Threads and Thunder

Chapter 9

The dust from Johnny's fight still hung in the air.

Goku sat up against the infirmary wall, bandages tight across his chest. His breath was shallow but steady. His eyes, though, were sharp. Watching.

Johnny had gone out cold ten minutes ago, but hadn't stopped smiling.

The crowd didn't know what to expect.

Then, King Kai's voice rolled out, calm and clear.

"Third match… Zuki versus Gyro."

The courtyard settled.

Zuki stepped out first.

Not walked — strode. Sharp boots. Black coat flaring like wings. Belt cinched tight over a combat skirt. A mess of ribbons trailed from her gloves and collar, fluttering like warning flags.

She didn't bow.

She smirked.

Her eyes scanned the arena as if it were beneath her.

"Let's get this over with," she muttered, loud enough for the front row to hear. "I'm bored already."

A few in the crowd exchanged looks.

Then the air shifted.

Gyro entered.

No fanfare.

Just a shape sliding from the crowd. Hoodie up. Sleeves long past his wrists. He didn't look at anyone — eyes down, fixed on the ground in front of him.

Two yo-yos hung from his sides. Black and white. No hum. No glow.

He stepped into the ring and stopped.

He didn't bow. Didn't speak. Just stood there.

Zuki scoffed.

"Great."

She walked forward and waved lazily. "Hey, Gyro, right? You talk, or spin your toys all day?"

No answer.

The tension snapped tight.

King Kai's voice cut clean.

"Begin."

Zuki didn't move right away. She tilted her head, watching Gyro like a cat watching a still mouse.

"You sure you're not just some stage rat who wandered in?" she said.

Gyro stayed still. His hands hung at his sides. Fingers loose. The yo-yos barely moved.

Then one spun.

A flick of the wrist — so fast, so quiet it was almost invisible.

Zuki's eyes flicked toward it. She smirked.

"Oh, so we're playing games? Cool."

She raised her hand, fingers splayed. Threads snapped forward from her gloves — fine, almost invisible, but not to Gyro.

He moved.

The yo-yo snapped out, slicing through three threads in midair with surgical precision.

Zuki raised an eyebrow. "Okay… not bad."

She took a step forward.

Gyro didn't react.

Another thread lashed out — this time not straight, but curved, like a snake.

Gyro ducked under it, his hoodie falling off his head for the first time.

Short, messy hair and a face set like stone.

Still no words.

Zuki cracked her neck.

"You're a fun one," she muttered. "Takes most people a minute to figure me out."

She blinked — and the thread behind Gyro twitched.

He stepped to the side. A trap thread tightened where his neck had just been.

Zuki grinned wider. "But you knew that was there, didn't you?"

Gyro let the yo-yos spin — slowly now, in constant motion, like a rhythm, like breathing.

For the first time, he spoke.

Quiet. Barely audible.

"Noise."

Zuki paused.

"What?"

"You're all noise."

She laughed.

"I like you."

And then she lunged.

Zuki kicked upward—clean, fast, sharp.

Gyro didn't step back. He dropped.

A roll beneath the strike, hands sweeping his yo-yos up in a smooth cross-motion. One spun skyward, intercepting a thread. The other curved behind his back and shot out low, clipping the center of Zuki's leg.

The illusion shimmered.

She flickered like static and vanished.

Not real.

But the right Zuki came next, threads spiraling like claws. This time, one caught Gyro's sleeve. Not deep—but it nicked.

Blood beaded just under the fabric.

Zuki whirled, her authentic self rising through the afterimages. "Tag," she said, playfully.

Gyro stepped back and muttered, "Hmph."

He tightened his grip.

For the first time, the yo-yos glowed. Just faintly — a light pulse from their centers. Gyro's stance shifted, low and sideways, like a boxer waiting for the rhythm.

Zuki didn't notice right away.

She advanced again, ribbons whipping from her arms in a wide arc. But the moment they struck—

Snap.

One yo-yo bent midair, defying its momentum. It caught Zuki's thread, wrapped around it twice, then ripped backward.

Zuki stumbled, her balance broken.

She slid to a halt.

"Okaayyy…" she said, eyes narrowing. "So you're not just a mute with toys."

Gyro rolled his shoulder once.

Then he moved in.

Fast.

A blur of motion. Yo-yos snapped forward in a flurry—left, right, then a bounce between both. One rebounded off the stone and came at her from below.

Zuki blocked with a thread wall—tight, defensive—

But the yo-yo cut straight through.

One thread snapped.

Then another.

Zuki's eyes widened. "What—?"

Gyro's voice came low, almost a whisper.

"You're flashy. But your threads bend light, not weight."

Zuki clicked her tongue, retreating.

"Didn't think you were paying attention."

Gyro's breath came slowly. His eyes were sharp, tracking every movement like sonar. In his mind, it wasn't about power—it never was. It was about patterns, tension, motion, and how things fall apart.

How people do.

And for a second—

His thoughts drifted.

He remembered a park.

The sound of rusted chains. The cold metal of a swing.

"Look, Gyro! I'm flying!"

Her voice was small, perfect.

Then the sirens. The fire, the panic, the search lights.

All that was left was silence.

That was the day Gyro stopped speaking.

Zuki didn't wait.

While Gyro stood still for half a second, that was enough.

The threads didn't just lash forward this time — they wove.

A net of light and shadow curved through the air like silk blown off a cliff. Dozens, maybe hundreds, spiraling from her sleeves and shoulders — impossibly fast, impossibly sharp.

Gyro's yo-yos snapped out, a wall of defense — glowing trails crossing in rapid arcs.

But the threads didn't aim for his body this time.

They hit the space around him.

And suddenly, the arena shifted.

The light changed.

The crowd vanished.

Even Zuki disappeared — no longer standing in front of him.

Instead—

A playground.

Rusted swing sets. Peeling paint. Gray skies. And there, on the highest swing — Gyro's sister. Still young. Still smiling.

"Gyro," she called.

He froze.

Her voice is perfect.

Exactly the way it sounded that day. Before she vanished. Before he was alone.

He took one step forward.

Then stopped.

Zuki's voice slipped into the illusion like oil in water.

"You want to stay here, don't you?"

Gyro closed his eyes.

Breathe. Listen.

Not to the voice. Not to the image. To the weight.

He opened them again.

And saw the threads.

Barely perceptible lines — too perfect, too symmetrical — holding the illusion in place. Like puppet strings.

The swing creaked again. But this time, the girl didn't move.

A still image. Like a memory in disguise.

Gyro snapped both yo-yos outward.

Whip. Crack. Slice.

The threads snapped. The illusion shattered.

Reality returned in a violent ripple — the courtyard, the crowd, the stone beneath his boots.

Zuki stood ten feet away, expression unreadable.

But her breathing had changed.

He saw the slight hitch in her stance and the tension in her jaw.

That took effort.

"Interesting," she said.

Gyro didn't respond.

"You're not a brute," she went on. "You're worse."

Zuki raised her hands again; the threads danced erratically, flickering between colors, shapes, and shadows. Her coat flared behind her like wings made of nerves.

"You overthink."

The air warped.

Three copies of Zuki blinked into view — all moving differently.

Gyro didn't flinch.

He spun the black yo-yo, then the white — slowly, building momentum.

One to track motion. One to cut it.

Zuki circled him with her illusions.

Inside the infirmary, Goku leaned forward, watching every beat like a hawk.

Back in the arena, Gyro lowered his stance.

This fight wasn't a physical battle; it was a mental battle.

And Gyro?

He'd spent most of his life lost.

Zuki was about to find out what lives there.

Zuki's illusions circled Gyro like wolves.

One stepped left. Another behind. A third hovered just out of range, head cocked unnaturally — all grinning with her smile, all whispering different things.

"Speak up."

"Or don't — you're better as background noise."

"You think hiding makes you safe?"

Gyro stood still.

The yo-yos spun. Tight rotations, close to the body. Defense. Focus.

He didn't buy the illusions.

But he couldn't dodge them all.

Zuki flicked her wrist — snap! A thread jerked sideways, dragging one of the false Zukis straight into Gyro's side.

It hit like a truck.

Not real — not exactly. But real enough. A projection backed by ki. A technique that uses the mind to trick the body into action.

Gyro hit the ground, skidding.

The crowd winced.

He rolled, fast, back on his feet — but slower now.

Zuki watched him like a hawk, smiling as she walked forward, dragging her fingertips through the air. More threads emerged — tangled, dancing. Some visible. Some not.

"You hold back because you're scared of what'll happen if you don't," she said casually. "I know the type."

Gyro didn't respond. But the yo-yos spun faster.

He ducked low, sent the white one shooting toward her ankle.

Zuki stepped back — not fast, not panicked — but exact. The thread clipped the edge of her coat instead.

She cut it with her thread mid-air.

Countered with a flick to the shoulder.

A thin thread scraped Gyro's sleeve, and he froze briefly. His body locked up.

The crowd didn't see it — just a half-second twitch — but Zuki did.

"Gotcha," she whispered.

In that moment, Gyro's control cracked. He spun defensively, yo-yos fanning out like blades, slashing through threads on instinct.

Zuki backed off, arms raised, letting him waste motion.

She smiled wider.

Now she had him.

She flooded the field — dozens of images now. Threads laced across the arena like invisible tripwires. The illusions warped — not just clones, but entire scenes: an alleyway. A graveyard. A hospital room.

Gyro's memories.

He faltered — one step too slow.

Zuki blurred in from behind and slammed her palm into his back.

He crashed forward, stunned.

The illusions flickered behind him, then imploded in a spiral.

Dust settled.

Gyro knelt.

One hand to the floor. One yo-yo spinning in circles by Gyro's side.

He was still in it — but barely.

Zuki stopped just out of range.

"You're good," she said. "You almost had me."

Gyro didn't respond.

Zuki took one last step forward. She whispered — only loud enough for him to hear.

"Almost."

She raised a hand.

All the remaining threads snapped tight around him — binding his arms, legs, chest — and with one sharp pull, they flared with light, collapsing in.

A clean strike.

Gyro dropped flat.

King Kai's voice rang out.

"Winner: Zuki."

No debate. No forfeit. No confusion.

Zuki flipped her hair back and walked off without looking back.

But as she passed the arena's edge, she winced slightly and touched her temple.

One thread had burned out. Too much power. Too early.

She didn't show it. But the crack was there.

Kaiden didn't smile. Didn't speak. But he saw it.

Goku sat upright on the edge of his cot, bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, one arm resting across his lap. The sting had faded, but the memory of the fight still clung to him — the way Udon hit, the weight behind his strikes. It was still echoing in his chest.

Across from him, Johnny lay in bed with one arm slung over his face and the other resting in a sling. Knuckles swollen. His smile hadn't faded.

"You awake?" Goku asked without looking up.

"Barely," Johnny groaned. "Everything hurts. Even my dreams were sore."

Goku smirked. "You landed some good ones."

"I landed enough to know I still have a long way to go."

They sat silently for a second, just the hum of machines and a distant cheer from the courtyard.

Then Johnny shifted, wincing as he sat up a little.

"Zuki won," he said. "Figured she would."

Goku nodded.

Johnny lay back, arms behind my head. A fresh bandage peeked from under his collarbone.

"Gyro gave her more trouble than I thought," he muttered.

"She didn't win with speed," Goku said quietly. "Or strength."

Johnny raised an eyebrow.

"Then what?"

Goku shook his head.

"Those weird strings."

Johnny paused. "You saw that?"

"Yeah." Goku's voice was low. "But I felt it. Something wasn't right. His energy — it vanished in bursts."

Johnny let out a soft whistle. "That's… messed up."

"It's more than that," Goku said. "She's not a normal fighter."

"And what does that make you?"

Goku looked at him.

Johnny smirked. "A brawler? A survivor?"

Goku didn't smile back.

"I don't know yet."

Outside, another shift in the energy.

A new name flared on the bracket screen.

Kaiden vs. Moro

Johnny sat up straighter.

"Oh."

Goku was already standing.

The storm was changing direction.

Moro cracked his knuckles as he stepped into the arena.

Built like a walking boulder. Scars across arms. Ki burned hot and loud — like fire without a furnace.

He grinned at the crowd, lifted one massive hand, and flexed his fingers.

"You all hear that?" he bellowed. "That's the sound of someone about to get crushed."

No one answered.

They were waiting.

Kaiden walked out like a shadow falling into place.

No theatrics. No warm-up. No smile.

Just a quiet, steady presence.

His cloak shifted as he moved — not from wind, but charge.

Every step buzzed faintly underfoot.

Zuki watched from the sidelines, her head tilted just slightly.

Moro stomped once, cracking the tiles.

"What's the matter? Can't even bother to look me in the eye?"

Kaiden didn't answer.

Didn't raise his head.

Just whispered, almost to himself.

"Idiot."

King Kai glanced between them.

Then called it out.

"Begin."

CRACK.

Lightning split the air.

A single bolt.

No wind-up. No stance. No warning.

Just flash — and impact.

Moro's body seized, thrown backward like a ragdoll. He hit the stone floor with a dull thud. Smoke curled from his chest.

A long, stunned silence followed.

Even the wind stopped.

The crowd stared — frozen.

A few leaned forward, confused.

Was that it?

Johnny sat up straighter on his cot in the infirmary.

"…Holy crap," he muttered.

Zuki didn't blink. But one of her threads twitched.

Watching from a shaded corner, Gyro said nothing, but his yo-yos stopped spinning.

King Kai finally dropped his hand, blinking once.

"…Match over."

"Winner: Kaiden."

Kaiden turned and walked off, cloak still sparking faintly, like the fight hadn't even happened.

No celebration.

No glance back.

Just silence and scorched tile in his wake.

The courtyard didn't move for a long moment.

Even after Kaiden had left the arena, the crowd sat stiff, stunned by the flash they'd barely seen, by the sound still ringing in their ears.

Moro hadn't even screamed.

He just dropped.

The medics rushed in. Moro's body was intact, but his aura was gone like a fuse yanked from the wall.

Zuki crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. "He didn't even warm up," she murmured.

Her tone wasn't impressed.

It was irritated.

Gyro leaned against a far pillar, a bandage visible along his arm. His eyes didn't follow Kaiden; they locked on the cracked tile where Moro had fallen. One yo-yo rolled across his fingers, slow and deliberate. He wasn't out of the fight. Just watching.

"I blinked," Johnny said in the infirmary, finally breaking the silence.

Goku sat up straighter. "That was amazing, Kaiden was so fast," he muttered.

Johnny looked over. "You think he's faster than you?"

Goku's jaw flexed, but he didn't answer.

Then the tension broke slightly as King Kai stepped back into the center of the ring.

He raised his hand.

"Next match," he announced. "Goku… versus Iroh."

The crowd stirred again, finally remembering to breathe.

Goku stood, slow and steady. Bandages still wrapped around his ribs, but his movements were solid now. Focused.

Iroh was already waiting near the ring's edge. Calm, arms behind his back. His long coat swayed in the breeze. No emotion on his face. Just stillness.

Goku's feet hit the arena floor.

He stopped across from Iroh.

No words.

Just a slow exhale.

The audience leaned in.

Kaiden had stolen their breath.

Now Goku and Iroh would test how deep it could go.