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Warrior's Daughter Chapter 66
Chapter 65 - Super Goku
"Goku, what are you doing?" Piccolo said out loud.
Chiyo didn't bother to comment on the revelation. She had guessed that her father handsome trick up his sleeve; after all, he knew he couldn't beat Boo by himself.
"I'm interested to see this trick of yours," Bobbidi said, "but time is short. West City is expecting us, so...maybe next time. Boo, hurry up and kill him."
"What are you doing?" Goku shouted suddenly, making Chiyo jump. "Stop goofing off and get the radar!"
What on Earth? she thought, moments before realising that Trunks must have stopped when he felt Goku's chi. She cast out her senses and felt Trunks' chi moving again, towards West City.
"What radar?" Bobbidi demanded. "Did I miss something? Who were you talking to and what is this radar?"
"It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
Bobbidi cackled. "It sounds like you're planning something useless."
Goku's chi dropped and his hair fell back into its normal mop.
"Why you go n
Warrior's Daughter Chapter 64
Chapter 64 - Rampage
Chiyo wandered through the halls of Kami-sama's palace, feeling very full. Mr. Popo, being the kind host that he was, had made her enough food to feed ten people - and she had eaten almost all of it.
She came out into the tiled courtyard and paused. Instead of being a brilliant blue, the sky was black.
Did the sun set while I was inside? she wondered. I thought I was only in there for ten minutes...
The sight triggered a vague memory of something that had happened years ago, when she was a little girl.
"Shen Long? The Dragon God?!" Goku was saying as Chiyo rejoined her friends. "But why - "
"Bulma had the Dragon Balls, right?" Kuririn said. "They don't know what's goin' on, so why..."
"Vegeta killed all those people. They're bringing them back to life!"
"Oh, dear..." Dende said, shaking his head. "If they use the three wishes now, the Dragon Balls will turn to stone for a year!"
"I've gotta stop 'em!" Goku said, putting two fingers to his fore
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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