"Pickled onions? Seriously?" The voice scraped raw against his own thoughts. "Who brings pickled onions to—" His own hand, massive and golden-haired, gestured vaguely downward. He froze. That wasn't… his hand. The texture was wrong, coarse and thick like woven sunlight. He flexed fingers thick as sausages. They obeyed. Panic fluttered, frantic, behind his ribs. Where was the grocery bag? Where was the sidewalk? Where… was he?
Blinking hard, the world resolved. Not the fluorescent glare of the supermarket. Instead, a ruined landscape stretched under a bruised purple sky. Jagged shards of rock clawed upwards. The air tasted thick, acrid, like ozone after a storm and burnt sugar. Low groans echoed from deep fissures. His gaze swept downward.
The black fabric hugged his torso tightly, the material coarse against his skin – skin that felt unnervingly dense and alive. The vest ended sharply at his waistband, leaving his powerfully defined chest and abdomen bare. Beneath it, white gi pants flowed loose over strangely sturdy legs, tied securely with an orange sash. The outfit felt alien yet perfectly fitted, whispering of power he didn't understand. He ran a thick finger along the edge of the vest, feeling the stark contrast between the rough weave and the smoothness of his own inexplicable skin.
A low, wet chuckle vibrated the air behind him. It wasn't laughter; it was hunger given sound. He spun, heart hammering against ribs that felt unbreakable. Towering before him, blotting out the dismal sky, was a nightmare incarnate: pink skin glistening like wet rubber, a vein pulsing grotesquely on a hairless forehead, and eyes that held only predatory amusement. "Fused?" it purred, the voice thick and sticky. "Strong smelling. Like… *pickled* something." Super Buu's lipless mouth stretched into a grin, revealing rows of sharp teeth. The sheer malevolence radiating from the creature was a physical pressure, pushing against his golden-haired form.
Echoes slammed into his mind: Goku's easygoing grin, Vegeta's perpetual scowl. Names. *Their* names. Their memories surged – decades of brutal training, impossible battles, deep-seated rivalry, and reluctant respect – colliding violently with the mundane memory of clutching a grocery bag full of onions. The dissonance was staggering. *He* was both, yet neither. Gocheta. The name surfaced, unbidden, a monument to impossible union. And standing before this cosmic horror… he was utterly reborn. Panic warred with a terrifying instinct rising from the fused Saiyan souls within – an instinct screaming *fight*.
Pure, unadulterated Saiyan instinct, honed across lifetimes of combat, surged through Gocheta's new nervous system like lightning. Before conscious thought could even form a defense or a question, his body *reacted*. The purple sky blurred violently. One instant he stood frozen before Buu's terrifying leer; the next, the ruined landscape tilted crazily as he reappeared silently *behind* the pink monstrosity, the displaced air barely whispering. It wasn't teleportation like Instant Transmission; it was sheer, explosive speed drawn from depths Goku and Vegeta alone could barely scratch, amplified tenfold by their fusion. The sudden shift left phantom images shimmering where he'd just stood.
Buu's grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise. He turned, ponderously slow compared to Gocheta's impossible movement, the wet rubbery sound of his skin stretching unnervingly loud. The reality of his speed, the effortless violation of space itself, sent a jolt through Gocheta's core. It wasn't panic anymore; it was… exhilaration. A fierce, primal satisfaction crackled through him. Muscles humming with power he couldn't quantify, senses hyper-alert – he could *smell* the burnt ozone clinging to Buu, *hear* the faint pulsing of that grotesque forehead vein, *feel* the tremors of the unstable ground beneath his feet. And unbidden, curling at the corners of his lips – a smirk. Not Goku's friendly grin, not Vegeta's arrogant sneer, but something uniquely fierce and predatory. His own.
The smirk deepened as he saw Buu's confusion solidify into annoyance. The creature's pink form seemed to ripple with irritation. "Fast," Buu hissed, the sticky voice laced with a predatory curiosity that chilled even Gocheta's Saiyan blood. "Smell strong *and* fast." Eyes like pits of hunger locked onto Gocheta, analyzing, dissecting. Every instinct screamed that this pause wouldn't last. Buu's fingers twitched, the air around him shimmering faintly with gathering menace. The ruined landscape seemed to hold its breath, rocks groaning under the oppressive weight of unspoken violence. The burnt sugar stench thickened, sharpening Gocheta's hyper-aware senses – a warning.
Slowly, deliberately, Gocheta uncrossed his arms. Not in preparation for an attack, but in a gesture of utter, calculated disdain. He drifted upwards, effortlessly suspending himself a few feet off the jagged ground. The golden aura around him flickered softly, a warm contrast to the bruised sky. His gaze swept over Buu's monstrous form – the glistening pink skin, the pulsing vein, the rows of needle-sharp teeth – with an air of profound boredom. It wasn't a bluff. The chaotic flood of Saiyan memories – lifetimes spent chasing gods and monsters – collided with the jarring mundanity of grocery runs, and in that fusion, this pink horror felt… pedestrian. Beneath him. His eyelids drooped slightly, heavy with an exaggerated weariness. "Pickled onions," he finally drawled, his voice an unnerving blend of Goku's lightness and Vegeta's gravelly arrogance, "are surprisingly versatile."
Buu stared, his expression shifting from annoyance to pure, unadulterated disbelief. His lipless mouth hung slightly open, saliva glistening at the corners. The predatory amusement vanished, replaced by the raw fury of a predator insulted. The air crackled violently, his pink aura flaring like toxic sludge, warping the light around him. The ground trembled violently, fissures cracking open wider, spewing acrid steam. "BORED?" Buu roared, the sound a physical assault that made the very rocks vibrate. "YOU THINK MAJIN BUU IS BORING?" Rage distorted his features further, turning him into a grotesque sculpture of wrath. The hunger in his eyes wasn't just for flesh anymore; it was for annihilation.
Gocheta merely raised a single, thick golden eyebrow, utterly unfazed by the display of cosmic fury. He tilted his head, studying Buu as if examining a mildly irritating insect. The Saiyan instincts pulsed with satisfaction, a primal thrill at the creature's escalating rage. Yet, the Earthling core – the man clutching phantom onions – felt a bizarre detachment. This power… it was exhilarating, terrifying, and somehow utterly *mundane* in the face of such bottomless malice. He sighed, a soft sound lost in Buu's roaring, his eyes narrowing with a blend of Saiyan arrogance and human exasperation. The smirk returned, sharp and dangerous. "Compared to grocery aisles on a Saturday?"
Buu froze mid-roar, pink skin quivering with incomprehension. The sheer absurdity of the statement hung in the charged air like a bad smell. It was the opening. Purple sky and jagged rock became a streaked blur. One instant Gocheta hovered lazily above the trembling ground; the next, he materialized directly *in front* of Buu's distorted face, displaced air cracking like a whip. No theatrics, no wasted motion – pure, distilled Saiyan speed amplified by fusion. His massive, golden-haired fist sank deep into the yielding, rubbery flesh of Buu's abdomen with a sickening, wet *thump* that echoed across the desolate landscape.
Agony exploded across Buu's face, replacing fury with stunned disbelief. A sound like tearing wet canvas ripped from his lipless mouth, followed by a spray of thick, pinkish vapor. Gocheta felt the impact shudder up his arm – the bizarre, spongy resistance giving way beneath knuckles hardened by lifetimes of battle. The stench of burnt sugar intensified, mixed now with something sour and organic. Buu's eyes bulged impossibly wide, predatory amusement replaced by pure, animal shock. He doubled over instinctively, clutching his gut where Gocheta's fist remained embedded. The sheer physicality of it shocked the Earth-born consciousness within Gocheta; this wasn't pixels on a screen or ink on a page. This was *wet*, *yielding*, and utterly *real*. Saiyan instincts roared approval at the tangible damage inflicted.
Then, physics asserted itself. Buu's vast bulk peeled away from Gocheta's fist. His pink form lifted off the trembling ground as if snatched by a colossal, invisible hand. The force wasn't explosive; it was unstoppable, propelling him backward with terrifying smoothness. He sailed clear over jagged rock spires, his trajectory a lazy, helpless arc against the bruised purple sky. Rocks groaned beneath him as displaced air rushed violently to fill the void where he'd been moments before. Gocheta watched, knuckles still humming with the echo of the blow, golden aura flickering softly. A detached part of him noted the absurdity: the grocery clerk turned cosmic powerhouse, watching a nightmare fly away like a discarded toy. The wind whistled in Buu's wake, carrying the raw scent of ozone and ruptured alien flesh.
Buu impacted the distant cliff face half a mile away with a sound that echoed like collapsing mountains. Stone shattered and crumbled, engulfing him in a billowing cloud of grey dust and sharp-edged rubble. Silence descended like a shroud, heavy and unnatural. Gocheta remained suspended, knuckles slick with evaporating pink vapor that stung his nostrils with its acidic tang. The Earthling mind recoiled at the visceral memory of punching *through* yielding alien flesh—bone-deep Saiyan instincts surged forward in response, flooding him with predatory satisfaction. *Finish him.* The command vibrated through his fused consciousness, sharper than any thought. His golden gaze narrowed, locking onto the dust plume where Buu's form lay buried. The silence stretched, taut as a tripwire. Then, a low, guttural growl rumbled from the settling debris—a sound of pure, unrefined malice. Buu wasn't done. Neither was Gocheta.
The ruined landscape dissolved into streaks of meaningless color. One heartbeat, Gocheta hovered above shattered ground; the next, he stood silently amidst the settling dust and falling pebbles, instantly transported. There was no telltale flash of light, no dramatic aura flare—just the abrupt, jarring violation of space itself. Instant Transmission. The knowledge bloomed perfectly within him, a gift from Goku's soul. Directly before him, Buu heaved himself upwards from the rubble pile, chunks of rock cascading off his glistening pink skin. A deep, fist-shaped indentation marred his abdomen, slowly sealing with wet, sucking sounds that echoed unnervingly in the sudden stillness. Before Buu could fully register his presence, before his grotesque features could twist into rage, Gocheta's hands were already in motion.
His palms slammed together violently at his right hip. The impact resonated like a thunderclap, shattering the eerie quiet. Raw power ripped from the fused Saiyans' cores—a torrent of blinding, electric-blue energy coalescing with terrifying speed. It wasn't merely formed; it was *born*, screaming violently between his cupped palms. The Kamehameha wave pulsed with contained fury, illuminating Buu's stunned face in stark, brutal detail—the widening eyes reflecting the azure inferno, the slack-lipped mouth caught mid-snarl. The heat radiating from it seared Gocheta's own forearms and washed over Buu's rubbery skin, making it steam faintly. The acrid stench of ozone overwhelmed the dust and burnt sugar, sharp and metallic. Every instinct, Saiyan and human, screamed a single word: *Release.*
"KAAAA…" Gocheta roared, the sound tearing from his throat—a perfect fusion of Goku's battle cry and Vegeta's guttural defiance. Buu's eyes snapped fully open, pure terror replacing shock. He reared back instinctively, pink hands lifting in a desperate, clumsy guard. "... MEEEE..." Gocheta thrust his blazing palms forward. "... HAAAA!" The contained blue sun erupted. It didn't merely fire; it *detonated* outward, engulfing Buu's entire upper torso in an incandescent column of pure destruction. The roar was deafening—a primal scream of annihilating force that vaporized falling rubble and tore fissures through the bedrock below. Buu's scream became lost in the cacophony, his form dissolving into boiling pink mist under the relentless torrent. The heat forced Gocheta to squint, his golden hair whipping violently in the concussive backwash. The stench of superheated ozone and vaporized alien flesh choked the air.
For a heartbeat, the beam persisted, carving a glowing trench kilometers long through the landscape. Then, abruptly, Gocheta clenched his fists, snapping the torrent shut. Silence crashed down like a physical weight. Where Buu had stood, only swirling steam and bubbling pink sludge remained, hissing on the scorched rock. Gocheta hovered, smoke curling from his palms, chest heaving. The Saiyan instincts roared triumph—Majin Buu was obliterated. The Earthling mind recoiled at the sheer brutality. *It worked?* The thought echoed with disbelief. A ragged sigh escaped him. It was over.
Then, the sludge *twitched*. A single pink bubble swelled obscenely amidst the bubbling morass. Slowly, impossibly, like molten wax reforming, the sludge coalesced. Tendrils of pink matter snaked upward, knitting together muscle and sinew. Within seconds, the bubbling mass resolved into Buu's unmistakable form—hairless head first, then the glistening torso, and finally those mocking, predatory eyes. He stood fully intact on the smoldering rock, steam rising from his rubbery skin. The fist-shaped crater on his abdomen was gone. Only a faint, satisfied smirk remained. Buu patted his stomach lightly. "Tickled."
Gocheta drifted lower, his boots touching the scorched earth with unnatural silence. He tilted his head, the golden hair catching the dim light. A low chuckle escaped him, a strange blend of Goku's easy disbelief and Vegeta's profound irritation. "Huh," he murmured, the sound rough, assessing. He crossed his massive arms again, the golden fur on his forearms bristling faintly. That detached Earthling awareness bubbled up – the sheer, ridiculous *inconvenience* of an enemy who wouldn't stay vaporized. It overlaid the Saiyan fury like static. "Right," Gocheta drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly across the steaming fissure. He tapped a thick finger against his temple. "Should've figured *you* would survive that." His gaze swept over Buu's perfectly restored form, lingering on the smirk. A flicker of genuine annoyance crossed his fused features—less Saiyan rage, more like a man realizing he'd wasted precious time. "My bad."
Buu's smirk widened into a grotesque, lipless grin. Victory shimmered in his eyes. "Stupid Saiyan-flavored pickle," he gurgled, pink saliva dripping onto the steaming rock. He raised a pudgy hand, fingers splayed. The air around him began to boil, shimmering with malevolent energy. Pink vapor coalesced into a dense, crackling sphere between his fingers—a volatile Destruction Ball humming with unstable power. The burnt sugar stench returned, thick and cloying, mixed with ozone sharp enough to make Gocheta's eyes water. "Buu make you paste now!" His voice rose to a shriek. "Then pickle the paste!"
Gocheta didn't uncross his arms. He didn't flare his aura. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face, utterly unlike anything Goku or Vegeta alone would ever wear. It held Saiyan fierceness, yes, but threaded through with an Earthling's weary cynicism. His golden eyes narrowed, locking onto Buu's gathering attack. Muscles coiled beneath the coarse vest, not in explosive readiness, but in the patient tension of a predator recalculating. The fused minds churned: Saiyan battle equations whirring alongside the mundane memory of stubborn supermarket checkout lines. This pink nuisance needed a *different* kind of lesson. The air crackled, heavy with Buu's imminent annihilation. Gocheta simply waited.
Buu's shriek peaked, fingers jerking forward. The Destruction Ball screamed from his palm – a churning vortex of pink and black energy that warped the air around it, trailing tendrils of acrid vapor and leaving scorched lines across the rock. It surged toward Gocheta with impossible speed, promising total disintegration. The stench of superheated ozone and rotted candy intensified, stinging Gocheta's nostrils. Rocks melted in its wake. Yet, Gocheta didn't dodge. He didn't brace. He merely shifted his stance, weight settling onto his right foot, his golden gaze utterly impassive. The Earth-born consciousness within recoiled – *this is insane!* – instantly drowned out by the Saiyan core's ironclad certainty.
When the energy ball was mere feet away, filling Gocheta's world with its chaotic light and deafening roar, he moved. One fluid motion. His left arm snapped out, palm open. Not to block. Not to absorb. Simply to *tap*. The golden-haired limb moved with deceptive laziness, yet with precision defying physics. His open palm slapped the side of the Destruction Ball with a sound like a wet bell tolling. The impact resonated through the ruined landscape, vibrating Gocheta's own bones. There was no explosion. No blinding clash. Instead, the seething mass of destructive energy instantly altered course, veering sharply upward like a deflected billiard ball. Its trajectory was wrong, its momentum warped. It soared harmlessly over Gocheta's shoulder, trailing confused sparks and malevolent vapor.
A stunned silence fell heavier than the dust. Gocheta lowered his arm slowly, flexing his fingers as if flicking off water. He tilted his head, watching the rogue Destruction Ball streak towards the bruised skyline. Buu gaped, his lipless mouth hanging slack, victory evaporating into pure, dumbfounded horror. Confusion contorted his glistening face – how could raw power be dismissed with such casual contempt? The Earthling part of Gocheta registered the absurdity: *deflecting cosmic annihilation like a stray soccer ball*. A low chuckle escaped him, sharp with Saiyan satisfaction and human disbelief. "Missed," he observed flatly, the word cutting through the ringing silence.
Purple sky and jagged rock dissolved into meaningless streaks. One heartbeat, Gocheta stood casually amidst settling dust; the next, displaced air cracked *in Buu's face* as Gocheta materialized inches from the bewildered Majin's bulbous nose. There was no blur, no warning aura – just the jarring violation of space itself, Instant Transmission delivering him with ruthless immediacy. Buu recoiled, pink eyes snapping wide with startled panic, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Before comprehension could register, before Buu's pudgy hands could twitch defensively, Gocheta's entire body became a weapon.
His right leg snapped upward faster than thought – not a wild kick, but a piston-driven blur of golden hair and coiled muscle. The sole of his heavy Saiyan boot slammed full-force into the center of Buu's rubbery face with a sickening *crunch-wet-slosh*. Bone, cartilage, or whatever passed for structure beneath that pink membrane yielded instantly. Buu's head snapped backward violently on his thick neck, a spray of thick pink vapor erupting from his flattened nose and mouth. The sheer kinetic force lifted Buu bodily off the scorched earth, his torso arching backward grotesquely. Gocheta felt the impact shudder up his leg – the bizarrely spongy resistance collapsing under unstoppable force. The stench of ruptured alien flesh flooded his senses, sharp and sour, mingling with burnt sugar.
Buu hung suspended for a microsecond, stunned inertia battling gravity. Gocheta didn't pause. He flowed seamlessly into the next motion, pivoting on his grounded left foot like a dancer channeling annihilation. His right arm snapped out, fist clenched into a hammer forged from fused Saiyan fury. It plunged forward, knuckles driving deep into Buu's exposed midsection – precisely where the Kamehameha had vaporized him moments before. The impact was another wet, deep *thump* that echoed across the desolation, driving the air from Buu's lungs in a choked gurgle. Gocheta felt his fist sink past yielding pink flesh, encountering surprising resistance – perhaps Buu's strange internal organs or sheer condensed malevolence – before driving through. Pink mist sprayed again as Buu's torso folded around the blow like wet dough, his eyes bulging impossibly wide with pure agony. Satisfaction roared through Gocheta's Saiyan core at the tangible feedback of destruction, a primal counterpoint to the Earthling mind's visceral recoil at the *wetness* of it all. Buu was airborne again, propelled backward by the double impact, sailing limply towards a new cluster of jagged rocks.
Displaced air cracked like a whip. One instant, Gocheta stood amidst the dissipating spray of pink vapor; the next, he materialized silently *beside* Buu's tumbling form, arms folded casually across his chest as if observing a mildly interesting spectacle. His golden aura flickered softly against the bruised sky, projecting utter disdain. Buu's eyes rolled towards him mid-flail, dazed agony warring with terrified disbelief as he realized Gocheta was already *there*. Before Buu could attempt recovery, Gocheta unfolded. His right leg snapped upward with blinding speed, not a kick, but a descending guillotine – the Axe Kick. The heel of his boot slammed down onto Buu's chest with the finality of a falling meteor. The impact wasn't a wet thump this time; it was a deep, bone-rattling *crunch* driven by impossible force and precision. Buu's descent accelerated violently, his rubbery form crumpling inward under the blow. He impacted the shattered rock floor like a dropped sack of wet cement, exploding dust and jagged fragments in a radial burst. Gocheta landed lightly beside the crater, dust swirling around his boots, looking down impassively at the pink form embedded deep within the pulverized stone. Buu gasped weakly, pink saliva bubbling from his slack mouth, eyes unfocused.
Slowly, deliberately, Gocheta raised his right hand high above his head, palm open towards the bruised sky. No torrent of blue energy gathered. No crackling sphere formed. Instead, a single point of impossible light blossomed above his palm – a pinprick that shimmered like captured starlight, refracting into countless shifting, brilliant hues: crimson, sapphire, emerald, gold, violet. It wasn't vast; it was compact, dense, no larger than a baseball, humming with a high-pitched resonance that seemed to vibrate the very atoms of the air. This was no raw blast. It was Stardust Breaker, distilled purification forged from Goku's spirit and Vegeta's ruthless efficiency. Its sole purpose resonated through Gocheta's fused consciousness: to annihilate evil at its core. The rainbow light cast dancing reflections on Buu's stunned, ruined face below, illuminating the sheer terror dawning in his eyes as he sensed the utter absence of malice within the orb – only crystalline, absolute destruction. The stench of burnt sugar vanished, replaced by a scent like ozone mixed with pure mountain air after a thunderstorm, sharp and clean. The jagged landscape fell utterly silent, hushed beneath the orb's harmonic hum.
Gocheta's gaze locked onto Buu's broken form in the crater. His fused expression held no rage, no triumph – only cold, final assessment. The Saiyan instincts recognized the end. The Earthling awareness registered the profound stillness. "Goodbye," Gocheta stated, his voice devoid of inflection, a simple declaration of fact. His fingers curled inward slightly. The multi-colored orb pulsed once, blindingly bright, before detonating downwards in a silent beam of pure, radiant destruction. It wasn't fire or lightning; it was disintegration made light. Buu had just enough time for a final, silent scream of utter terror before the rainbow beam consumed him entirely. There was no explosion, no shockwave – just Buu's form dissolving into motes of shimmering pink dust that evaporated instantly, leaving only a faintly glowing, perfectly circular patch of fused, glassy rock where he had lain. Gocheta lowered his hand slowly, the harmonic hum fading into the ringing silence. The fused Saiyan power within him settled, a roaring river reduced to a calm lake.
For a long moment, nothing stirred. The bruised sky seemed lighter. Then, where Buu's dissolving silhouette had been moments before, shapes coalesced from the fading rainbow light – not dust, but solid, distinct figures collapsing onto the warm, glassy ground. First came Gohan, sprawled awkwardly, his black gi shredded and stained but his eyes blinking rapidly awake. Beside him, Piccolo landed heavily on one knee, his green skin pale with exhaustion, eyes scanning the desolation with grim disbelief. Goten and Trunks tumbled out next, smaller bodies tangled together, gasping for air as if surfacing from deep water, their orange gi tops darkened with sweat and grime. And strangely, inexplicably, squeezed between them lay Fat Buu – his pink form intact but motionless, eyes closed, snoring softly as if he'd simply rolled off a couch mid-nap. His innocence seemed untouched, a stark contrast to the glassed battlefield. Gocheta descended silently, his boots touching the fused rock beside them without a sound, his golden aura dimming like a setting sun.
Gohan groaned, pushing himself up on trembling arms. His gaze swept from Piccolo's weary nod to the stirring forms of Goten and Trunks, then froze on Fat Buu's snoring bulk. Confusion warred with burgeoning relief on his face. "H-how?" he rasped, his voice rough. He looked up, finally registering the towering golden-haired figure standing over them all. Recognition flared – the posture, the aura, the fusion earrings – but the sharp, unfamiliar smirk on Gocheta's face held none of Goku's warmth or Vegeta's sneer. Piccolo climbed stiffly to his feet, placing a cautious hand on Gohan's shoulder. "That energy… it purified him," Piccolo murmured, his eyes narrowed as he studied Fat Buu. "It tore away the evil… left only… this." His gaze shifted to the fused glass beneath his feet, then lifted slowly to meet Gocheta's unnerving golden stare.
Goten scrambled upright, eyes wide as saucers. He pointed a shaking finger. "Dad?... Vegeta?" Trunks lurched beside him, violet hair plastered to his forehead. "Both…?"
Gocheta tilted his head, the golden light around him softening further. The predatory smirk vanished, replaced by something utterly alien – a strange blend of Saiyan pride and Earth-born awkwardness. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture startlingly reminiscent of Goku, yet weighted with Vegeta's coiled stillness. "Uh... yeah," he began, his fused voice rough but losing its earlier bite. He cleared his throat, the sound oddly mundane. "Sorta fused." His golden eyes flickered between their stunned faces – Gohan's disbelief, Piccolo's wary assessment, the boys' pure awe. He shifted his weight, the fused glass beneath his boots faintly luminous. "Names Gocheta," he stated, the syllables unfamiliar yet solid on his tongue. A hint of that fierce pride resurfaced in his eyes. "Nice to meet ya." It wasn't Goku's cheerful introduction or Vegeta's curt acknowledgment; it was a declaration of a new, bewildering existence.
Piccolo stepped forward, cape stirring faintly. His eyes remained locked on Gocheta's face. "The fusion... it shouldn't last," he murmured, brow furrowed beneath his turban. "Potara has limits." Fat Buu snorted softly in his sleep, oblivious to the dense fusion energy radiating from the golden-haired warrior beside him.
Gocheta chuckled—a sound like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. He glanced at his shimmering forearms, flexing fingers that had punched through dimensions moments prior. "Thirty minutes," he affirmed, the fused voice carrying Goku's casualness over Vegeta's iron certainty. "Then poof." He snapped his fingers; the sharp crack echoed across the glassy crater. "Back to Kakarot and the royal pain." His golden gaze drifted toward the bruised horizon where Buu's tower once stood. "They'll still show. Always do."
A swell of wind stirred dust devils across the fused rock. Gohan approached cautiously, eyes scanning Gocheta's unnerving calm. "But... you *ended* Buu." His voice held awe and confusion. "Why wait?"
Gocheta's smirk returned—not predatory, but laden with cosmic irony. He patted his stomach where phantom hunger lingered. "Grocery clerk's wisdom," he drawled. The fused Saiyan power thrummed beneath his skin, impatient yet resigned. "Never finish someone else's fight."
Piccolo's eyes narrowed. "You intend to let them engage Buu?"
Gocheta shrugged, massive shoulders rolling like tectonic plates. "Vegeta'd never forgive me if I stole his spotlight." He floated lazily toward a collapsed spire, settling atop its jagged peak. The glassy crater stretched below, reflecting the bruised sky. "Besides," he added, glancing at the snoring Fat Buu crumpled beside Goten. "Evil's purged. Kid Buu's their problem now. Mine?" He rubbed his abdomen again, the gesture jarringly domestic. "Found a void bigger than Buu's ego. Need noodles."
He scanned the desolation—shattered rock, steaming fissures, the distant wreckage of Buu's tower. His golden gaze lingered on a half-crushed konbini buried under rubble. Instant Transmission blurred the air. One moment he perched on stone; the next, he stood before the crumpled metal shutters, wrenching them open with a screech. Inside, shelves lay toppled, packets of instant ramen strewn in dust. Gocheta grabbed a fistful, vaporizing the plastic with a flicker of ki. He dumped dry noodles into his mouth, crunching loudly. The absurdity hit him: cosmic warrior, salvaging lunch from apocalypse debris. Through a mouthful, he muttered, "Should've grabbed garlic."