DB Multiverse

17 was keeping at bay with his hand the three surviving fighters whose faces were now distorted by hatred.

“Any other ethics lover?”

It was with an unanimous growl, a rare and cold fury, that they charged in reply to the bionic murderer, who was surprised for a bit by the violence he had caused. In a split of a second, he disappeared under the blowstorm that come down in cataracts. They hit him furiously, with force and accuracy, in spite of their fury, they perfectly synchronized their sequences of attacks.

They hit, they beat, they poured out the ocean of fury, the storm of sadness that blowed their mind, without noticing that this upsurge of despair had no effect on the subject of their resentment.

As if he was made of stone, 17 didn't even move under the incredible hammering that he is going through. Impassible, he merely seemed to be waiting for the blowstorm to end.

Just as his sister. She had the affected look of someone who was bored to death. From time to time, she dusted in a swift brushing the ash that had fallen on her clothes. The young woman's clear eyes fell on the group that was attacking her brother, then she raised her hand and put it in front of her mouth to emphasize a long yawn followed by a loud sigh.

Those ostentatious expressions seemed to take the young man out of his silence. With four blows remarkably well placed, and with incredible ease, he violently threw his attackers away so that they bit the thin layer of ash that covered the ground.

The Namekian was the first to be back on his feet, his face distorted by a violent fury. He went back immediately against his opponent, his hand held out as if he wanted to copy the murderous move of the cyborg.

Krilin took a bit longer to take the sudden kick that had made him bent, but he get back up with courage and determination, gaining momentum to quench his thirst for revenge.

As for Yamcha, he remained on the ground, breathless and huddled up. He held up his chest, clearly showing an intense pain.

Even though Piccolo's attack had been powerful, it merely crashed on the impassible face of his opponent, with no more effect than sweeping his silky hair in a move which grace seemed clash with the violence of the attack.

Pulled along by his momentum, the Namekian found himself once again very close to the young man that he tried once again to hit, but each of his blows was deflected with a brazen ease. The sequences of blows increased. The big warrior used his best techniques against the parries of Dr Gero's creature.

Creature who contented himself with merely avoiding or warding off the furious attacks... without responding. Until the moment he decided to block Piccolo's fist, most likely out of weariness, Piccolo then held out his hand at a lightning speed to grab the neck of the young fighter that was within his grasp.

Meanwhile, Krilin's momentum had been stopped by 18 who twirled around with grace to dodge the furious blows of the small man, blows that missed their mark in rhythm with the furious screams of Tien's friend.

No matter how fast the disciple of the turtle school went, no matter how hard he tried to fight, to feint... it's obvious that he was completely outsped by the cyborg and his inability seemed to entertain her.

The fighter saw from the corner of his eye that, not so far from him, Piccolo's fight seemed to look like a strange power struggle.

17 had also grabbed the Namekian's neck and the giant is slowly bending under the pressure of the iron grip that is crushing his throat...

Resolved to go all the way, Piccolo closed his eyes as if to concentrate to better tighten, tighten with all his might this neck in which there is no pulse to be felt, no breath, as if it was an inflexible steel pipe.

In this sole clenched hand, he concentrated all power, all energy, all rage he had left in it, but the steel pipe didn't bend, didn't seem to give way.

In spite of his determination, the extraterrestrial finally found himself on his knees, subdued by the brutal strength of the frail young man who was looking down on him with emotionless eyes. The giant's head turned dark green whereas the hard he had held out started to tremble and weaken, he was struggling to free his other arm, still caught in the cyborg's left hand. Through the veil that was blurring his mind, he heard Krilin's voice, Krilin who was yelling his name.

“PICCOLO!”

At the sight of his two friends in great difficulty, Yamcha managed to do a supreme effort and overcome the pain that was pinning him down.

In an ultimate attempt, Krilin joined his hand to, apparently, try to make the merciless tormentor let go of his friend who, over there, beyond the impassable blond barrier that is blocking his way, suffocate in silence.

But his energy didn't have time to leave his hands. With a mere slap, an attack that could look quite harmless and pathetic, 18 litteraly broke the pugnacious little fighter who crashed into the warm ash.

Even though he was dizzy because of the incredibly brutal blow that just hit his head, Krilin still struggled to lift his wounded head, to open his eyes that he had closed to fight off the giddiness that had overwhelmed him. He struggled to see the awful outcome that he dread.

Through the blur, he made out the figure of two bodies that are fighting: one of them was mostly blue and black, frail and merciless, the other was green, orange and blue, powerful but still on the verge of being crushed.