The sun had yet to rise, but in the yellow sand-covered Diablo Desert, Yamcha and Puar were already awake. The desert wind howled softly across the dunes, but neither of them paid it much mind. Puar floated nearby, still groggy, while Yamcha stood upright — alert, focused, and with a strange burning clarity in his eyes.
"What's gotten into you, Yamcha? Did you hit your head or something?" Puar yawned, rubbing her eyes with her little paws.
"No, Puar," Yamcha replied, his voice unusually steady. "I just think… we should change. I mean, think about it — our lifestyle isn't exactly sustainable. What if people start hiring strong bodyguards or martial artists to protect themselves? Bandits like us would be out of business, right?"
He looked out across the desert as if trying to see something far off in the distance — or maybe in time.
"So," he continued, "I just want to go straight. Or at least get stronger. I'll need your help. You need to know how to fight too — and I need to train, to improve."
Puar hovered in the air, stunned. It wasn't like Yamcha to talk like this — especially not before sunrise. She didn't quite understand what had changed… but she trusted him. After all, he was her best friend.
"Okay, Puar," Yamcha said, his voice soft but edged with something colder. "I want you to transform into me. Then… turn into a version of me made of steel."
"Steel?" Puar blinked, confused — but nodded. With a puff of smoke, she morphed into a hardened, metallic version of Yamcha. Gleaming grey skin, unmoving eyes, and a solid, unyielding body.
"Alright. Best way to learn is by doing," Yamcha said, rolling his shoulders. "Try and hit me. Any strike works — just, uh, avoid the sensitive spots. I still want to have kids someday, y'know."
Puar snickered. "Aren't you, like… afraid of women though?"
Instead of answering, Yamcha dashed forward. A sudden burst of speed — and then, crack!
His right jab hit Puar's steel face. The impact stung Yamcha's knuckles more than it hurt her.
"Gah—!" he hissed under his breath, but he didn't stop. He followed with a series of jabs, testing range and rhythm. Then a cross — harder, heavier — which actually knocked Puar back.
Seizing the moment, Puar swung a fist into Yamcha's gut. The form was a little clumsy, and the force wasn't great — but the weight of the steel fist was more than enough.
"Aughh—!" Yamcha coughed, staggering. He spat out saliva, bent over slightly, but didn't stop. Using a short step, he pushed Puar away to create space.
"Let's go!" he growled, eyes narrowing.
He launched into his Wolf Fang Fist, a rapid barrage of wild strikes, claw-like and relentless. His fists blurred — but against steel, they made more noise than impact.
The pain came quickly.
His knuckles cracked. Skin split. Blood began to smear across his own fists, staining Puar's steel armor with dull red.
Before he could throw another blow, Puar raised her hands and floated back.
"Yamcha, stop!" she cried. "That's enough! Your hands — they're bleeding! I get it, you wanna get stronger… but if you get hurt, it'll only slow you down."
Yamcha paused, panting, eyes locked on his friend. Slowly, his fists unclenched. The blood dripped onto the sand below.
"Yeah… yeah, you got a point, Puar," he said, wincing.
The two of them turned and made their way back to their home — a large stone structure shaped like a pillar rising from the desert floor, like a half-buried tower. Inside, wires and pipes snaked along the walls, patched together with stolen tech and scrap parts. A rusted generator rumbled softly near the roof, pulling water from a reservoir and channeling power into the structure.
The home had four rooms: a small kitchen, a cramped living room, a bathroom, and the bedroom he and Puar shared. Puar had her own cat bed tucked into a corner, covered in a faded blanket.
Naturally, every last bit of the house — the parts, the tools, even the furniture — had been stolen.
But today, as they stepped inside, Yamcha felt something different.
It wasn't just about surviving anymore.
It was about living.