The young man threw an irritated glance her way and then walked over to the fridge where he poured himself a glass of tea.
“No, I am not Mr. Maxwell’s son.” Slamming the door he turned to her and scowled. “I am Sam Maxwell.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dad isn’t necessarily a violent guy. Vegeta definitely takes all the credit for being the Saiyan with the hottest temper this side of the other world. But dad can do this thing with his eyes that makes the weak run screaming and the strong check their pants to make sure they didn’t accidently shit themselves. Dad can actually be a lot more scary than Vegeta. I mean, Vegeta shouts and bellows and stomps around breaking things but I think a lot of its just noise. Dad on the other hand . . . he gets really still and quiet and his eyes go hard and cold. It’s as if something switches off inside him.
It doesn’t happen very often. He doesn’t like me to know, but sometimes he has nightmares. He’ll wake up in a sweat, a silent scream jerking him out of bed. His eyes always have that cold frightening look for a while afterward. Somehow Piccolo seems to know when it happens and usually shows up the next day. He’ll stick around for a couple weeks and they spend a lot of time sitting on the balcony drinking tea.
They never spar during that time though. And when he doesn’t think I’m looking, a dark shadow seems to fill his eyes.
He comes to my room on those nights and sits next to me, occasionally running a hand through my hair softly, watching as if he expects me to disappear any moment.
Sometimes he talks to Goku. Dad’ll sit outside in the garden, Piccolo close by and they’ll chat mind to mind about this and that: the weather, dad’s latest book, me, the state of the world in general . . .
And after a few days he seems lighter, as if the weight of the nightmare has finally lifted. The shadows are gone and he’ll spar again with Piccolo.
I thought of all this while I watched in amusement as the editor’s eyes fought with her mouth as to which should open wider.
For a moment dad’s eyes had flashed, not the dead look that made your skin crawl, but a look of irritation and impatience. It was gone quickly though, replaced with a sort of resigned disgust, and he came to sit down next to me lightly ruffling my hair as he went past.
Nevertheless, I had a feeling we’d be getting a visit from Piccolo soon.
TBC . . .
(And so ends chapter two. Thank you to everyone who reviewed. It was great to see some returning readers from my first story. I hope this chapter is acceptable . . . I’m having difficulty finding the right tone for Goten, it was easier when he was just a little kid. Ah well. More next week.)Converting /tmp/phpVcMy8c to /dev/stdout