Cracks in the Myth

The late afternoon sun dipped low over Mount Paozu, casting a golden haze across the rugged terrain, its light filtering through the dense canopy to dapple the training ground where I sprawled atop a weathered boulder. A blade of fluffy grass dangled from my lips, its earthy tang a small comfort after hours of relentless drills, my gi damp with sweat, muscles aching from pushing Super Saiyan II to its limits. I chewed idly, my breath steadying, when the crunch of boots on gravel snapped me from my reverie; Videl emerged from the shadow of the trees, her pink helicopter glinting in the clearing behind her, a stark intrusion into my quiet sanctuary.

Her arrival caught me off guard, a flicker of surprise rippling through me, though I didn't stir from my perch, too worn to muster more than a raised brow. In the stories I knew, Videl was Gohan's wife, a fierce spirit tied to my brother's legacy, but here, in this fractured timeline, Gohan's death at Cell's hands eight years ago had severed that thread, leaving her a stranger to me. Yet, there she stood, her short black hair tousled by the mountain breeze, her eyes sharp with intent, and I couldn't shake the hunch that my words to Satan two months back had dragged her all the way to this remote peak.

"You're Son Goten, right?" she asked, striding up to me, her voice cutting through the rustle of leaves, firm but edged with a tremor of uncertainty. She stopped a few paces away, her gaze sweeping over me, and a flicker of confusion crossed her face, as if the boy lounging before her didn't match the cold-eyed warrior she'd seen on TV. That broadcast had painted me as a killer, my stare icy and unyielding as I crushed Cell's head, a far cry from the lazy sprawl she found now, my features softened by exhaustion and the fading light.

I tilted my head, plucking the grass from my mouth to toss it aside, my tone drifting out slow and unbothered. "Yeah, that's me; what's up?" I said, meeting her stare with a casual nod, curiosity tugging at me despite my fatigue. Her presence here, after tracking me to this hidden corner of the world, hinted at something brewing, and I figured it tied back to her father, the so-called champion I'd humiliated on live air.

Videl's fists clenched, her jaw tightening as she stepped closer, her voice rising with a mix of anger and desperation. "You jerk, do you have any idea what you did to my dad two months ago?" she snapped, her eyes flashing, her stance rigid as if ready to fight. "I'm Videl, daughter of Mr. Satan, the world fighting champion; your words trashed his reputation, and I want answers!" The past weeks had been a siege for her family, reporters swarming their home, cameras thrusting into Satan's haggard face, his once-boisterous laugh replaced by a weary slump she couldn't unsee.

I shifted, propping myself up on an elbow, my expression still lax as I studied her, the fire in her words clashing with the blind faith I sensed beneath. "Oh, Satan's kid, huh?" I said, my voice a drawl, letting it hang before adding, "So, what's this about? You here to defend his honor, or just looking to pick a fight for him?" Her devotion was palpable, a daughter's loyalty so fierce it bordered on delusion, and I wondered how deep that trust ran, how much of her world rested on the myth of her father's strength.

She bristled, her cheeks flushing as she took another step, her boots scuffing the dirt, her voice trembling with indignation. "Why'd you lie about him? Eight years ago, my dad drove Cell off this planet; we got peace because of him," she said, her words a fervent chant, clinging to the tale she'd grown up on. "Then you show up, spout a few lines, and suddenly everyone's doubting him; do you know how humiliating that is for a world champ?" Doubt gnawed at her, a shadow she couldn't shake since that broadcast, but she pushed it down, her father's heroism an anchor she refused to let slip.

I narrowed my eyes, a spark of irritation breaking through my calm as I slid off the rock, landing lightly on the ground to face her. Two years in the Time Chamber had stretched me tall, nearly matching her petite frame, my Saiyan blood fueling a growth spurt that echoed Goku's own leap from kid to man in mere years, a trait Gohan had once bragged about to Piccolo. "Framed him? That's a stretch," I said, my tone cooling, stepping closer until I loomed over her, my shadow cutting across her defiant stance.

Her breath hitched, but she held her ground, and I pressed on, my voice low and deliberate, each word a hammer to her crumbling faith. "Think about it, Videl; your dad's got some moves, sure, but enough to take down Cell, a guy who could shred this planet with a flick?" I said, my eyes locking onto hers, unyielding. "One finger, that's all it'd take for Cell to turn him to dust; you really believe he pulled that off?" The absurdity of it hung between us, a challenge she couldn't dodge, and I saw the first crack form in her resolve.

I didn't stop, the memory of that day fueling me, my tone sharpening as I laid out the truth she'd never heard. "Here's the real story: eight years ago, my dad, Goku, and my brother, Gohan, fought Cell, gave their lives to stop him," I said, my chest tightening at the names, the weight of their sacrifice still raw. "They bought that peace with their blood, and your father swooped in, claimed it like a thief; you don't call that shameless?" The injustice burned, a fire I'd carried since I'd faced Satan down, his cowardice exposed for the world to see.

Videl's eyes widened, her lips parting as if to argue, but I cut her off, my voice rising, cold and relentless. "If he's so tough, why'd he shake like a leaf when I called him out? If he beat Cell, why couldn't he even look me in the eye?" I said, pointing back toward the memory of that broadcast, Satan's trembling form etched in my mind. "Brains are for thinking, not just sitting pretty; use yours and figure it out." The words landed like blows, stripping away the hero she'd built in her head, leaving her staring at a truth she couldn't outrun.

She froze, her fists uncurling, her gaze dropping to the dirt as my words sank in, heavy and unyielding. "This…" she whispered, her voice a fragile thread, her mind racing to reconcile the titan of her childhood with the frail figure I'd painted. If her dad, her invincible champion, quaked before a kid like me, let himself be shamed on global TV, how could he have faced Cell? The thought coiled around her, tight and suffocating, her belief teetering on the edge of collapse.

I watched her, the shift in her stance, the way her shoulders slumped as the fight drained out of her, replaced by a quiet storm of doubt. She'd seen him flinch, seen the sweat on his brow that day, a coward unmasked before millions, yet she'd clung to the lie, to the father who'd never trained, never pushed beyond his parades and poses. "Impossible," she murmured, more to herself, her voice cracking, "he's my hero, the savior…" But the words faltered, and in that moment, I saw her world fracture, the idol she'd worshipped revealed as a hollow shell.

The mountain breeze picked up, rustling the leaves around us, a soft counterpoint to the tension hanging thick in the air. Videl stood there, silent, her face a mask of turmoil, wrestling with a reality that had no mercy for her dreams. I didn't press further, my point made, the lazy calm creeping back as I leaned against the rock, letting her grapple with the ruins of her faith in the fading light.

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