Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction / Crossover With Non-anime Series Fan Fiction ❯ King Me ❯ King Me ( One-Shot )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

It's all Pesh's fault. From the same think-sink as "And Now for Something Totally Different" comes a pairing that should never be. Hellboy, meet DBZ.

Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction / Crossover With Non-anime Series Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Hentai | Type: Crossover | Uploaded On: 03.05.2009 | Pages: 19 | Words: 18.3K | Visits: 882 | Status: Completed

King Me

by GutterBall

gutterballgt@hotmail.com

VxN (crossover)

R rating

Warnings: Crossover fic, shameless self-insertion, multiple Gokus (well, that's Vegeta's nightmare, anyway), general mayhem, relatively plotless yaoi smut, bad language, silliness, a dash of angst for flavor.

Disclaimer: I own neither DBZ nor the characters therein. I also don't own Prince Nuada from the second Hellboy movie, much to my dismay. However, Pesh and Barb and I do own Clones-R-Us. And we're all barking mad. Just FYI.

Summary: Are you kidding? This is pretty close to PWP, with just enough story laid in to make it look tidy. It all takes place in the same crazy universe as "And Now for Something Totally Different" and is just about as retarded. This is what happens when a certain someone who shall remain nameless...for like five minutes...blackmails me into ficcage by reminding me -- as if I could forget! -- that I still haven't gotten in her Christmas present. So sue me. Sheesh.

KING ME

The blue fluid drains out, leaving me feeling weak and sluggish. I'm not used to the feeling, not used to being anything but keen-edged and clear-witted. My heart thunders in my chest as I slide my feet wide to brace against the sides of the metal contraption I've awakened in.

What...where...is this Hell?

A face-shape appears in the porthole of glass, but with my eyes gummed with thick fluid, I can't make out any features beyond a seemingly wild mop of dark hair. Disgusted at the gunk sliding off my skin and confused as hell, I spit out the mouthpiece that fed me air and rub my eyes. It doesn't help.

The hatch cracks open with a horrible, echoing clang, and the face at the porthole disappears. Painfully bright light fills the chamber, and I wince against it, still shaky and blind and feeling not remotely myself.

"Easy now, Prince Nuada." A low, pleasant voice. Feminine, but not shrill. "You need a minute to get your bearings. Let me help."

Hands touch me, and I slap them away, hating feeling so helpless. Apparently, I didn't use as much force as I thought, because the speaker with the pleasant voice simply chuckles and grabs my arm more steadily. I reluctantly accede to the indignity, but only because my legs feel as solid as pudding and the grip is so sturdy.

"That's better. Here, sit down for a moment, and I'll flush your eyes." The hands guide me to a cloth-covered metal table. "You'll feel more yourself when you can see. I promise."

Very gently, the hands tilt my head back and tweeze my left eye open. Cool drops patter in, and I jerk away, blinking furiously. I try to jump from the table, prepared to battle to the death even with my knees falling out from under me, but when I focus on my enemy...I can actually see my enemy.

With my left eye.

It's a girl, probably human, and she's smiling strangely. As if she's amused with me. Or at me, which immediately pricks my temper. I hate humans. Self-righteous, self-important, self-centered, the whole lot of them.

"Would you like me to flush the other one so you can regain your depth perception?"

"Who are you?" My throat is dry where the rest of me is soaked. I cough, shivering as the cold of the room seems to freeze the disgusting fluid still beading off my naked skin. "What--"

I break off on another coughing fit, and before I can recover -- why am I so infuriatingly slow? -- a thick, fuzzy blanket drapes around my shoulders.

"I'm so sorry, your highness. I keep the room cool to make it easier on the servers and the tank's machinery. They put out a lot of heat."

Unable to not feel grateful for the blanket's immediate warmth, I clutch it around me and squint my still-gummed eye shut to take a better look at my captor. If she is my captor.

But...how can I be a captive when I am dead? I distinctly remember dying. Remember my sister killing us both. Death isn't an experience one forgets.

"Who are you?"

The woman's smile softens to something more...sympathetic. "My name is GB, but that's probably not what you mean. I imagine what you mean is, who are you?"

I frown, prepared to take insult. "I know who I am, madam."

"May I flush your other eye?" She holds up a bottle of clear fluid with a narrow tip. "You really will feel better."

I want to protest, but in all honesty, I need my vision back. I feel disoriented, off-kilter, and I didn't like the feeling one bit. And somehow, she knows it. Blasted humans.

"All right, then."

She reaches for me slowly, giving me ample time to pull away if I want. I don't, so she tweezes apart my right eyelids and dribbles in a few drops. Steeling myself against the knee-jerk need to pull away, I restrain myself to blinking twice. My vision immediately clears, and she backs away to a more bearable distance.

With my eyes functioning properly, I look around the room and pull the blanket more securely around my shivering body. It looks like a torture chamber, but I somehow doubt the impression. Everything gleams metallic and sharp-edged in the glaring overhead lights, but there are no tools of death or pain here. However, despite its seeming innocence, it is definitely a human room. No natural creature would willingly step foot in such a sterile, nature-bereft place.

I hate it.

"Why have you brought me here, human?"

She squints one eye shut. "Um...that...will take a little explanation."

"How did you revive me?" I close my eyes a moment, shuddering with the memory of death. "And why?"

"I...didn't."

I open my eyes and narrow them, pinning her with my gaze. To my joy, she squirms under my cold study.

"I didn't...revive you, Prince Nuada. I...oh, boy...." She sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. "Here goes. I...cloned you."

I blink. "You what?"

Her eye squints shut again. It seems to be a nervous tic. "I cloned you. It's actually kind of a funny story--"

"What does it mean, woman?"

"Oh." Shifting with obvious discomfort, she knots her hands together and tries to smile broadly. And fails. "Well, it means that...well...you're not the real Prince Nuada."

"What?!"

She pales. "I mean...well, you are...of course...but you're...not."

Though I still feel...off...I shove off the table and cinch the blanket around my waist, leaving my top half bare. I am no longer cold. In fact, I am inundated with furious heat at the monstrous idea that has entered my head.

"Human, explain yourself before I introduce you to your God."

She doesn't tremble, but she is obviously discomfited. "Please, your highness, do sit down. The tank's effects don't wear off for another twenty minutes or so. I'm afraid you'll pass out if you don't rest a while longer."

When I don't stand down, she lifts her hands helplessly.

"Ninety-five percent of our clones faint while I try to explain the situation. I think you'd like to keep your dignity by not cracking your skull on my laboratory floor."

But I am beyond listening. My heart thunders with as much rage now as it had with fear earlier. "You...you recreated me somehow, didn't you? You employed some foul magic to bring me back from my well-deserved peace of the soul!"

Her fingers twist together, and she bites her lip, acutely uncomfortable. I want to strangle her with my bare hands. That she dared--

"Yes and no. Magic was involved to get us our equipment and start the company, but the science that grew you from a strand of hair stolen from the labs at the BPRD? Totally legitimate."

"Company?"

She forces a small smile. "Clones-R-Us."

I close my eyes, rigid with fury and affront. "Why have you done this? By what right do you raise me from my warrior's rest?"

She sighs. "Oh, I hate this part. It always feels so...bad."

Silent, I wait for her to seal her doom. Humans always do, if given enough time.

"You are not the real Prince Nuada. You're a...an image of him. A shadow."

My fury rises.

"Our computers are programmed to compile the information and experiences that make you your unique self and to simulate them mentally during your advanced growth cycle."

I don't understand half of what she's saying, but what I do understand infuriates me further. "Are you speaking your own language, woman?"

She coughs a laugh, and I clench my fists, my whole body quaking with insult.

"Sorry. I'll try to...you're not the individual known throughout the ages as Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of Balor, the One-Armed King. You are...as close as science can make you to him."

Shuddering, I sigh. This cannot be. I...I am myself...aren't I?

I remember my father. I remember my sister. I remember...dying....

"I am...you're saying that I am...a construct. Nothing more."

"Again, yes and no." She makes a frustrated, helpless noise. "You are a...a construct, yes, but you are capable of feelings. Of memories. Who you are is deeply bound to your genetic make-up, as we've discovered. There are fascinating studies out there about such things as racial memories, which carry down through generations, perhaps borne along in the genetic code--"

I tense further, feeling spun out of brittle glass, and she stutters.

"I mean...I...you...well, never mind. Anyway, all I mean is that, while you are genetically Nuada, Prince of Elves, and while you will have memories of being such, you are not truly him. You haven't lived his life. In fact, you haven't lived at all." Her voice is soft, apologetic. Sympathetic? "This is, for all intents and purposes, the day of your birth."

Gritting my teeth, I force my eyes to slit and spear her with my glare. To her credit, she doesn't back away. In fact, it seems she looks at me with...pity?

I will not be pitied by a human!

"Do you presume to say by all of this elaboration that...you own me, human?"

She doesn't flinch. "Of course not."

I stand a little taller, my fury lessening a bit at the easy, open admission.

"However, I would presume to beg a favor from you."

My eyes narrow again. No human has ever asked me for anything without taking it out of my blood or my spirit later. I will never trust them.

"Of course." If acid could bleed from my words, it would do so now. "How can I refuse such a gracious request from she who created me?"

Now, she flinches, but I don't feel triumph at her weakness. She looks too honestly dismayed.

Strange....

"Please, your highness."

I still. It's the please that does it. No matter what she asks, she is now in my debt. For whatever it's worth.

I bow slightly, never taking my narrowed eyes from hers. "Name your boon, milady."

"Hold still!"

"Woman, get these brain-dead, third-class idiots off me! They're only slowing the moment of your excruciatingly painful death!"

"Oh, be quiet, Prince Fancy-Pants. This'll only take a minute."

"Get that screwdriver away from me! I'm warning you!!"

The human woman -- she still insists on calling herself by those two nonsense letters, GB -- hurries ahead of me to the rising voices down the hall. Though curious, I hang back. I'm sure all will be explained to me soon enough. If nothing else, the woman has proved voluble and has answered every one of my questions.

And she has dressed me appropriately, apparently having researched my tastes. Natural fabrics, reds and ivories. She even let me bathe myself in a manner befitting a king, let alone a mere, displaced prince of nothing.

In all, she has been courteous, if infuriatingly meddling.

"Jita, dammit, hold still!"

"My name is Vegeta, Prince of All Saiyans, woman, and don't you ever forget it!"

An eye-bending flash of blinding light erupts from behind a portholed metal door at the end of a hall marked "Testing Wing". I duck reflexively, but the woman simply runs faster, her figure a black cutout in all the glare.

"Pesh?" She flings open the door and runs inside. "Still alive in here?"

"Oh, like a single blast from His Highness has ever killed me before." That must be Pesh. The one GB told me about. "We didn't make those wishes for nothing, you know."

I hurry my steps, my infernal curiosity pulling me on. I have no way to measure soul energy, but I saw it employed in my youth, and nothing then equaled even a fraction of what I've just seen bared. Perhaps there are worthy adversaries here. Perhaps being a construct -- a clone, whatever that means -- won't be the living hell I see stretching before me.

Feeling slightly better, I peer into the crowded room, then stop stock-still, my jaw hanging. The room is filled with...copies...of one man. Four copies of one man. And...another man, who is being held back against a tilted metal table by the four copies.

And another female, this one with masses of flaming red hair and the most severely intense expression of frustration I have ever seen outside my own mirror.

"Geeb, I swear that the Jita models are the very devil to keep tuned." She tucks her hair back behind her ear and crosses her arms, an obvious implement of torture in her right hand. "There's got to be something we can tweak in the growing cycle."

GB, the dark-haired one, rolls her eyes. "Pesh, how many times do I have to tell you that His Highness is delicate. His programming is intrinsic. It can't be tampered with without severe repercussions to the core personality."

The other woman sticks out her lower lip. "But I want him compliant."

Snorting, GB...or Geeb...moves over to the held-down man -- I have never seen such vertical hair in all my time amongst the faerie throng -- and touches the shoulder of one of the copies -- each of which has hair as chaotic as the other man's is vertical. "You can let him up, Kakarot. There won't be any more adjustments today."

This copy immediately brightens and lets go his hold, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. "I dunno, GB. This one kinda deserves the screwdriver. You know it's bad when they gotta call me in."

To my amazement, the previously pleasant and competent woman...melts. There's no other word for it. She goes from calm and quietly amused to...sparkly-eyed...and clinging to the spiky-haired copy's arm. Outside a spell or a potion, I've never seen anything like it.

"But Kakarot, it's such fun to see all the Gokus standing together. They're all so...pretty."

But the redhead has apparently spotted me as a new mark for torture. Her eyes zero in on me with disturbing intensity.

"Geeb? Why is Prince Nuada standing in the doorway in full royal presentation gear?"

The newly-released man breaks into a scuffle with the one copy who had retained a handhold. "Prince? There's only one prince in this galaxy, woman, and that's me!"

I draw myself up, affronted. "I beg to differ, stranger. I am Prince Nuada of the Elves, and I take leave to challenge any who decry my birthright."

But GB shakes her head vehemently, abandoning her copy to come stand before me. "Please, your highness, don't take offense. Prince Vegeta is very...protective of his title, as, I'm sure, are you. However, as you two are different species from different planets, there can be no question that you are both princes of your races." She shoots a look over her shoulder at the man again being restrained by all the copies. "Agreed, Vegeta-sama?"

The man -- Vegeta? Jita? Vegeta-sama? -- relaxes in the copies' grip, his sharp chin lifting with arrogance. "I suppose." Dark eyes study me as coolly as I study him. "Prince of elves, did you say?"

"I did." I straighten, glad that the dark-haired woman had the foresight to dress me appropriate to my station. "Mine are an ancient and proud people."

But here, my shoulders slump. I look down at GB, who is looking up at me with surprising sympathy. It's hard to hate her for what she's done when she seems to know exactly how hard it has hit me.

I sigh. "Ancient and proud and all but dead. I suppose I am the last, now."

She puts a hand on my arm, and I take surprising comfort from the gesture. Until the hothead with the unfortunate hair snorts with derision.

"Oh, get in line, weakling."

I jerk upright again, my moment's weakness forgotten. "Say it again, Vegeta-sama, and taste my blade."

I reach for the weapon that has been at my side my entire life...and it's not there. Of course it isn't. I...I never had it.

My eyes wince closed for a moment. Again, the other prince ruins my moment.

"I said to get in line."

I stare him down, but he seems unwilling to shrink back. I suppose I must grant him a certain respect for that.

"The role of sole survivor of a decimated but once-proud race is already filled here, elf." He lifts his chin. "You'll have to curry the women's pity somewhere else."

The copy that seems to belong with GB scratches his head again, looking as brain-dead as the hothead had called him. "But, Vegeta...I'm a saiyan, too. You're not a sole survivor."

The other prince bares his teeth and glares at the seemingly oblivious copy.

"In fact, you're not really a sole anything. You're like the twentieth Vegeta clone GB's made. In fact, I dare say that the saiyan race hasn't been so populous since before Frieza blew up the old planet."

"Shut up, idiot! No one asked you!" Another blinding flash of light erupts from the high-haired hothead, but no one bothers to duck but me. "I am the Prince of All Saiyans, clones or no! And that includes the so-called original me!"

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. If nothing else confirms the mixed tragedy and lunacy of my position, that argument will do nicely. I really am a clone. A mere copy of myself.

But at least I seem to be the only one. Thus far.

Good God above, what did I do to deserve this?

But the copy -- Kakarot, GB had called him -- only chuckles. "Yeah, try telling him that sometime and see what it gets you."

Vegeta-sama seethes, but seems incapable of rejoinder. After a moment of clearly impotent fury, the prince straightens and crosses his arms, returning his attention to me.

"As for you, elf--"

"Excuse me, fellow prince, but I have other business to which I must attend." I smile coldly at his instantly renewed fury at being interrupted, then turn my attention to the red-haired female watching the veritable carnival with avid attention. "Lady Pesh, I presume?"

She brightens until she looks a little less demonic. "Yes, Prince Nuada?"

"If I might have a moment of your ti--"

"I'm not finished with you, weakling!"

I sigh. "You are interrupting. Apparently, humans are still as rude and encroaching as ever."

The other prince's face turns as red as my doublet. "I am not a weak, helpless human, elf! Never for an instant underestimate the strength of the saiyan prince!"

Ah, so the hothead isn't a human. Interesting. Perhaps I should have caught that before. I seem to remember someone saying something about another planet. Can it be...?

But his fury is too entertaining for such consideration.

"Saiyan, human, they are all the same to me."

Kakarot claps a hand to his forehead. GB winces and shakes her head. Pesh grins from ear to ear.

Perhaps I should have been a bit more diplomatic. Too bad diplomacy has never been my strong suit.

I shift my gaze back to the hotheaded prince and lose some of my smug amusement. He has gone from glowing red to frigid pale, and he is staring at me with...admittedly disturbing intensity. I belatedly remember his easy access to his soul's energy and wonder if perhaps I should occasionally hearken to my father's teachings.

"Because I sense that you are no match for my energy, elf, I won't waste a blast on you." His voice is chilling. Deep and resonant, but chilling. "However, you mentioned something about a blade. If any of the idiots running this place can find us appropriate weapons, consider yourself challenged."

I open my mouth, but he talks right over me.

"And I only grant you that courtesy because you are of royal blood. If you were anyone else, I would kill you where you stand."

An honorable hothead, at least. Perhaps I have erred in alienating him.

My jaw clenches, but I nod once. "Very well, Vegeta-sama. I accept your challenge." I turn to GB, who has allowed Kakarot to put his arms around her from behind. "Madam, would it be possible for you to procure us appropriate weapons?"

She sighs, but again to her credit, she doesn't try to talk us out of our duel. "I have a collection of katanas in the training facilities, but nothing magical, I'm afraid. I hope you won't be at an unfair disadvantage for lack of your preferred weapon." She smiles a little. "They did have your spear at the BPRD, but my source couldn't sneak it out. I'm sorry."

To my surprise, I am pleased that she had at least thought of it. "Think nothing of it. Any blade will be sufficient."

The other prince snorts but refrains from comment.

"Okay, my princes." She stands away from Kakarot and gestures toward the door. "If you'll just follow me."

I face my opponent in an otherwise empty metal room, as unafraid as I have ever been in battle but wishing for a grassy field instead of such a nature-barren environment. The lack of anything organic is stifling. Even the curved blade I hold is lifeless and unfamiliar, though it is of excellent quality. It will not fail me, but it is not a part of me.

"I, Prince Vegeta of the House of Vegeta, hereby swear to refrain from use of energy blasts."

I nod, accepting his sacrifice. "And I, Prince Nuada Silverlance, son of Balor, the One-Armed King, hereby swear to refrain from use of magic."

He nods, and I sense that he is reluctantly impressed by my return gesture. "To first blood?"

My expression hardens. "To the death."

He doesn't flinch. "To the death, then. Pity."

I tilt my head to one side. "How so, fellow prince?"

To my utter shock, a broad smirk quirks his mouth, the expression somehow engaging. "This planet is overrun with commoners and idiots. I could have used another member of the nobility to battle back the constant barrage of stupidity."

I laugh, the sound torn from me before I even suspect it. This Vegeta-sama is, at the least, entertaining. If I hadn't offended him, we could have perhaps been comrades in arms. He might have even become my friend in the fullness of time, like poor Wink.

Ah, but look how poor Wink ended.

My amusement fades. My few friends have all died, most thanks to my own ambition and insatiable need for retribution. Perhaps this fellow prince is better off without my unyielding brand of friendship.

"Something wrong?"

I shake off my morose thoughts and focus on the task at hand. Unfortunately, as I meet my opponent's eyes, I see a surprising spark of...not sympathy, but...fellow feeling?...in them. Has he, too, lost everyone for whom he cared?

"No, Vegeta-sama. Let us proceed, though my heart is not truly in this battle."

But he seems in no hurry to fight, now that we have weapons in hand and the rules of engagement have been exchanged. Instead, he cocks his head to one side and studies me.

"Why do you call me that?" When I don't answer, he clarifies. "Vegeta-sama. Why do you use my royal title when no one else on this wretched mud ball bothers?"

Of course. I should have known.

I relax a bit, standing down from battle-readiness. "I didn't realize it was your title. I heard the dark-haired one, GB, address you such and copied her. She seems to be the more...sane...of the few people I've met thus far."

A laugh startles out of him. "Indeed. Sanity is a rarity here. There are too many Kakarots running around for my peace of mind, and the females running the place are each more terrifying than the last." He snorts, smirking. "GB may well be the sanest, but that by no means makes her sane."

I can't help but return his smirk, especially remembering how she had completely abandoned her calm, competent demeanor as she talked to her clone. "How many are there here? Just the two?"

He rolls his eyes. "There are three, but one is always in the other end of the testing wing. The most disturbing sounds come from that section. Bleating and such." Shaking his head, he lets the tip of his sword touch the ground at his feet. "The redhead you addressed is slightly more sane, but she is forever trying to...adjust me." His fist clenches on the hilt, and I sense that we have again waded into treacherous waters. "I fell for her explanations once. I will not do so again."

Unwilling to reopen hostilities but eager to turn the conversation from something so obviously unpleasant to him, I return to seemingly safer ground. "And GB?"

But he waves her off, his black mood fading. "She is enamored of Kakarot, so both her sanity and her intelligence are in obvious question, but she at least has more respect. She doesn't treat us like clones, for the most part, and takes care to see that we are treated well by our handlers."

Now my face darkens. "Owners, you mean."

He shakes his head. "Oh, no. We are never owned. While certifiably insane, these women would never sell us. Though we are created with a subroutine -- GB's word, not mine -- that causes us to want to please our handlers, we still have free will and are people, not things. Even the bleating one, Barb, wouldn't hesitate to rescue one of us if she found that we were being mistreated."

My jaw clenches. "That's all well and good, Vegeta-sama, but tell me, does this veritable servitude sit well with your noble pride?"

To my surprise, he smirks again in that strangely engaging way. I find myself wanting to smirk back.

"No, it doesn't. Which is why the redhead is always attempting to adjust me."

Light dawns, and I am caught between laughter and horror. "Then...the implement in her hand--"

"A screwdriver."

"--is for--"

He nods, smirking.

"And where--"

"You don't even want to know."

My jaw drops, and I stand aghast. What kind of reality have I been dragged into? "Merciful heavens above!"

He chuckles. "No fear, elf. We're stronger than they are. If we don't wish to be adjusted, we aren't adjusted. Again, nothing is truly against our will."

I force my mouth shut and grunt, unconvinced. But strangely, I do feel better. If nothing else, I no longer feel like a pawn. Shaking my head, I fix my opponent with a considering stare.

"Vegeta-sama, will you be insulted if I change the nature of our duel?"

He raises one eyebrow in question.

"To first blood instead of to the death?"

Again, the engaging smirk. "Why the change of heart?"

I don't fight my return smirk. It feels good on my face. "We are the last of our races, fellow prince. It would be a shame to leave this world to the commoners and idiots that abound here with only one true scion to protect it."

Obviously pleased, he takes a practiced stance. I bow slightly, not taking my eyes off of him, and take my own, impressed at the obvious control in his warrior's frame. He is no novice to battle. That much is obvious before we even start.

"To first blood, then."

I nod. "Let us begin."

We touch blades in greeting, then back off to circle warily. His movements are brutally efficient. No wasted effort, no braggadocio. Just clean, pure strength and honed control in every step, every shift of his weight.

I move in counterpart, feeling my blood quicken with anticipation. It feels like forever since I last fought a worthy opponent. Since I died fighting a worthy opponent. My soft-hearted sister isn't here to sabotage this battle, though the thought brings a pang to my heart.

Shoving it down, I extend enough for a quick thrust and slash. I want to feel how this weapon moves through the air, to make it an extension of my will. He parries easily, not pressing or countering. I strike again, my feet shuffling in quick-step counterpoint. Again, he expertly picks off my attacks, his sword ringing along the length of mine as he swipes my blade aside. I back a step and smile.

"Hard to believe these weapons were made by humans. Such beautiful music when they clash."

He shrugs. "Humans as a species are inherently useless, but there are very rare exceptions."

I attack with more fervor this time, smiling with the joy of battle joined with a worthy opponent. He lets me lead, seeming amused at my obviously conservative strikes. I let him assume that I will continue in this vein for some time as I measure his ability. He is skilled, of course, and a master of careful footwork.

But he is using none of the strength I see flexing in his muscular frame. He is...merely matching the level of skill I show.

He's toying with me. Patronizing me.

My eyes narrow, and I allow his parry to twist my blade out wide, only to flip my grip, rotate my blade under his, and slice up with the curved edge from his hip to his opposite shoulder. He squawks and jerks away, and I come back to set with a smirk.

His training gear is sliced cleanly from hip to shoulder. The skin below is pristine.

His eyes narrow, he looks at me with new respect. "Not eager to end this match, I see."

I nod once. He knows I could have marked him and won. He also knows that he has erred.

"Well, then." His smirk returns, though it's more fierce than engaging this time. "Perhaps I should take this more seriously."

I wait for his attack this time, and he eventually obliges. I want to gauge his reach, and I am not disappointed. His arms are deceptively long, his grip sure enough to allow for one-handed strikes, which lengthen his range further. Plus, his seemingly innate balance allows him to change the direction of his cut on the instant. No novice, this. No fool so certain of his strength that he lacks subtlety.

My blood surges with appreciation.

He slices side to side, then abruptly jabs straight forward as if he wields a fencing weapon, and I leap away from the attack, bending into a back flip. I haven't performed the move since I died, but it feels just as it always did. As if gravity has no part of me. As if I could leap right off the skin of the world.

In fact, it feels so good that I follow one right after the other, then leap forward in a leading thrust. Though his eyes pop wide, he jerks back at the waist and my blade passes an inch above his nose. I carry on the strike until my toes touch down, then roll to the side just before we collide. Supremely balanced even with his weight thrown backward, he drops an arm to catch himself and twists from heels to toes, his momentum allowing for a sweeping slice. I whirl away on a parry, and we come face to face perhaps five steps apart, blades still singing from the exchange.

He stares at me, obviously impressed, and I don't bother to hide my pride.

"You're better than I expected, elf." His eyes study me with a hint of wariness that wasn't there before. "I've rarely seen such grace without energy to buoy it, yet I felt no rise."

I accept the praise with a nod, pleased that he is gracious enough to offer it. "I have never learned to harness my soul. It was rumored to drain the user's reserves nigh unto death. I didn't wish for such a weakness."

He snorts. "Perhaps in a weaker species. Saiyans fear no such drain. We have all but endless reserves of strength to draw on."

I raise my eyebrow, surprised at the implied insult. "You suggest that elves are weak?"

"Weaker than saiyans? Of course."

Disappointment quells my battle-lust, and I feel my expression darken. Perhaps he sees it, for he frowns.

"There are different forms of strength, elf. I don't mean to insult you, but saiyans are unquestionably stronger than any Earth-spawned race."

I lift my nose, unable to hide my rising anger. "I suppose you hold me on par with the humans, too pitiful and helpless to hold a candle to your might. However, I beg you to remember your shirt, saiyan, and that I could have gutted you just as easily."

His eyes narrow, and I feel a sinking inside me. Just when I thought I'd found a kindred spirit in this new and frustrating existence....

"I have obviously offended you. I did not intend to, but I will not back away from my statement, and I do not apologize for the truth. You are incredibly skilled, elf, and your mental strength is as unwavering as any I've ever known, but in physical strength, you cannot match me."

I snort, more piqued than I should perhaps be. I am unused to being spoken to as an inferior. Especially by someone I was beginning to truly admire.

"I suppose no one could, Vegeta-sama?"

But at this, his expression lightens and he snorts. "I wish. As much as it pains me to admit, the idiot has always been stronger than I have. I've tried hating him for it, but it never sticks." He shakes his head. "It's impossible to hate someone who's too stupid to know what the emotion means."

Blinking in astonishment to hear him so easily admit to being out-manned, I am speechless.

He shrugs. "I mean what I say, elf. Saiyans, as a race, are stronger as newborns than most humans will ever even dream of being. You are stronger than the average human, but I have spent my lifetime trying to overreach a being to whom there is no upper limit. If you dedicated the rest of your life to outmatching my strength, you still couldn't surpass me." He smirks, lowering his head a little and looking unutterably smug. "Because I will always train to outmatch him, and even the gods fear his might."

I finally find my tongue. "Does your arrogance know no bounds?"

He laughs, again surprising me. "Of course not. Do you think I call myself the Prince of All Saiyans because I like the sound of it?"

I cough an incredulous grunt and drop my blade to the floor. His laughter stops, and he tilts his head, looking honestly confused.

"Strength against strength, then." I lift my nose, as proud as he will ever be. "Force my submission, saiyan, and I will concede that you are the stronger. Submit, and apologize to me and my entire race."

His amusement fades entirely, and he looks at me with a simply serious expression. "I have offended you." He nods and lays down his sword. "Very well. It is only honorable to accept your challenge, as you were honorable enough to accept mine."

My face set in its most rigid lines, I unbutton my doublet and throw aside the heavy, stiff material. It will only encumber me and limit my flexibility. I consider the loose cotton shirt underneath, then toss it aside, as well. I will not give him any easy handholds. Thankfully, the trousers GB provided are form-fitting and tucked into my knee boots. I have fought nude before, but never against so powerful -- and arrogant -- a foe.

He acknowledges the change with a mere flick of a glance, though he refrains from removing any of his own clothing. His shirt is somewhat loose -- especially sliced open as it is -- but overall, his training gear is too sleek to allow a good grip. I abruptly wonder if he designed it himself for the sole purpose of just such a fight.

It hardly matters. I have made my mark upon it, and soon, I will make a mark upon him.

But he again surprises me. "Are all elves thus...decorated?"

I blink, some of my insulted pride fading.

He gestures in my general direction, and I look down. I see nothing but what I have always seen -- ghostly white skin and trim muscle tone. I have whittled my body to its keenest edge, and it shows with my every move.

"The markings on your face. The spirals and lines."

I reach up and touch my cheekbone. My features are so much a part of me that I never think about them. "This is not decoration, saiyan. My people are beings of magic and of the night. Both show themselves in our very skin -- the magic in its oldest symbols and the moon's radiance in our tone."

He raises an eyebrow. "Very...poetic."

I frown, unsure if this is a compliment or an insult. "Thank you."

"Look, elf, are you sure--"

I harden my expression. "We will fight."

He sighs. "Yes. We will fight."

We pace off again and bow, neither dishonoring the other by looking away as we do so. We straighten and take our stances. I step one foot a pace backwards and crouch to lower and widen my center of gravity. He simply lifts his fists and shifts his balance to the balls of his feet, one foot slightly back from the other.

I wait for him, and after a moment's study of my form, he obliges. His is a fisticuffs style, arcing punches and devastating sweep kicks. Though he is blindingly fast, I manage to avoid being hit in the first exchange. I can sense the power behind the blows, though, and my determination wavers. He is pulling his punches -- a warrior always knows -- but their force is still immense.

But I am Prince Nuada, and I do not falter. I duck and dodge, then roll out of reach of a roundhouse kick and come up with a spinning kick of my own. Still so supremely balanced, he merely jerks his head out of my range, then leans back in with another kick at my unprotected flank. Unable to dodge at such an awkward angle, I simply drop to the floor and roll away. He allows me to regain my feet.

I have erred. He is far stronger, but without the overblown hubris and ignorant blundering that usually comes with brute strength. His reflexes are at least as honed as my own, and his speed as deadly. If he hits me once, I will be defeated.

I tighten my jaw and take my stance. I will simply not allow him to hit me.

I lead in this time, careful not to overextend, and he dodges without any change in expression. He moves only enough to cause my miss, wasting no motion. His iron control infuriates me, but I swallow down my frustration. It will only weaken my resolve and lessen my own warrior control.

But I itch to knock aside that arrogant expression.

No longer pulling my strikes -- if I ever had been -- I drive him backward, painfully aware that he is allowing me to do so. One spinning kick follows another, and he doesn't even bat aside my leg. He merely leans back just far enough that I miss by a hair's breadth and returns to his stance each time.

Furious, I give voice to my annoyance and leap over his head in a twisting flip, already angling a blow to his head as my feet touch the floor. But my arm passes through the air where his head had been, and I realize that even his speed exceeds my own. I am truly overmatched.

He turns to face me when I offer no other attack. His expression is hard, but not mocking.

"You're starting to understand, aren't you?"

My breath shudders out of me, and I feel cold, despite the blood rushing through my body. "I will not submit to you. I cannot."

He nods once. "Nor could I, were I you."

My fury swamps me, and I throw back my head on a shout. "Then fight me, damn you! Defeat me if you must, but cease this insulting game!"

I don't even see the fist that sends me soaring through the air to crash into the wall. He struck without me even knowing it until it was done. So fast.

And then the pain hits, and I wonder if my head will simply explode with the force of it. I feel as if my brain has ruptured and is leaking out my ears.

I am finished. Beaten. Shamed. With a single punch.

"You fought bravely, Prince Nuada of the Elves." He comes to one knee before me, but I cannot raise my head to meet his eyes. "There is no dishonor in losing if you have fought well."

"You don't...really believe...." I trail off, unable to remember what I was saying. My head throbs with agony.

His fingers lift my chin, but I still can't focus on his face.

"You are badly damaged."

I blink, wondering if even my eyes are leaking. Everything in my head feels...sprung. I focus all of my flagging strength on speaking coherently.

"Do not shame me further with apologies, Vegeta-sama. I concede. You are the stronger."

He chuckles. "I believe I've told you that I don't apologize. I was going to offer you a senzu."

My eyes roll as I try to focus on his face. It swims before me, and I wonder if he's making sense and I am simply incapable of understanding.

"Yes, you definitely need a senzu. Stay awake enough to swallow it, if you please."

His hand leaves my face, and I wonder if he has left me to die. I feel as if I'm floating, though I still vaguely feel the wall at my back. I am...disconnected. Groggy. Fading.

"Open your mouth. I've force-fed enough of these to Kakarot to last a lifetime. I won't do the same for you."

I let my mouth drop open, and he places something small, round, and hard in my mouth. Something inside me warns me not to trust it, not to trust him, but if he wanted me dead, he could easily have killed me already. So, I bite into whatever he has given me, chew despite the static roiling in my head, and swallow.

Almost instantly, the pain fades to a muzzy warmth, then to a dull ache. I blink a few times, then raise a hand to my head, shaking way the dizziness.

"You...you know magic?"

"I suppose it could be called that. These beans are mass-produced here at the factory, but the original senzu from Korin's tower were considered magical in their time."

Half of what he says makes no sense. The rest, I simply don't understand. But even the ache is fading now, and I open my eyes wide and stare at him. I am healed.

He stares back for a moment, then reaches out and traces a finger along my cheek and jaw. For a moment, I think he has...caressed me. Then, he pulls his hand away and I see my blood on his finger. Quite a lot of blood, actually. Perhaps I was leaking, after all.

I open my mouth to say...I don't know what, and he slips his finger into his mouth. Sucks away the blood. Closes his eyes and lets his head roll back on his shoulders. Sighs.

Now, my mouth is open simply because I am unable to close it.

"It's been so long." His voice, low and resonant before, seems to purr from deep in his chest. "I haven't allowed myself to taste a fallen foe's blood for so many years."

He licks his lower lip, and I stare, astonished and....

"Kakarot would freak out if I dared such a thing. The namek, too." A chuckle burbles up from that broad chest, sounding...thick. Luxurious. "Not that I would ever taste anything that revolting a color."

And still, I cannot speak. I suppose it makes sense. His is a warrior race, but so is mine. Apparently, his is more...barbaric.

"Your blood is...almost a texture. It feels like silk on my tongue but tastes...so very sweet. Like the finest honeyed wine. Like...like nothing I've ever tasted before."

I blink, brain-locked.

His eyes open and fix on mine, his head lowering until he looks at me through his eyelashes. It's a strangely intimate look. Sultry. I feel myself flushing under its intensity.

"You have graciously submitted that I am the stronger of us, elf. I would ask a boon of you."

I don't have the wit at the moment to hesitate. I simply can't reply. My mouth opens, but no words come out. I want to tell him that I fear favors more than anything else on Earth because they have rarely been beneficial to me, but...I can't. My jaw moves, but my lips refuse to form words.

He leans closer, and I feel warm breath fan my face. "Allow me another taste."

Somehow, I convince one of my hands to rise to my face, and I feel the sticky warmth covering my cheek. His eyes track the move with obvious, burning hunger, and I still, my breath lodging in my chest. Like this, he looks...almost like an animal. A dangerous, starving animal.

I must speak. For my life, I must speak.

"Taste...the blood already spilled?"

His teeth catch his lower lip and his head jerks in a single, abrupt nod, his breath coming faster.

At least he doesn't want a new wound. Surely, it can't hurt to let him have the blood from a wound already healed and gone.

Unless what's spilled isn't enough.

But I did indeed yield, and it is his right to demand my submission, and he was generous enough to ask instead of simply taking. It would be churlish of me to refuse his request when I wouldn't have fought his rightful claim.

Steeling myself and woefully aware of exactly how badly I will fare if he loses his tight control, I nod and drop my hand. He catches it before it touches the floor, though, and brings it to his mouth. His eyes heavy-lidded and seeming to glow with heat, he draws my thumb into his mouth and sucks it clean. My index finger. Middle finger. Heart finger. Small finger.

My entire arm tingles with the feel of his lips and tongue. What is he doing to me?

His breath sighs against my palm, and I shudder. His eyes seek mine, and the hunger in them sends my heart racing. In fear? Surely in fear. What else is there?

He leans close, not releasing my hand, and his mouth nears mine as if he will--

His tongue laps at my cheek, and I blush, mortified at the turn of my thoughts. Those bedamned women must have done something to me for me to think such things.

Grateful that he can't see my humiliation, I turn my cheek more into his questing mouth, granting him easier access. He makes a hungry, moaning sound in his throat and his hand comes to my opposite cheek, holding my face against his lips. They move on my skin almost like a lover's, and I am again doused with both warmth and confusion.

"The finest vintage...spiced with magic...sweetened with the blood of mine enemy...."

I shudder as his silken lips move against my cheek, as his breath tingles in my ear. His voice is throbbingly deep and husky, and I feel it thrum down my spine. What power does he wield that my body quickens under the very brush of his breath?

The tip of his tongue traces the angle of my jaw to my ear, and my breath leaves me as it flicks inside. It is a lover's touch, and I can't help but try to jerk away. But his hand holds me tightly, if carefully, and I move not an inch.

"Vegeta-sama, I--"

"Please...."

His voice is as tactile as a hand tracing down my back, and I gasp at its effect on my senses. My head swims almost as much as when he struck me, but there is no pain, no sensation of losing myself. In fact, I feel more of myself than ever before, as if I've never truly understood my own nerve endings.

And then his mouth is on mine, and he is kissing me like I imagined he would do before. Kissing me like a man kisses his beloved. His tongue glides over my slack lower lip and then slides inside, and it is beyond me to protest. Before I can even think to do so, I return the sweet pressure of his lips, answer the question of his tongue. It is absurd, perhaps even obscene, but I have never wanted anything more.

He groans, low and purring, and tilts his head, his mouth taking my own. I have never submitted without a fight in my life, but I submit now. I allow him to lead me where he wishes to go. His other hand slips into my hair, pulling me up against him. I moan at the throb of his heart against mine. His blood thunders as it never did in battle, and mine speeds to match it, the rush easily as welcome as the fight had been. And still, his mouth takes mine, drinking of me, tasting me, swallowing me down as if I truly were some rare and exotic wine.

Moving of their own volition, my hands rise to his shoulders and peel away the sheer material of his training gear. He lets go of my face to help shrug down his shirt, but I don't pull away. In fact, I arch up further, eager to feel his skin against mine. He burns against my hands, his body hot and hard and unyielding. I want to feel more of it. I want to feel it all.

When his arms are free, he reaches for the ties at my waist, and I feel the first tremor of trepidation. The enormity of what has begun glimmers at the edges of my pleasure-hazed perception, and for a moment, I almost turn to face it. But his skin is the warmest satin under my hands, the cut muscle of his stomach flexing at the barest brush of my fingertips, and I let that glimmer die in the waxing glow of his hunger.

The ties fall away under his fingers, and my last barrier against him falls away. He strokes away the flimsy material, pushing it down my hips until the cold metal of the floor shocks some of the passion building in me. I gasp, jerking away from that sudden freeze, and my hips bump against his. He groans, finally breaking our kiss, and I feel his need swell against me for an everlasting heartbeat. My body reacts before I can think about it, and I again turn away from the possibility of ending this moment, of questioning what I don't wish to examine too closely.

I arch against him again, drawing my bared length against his clothed one, smirking at the rumbling growl building in his chest. Here, at last, I have shaken his warrior control. Where I could not rattle him in fair combat, I can leave him trembling with the merest stroke of my skin. In submitting to him, I have found my way through his strength and touched the very core of him.

Here, with my body aching to wrap around his, I have found where we are equals.

"Vegeta-sama." I whisper the word against his lips, and he shudders. "I yield to you. Claim your victory, Prince of All Saiyans. Honor me in this submission."

"By all the gods...."

He doesn't finish his whispered plea, but seals his mouth over mine, laying me back on the floor. Our clothes have vanished, but the lifeless metal below me isn't cold now. Not with the roaring heat of his body blanketing mine. He is gloriously nude between my thighs, but I don't care. I wrap my legs around him, wrap my arms around him, shove my fingers up into his spikes and shudder to find them as luxuriant as a well-groomed pelt. He thrusts against my groin, stoking the needy ache growing there, and I want it. I want all of it. I want all of him.

Desperate now, he jerks his mouth from mine and licks his hand. Before I can miss the heat of his tongue, it's back in my mouth where it belongs, and he is reaching between us, stroking himself. Small noises throb in his throat, and I shudder at the hunger I feel raging through him. And then his hand is on the back of my thigh, spreading me further. His other arm slips under the small of my back, lifting me from the floor. And I feel....

My breath leaves me on a shudder of both need and fear as I realize how he will culminate the desire we have fanned. I hadn't thought myself naïve after so many centuries, but I would never have guessed that I would want him inside me there, that the hard stretch as he pushes inside would both hurt and feel exquisitely perfect, that I would relish the sensation of being filled until I cannot be filled anymore even as he presses ever further inside.

His body quivers against and in mine. He waits, holding his breath, and I finally realize that he is waiting for some signal from me. Waiting for me to adjust, to want him to move. So much power rages inside the body he has shared with me, and yet...he waits.

I undulate beneath him, and his breath leaves him on a hot rush. The thin line of his warrior control snaps, and he unleashes that infinitely strong body on mine. I shout as he fills me ruthlessly, as my body shudders at the onslaught, and he presses his face against the crook of my neck as he thrusts again and again. His fingers bruise my hips as he pulls me to him with each stroke, but I want more. I relish his shattered focus, wallow in the strength he uses on and in me.

My fingers hook into claws, and I drag them over the flexing marble of his muscled back, wanting to leave some mark of my own strength upon him. By now, I know that I can't actually hurt him, but I want him to feel me as I feel him.

When my hands have no effect, I turn to my teeth. He roars as I sink them into the arch of his shoulder, and he thrusts harder still. I feel a dangerous pressure building in him, in the air heaving into my lungs, but I don't care. I bite harder, wanting to tear through his skin, to taste his blood as he has tasted mine. But though his skin feels as smooth as the finest satin, it is tougher than even my teeth, and I only barely dent that muscled flesh.

It has its effect, though. The pressure builds until it breaks like an electric wave over my skin, until it sinks into my very bones. I cry out, releasing the meat of his shoulder as he shoves that pressure, that sheer force into me with every thrust of his body. He has released his soul energy, and the feel of it surging through me is...indescribable. Ecstasy pales in comparison. It throws me far beyond even my finest climax and into some fantastic realm filled with glorious, blinding light.

I think I lose myself for a while, existing only as a quivering, feeling thing in that place. When I come back to myself, he's still thrusting inside me, still turning me inside out with sensation. The pressure is already building again, and I wonder vaguely if I should fear the formless release already overtaking me.

His mouth finds mine, and I greedily suck at his tongue, roiling with his energy, his power, with the feel of his body imprinting itself on mine. I want it never to end, even as I hunger for his release almost as much as my own. I can feel it straining inside him as he strains into me, and I want it for him. I strive for it for him. I hold him with every part of me and wish with all my being that I could give him my energy as he has given his, could touch his very soul as he has mine.

But I can't. However, I can give him everything of me, and I do. I offer my throat to him, knowing he might well tear it out in his current state. His mouth is searingly hot as he settles it over my vulnerable, racing pulse, and I wait for the pain of his teeth, the pleasure of his pleasure.

He never strikes. He sucks hard, but keeps his teeth safely away, even as his thrusts speed until I almost can't tell one from the next. And then, it is time.

His climax is a supernova that triggers another journey to a realm no elf has ever dreamed of. I lose myself, but never him. I cling to him in that vast, white place, secure in the knowledge that he is with me this time, that he knows the way, that he will bring us back to where we belong. In time.

All in good time.

For a while, we drift, hazily unaware of the world around us. He murmurs things in a language I don't know, his body sated and heavy against my own. I revel in the feeling, in his weight and the press of him. An hour ago, this man had thrown me down, shamed and defeated. Now, I never want him to leave his perfect perch between my thighs.

But soon enough, the world intrudes on us, and I remember that we are naked in a lifeless tomb of a human-engineered room, and that my ass is practically frozen to the floor. I sigh and turn my face into the warm crook of his neck, not really wanting the moment to end but wishing for a blanket, at the least.

"Cold?"

I smile, glad he can't see the expression. "Freezing."

He nods and lifts away to kneel between my knees. For a long moment, he simply stares down at me. I let him, pleased enough with what has transpired between us that I will grant him anything he desires. Finally, the corner of his mouth twitches in something that isn't as arrogant as a smirk, and he twists at the waist to reach for our clothing.

"Oh, damn it all to Hell and gone!"

The mood shift is so abrupt that I almost can't process it, but I sit up at the harsh, furious tone and put a hand to his back. He ignores me, but before I can take offense, I see what he has seen: a row of people staring at us through a window that I would have sworn was a bare metal wall before. Four copies of the same man, one dark-haired female, and one red-headed female.

All are jaw-dropped and wide-eyed.

A blush so swift and hot that it hurts sweeps through me, and I jerk to my feet, instantly furious. "Have you shameless wretches been watching the entire time??"

Vegeta growls in his chest. "One-way glass. I should have known."

I have no idea what he means, but if the window is mere glass, I intend to shatter it and take the blade I dropped an eternity ago to each of the fools gaping at us like so many landed fish.

But the saiyan prince beats me to it. With a seemingly casual flick of his hand, the entire window-wall all but vaporizes. The glass is nothing more than a glittering dust cloud around us, and I can't help but marvel anew at such power, though I have felt it roaring through me.

When the cloud dissipates, I grunt with disappointment. All six of the voyeurs are still standing, still gaping like village idiots. The silence is thick with expectation. I half expect the volatile warrior beside me to slaughter the lot of them and be done with it.

Finally, the redhead twitches, then leans toward the other woman. "GB?"

"Yeah, Pesh?"

"You remember that Christmas present that's still on back-order?"

"Uh-huh?"

Pesh swallows, her eyes still wide and fixed on us. "Cancel it."

GB nods slowly. "Okay."

I start forward, fists clenched and heart already throbbing with battle-rage, but a hand on my shoulder stops me. I glare at Vegeta, expecting him to look as furious as I feel, as ready to deal carnage, but...to my utter astonishment...he merely shakes his head and smirks.

"Vegeta-sama...what...?"

His eyes narrow but glittering, he shoots the group an unreadable glance. "Let them be for now."

I stiffen, outraged, but his grip only tightens as his smirk deepens.

"Trust me, elf. They will find out the hard way that payback is truly the veriest bitch."

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when they do, all tension leaves me. I smirk back at him, and he nods, pleased.

After all...revenge is what I do best.

END