Swashh.
The wind blew, scattering dust across the desolate wasteland. It made the hair and clothes of the two opposing forces ripple gently, like flags swaying before battle.
Atop a rocky hill stood two men clad in sleek, almost sensual armor — smooth to the eye, yet forged in a strange, unfamiliar design. Wrapped calmly around their waists were monkey-like tails. They were speaking to one another, but Yamcha couldn't hear them — or maybe he simply didn't want to. His attention was entirely fixed on something far more unnerving.
Himself.
Opposing the two armored warriors stood a rough, chaotic group. Himself included. Among them was a green, slug-like man; a child in a similar orange gi; two bald men — one tall, the other short — and a pale, almost corpse-like figure with Zhang Chi's frame and a deathly expression. And there, in the middle of them all… stood an older version of him. Broader. Tougher. More masculine. More of a man.
They were saying something, yelling maybe — but Yamcha couldn't make out the words. After all, he was only a dream-bound spectator, helplessly watching a memory that wasn't his… or maybe it was.
The two tailed men planted something into the cracked earth, then poured liquid over it. A few moments later, the ground burst open and a swarm of squat, green monsters began to crawl out — grotesque, hunched, and stumpy.
The group, Yamcha included, charged forward. He punched one. Then another. He slammed his knee into one's gut, carving out just enough space to launch his iconic move: Wolf Fang Fist — a rapid flurry of strikes that absolutely pummeled the creature.
But the creature smiled.
It lunged forward in a desperate clutch, wrapping itself tightly around Yamcha in a twisted embrace. And then — it exploded.
The dream-version of himself was flung back, barely clinging to life. No… not even that. He was already half-dead. His thoughts scattered, filled only with aching regret.
Those final thoughts echoed in the mind of the real Yamcha — the one now dreaming all of this in some twisted, prophetic way.
"I guess the wish didn't come true. Shenron really scammed me on this one… or maybe this is what progress looks like.
Ha, who am I kidding? I'm dead.
I'm sorry, Puar… for leaving you behind. You were always there for me — even when I was wrong, even when I didn't deserve it.
I'm sorry.
Maybe this is for the better. I'm no good.
But the Earth… it won't fall to you damned aliens.
Goku… Son Goku will deal with you. He will."
And with those words, Yamcha jolted awake.
His bare chest was soaked in sweat. His breath came in ragged bursts.
After all, he had just dreamt of his own death.
"Ahh… a dream… yeah. Just a dream," he muttered, trying to convince himself.
But deep down, in some quiet, instinctive corner of his mind — he knew.
It wasn't just a dream.
Maybe it was a memory.
Maybe it was a warning.
Or maybe it was his subconscious screaming at him to change.