The Fraud in the Spotlight

The battlefield lay in ruins, a scarred expanse of craters and dust, the air still thick with the echo of Cell's demise as Krillin propped himself against a jagged rock, his cybernetic frame glinting faintly in the fading light. "Cell's gone, really gone," he muttered, his voice a shaky blend of disbelief and elation, his bald head tilted as he stared at me, still processing the silver flash that had ended the nightmare. "I thought you'd given up when you dropped Super Saiyan, Goten, but that… that was something else."

I stood nearby, the silver aura of Ultra Instinct Mega fading as I let it go, a sharp sting rippling through my body, a reminder of the toll it took on my still-growing frame. "Could've ended him sooner, I guess," I said, a wry smile tugging at my lips as I glanced at Krillin, his wide eyes reflecting both relief and a touch of exasperation. "Didn't mean to keep you on edge; just had to push it my way."

Krillin chuckled, a weak, breathless sound, shaking his head as he steadied himself. "You little punk, holding out on me with that kind of power," he said, his tone light despite the strain, joy breaking through his exhaustion. "If you'd flashed that from the start, Cell wouldn't have lasted a minute, and I wouldn't have been sweating bullets!"

A chime sounded in my mind, crisp and mechanical, cutting through the moment. [Ding! Congratulations to the host for picking up Cell's cells and 100 million base combat power.] I blinked, unfazed, the system's voice a familiar companion after battles like these; Cell's strength had been absurd, and the reward tracked with that, a boost tied to the caliber of my foes.

"Figures," I thought, rolling my shoulders as the ache deepened, my body protesting the strain of Ultra Instinct. Cell's cells were a curiosity, a genetic patchwork of Earth's warriors, but their tricks—Piccolo's regeneration included—paled next to Majin Buu's absurd healing; still, the combat power was a solid haul. I fished a senzu bean from my pouch, popping it into my mouth, the crunch washing away the fatigue in a warm rush.

The sky rumbled, a distant roar growing louder, and I looked up as a helicopter sliced through the haze, its blades chopping the air with a steady thrum. Bold letters emblazoned its side, the logo of a global news network, a vulture descending on the carnage. I sighed, brushing dust from my gi, and stepped over to Krillin, hauling him up as I pressed the last senzu into his hand; his wounds faded fast, his strength returning with a grateful nod.

He straightened, then froze, staring at me with a mix of awe and curiosity. "Goten, that silver thing, what was it? Another Saiyan shift?" he asked, his voice trembling with excitement, his eyes tracing where the aura had been. "You took out Lightning Cell in a blink; it was like a god stepped in!"

I shook my head, brushing off the reverence with a small grin. "Not a transformation, a realm; Ultra Instinct Mega," I said, keeping it simple, my tone matter-of-fact. "It's not perfect yet, takes a lot out of me, so I save it for the clutch; wouldn't have lasted long anyway." Krillin's jaw dropped further, his mind racing at the idea of a self-made power eclipsing even Goku's legacy, admiration shining through his shock.

He glanced skyward, his expression souring as the helicopter's noise grew deafening. "Here come the clowns," he muttered, disgust curling his lip as he squinted at the descending craft. "Always hyping that idiot Satan; bet they're here to slap his name on this too."

The chopper touched down, kicking up a storm of dust and debris, its doors sliding open as a half-dozen figures spilled out, cameras and mics in hand. The landscape stunned them, a tableau of destruction—craters stretching to the horizon, the earth split and scorched—proof of a battle that had shaken the planet. "What kind of fight does this?" one gasped, her voice lost in the wind, the group gaping at the aftermath of Cell's end.

Among them swaggered a familiar figure, his big beard and wild, curly hair unmistakable, his garish battle robe flapping around a golden belt cinched at his waist. Mr. Satan, the world's so-called savior, strode forward, his chest puffed out, though his eyes darted nervously across the wreckage. Eight years ago, he'd spun a tale of chasing Cell off after Goku and Gohan fell, a lie that crowned him a hero, and now he was here, sniffing for another crown to steal.

"Where's Cell? Where's that green freak?" Satan called, his voice loud and brash, but a tremor betrayed him, his gaze flickering as he scanned the desolation. He played the part, hands on hips, but sweat beaded on his brow; this wasn't the controlled chaos of his staged fights. The reporters buzzed around him, lenses trained, eager for his next grand claim.

The photographer froze, his camera swinging toward us, recognition dawning. "Mr. Satan, over there, two guys; I know them!" he shouted, pointing at Krillin and me with a jolt of surprise. "They were around eight years ago, during the Cell mess; thought they were dead!" His voice carried a mix of shock and intrigue, the pieces not quite fitting his narrative.

Satan turned, and his bravado drained, his face paling as he locked eyes with us, the ghosts of a truth he'd buried. "Oh no," he muttered under his breath, his gut twisting; we knew the real story, the one where Goku and Gohan bled while he cowered, and if we talked, his house of cards would collapse. His mind raced, panic clawing at his chest as he faced the unraveling of his myth.

"Argh, my stomach!" he yelped, clutching his belly with theatrical flair, his voice pitching high as he doubled over. "Can't hold it, gotta go, emergency pit stop!" It was his go-to dodge, a coward's exit perfected over years, and he shuffled toward the helicopter, hoping to vanish before the questions started.

A staffer grinned, stepping forward with a smug nod. "No worries, Mr. Satan, we've got your portable toilet ready; knew you'd need it," he said, gesturing to a small unit unloaded from the chopper. The crew chuckled, used to his convenient ailments, leaving Satan frozen, his excuse snared, his face a mask of stunned dismay.

"Uh, well…" he stammered, his bravado crumbling, no escape left as he straightened, forced to face us. He trudged over, each step heavy, his eyes darting between me and Krillin, dread pooling in his gut. The cameras followed, hungry for the drama, oblivious to the fraud sweating under his cape.

Krillin crossed his arms, his glare sharp enough to cut. "This shameless clown again," he muttered, voice low but venomous, his disgust palpable as Satan approached. "Took Goku and Gohan's sacrifice, turned it into his spotlight; now he's here to leech off you too, Goten; lucky he didn't get squashed last time."

I raised an eyebrow, watching Satan's awkward shuffle, his fake grin twitching under the pressure. Back when I'd watched Dragon Ball Z in another life, his antics had been a laugh, a bumbling foil to the real heroes, but here, standing where blood had been spilled, his credit-stealing grated like sand in a wound. "Let's see how he spins this one," I said, my tone dry, ready to watch the fool squirm.

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