Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Crimson Rain ❯ The Hunt Begins ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Dragonball Z, all of its characters, places, and other descriptive elements are property of Akira Toryama, Bird Studios, FUNimation, etc, etc. All other characters, places and events are my own. I make no money off of this writing.

 

ONE

The Hunt Begins

Heaven ablaze in our eyes
We're standing still in time
The blood on our hands is the wine
We offer as sacrifice

HIM - “Wings of a Butterfly”

 

The first thing you learn as a Hunter is to never get personally involved. Usually, it's a harsh lesson because everyone thinks they're going to be different. They think that they're going to be the ones that things don't go horribly wrong for. Even if it doesn't, relationships between a target or a client and a hunter never last. They tend to end very badly.

That was the first thing that Gwaednerth “Scar” Falkland tried to teach him. Of course, he'd had to learn on his own, like Scar did. She'd been a target, not a client, and not someone they were guarding. He'd fully fallen for her innocent routine until it came down to her or him. For weeks, as Scar put it, “he wasn't right,” but he eventually got over it. From there on out, he relied on paid company when he felt peckish. Scar had recommended the place, where he could choose among women that matched what his particular… tastes were at the time. Sometimes, he was in the mood for something gentle, to last all night and other times, he needed to release months of pent up frustrations at a failed hunt or worse, a hunt gone bad. He, like others that frequented the establishment, had his favorites. One was a curvy fiery red head that was almost as intelligent as she was good at her trade; the other was a petite brunette who had less between the ears than she had breasts. The difference between the two was that the red head could hold a conversation providing he was in the mood and the brunette he only picked because she could handle it a little on the rough side. He'd always had to hold back with both of them and sometimes, longed for the days when he could take a female Saiyan to his bed and didn't have to hold back at all.

Twelve years ago, when he'd first started out with Scar (you dared not call him by his first name, even if you could pronounce it correctly), it had only been part time and only on the jobs where Scar needed some extra muscle. Trunks had earned ten percent of each bounty, which was enough back then, combined with his winnings from unsanctioned tournaments. The tournaments were little more than grey-area legal street fights. He'd just recently run away from home; if you could call a twenty-one year old leaving running away. The truth was, he'd just grown tired of all the demands of being a prince and his father's unending crusade to make sure that his son and himself were nearly the strongest among them. Of course, Trunks knew in his heart that for whatever reason, the Captain of the Guard Kakarroto and his half-breed son Gohan were and would always be the strongest.

Perhaps it was because Earth had changed them both for the better. Kakarroto had been sent as a baby to “conquer” it, but when his tiny spacecraft had crashed, he'd suffered from a head wound that had rendered him amnesic. Taken in by a kindly old monk, re-named Goku, he'd been raised as Earth's defender. He'd married an Earth woman, ChiChi, and had a son named Gohan. During his childhood, he'd met Bulma, who would later meet Prince Vegeta and become his bound concubine. This unlikely union would spare the Earth from Saiyan annihilation, as the prince would give anything his wife wanted. Despite his rough exterior and the rough way in which he spoke, it was well known that Vegeta loved his “wife” dearly. More so once she gave birth to his son.

Born into royalty, Trunks Briefs Vegeta could have been a spoiled brat of a prince who used his power to get whatever it was that he wanted. True enough, he had used that power to his own ends often enough, but by his late teens, he had grown tired of the endless ceremony and more so, the endless line of fawning courtiers hoping to either gain power by befriending him or bearing a royal heir by bedding him. Not that Trunks was blind to the pleasures of women; he'd learned at sixteen the exact kind of pleasure that awaited in the willing arms of a slightly older serving woman. In fact, it had been during these years that he'd become even more painfully aware of the limitations of being the heir to the throne. His every action was watched and criticized. Once, when his father had caught him with a lowly chambermaid, he'd been lectured on the exact type of woman that befitted a prince of his station and no matter how attractive, a servant just didn't fit the profile his father laid out.

He was encouraged to choose among the court; mostly comprised of shallow, vapid women. Some were attractive enough to catch his eye, but once they opened their mouths, he'd wished that he had never spoken to them. They were good enough to fuck, but Trunks didn't consider them worthy as potential mates. Maybe he wanted too much, but he had this feeling that once he found her, he would know that she was the one. He'd take them to his bed, but he made sure that the was little, if any, chance of them bearing his child.

One night, after returning from a failed conquest, Trunks and his father had the fight that would ultimately lead to Trunk's departure. In his anger, his father had called him weak and feeble-minded, as stupid as he was clumsy. He would never be a good king and Vegeta feared that if he came to rule, the Saiyan empire would crumble. An empire is only as strong as its ruler and Vegeta was convinced that his son wasn't capable of the job. Worse yet, Vegeta had told him that he could not believe that he would produce such a weak child; which was tantamount to denying that Trunks was his son.

That night, Trunks had gathered a duffel bag of clothes and what money he could take without it being noticed. He'd climbed into his single passenger fighter and flown away. He'd told no one. To avoid recognition, he'd hidden his fighting abilities at first and had let his hair grow out until it fell past his shoulder blades. When the money ran out, he'd been forced to find some kind of work, and though schooled by some of the most intelligent Saiyan and Earth scholars, had little in the way of employable skills. He'd been told by a burly man with scars running down his face that he could, if he were talented enough, make enough money to get by if he participated in and won the unsanctioned fights held in Andromeda Station's seedier district.

After three months of winning and sometimes, strategically losing fights, the same man had approached him after a fight. His name was Scar, and he was a bounty hunter. He was chasing a particular target that he needed a little extra muscle with, and he'd been impressed by Trunks' ability. If they successfully brought in the target, a wanted murderer and rapist, Trunks would get ten thousand credits. Trunks thought it over for about ten minutes before agreeing. Ten thousand credits would allow the bruises, cuts, and old wounds heal while he had enough money to pay rent for his small apartment and other expenses. It would mean a three month break from fighting. Trunks had chosen Andromeda Station because it was both the first outpost most travelers came to when entering North Galaxy and the last one as they left. This made it a central hub, choked with businesses and travelers and tourists. Fortunes were won and lost here. He could blend in easily, and disappearing into the teeming masses if he felt that anyone there was looking for him specifically.

Twelve years had passed since that day and the subsequent job. Trunks had gone from part time extra muscle to full partner. For some reason, he and Scar had become good friends, despite the nearly thirty year age difference. Now in his sixties, with a wife younger than Trunks, and four children, Scar was still in his prime. His race wasn't as long-lived as full-blooded Saiyans, but sixty was barely middle aged for Scar. Scar's children, three of which had been born while Trunks worked for Scar, ranged in age from fourteen to just one and a half. The eldest, an electronic genius on par with Trunks' mother, worked in the garage with Scar. His name was Bors, and Trunks looked on him with the eyes of a protective older brother.

 

Trunks was at his desk at the office, leaning back in his chair, watching the computer as work came in. It wasn't that he and Scar were overly selective; they just didn't get involved in interplanetary politics or jobs masquerading as assassinations. They did mostly body-guarding work and bringing in wanted criminals, as well as the occasional Royal runaway. Trunks remembered the time his face had flashed across the computer. Scar had looked over his desk at him and paged forward to the next job. Then, when the first team came after him, they'd staged an elaborate escape attempted that ended in Trunks' supposed death.

Since, he'd tried to think of ways that he could let at least his mother know that he was still alive, but every scenario ended with his father finding out anyway. There wasn't much she would hide from him; and he rightly knew that this wasn't one of those things.

Now, he was paging through jobs, ignoring those that could possibly have political motives or were nothing more than masked hits. As a rule, Scar refused to accept jobs that specified they wanted the target dead. Wanted dead or alive was another matter, and bounties were almost always higher when the wanted was brought in alive. He clicked the pages forward, looking for their next job and stopped on a page.

Bounty: 1,500,000 credits

Name: Kyara Gawain

Race: Unseelie Sidhe

Planet: Faeyr

Client: King of Faeyr, Unseelie ruler Gawain Gwyhedden.

Target was kidnapped by unknown parties, though the king suspects a rival planet, Faer, home to the Seelie Sidhe. Find target and return to Faeyr alive.

This could be a sticky one. The kidnapping more than likely had political motive, and Scar disapproved of those types of jobs. But a 1.5 million credit bounty was more than they'd seen in a while. Wanted criminals generally paid less than five hundred thousand credits and body guarding work brought in even less. As a general rule, such a bounty would mean competition and that was one thing Scar wouldn't turn down. He had worked hard at making it known that he was one of the best and his young partner, trained in his image, was nearly just as good. The only thing Trunks lacked was Scar's experience. Scar had forty hard years of being a Hunter under his belt while Trunks only had the twelve.

He printed the bounty sheet and carried it into the garage, where Bors was reassembling the main sonic drive to their smaller fighter, which had once been Trunks and Scar cursing under the bulk of their cruiser that they used when hunting their quarry.

Scar,” Trunks called toward the crusier, “I think I got us one. It pays 1.5.”

Scar pushed himself, atop the rolling skid, out from under the cruiser and looked at the page and cocked his head to the side, considering, “That could be political. But it seems easy money. I'll get her ready to go. Bors! Let's get to work.”

Scar liked these types of jobs. A simple `crash and grab,' he called them. Crash in, grab the hostage, take them home, and cash in. Usually, Scar was right. Usually.

*************

 

Kyara stalked the length of her “room” which was little more than a cell. It was only six paces across; she'd counted hundreds of times, with no windows and only a thick wooden door, locked from the outside. Whoever had taken her hadn't meant to kill her. If they'd intended to do so, she would already have been dead.

She was princess, if in name only. Her father was king of the Unseelie Sidhe, but as he mother was not his wife, Kyara had little, if any, claim to the throne. It was no secret whom the king favored; it was his concubine, the half-Sidhe Renee and their daughter, over his wife Rhianwyn and their brutish son, Cadwallon. Being only three quarters Sidhe only meant that she was seen as weaker than her full-blooded counterparts.

At twenty-three, she was still considered a child, as the Sidhe grew to be thousands of years old. People thought them immortal, but you're not immortal when you can be killed. If a Sidhe loses their head, they're just as dead as any other creature. She was already full-grown and she would age very slowly from here on out, but she was still mortal. Since she wasn't even full-blooded Sidhe, so she would probably only live into her hundreds, not into her thousands, like her father and others she had grown up among.

The door opened and Kyara spun around, watching as a lowly serving girl came into the room with a tray. On it was a bowl of stew, bread, and water. She was famished, but she'd be damned if she was going to eat something that might be poisoned.

“Thank you,” Kyara said her voice even, “but I'm not eating that.”

“If its poison you fear,” the girl said her voice soft and subservient, “then you need not let yourself go hungry. If the king wanted you dead, he'd have killed you on your home planet and left your bloodied corpse for all your kind to see.”

Kyara chuckled mirthlessly, “My kind? You're the ones who've stooped to kidnapping. Are you looking for a ransom? Or perhaps some kind of treaty?”

The girl shrugged, “I would not be privy to such things, for they are above my station. All I know is that I have been designated your caretaker and I do what I am asked. To do less would mean being punished, and I have no wish to be punished. We all know what our king is capable of when he loses his temper.”

Kyara looked to the tray again and her stomach growled, “I apologize. I know that my being here is not your doing. What is your name?”

“Tegan,” she replied.

The name fit well; she was shorter than Kyara, but that didn't say much. Kyara was barely five-four. Kyara's own name meant small dark one; although the term dark only applied to her hair, which was a shade of dark reddish-purple, almost mahogany. Her skin was silvery-white, like polished alabaster. Tegan had that sunlit golden hue that was strictly Seelie, and her hair was the color of just-turned leaves in the fall.

“I'm Kyara,” she said.

“I know. I'd be unworthy as a caretaker if I did not know the name of that which was entrusted to me.”

“I see,” Kyara said, “thank you for the meal, Tegan.”

“You are welcome.”

Tegan turned and left the room, leaving her to eat in the silence of her own thoughts. She reached out her hand, willing the bread to her. It sat on the tray, unmoving. Great. At least now she knew that the room had been warded against her magic, small though it was. There were those among her kind that could kill or restore life with a touch. Some could call the long dead back to life. Kyara could move things, anything, just by thinking it. It was considered a weak power, no matter how strongly you could manipulate it. Others of her kind saw it as a signal not to breed with other races, for it weakened them. No matter that she could scramble your internal organs like an omelet, she wasn't worthy.

She sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, next to the small table Tegan had sat the food on. She tore off a hunk of the bread and stuffed it into her mouth and began chewing. She was sure that her father would send for her; it was just a matter of waiting it out.

*************

The first step in Hunting was to know what you were hunting for. Trunks began researching the Sidhe on the web, clicking past references that weren't backed up, hitting sites that were backed up by scholars and scientists.

The Sidhe, once united upon the planet Sylph, lived in relative peace for thousands of years. It is said that there were two brothers, both sons to the Sidhe king. Twins, Arawn and Fionn, were destined to rule together. But Fionn, who was enamored by all things beautiful and light, disagreed with his brother's creed of accepting all, no matter how dark and ugly. This led to a feud between the brothers. When their father died without naming an heir, war broke out among the court, each brother having their own side. Fionn took all things good and beautiful and Arawn took the rest, whoever wanted to join him. Some were monstrous in appearance while others held dark, unnatural powers despite a beautiful appearance.

For years the war raged, until it destroyed their planet. Each brother took his followers to a separate planet which revolved around one sun. The Unseelie, as they came to be known, went to Faeyr. The Seelie went to Faer. Though thousands of years have passed since this occurrence, the two peoples are still said to harbor a lasting hatred for the other and have engaged in war over the years. Usually it is settled through some sort of treaty eventually, however uneasy. The last treaty was signed more than a half-century ago.

Unlike other races, the Sidhe rarely involve others in their conflicts; each planet simply seeks to eradicate the other. Both peoples have mythical powers, said to be magical, and some call them immortal, though this is disproved with the death of the father of Arawn and Fionn. Currently, Gawain the Just rules the Unseelie while Bleddyn the Mighty rules the Seelie. Gawain has one son by his wife and a daughter by a concubine. Bleddyn has three children; two daughters who are also twins and a son. There are no current reports of warfare between either planets.

Trunks then typed in Kyara Gawain and found only one listing, a small entry on the same site. Apparently, the princess had just celebrated her twenty-third birthday. It had a better picture than the job listings page and Trunks printed it out. The next step would be to visit Faeyr to talk to her father. He took the pages that he had printed and carried them to Scar, who was busy loading the cruiser with supplies. Trunks placed the papers in the co-pilot seat and started to help Scar with the crates and boxes that held food, water, alcohol, and medical supplies.

Their personal belongings were housed in their small bedrooms inside the cruiser, each room only large enough for a bed, a desk, and a small dresser. You had to walk sideways to fit between the wall and the bed to the far wall, on which the dresser and the desk stood against. There was a third bedroom, equipped in exactly the same as the other two. It was not often used as their criminal targets were usually kept in one of four holding cells in the cruiser's lower levels, amid the loud noises of the engines and machinery that powered the ship. Midnight Storm was Scar's pride and joy; he maintained it immaculately and had nothing short of a conniption fit at the slightest damage.

Trunks currently wore a pair of black pants, a black tank top, and a black leather jacket. His lavender hair was tied back at the nape of his neck. Under the jacket in a shoulder holster was a firearm. Even with his fighting ability and the fact that he could throw ki blasts with his bare hands, he'd found that guns came in handy. Ki blasts had to be charged to be effective, the smaller ones he could fire at will would do damage, but weren't much for stopping power. There was another in the waist of his pants, at the small of his back. Two knives, sheathed, were strapped to his thighs, high enough for him to grab without having to bend to reach them. His cerulean eyes were covered by dark glasses.

Scar wore much the same; except he was larger than Trunks. Not in height, but in girth. Despite appearances, he knew that Scar was strong enough to lift a car off the ground. Scar's own hair was cut close. His face was chiseled and beginning to become wrinkled with age, although Trunks knew that he was probably the same age as his father. His tanned, leathery skin was marred by several long, whitened scars than ran down the left side of his face from his forehead to his jaw. It was a miracle that he hadn't lost the eye. Trunks had never asked the story, but get Scar drunk enough and he started talking. The scars were from a fight in which Scar learned the harsh lesson every bounty hunter usually learned. His first love had been attacked and killed by a Kondarian just out of the prison Scar had put him in. To make matters worse, she had just found out that she was pregnant with his child. His lover had been one of the Kondarian's victims and had testified at Galactic court against him.

Trunks hadn't escaped his twelve years without his own scars. His were mostly hidden by his clothing; one deep gash ran from the shoulder to his elbow, curving inwards on his left arm. Other scars covered his chest and back; from knives, gunfire, and claws. The one on his arm had rendered that arm almost completely useless for months. He'd spent a month recovering at Scar's home. It didn't, however, keep him from the job; he'd returned almost as soon as he had completely healed.

Once the ship was completely loaded, Scar turned towards his son, who looked at him in earnest.

“Father,” he said, “can I come?”

“No, son,” Scar answered, and left it at that. Bors didn't question him. Despite his affinity for the work, it wasn't something he wanted his children following him into. He carefully invested every dime he made that didn't go back into the business, slowly building up a small fortune that would ensure not that his kids didn't have to work, but that they could go out and find their own way, provided it wasn't in the Hunting business.

“Go home and tell your mother that we have a job. I'll call her over the com system when I have an idea how long it's going to take.”

“Yes sir,” Bors answered and his voice barely held the disappointment of not being able to go with them. He took off on his hover board towards the house on the side of Andromeda Station that had been engineered to look like a residential area. Trunks had upgraded apartments to a spacious roof-top home, he still lived in the city, although in a better section of town reserved for the upper crust business men. It was easier to blend in, just in case someone didn't believe him dead. The place was paid for, was his, not something his title, long ago abandoned, had bought him. He'd paid for it on his own, with no help from money from the palace coffers or his father.

“Have you ever heard of the Sidhe?” Trunks asked Scar.

“Aye,” Scar answered, “they say they're powerful, but I can't say as though I've ever met one myself. They tend to keep to themselves. They don't venture from their planets often, though they have the technology to do so.”

“I wonder why,” Trunks mused.

“I have no clue, but keep your eyes peeled. If they'd kidnap a princess, they'd kill a Hunter just as quick for trying to take her home.”

Trunks settled into the co-pilot seat while Scar flipped switches and pushed buttons from his pilot seat, bringing engines roaring to life. Trunks keyed Faeyr's coordinates into the computer and let it work out the quickest route. Equipped with warp drives and space-fold technology his mother would drool over, the Midnight Storm's computer calculated just over eighteen hours to their destination. Placing the communicators over their ears, Trunks fed information into the computer while Scar piloted them out of the thin, man-made atmosphere that surrounded Andromeda station. The sonic drive engines meant for space travel kicked in and the cruiser roared off towards Faeyr.

*************

Kyara sat up from her bed as the door opened again, this time it was a man dressed as guard. He glared at her for a moment before barking, “Come with me. The king will see you now.”

She stood and followed him, barely reaching his chest, knowing better than to try any kind of escape here. They walked down a seemingly endless hallway that finally opened up into an atrium, and at the far end, two heavy double doors that could only be the throne room. Kyara swallowed hard as they came closer, wondering if the king wanted her for something that would keep her alive until either her father sent someone for her or she could figure something out on her own.

The double doors swung open, a guard on each door, armed to the teeth with blades and their backs and sides, holding spears. They were dressed very ornamentally, and this wouldn't lend itself well to actual combat. Kyara kept this in her mind as she came in front of the throne. Sitting upon the largest seat was Bleddyn and on a smaller seat, placed slightly lower than him was his wife, Eowyn.

Though the skirt she wore would no doubt give anyone behind her a show, Kyara dropped to the floor in a low bow. Now wasn't the time to cause offense with an act of defiance. If she wanted to live through this, she must pay Bleddyn the respect he commanded as king of his people, even though she had only one king, her father.

“Greetings, princess Kyara,” Bleddyn said, his voice holding no clue as to his intentions, “I welcome you to the Seelie court.”

Without looking up, Kyara said, “Greetings, King Bleddyn. I thank you for the most hospitable greeting.”

“You may stand, princess,” he commanded and Kyara slowly did so, careful not to meet his gaze. She didn't know about the Seelie, but if a lesser noble had looked straight into the Unseelie King's eyes, it would have been seen as a great offense, especially when just finishing bowing before him. Better to play it safe than sorry.

“I suppose that you wonder why you've been brought here against your will?” he asked.

“The question had crossed my mind,” Kyara answered, keeping her voice neutral.

The king smiled slightly, “I assure you that I mean you no harm. A messenger has been dispatched to your father to assure him that you are quite well.”

Kyara said nothing, and the king continued, “For thousands of years, our two peoples have been at war with one another. Over the millennia, the reason for this has become shaded with untruth and misconception.”

“Pardon my ignorance, your majesty, but what misconception? The Seelie have always considered the Unseelie unclean, monstrous. That is why we are constantly either at war or an uneasy peace.”

“This is true,” the king said, “that we once considered the Unseelie to be the things of nightmares, but I don't believe that you've never looked upon yourself in a mirror. You well know that you are no monster.”

“I fail to see what my opinion of my looks has to do with this.”

“Everything, princess. I grow tired of this uneasy peace. Both Seelie and Unseelie have lost much because of this unending conflict. I intend to see it ended.”

“You want to exchange me for a treaty? Again, your majesty, I fail to see what my attractiveness has to do with this matter.”

“A treaty? No, princess, I seek no treaty. I seek something much longer lasting. Surely, you wouldn't think I would have my son married to a monster, would you?”

The ludicrousness of this plan stunned her. Surely he didn't expect her father to agree to this? It was as ridiculous as it was unnerving. She would kill herself before giving herself to any Seelie, even the prince. She stood there, still stunned by his words. Perhaps she had heard incorrectly.

“Still, I must make sure that there is nothing… abnormal hidden under your clothes. Tegan!” he bellowed and her caretaker appeared.

Kyara surveyed the room with the disappointing revelation that an escape attempt now would be nothing short of suicide. She hadn't exactly condemned herself to her fate yet. Tegan stood before her, holding a robe.

“You will undress so that I may see what you look like under those clothes,” Bleddyn commanded.

Her eyes still defiant, Kyara unlaced the short top that barely covered her stomach, shrugging it off. She slid the skirt over her hips and down her thighs until it fell into a pool at her feet. Now naked, she stood before the king, making no attempt to cover herself. She wasn't ashamed of her body. She knew that her skin was flawless and though she was curvier than most of her kind, she was nowhere near what could be considered fat. Tegan gently turned her so that her back faced the king, then back around.

“Very nice,” the king admired, “you may cover her, Tegan, and Brom will escort her back to her room.”

Tegan wrapped the robe around her and Kyara tied it while Tegan gathered her skirt and top from the floor. She followed Brom, who was behind Kyara out of the throne room. Brom kept looking back, a lecherous glare to his eyes that made her uneasy. She didn't relax until she was back in her room and the door shut, leaving her alone to her panicked thoughts.