[HD] "Doom's Marines" and "Coming Storm" Travel (Day 1-)

[Edward Elric]

They’d taken the fort, and somehow, that had been the easy part.

The hard part was the aftermath. The Coming Storm as they’d known it was reduced to a husk. Gone were the moments in the first few days where they’d traveled as a unit unbowed and unbroken, outcasts among outcasts, peers among peers - now they remained one hundred strong of the original four hundred and fifty and the comrades each soldier had gone close with were, for the most part, a memory of happier times.

They’d taken the fortress and they’d lost friends and allies along the way.

In the rubble they’d erected a palisade about the camp. Smoldering ruins were their backdrop, and somber hearts conglomerated amongst the ruins of the fort. They’d stayed there longer then they should have, perhaps, but time had to be taken for the dead. They buried those lost, mourned them in time, and then realized that the time had long passed for them to shift onward.

So it goes.

Days and miles passed and the march was not marked with quite the enthusiasm it had been before the siege.

Zenitsu hunkered over his table and stared at the map before him blankly, and then heard the flap of his tent shift. He didn’t raise his eyes.

“Lieutenant,” announced the soldier. When Zenitsu raised his eyes he found Schnozz saluting.

“As you were,” mumbled the youth. He looked lined, worn beyond his years. A rainbow of bruising lined the right side of his face, marring his previously cheery disposition with the tell-tale signs of battle.

Schnozz had the respect to wait, look his commander in the eye, and sigh. “We couldn’t recover his remains.”

The Lieutenant knew his subordinate was speaking of Bors - the burly man had been all pomp and puff-chest and yet despite all of that his enormous body was one of those they’d never recovered. Lost in the rubble, probably. Zenitsu reflected on the man’s family back in Eisenstadt and sighed.

“Despite that, the Commander has bulked us up substantially and the Coming Storm now stands four hundred strong,” he told his commanding officer. His tone was somber, however.

“Come. Sit with me,” Zenitsu commanded. He gestured towards a chair beside his table.

As Schnozz came to sit, the silence hung between them heavily. It lingered there for awhile.

“The girl, Musashi, came out little worse for the wear,” continued Schnozz. He sounded anxious to break the silence. “She saw you, after...you know. After you changed. She was glad to see you before the explosion, too. It took her awhile to wake.”

Zenitsu eyed a bottle at the corner of his table. Saké - ‘Sashi’s drink of choice. He poured two small cups, as one might pour tea, and passed one to Schnozz. The man took it willingly and downed it quickly. Zen took his with a moment’s pause, and then reached a calloused hand over to his man.

The saké had given him some life.

“Find me Luck, and Musashi. Bring them here, so that I can congratulate them. We lost a lot, but we need to celebrate our victors.”

“The men grumble - the ones the Doom Commander sent our way. They’re not thrilled to be a part of the outcasts. They think themselves demoted.”

Zenitsu smirked, and stood from his seat, then.

“They’ll see soon enough - we’re not just a detachment. We’re the Coming Storm.”

He spoke strongly, but felt the losses behind his words. Things were going to get more serious in the days to come.

 

[Remilia Scarlet]

A dour haze had permeated the Doom’s Marines, the survivors of that hard push into the Haunted House stared back at the crater with wounded in hands. The rubble of the base was falling and drifting down, the explosion scattering much of the surrounding structures like leaves on the wind. The rubble rained down and broke much of what wasn’t already pox marked from the battle that had raged outside of it. The fury of the Hell Diver had scarred the landscape, bringing the undead soldiers low in splattered pools, but as the soldiers watched the dust settled they realized their wild push was predicted. Lead into the spider’s parlor, and silenced in a single explosive stroke. The dead were still being counted, the bloodied laid out where they can be accounted for and healed. But there was one missing among the counted who's absence brought sorrow to them all, the noticeable lack of the neon green armor of their commander left a large hole in their confidence.

The Doom Slayer had been the first to notice the trap, as they had breached the inner sanctum of the keep. Even as they saw the emotionless smile of the fort’s keeper before them, the Marine’s weapons raised forward to break the last resistance. Doomguy, however, had his attention swept across the final room, his helmet twisting back and forth as he read unseen details lurking in the shadows. And even as knives to pull ready to finish off the enemy, the Commander roared a fleeing retreat. Confusion ran wild in the ranks, such an order contradicting the Doom Slayer’s previous aggression and the music blasting from his back, but it became apparent when he ripped one of the explosives from behind a wall and chucked it into the face of an Unmade soldier attacking from the rear. The rope of a snare, meant to hold its prey before the final snap.

The retreat was as bloody as the assault, as the ghouls of the Unmade army ripped themselves from their hiding places to bury the Marines in their bodies. Plastic coffins and fake graves opened to reveal the prop bodies inside were real. They were meant to stall, cripple where they could and even in death their corpses piled around any exits and upon the Hell Diver’s men. Escape seemed impossible, and the noose began to tighten as the clock ticked down.

The rain of bullet casing shone through the dark corridors of the haunted house, the rear guard of the Unmade held back by a steady stream of chaingun fire. Doomguy repeated over and over that he had their back. They needed to get out. He would be right behind them. As the explosion covered the skyline, the Doom’s Marines assumed he’d be there. Only to find them without their leader.

“The belligerent fool.” One soldier cursed, breaking the silence for a moment. It was not spoken in malice, the anger and grief noticeable and shared among the soldiers. Silence reigned again as lighter rubble started to rain from the sky, the only sound the sprinkling of dirt.

And the growing sound of someone screaming.

The soldiers raised their guns again, expecting another attack from some unknown assailant, until their eyes raised up to see a slowly growing green dot in the sky. The shape came closer and closer, revealing their fearless commander plummeting to the ground. He smashes into the dirt, denting the earth with his land, and the soldiers are left shocked with only enough time to recover before a steel door lands dangerously close by to where the Doom Slayer did.

And the commander slowly got up, shaking the dirt off his armor and wobbled as he tried to refind his legs.

“Sir?” One troop finally asked, timid in their approach.

“Could I be anyone else?” He asked, checking the reopened wound on his arm.

“How did you survive?” The soldier asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“I got in a few scraps, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“But… the fall…”

“Oh.” Doomguy looked up slightly, as if he’d realized that was strange to everyone else. “High impact cancelling.” Was the only answer they got, and Hell's Bane started to walk toward the horizon. “Keep up, I need to kill something right now.”

 

[Miyamoto Musashi]

Miyamoto Musashi had long since withdrawn from the medical tents and into her own, even against some protests from the medics and medical staff. The battle had been long and gruesome, and in the end a pyrrhic victory as the fort they’d worked so hard to capture, had been blown to bits.

Many that she once knew, lay dead. Not that the swordswoman could genuinely claim to have known any of them. Over the previous weeks her attention had been fixated primarily on their lieutenant - whom yet drew breath, at least.

But hundreds of their unit that she’d only ever met in passing and had fought beside without truly knowing, lay dead somewhere in the rubble and carnage of the fort once named Pandaemonium. And that was now known as naught but a pile of broken dreams and forsaken hopes.

After returning to her tent, the battered swordsman had thrown her weary and bruised body into her travel bed and retired from the world outside as she drew the covers over her head and burrowed beneath the pillows and blankets alike.

As much as the girl told herself - like she had always told herself in the times before - that wars came with a price, she didn’t see a victory here. She couldn’t. Only the corpses of those that had fallen to achieve it. Only the sacrifices that had been given to grasp it.

And in that, there was pain.

Pain of knowing that she was but a single soldier.

Pain of knowing that she herself had survived with but a stroke of luck, after her encounter with the Demon Queen. Pain that the bitch had escaped unscathed.

Pain of knowing that there was nothing she could’ve done different, that would’ve changed the end result of any of it. Not bring Bors home. Not bringing those countless faces she couldn’t name, home.

The pain of not being strong enough, despite striving to be.

And so, into the confines of those ever-comforting pillows, Shinmen Musashi howled. Screamed her own inadequacy, wailed the guilt borne of surviving and vented what she could not harbor in her heart any longer.

For were she to carry such burdens with her, they would dull her blade and deliver her unto the cold shores of death once more. And such was not an option.

Or such were the excuses she told herself to tolerate her own irrational, yet oh so human behaviour.

-----

“Lady Miyamoto!” sounded from outside of her tent, snapping the groggy swordswoman into attention as she awoke. Days and miles had passed since that night and they'd begun to travel once more. Marching to wherever they were headed - Musashi knew not and care not. She’d be told whom her blade would be pointed against - and she’d see to it that it made contact.

Hustling onto her feet, the swords were quickly gathered and attached onto both sides of her hips as she double-paced to the tent-flaps and pushed them open.

“Yes?” she asked, eyes quickly adjusting to the morning sun as she quickly came to recognize Schnozz, the man who’d lost his closest comrade, Bors. Or so she’d been told. The remains of her regret made themselves known in her heart as she pondered whether she should’ve made a better effort to know Bors before he’d departed.

“What can I do to help you, Schnozz?” she asked as the man stood at her tent-flap in attention, clearly here for duty rather than pleasant exchanges.

“The Lieutenant requests your presence at his tent, miss,” he explained simply, even as he stepped aside to clearly wait for her - to see to it that she did indeed arrive there.

“So...how are you...faring?” Hollow. Her question was so hollow. The ronin couldn’t reciprocate his pain. Not in the same sense. Not genuinely. She felt the loss of a great many men. But she did not feel the loss of a dear friend. And so, her question rang hollow.

Yet she couldn’t stop herself from asking. She couldn’t stop her lips from blurting the question even as she kicked herself for it. She knew better than to ask, but did so anyway.

“Huh..? Me? I’m fine, really!” Of course he wasn’t. How the hell would he be fine after his best friend and comrade was dead?! They couldn’t even give him a proper burial! Who the hell did the bitch think of herself as to ask him that?! She didn’t know Bors, hell, she didn’t even know him.

“I’m...glad to hear,” Musashi responded, eyes averted to the front as she saw the twitching veins and boiling blood her question had caused. For good reason.

She didn’t have the right to ask the soldier that - she knew as much.

And so, in silence they walked until their arrival as Schnozz pulled aside the flap and allowed her in. “I’ve brought Musashi, Lieutenant. I will now leave to fetch Luck,” he mentioned as the flap closed behind her and the distancing footsteps of an angered man echoed in the outdoors.

She looked at him, looming over his desk and maps. And the empty cup of sake.
He looked determined, yet somber. A foul sadness sat in his soul, deep beneath the surface as a boy far too young mourned his losses, ached for what he couldn’t protect.

Yet she had no comfort to offer. No kind words to ease his aching soul. And she resented herself for it. Musashi knew he needed someone. Musashi knew that deep beneath, the boy-soldier craved naught more but the approval that he’d done what he could. That nobody could’ve done better. Yet the words hung still in her throat as she stared.

“You asked for me, Lieutenant,” were the words, achingly tired, that escaped in words she hadn’t intended. In a tone utterly alien, missing the usual pomp and circumstance, the pep and happiness that her voice held.

For two people whom had just achieved their first victory in a war, their expressions told a different tale.

They’d lost and simply played the part of victors out of necessity.

 

[Josuke Higashikata]

"Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?"

Caboose's voice breaks the silence between commander Doomguy and his marines, marching through the beautiful, peaceful wilderness. These words kept going on repeat making Caboose sound similar to a broken record.

"I swear to arbiter if that fucking smurf does not shut up. I'm going to shove that blue helmet up his damn ass." A gruff grizzled muscular-built tattooed man wearing Hell Divers' signature combat armor mutters underneath his breath, further back where Caboose marches. "Seriously, how in the unmade living shit does our commander deal with this dumbass. He almost got our commander killed."

"Marine, you better get that attitude in check." His sergeant warns, marching alongside him with many other marines surrounding them. "That man there helped thwart off a hostile attempting to assassinate our hell-fighting leader. If he wasn't there with us at that time, it could've jeopardized the Hell Divers existence."

In response, the grizzled marine gives an eye-roll about the annoying private is sitting upon a pedestal for this battalion. He should've been the one saving the commander's life, not that nut wearing spartan power armor and having no clue what is happening around him. The sergeant stares directly back into his corporal's eyes after the carefree expression he makes.

"Do I make myself clear, Corporal?"

"Sir, yes, sir."

"Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" Caboose continuously says, vigorously stomping with energy next to commander Flynn.

At the front of the marching battalion, Doomguy marches forward with a mixture of anger and murderous intentions on anything unmade they cross paths. His mind blocks out the repeating words that spill out of the Mark V blue Spartan's mouth. Others attempt to ignore Caboose's irritating nature, but his anxiousness quickly presses a few soldiers' buttons. The nature around them remains quiet with no soul out there but only the marching marines.

"I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. When is naptime? Also, when is snack naptime?" Caboose breaks the cycling words out of order with new ones to throw into, still not helping the situation. His commander inhales the fresh, clean air in his nostrils and exhales with a long sigh.

"Hey, Caboose."

"Yes?"

"How about we play a game?"

Flynn presents the fun idea to Caboose, causing the private's face to light up with excitement and happiness.

"I love games! I'm good at playing many games." The blue spartan cheerfully says, continuing to march at their pace.

"How about-" Doomguy gets cut off by his blue comrade instantly.

"Oh, I got one! Let's play I, spy!" Caboose offers, but Flynn had something else in mind instead.

"I spy something… green!"

"Ok… Let me guess. Me…" Flynn responds with a bit of disappointment found in his voice at the Caboose's unclever move.

"You win! Now it's your turn."

"Actually, I thought we could play a better game. How about the quiet game? If you win, you get to be the Hell Divers quiet champion." The commander recommends to his blue and green armored buddy.

"Oh, you are so going down." Caboose's whispered words escape his mouth with a mixture of determination to win. Finally, Private Caboose stays quiet to play along while everyone marches in silence. Some soldiers speak among each other as they move, but the spartan's eyes remain on the prize to play this little game. The Doom Slayer remains silent, picturing the brutal images in his mind that contain ripping and tearing his enemies into bloody messes. Meanwhile, Caboose daydreams about making more friends, doing all sorts of fun activities with his brothers and sisters of war.

Finally, he shuts up.

 

[Edward Elric]

Every officer was different. He realized that now. All along he’d been trying to be a Doomguy, but he just wasn’t. The troops beneath him had known that long before he had, and even though he’d had his ‘Doomguy moment’ back at the siege, he’d long since reverted back to regular old Zenitsu.

Their losses had weighed heavily on him in the days following but Zenitsu learned to take solace in the soldiers he had remaining, along with the reinforcements he was now responsible for. He walked the aisles between tents that functioned as streets, bowing his head and sharing words with his soldiers. He gave them words of encouragement, and in return they gave them bits of pieces of news picked up on the road via scouts and messengers.

Word had it that the Armada had fallen, that the cities in their control had begun to implode and suffer in turmoil.

Word had it that the Unmade were on the run, that they’d suffered a great loss in a Siege.

Word had it that the Unmade were on the offensive, slaughtering units and capturing soldiers alive whose fates were unknown.

That last bit made the Lieutenant shudder - he didn’t want to know what would happen to a soldier captured alive by Unmade. If it came down to death or capture, he knew that he’d put himself to the sword. That, to him, wasn’t an act of bravery...just another bit of his cowardice showing through the cracks.

Each evening for days (who could tell how many the way they’d started to blur?), now, he’d sent Schnozz out with an invitation for Luck and Musashi. He’d taken a shining to those two, to Musashi in particular, after the Siege of Pandaemonium Fort. ...to Zenitsu, it kind of felt like he and ‘Sashi had shared a moment right before that last explosion.

The first evening, however, she’d arrived frigid...chilled no doubt by the tremendous losses they’d suffered.

He felt it, too. One in four soldiers they passed by in the tents now were unfamiliar - more Doom’s Marines than Coming Storm. Hard, flinty men and women who contrasted oddly with the colorful outcasts that remained from their original unit.

That first night had been awkward. Schnozz, Musashi, and Zenitsu dined in relative silence and Luck did not make an appearance at all.

The following evenings found them loosening up. A glass or two (or three) of Saké brightened spirits, and time had always been the great healer. Luck even made a brief appearance at their suppers time and again though he always left the Lieutenant’s tent early...not much of an attention span, Zenitsu had found. Kind of a one trick pony, in fact.

So it was that one evening, wading the shallows of their cups, the trio of ‘Sashi, Zen, and Schnozz found themselves conversing over empty plates and half emptied glasses. Musashi had shared an uproarious story of lechery that had Schnozz in tears and Zenitsu blushing a deep crimson.

And somehow, they’d gotten onto the topic of the top brass. Schnozz, in particular, seemed to have loosened the clasps on his yap-trap and was uncharacteristically chatty about his opinions.

“...and Doomguy? He’s hard as steel...has the respect of the people, but not their love. Y’know? That’s what we had that he didn’t - the love! Maybe even the respect, too, I’d wager. I’d take a single soldier from the Coming Storm over ten of the Marines,” Schnozz attested, slamming his hand on table to punctuate his point. “Every one of us would fight and die for any other one of us. That’s what makes us special.”

“All of the Divers are special,” Zenitsu protested, glancing nervously at his man. “We can’t be that special. There’s barely a quarter of us left, and the rest of us are Marines to the man. I can see the way they look at me. I think they’re embarrassed, and worried that they’re going to end up three quarters dead like the last batch - and I don’t blame them! I’m worried about that, too!”

Zenitsu’s boyish face was full of fear, then. The idea of three hundred more bodies dead by his orders had kept him awake many a night, lately, and even the saké couldn’t keep him sleeping soundly.

“‘S not your fault, Lieutenant,” Musashi mumbled, a little slurry. Her cheeks grew pink with drink, Zenitsu had noticed, and he found it rather endearing. “You’re a good man. A really good man. ...a cute man.”

She gave him a wink that flushed his cheeks and teased out a goofy, nervous grin.

“Cute man,” he repeated back, entranced.

“To the Lieutenant being a cute man!” shouted Schnozz, hoisting his glass.

“Wait, don’t toast to that!” Zenitsu protested, shaking his head ferociously.

“Too late!” exclaimed Musashi, grinning.

She clinked cups with Schnozz, and they drained their glasses post-haste.

Schnozz continued. “He may not be the bravest man, or the best fighter, or the most tactical commander, or the most handsome, or the most rugged, or the most-”

“OKAY!” Zenitsu cut in, slamming his own cup on the table. “That’s enough for the evening! I’m going to take my rest! ...downright disrespectful.”

He shooed them out of his tent, and slept in fitful dozes until dawn.

He spent the next morning drilling his troops, Marines and Storm alike, as he’d taken to doing each new day before they packed up for the daily march. He found that drilling in unity had begun to shuck down the barriers between units and the troops he commanded were beginning to feel like a cohesive fighting force once more. Time on the island had made them scrappier, hungrier for blood, and focused.

They were men blooded, now, all of them. That changed them, and worked the timidity out of all of them. Even Zenitsu found himself quivering less, and worrying less about the future. Battle felt inevitable, and when it came, they’d be ready. Despite the rumors of the Armada’s fall, the real enemy, he knew, was to the North. He’d fought Demons, and whatever they called themselves, that’s what the Unmade were. Once people, now husks of themselves, and they needed to be put down lest the blight of them infect the entire island.

The Storm was Coming, and it would eradicate that blight.

 

[Remilia Scarlet]

The front lines were in our sights once more, a night of calm a good remedy for the heart, and Doom’s Marines and the Coming Storm stayed the course back to the fight. A single detour might have been enough to stave off the terror of war, but we could not hide in our territory forever. We had a purpose here, and a desire to see our weapons sing as we brought fire and steel down on the Unmade Army. I was certainly wanting to take my hands into another set of them, the grip around my shotgun tightening in anticipation. Plans were already starting to form. Most of my larger tactical ideas tended to resemble rushing down the main path, weapon in hands, to the main threat. I admit I’m more of a “in the moment kind” of guy.

I was somewhat absorbed into this when I heard someone approaching my side. I glanced back to see a soldier in heavy armor about to get my attention, spooking him slightly by notice, before he pointed towards something on the horizon.

Smoke. Black, billowing smoke, coming from further from where we were marching from. Yet, too close to be from some unknown part of the island. It was *our* territory, and a silent pain grabbed at my chest.

“Double time.” I said, the soldiers nearby wondering what I said, before I shouted it. “Double time, anyone too slow is getting left behind!”

 

[Josuke Higashikata]

The camp was set up, further out from the bloody-stained sand battlefield they fought in just a few hours ago. Hell Divers set up many tents and stakes driven into the solid ground. A layer of sand is present on top of the island's natural soil, not too much sand where they were fighting before. The atmosphere of the camp was mixed, depending on what emotions were swirling inside the Hell Divers. Some were traumatized, sicken by PTSD that will haunt them shortly.

Others mourned for their fallen comrades, becoming filled with Hell Divers' signature rage and vengeance.

"Rip and Tear until it is done."

They all muttered that phrase underneath their breath, a phrase that makes you a Hell Diver. A saying that has now stickied onto the brains and being playback into their violent soaking thoughts.

Various marines out there are not entirely gloomy or unhappy for the time being. Instead, celebrating Hell Divers' soldiers gather around and rejoice another day of defeating their enemies, making them remain cheerful. They all sing gloriously about their victory, and some tell epic stories, boasting over the many confirmed kills they made. These war storytellers even had proof of the trophies they gathered from the fallen enemies. Some collect red clown noses that were strung into a necklace for them to wear, and others cut off pieces of multi-colored hair, braiding them perfectly to pin against the green chest plates they wore proudly.

While soldiers live out their day of victory, medics and armorers were beyond busy due to the battle's aftermath. Wounded needed medical treatment, and the armorers must fully repair damaged weapons or armor before their next march. The repairmen examined battle-worn pieces of war inside the armory tent that needed fixing up—a pair of men stationed to fix a worn-out blue spartan armor. One has the task of repairing the helmet, and the other was replacing the highly technological pieces of spartan armor. It took them a good hour or two and a half to fix the power armor suit fully. When finished, they handed the combat gear back to its single owner.

"Do you know how expensive this gear is, son? Optics, totally fried, and let's not talk about the smart idea of using explosive rounds at close range." The master armorer questions this soldier's stupidity when it comes to treating his gear right.

This soldier grabs the helmet with a newly installed clean golden visor, lifting it high above his head. The movement of his helmet slides downwards, once again covering his identity. It seals off, connected to the whole blue and green power armor. He towers over the armorer because of his spartan genetics, gazing down at him. No one can see the expression on his face with his visor golden that's one-way reflecting the surroundings. Words come straight out his mouth in a flat responding tone.

"Tell that to Tucker."

The master armorer puts on a confused expression upon his face, lost at the unexpecting words coming from Caboose's helmet com.

"No, seriously… Tucker did it."

****

"No! Icky medicine, not yummy! Buu want candy to feel better!"

"Candy is not going to treat your wounds. You need to take this to get you fixed up quickly."

"Hmph!"

Inside a heavily occupied hospital field tent, Buu lies on a medical bed facing away and pouting to the medical woman. This little fight for the pink rounded Majin to take the medical treatment starts to test her patience. Why did she have to be the one treating the pink alien abomination? Better yet, fear builds up inside her after rumors had spread from the desert battlefield about him turning one of the unmade soldiers into a piece of candy.

"You have no choice, sir! Take this medicine!" She raises her tone loudly, how the situation turns childish from the way Buu is acting.

"NO! You can't make Buu!"

Still, the pink puffy Majin refuses to do what his medical assistance insists him to take. She let out an irritated sigh based on his childish manner. Nearly about to give up, a stranger behind her steps in to attempt to help. Her head turns around, looking behind her shoulder at the blue and green spartan that stops by with two orange juice cartons. Caboose got the orange juice from the mess hall after getting his armor repaired.

"I can take it from here, nice nurse lady." He speaks out kindly to her, wanting to make this situation better.

Buu's ears hear the familiar voice that brings comfort to his heart and feelings. A new friend he made when they come across the battlefield. Since then, their friendship has grown bigger and bigger with the moments they share. The pink heavy Majin rolls around to face where the voice came. He meets the two and becomes happy instantly when he spots the familiar power armor.

"I got little time for this debacle. Here, you take care of Mr. Buu now." The medical woman gives up on treating Buu, handing Caboose the medicine bottle and spoon. She gets up from her seat, leaving the wounded Majin to move on for her next patient. Caboose sits down in the chair next to Buu's bed, looking down at him. While the Majin's blue friend is present, he gets up from lying down on the medical bed. Pain surges inside his body, making him feel sickly a little by the unwelcoming feeling.

"Buu happy now to see friend!" He speaks out, happily gazing at Caboose's helmet.

"I am happy to see that you are still in one piece! It would be bad if you were in pieces. Sometimes I have trouble following instructions on how to put a friend back together."

"Buu bet you can build Buu all better!"

"Yeah, I have done it one time before. Turns out I built my friend, church into a galactic floating magic ball that aliens worshiped. Also, he fired lasers out of his face."

While they talked, Buu's large pink stomach growls in response to pain, making him grab his stomach feeling uncomfortable. "Buu don't feel good. Tummy not happy. Something yummy must help Buu feel better."

"That is why I got two orange juice boxes from the cafeteria. Friends share orange juices."

"Buu will take juice! Juice good!"

Suddenly, an idea pops in Caboose's head about mixing Buu's medicine in the orange juice. "I think the nice lady wants you to take this."

He shows the medicine bottle to his Majin friend, making him frown about how he feels taking the not tasty liquid.

"No! Buu no like! Medicine bad!" Buu sticks his tongue out but not personally at Caboose but toward the medicine.

"Trust me. I can make it taste better."

A smile forms underneath his helmet, opening one of the juice cartons and pouring the medicine inside. He closes the carton shut and shakes it well to blend both liquids. After shaking it, Caboose hands the carton to Buu. The Majin grabs hold of his juice with one big gloved hand, hesitant to drink it at first.

"Go on, try it. This is what my best friend used to do to me when I hated taking medicine." Caboose encourages his friend to drink his offered orange juice. Buu sips it at first, thinking about the taste that sloshed in his mouth. After thinking over if he liked the taste or not, he drinks more out of the carton.

"Juice still tastes good! Buu happy even taking medicine!"

"Yay! I'm happy that a friend likes the same thing I like, again!"

The two toast, lightly clashing their cartons of orange juice together for a well-looking future of their never-ending friendship.