Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Curse the Future ❯ Chapter 2

CURSE THE FUTURE

 

by debbiechan

 

Disclaimer: I don't own DBZ. If Bardock really belongs to anyone, he's Bardockgurl's. (Her obsession inspired this story).

 

Warnings: Cursing, sexual situations, violence. This section contains a masturbation scene.

 

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Chapter Two

 

My men fought brilliantly today. It pained me to watch their earnest enactments of war--arms and legs slicing through our planet's heavy, wet atmosphere with unnatural speed, such studied grace and youthful ardor against invisible foes. They flew through drills with an exquisite uniformity I had not seen in all these years of training them, but for what? For what?

 

My meeting with Master last night destroyed the last hope I had for saving our people.

 

Master's empathy was so low and his senses so exhausted that he did not even notice I was standing over him at his desk. I had to speak to get his attention. "Master, is something wrong?"

 

He turned to me slowly and stared with green, wet eyes.

 

"Master, what did you see?" I had come wanting to blab my own tale, and, as usual, my mentor's presence reminded me of greater mysteries outside myself.

 

"I may as well tell you, dear Turo, since you--" Master's hand moved to wipe bubbles at his mouth. I could barely make out his lips moving behind the clear green membranes of the webbed hand. "You are so close to this foresight yourself, you deserve to know." This gesture of covering his lips puzzled me--was he trying to camouflage his grief? His thoughts were floating towards me weakly. "The Icejin kingdom today discovered what our people have hidden for eons. The lord you yourself have sensed--the little lizard of your Saiyan palace visions--he has given the order for the invasion of Kannasa."

 

"What--? But I thought--"

 

"The Icejin command the Saiyans. The Saiyan army is but one of dozens under Icejin control. I do not know how soon they will be here, but there is no stopping them now. Our spies and guards did everything they could to keep the information about our planet's one resource from reaching the ears of those who would desire it, but…."

 

"We've known of the Saiyans coming since I was a boy! We can--we must stop them! My men--"

 

"Dear Turo, surely you know as well as I do that our chance of defeating such a powerful force is miniscule? Our one hope was to keep the galaxy believing that Kannasa is but a swampland of un-evolved, blind and mute fish, with no technology, nothing to envy--"

 

"But now--?"

 

"The new Icejin lord of this quadrant believes that our planet's atmosphere confers psychic abilities."

 

"But Master, it doesn't! Our power is not his to take! Even if the Saiyans tortured our Elders for information, even if they purged our entire population--!"

 

"Lord Frieza needs no high-priority reason to conquer our planet. He is bent on impressing his father, on upstaging his rival brother. He is a new leader and a capricious one. The information about Kannasa reached his ears only today…."

 

Master's words blurred after that; all I could focus upon was how trifling my foresight must be compared to his--Master knew of real time certainties, that the Icejin lord had today heard word of the Kannasan ability to predict events. I watched Master as he spoke and, for the first time in our relationship, felt bitterness towards the old man. Such amazing skills and already he was wilted in defeat. "If I could only see what you see, Master…"

 

He smiled at that. "Transference of foresight? Dear Turo, knowledge of the future at any cost is a fruitless goal. Life, even with blind spots, even in total ignorance, is worth living." His smile faded. "And who of us does not know that death is always the end?" He looked away, towards some philosophical rumination that did not interest me in the slightest.

 

"Master, no--I was not asking for transference of foresight. I was just hoping, maybe, that my own talent could summon what you see and interpret it differently?"

 

"Meditate on acceptance, Turo. If anyone believed transference of foresight would help you or any other Kannasan save our planet, it would have been offered long ago."

 

At the thought of others even more talented and knowledgeable than my own master, I had hope again. Transference of foresight is an old and guarded art, rumored to involve the instant death of the one who transfers. Master does not know the technique, but it's said other elders do. "Elder Ashera?" I asked. "Elder Taiki?"

 

"They too have sensed the Icejin. Their verdict is the same as mine."

There was little reassurance after those words. Master did hear my story of the palace vision, about my feeling that one day the Saiyans would be degraded to a population of one. He cocked his head a little as if listening to a pleasant tune but was otherwise unimpressed. He told me that I should continue writing in my journals, that the story told there was a testament to our people, that my journal alone was one way to preserve Kannasa.

 

What odorous belching nonsense.

 

I did as Master bid me today; after drills, I meditated on acceptance. I floated on my back in the community pool. All around me, Kannasans waded and swam in their most natural element, the fresh obliging fluid that covers most of our planet's surface area. We mate, breed, and meditate in these pools. All activity here is tranquil--the sonorous waves of spouses coupling, the slow unfurling of eggs loosening young, gliding motion upon gliding motion as Kannasans enter and leave our shallow, lavender waters.

 

I tried to let wisdom wash over me, but the more I relaxed, the more I saw of Bardock.

 

“Sheesh, my men need baths! That last species we finished off today had the worst habit of shooting their innards past the stratosphere each time they took a blast! " Bardock standing covered in gore--arms out and palms upwards. He shrugs his shoulders and smiles boyishly, as if in apology over the way he looks.

 

His Saiyan bar-mistress takes his blood-caked face in her hands and regards the warrior with macabre affection. "You think you look bad. You should see Toma--looks like he took a pie in the face! Ha!"

 

“You sick bitch. The way you're looking at me makes me think you're about to tongue me all over like I'm a newborn cub."

 

“In your dreams, Bardock. Go to your quarters and freshen up. My shift is over in eleven and a half standard sectors."

 

Vision after vision in the bar with Bardock reporting yet another easy victory over some poor population--why did I ever believe Kannasans could take the Saiyans? Bardock's squadron of four ships can lay a planet to waste in the space of a single day.

 

I left the pool with anything but acceptance in my heart, though. I stalked to my lodgings and switched on this journal, pulled up file after file, scavenging for hope, for some clue--anything to contradict my Master's assertion of Kannasa's doom. The mere sight of print recounting old visions triggered them again. Late into the night again, I witnessed so many well-worn scenes, until desperation drove me blind. I finally closed my eyes and saw nothing but the clear green insides of my own many-layered eyelids. It was this tiredness that opened my reception to fragments of new foresight. Incomprehensible scraps at first--but now, in the midst of the old palace vision, at the very point where the lizard tell his bejeweled blue companion to hush, the scene opens as easily as a door… onto the deck of a luxurious spaceship:

 

“Lord Frieza?" The pink blob speaks, the hoarse words wrought with some effort from what must be the thick mess of his vocal cords. A voice as gross as his face. "I have the information you requested about the prince's guardsmen."

 

“Please, Dodoria, sit." The lizard is in a pilot's chair looking oddly child-like despite the glass of Cerbean intoxicant in his hand. His white-clawed feet do not reach the floor. Seated next to him is the handsome blue man holding the carafe and his own glass. “Zarbon, pour Dodoria a glass. I know you dislike the stronger flavors, my fellow, but I will see to it that your tastes in wine, if nothing else, are refined in my service." The pink blob takes a glass but doesn't drink. He doesn't sit either, and both he and Zarbon exchange glances. The lizard lord is clearly a little drunk. "It's made from the youngest berries--a sharp flavor, on the brink of ripeness. Tart but sweet! Sweet but tart! Hoh hoh hoh!" He closes his eyes for a second as he sips, savors the mouthful, then swallows. His red-pupiled eyes reappear. "Go on, Dodoria--the guardsmen?"

 

It is as if I myself have an audience with the most powerful being in the galaxy and am privy to all his spywork. The pink blob tells Lord Frieza that transcripts show that the head guardsman, Nappa, is a dim-witted but physically impressive member of a distinguished elite line (This I already knew--with no spies!) but that the most interesting guardsman is Raditz, son of Bardock.

 

“Bardock!" The lizard spits out the name as if it tastes bad. "If I hear any more about how the Saiyan masses are worshipping this rogue, I will go mad! My father warned me that these monkeys were a stupid, superstitious people, but this ridiculous myth of the Legendary Super Saiyan--it gives them false courage! They could all…" Lord Frieza snorts into his wine glass.

 

“Rebel?" Zarbon's voice is as lilting and pretty as Dodoria's is ugly and coarse. "I can see how that would be annoying but surely, a few executions are all it takes to squelch a rebellion. Remember the Ayumi planet? Besides, Vegeta would not tolerate his monkeys rallying around a new leader, myth or no myth, Super whatever or Saiyan whatnot. And King Vegeta is completely at your mercy once his son is on this ship, don't forget that."

 

“You don't understand. It's not the threat…." The lizard's white claw tightens around the stem of his glass. "It's the insolence."

 

I start to lose the vision once my mind curls around the image of Bardock as a worshipped hero. Is he such a champion that his exploits are even the talk of the Icejin? Perhaps Bardock's popularity exceeds King Vegeta's on his home planet. Bah--what do I care? A cheering noise assaults me, and my brain clenches at the racket. If the uproar were anything other than an audio-hallucination, I could escape it, but no, the clamoring Saiyan voices grow louder and louder. I can make out only a few words in their growling alien language (how these monkeys roll and hiss aggressive consonants!)--Super Saiyan, Super Saiyan, Super Saiyan--but my empathy understands it all. It is the roar of adoration… for Bardock.

 

“Why is it that the only atheists on our planet are in the army?" Bardock's voice. He is lolling about in bed with his bar-mistress, and his softer voice is a relief from the cacophony of cheering a moment ago. "None of my men believe this crap about the Super Saiyan. Maybe because they went to school and were bored out of their minds hearing about the legend. Maybe because they know that it takes practice and tedium to increase one's fighting skills. Tell me, Beet, why do the common classes like you believe this tripe about how a man will be born to greatness? "

 

“Hey! For your information, I went to school!" The bar-mistress is lying on top of Bardock, her reddish tail swishing side to side over their nude bodies in a giddy, brisk rhythm. Her voice is affectionate, delighted. "I'm going to be a lab tech next year. I'm almost through with all the coursework. And the only reason I believe in the Super Saiyan is because I've seen him in action." She bites Bardock on the nose here, and he grins broadly and rolls her over.

 

Ugh. I shake my head and the vision falls apart before my eyes like a sand pile being kicked to bits. When the pieces gather again, the colors are less torrid, the background noise gone. Bardock is fingering a small communications device in his palm. He is still in bed with the Saiyan woman, only clothed now, about to leave but somehow distracted by images flickering on the screen of the gadget he holds.

 

“Is that him? Your son at the palace?" The bar-mistress is wearing her armor now. Except for the fact that she is significantly smaller than Bardock, she could easily pass for one of his murdering squadsmen. With the same self-assuredness I've seen in all Saiyans, she props one slim, muscular leg on the foot of the bed and snatches the gadget out of Bardock's hand. "Not so quick today, are you, Commander!?" She's gleeful that she's caught the thing, but he clearly let her have it. I've seen enough of Bardock to know he has reflexes faster than a simple girl's grabbing hand.

 

“Vid-feed of the palace," Bardock explains. "See the row of men behind the little prince? He's the third from the end."

 

“Gorgeous. Love the hair. His mother was Dunajin?"

 

“Half. All Saiyan temper, though…. Raditz looks like a freak. I'm surprised they let him keep the hair."

 

“Maybe the King likes it. He's no slouch in the fashion department himself. Those red capes--ah, they make a man's shoulders look wicked."

 

“Ridiculous, you mean. Years ago, the Saiyan elite wore red, so that our leaders could be seen in the smoke of battle. The capes are just show now. Look at Vegeta. How can he stand it? Our people were once a warrior race. Now we're just Frieza's mercenaries, no better than whores."

 

The tiny screen in the girl's hand begins to expand. It grows from a square sparkling with static to the stony-walled field that tells me I'm seeing the inside of the palace. No longer the reddish-hued display of royalty and numerous guards that was on the screen--an intimate scene now, a corridor lined with lockers, strewn with boots. A dressing room for guards? Raditz is there, stripped of his armor, sitting in a chair.

 

Interesting how Saiyans have such spectacular growths on the tops of their heads and such densely-furred tails but the rest of their bodies are smooth as water. No scales, no ridges, just the thinnest layer of skin under which those formidable muscles bulge. Mammalian nipples on the males and females alike.

 

Except for short black pants covering his crotch and those Dunajin bracelets around his arm and thigh, Raditz is as naked as a Kannasan pond newt and just as shimmery. I've never seen him like this before--he's built like his father. Unlike Bardock, though, he's self-conscious when undressed. Huge forearms crossed in front of his chest, eyes darting about even though there's no one else in the room. Youth! They need their fashions to tell them who they are. Or perhaps palace life isn't suiting the son of Bardock. He seems out of his element, wound tight and ready to burst.

 

And then I see the source of Raditz' discomfiture. Dodoria, the pink blob, standing in a far corner of the room. Odd how this creature, like the Icejin, guards himself so that I didn't notice him, got no empathic reading. Perhaps the blob's kind has no feelings at all.

 

“Tell me more about your father," the blob croaks.

 

“What else is there? He's a tough, crazy, practically suicidal warrior. End of story."

 

“His men don't believe that he's the Super Saiyan?"

 

“They believe he's the Super Asshole who leads them on asinine missions with the sole intent of getting them all killed." Raditz shifts in his seat. I realize his pond newt shimmeriness is from pure nerves. "Gods and myths are for peasants, not Saiyan fighting men."

 

“Bardock has no designs on the palace? A man of his strength and popularity has no other ambition beyond glory in battle? Hard to imagine…unless he's as crazy as you say."

 

Raditz' patience snaps. He bolts upright and--with a light tap of his bare foot--pushes his chair away. His strength is such that the chair falls over and slides half the length of the room, skidding to a stop midway between his interrogator and himself. The pink blob isn't startled at all--it's so strange how he stands there blinking stupidly, no fear registering, as this tall and massive Saiyan stands there, naked and fierce, tail straight up in the air and bristling.

 

“Listen," says Raditz. "Do you think I would have been hired at the palace if my father were a seditious plotter? You tell me, what interest does Lord Frieza have in the fairy tales of my people? Other peoples have stronger imaginations and fancier stories. Some people actually know how to use their wretched imaginations the way Saiyans use their strength. Tell your Lord to look up Kannasa. Those freaky fish people can read minds. I'd worry about them if I were Lord Frieza. Give the bastards another hundred standard years and they may actually be able to sneak up on… even an Anemonian such as yourself. The Saiyans--we fight upfront. And if you feed us well and honor our talents, we will fight for Frieza."

 

Cold--a deep cold feeling in my belly. Dread and astonishment. How does he know? How much does he know? No Saiyan ship has ever breached our planet's orbit, and so how does this long-haired young one know anything about the Kannasan secret? My vision blurs while I am still absorbing the shock of Raditz' words and then, as if in direct answer to my own question, I hear Raditz speak again.

 

“My father told me--that's how I know." He's dressed now, and it's another setting, a corridor filled with long rows of tables, each crowded with tubs of fruit and bowls of murky, bubbling soups. A few ravished bones with slabs of meat still hanging by sinews are scattered among the place settings. Saiyan guardsmen have taken a meal and are now browsing through some sort of dessert course. They sit, sated and gossiping, tails loose, hands cupping steaming mugs. "My father had the misfortune of being shipwrecked on some moon once with a fishface. Said the freak anticipated his every move. You know how quick a Saiyan commander has to be, right? And we're talking about my father, the mighty Bardock, right? He was about to blast the fish away just for having annoyed him, but the scaly bastard spit a bubble at him just before he got blown to bits. Bubble splintered my father's cheekbone! Gave him that pretty X on his face all the women love."

 

“I heard he got that scar from shrapnel after the explosion on planet Blue," says the Saiyan seated next to Raditz.

 

“Another lie," says yet another Saiyan. "There are more stories about Bardock than there are hairs on this Dunajin head across the table! Everyone knows that story about the spitting fish is crap, Raditz. Those creatures can't even walk a straight line outside their own piss-wet atmosphere, let alone strike a Saiyan."

 

“Why would my father make up some story that makes him look like a fool who got spat upon by a fishface? Other people tell weird stuff about the fishes too. Every now and then one of them slides away, gets lost, shipwrecked, ends up in a city. You'd think they would be food for rats, but no, they're clever--they find their way home."

 

Dodoria interrogated all the guardsmen. Of course. Or the room was under surveillance somehow. And what a gift such news about a sneaky, dangerous fish people would be to a half-drunk, paranoid Lord Frieza! The irony of it all slays me--Bardock has already begun to kill my people. The Kannasan on the moon with the Saiyan--what was his story? Who will ever know it? A poor straggler, probably on a mission to barter for fuel, with no developed foresight to speak of--only Kannasan intuition and empathy, unable to fire a pre-emptive fire-blast with his hands the way my men have been trained. And yet he struck Bardock! I want to see that, I really do.

 

I close my eyes and try to shake away the Saiyans blabbering over their meal.

 

“The Kannasans spit acid or something? Disgusting."

 

“No, they use ki like other intelligent species. What hit my father was a pure blast of heat. Mark my words, they'll be warriors soon. And with that mind-reading thing, formidable ones."

 

The vision doesn't come. I am too full of rage. I loathe the Saiyans. They're the ones, not the pasty-skinned Icejin, who truly destroy my planet. I give into imagination--I fantasize about killing them, blast after blast dropping monkey-tailed warriors, bloodied and beheaded, to the earth. It's the fantasy I use during drills and target practice. This time I conjure up a giant ball of ki that is to blast their whole planet. I even see it clearly--an enormous globe of fire on the tip of my finger. Wait. Not my finger. I am having a vision of the future.

 

It is Lord Frieza who is balancing the ball of ki, delicately, with one pinkish digit. He wears a maniacal expression--it's full of childish joy but also the caustic hatred I feel right now for the whole Saiyan race.

 

I see King Vegeta. How is this possible? He is on Frieza's ship? His face is full of cold rage. I have seen Saiyans poised for battle before but never such a resolute, deadly expression. A small squad of elites stands behind him with looks almost as murderous. And now there's Bardock, floating mid-air, clothes torn and face streaked with blood. An army of Saiyans behind him as well--their silhouettes dark against the crimson backdrop of Vegetasei, the hot planet.

 

Are the two Saiyans finally facing off against one another? A civil war?

 

And then I know. It is a two-pronged attack. King Vegeta inside the Icejin ship and Bardock outside it. The two Saiyan leaders are confronting Frieza. No, no, no…! The scenes begin to rush, red-hot with Saiyan ferocity, before my eyes. Vegeta turns to knock one and then another of Frieza's henchmen to the ground as if they are dolls. The king's cape sails behind him, a floating red mass. Bardock howls as he delivers a blast from his cupped palms. Explosions like stars, cries of horror, a searing pain in my lungs as souls are burned to death.

 

Then…nothing. I sense that the king, the mighty Bardock, all the Saiyans are simply gone. I hear a sighing wind. My field of vision goes vivid blue. Gradually, I start to make out a landscape. A tranquil planet, so different from Vegetasei, lit with three suns but colored in temperate greens and blues, dotted with vegetable gardens, wide and slow-moving rivers.

 

Globe-headed blue trees sway in a strong breeze. The voice again, almost a sigh: "I am the last one…."

 

And then I see him--the Saiyan who speaks these words. A jolt of recognition stabs me, and then I recover--no, it is not Bardock, it can't be. It is a Saiyan who looks remarkably like him. Bardock's face without the scars, the same wild crown of black spikey hair. But he is younger than Bardock, not as heavily-built, wearing a strange loose orange garment tied with a black sash at the waist. He is bowing over a body--is it another Saiyan? I can only see the white boots and the red blood but I feel the death of a Saiyan, the ferocious life force that collapsed inwards on itself, in a mess of tears and hatred.

 

Something tells me that the crown prince of Vegetasei has fought and died here. The cold beam of his destiny materializes as plain as a sword across the horizon--a silver stripe that lies across the scene and divides it. Life and death, good and evil, redemption and defeat? Why is that weird energy still here? Prince Vegeta is dead, and this Saiyan left alive--maybe a son of Bardock's?--bends to his knees and gathers the dead body in his arms. Yes, no mistaking the prince--his father's high forehead and peaked hairline, the face an adult's now and blood running from the mouth.

 

Sons of Vegetasei in utter defeat. A vision worth my efforts.

 

Exhausted, I can sense no more. My own room returns to me--the lamp, the narrow cot with its many blankets for the encroaching winter season. I can go on with my miserable life now, perhaps. The Saiyans will be destroyed.

 

A bath, a light evening meal. I walk through the rest of the evening as if this world were the dream and the future the only reality.

 

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If I didn't know with dread certainty that Bardock is the man who is going to kill me and that his people will destroy our world, he would be--shall I dare to write it?--almost like a mate to me. His is the face I see first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Just moments ago, as I was considering shutting down my journal, I flashed on another image of him--self-possessed, moving in that leisurely way of his, shedding pieces of clothing as he strode around his bedroom looking for something? A timepiece? A weapons holster? A towel for his bath? He didn't find it, whatever it was, and tossed his bunched pants in a ball on the bed. He stood there, unconcerned, wanting for nothing even though naked and alone, while I--bunched in a blanket against the cold--sat here and allowed my reason to become further and further disheveled.

 

And here he is, even as I type: Bardock in the bath, the water steaming in dense clouds around the scene so I can only make out his eyes, and they now look somewhat distant and preoccupied. What does he have to worry about? The bastard's life is blissfully stuck in the present. His eyes narrow a little, perhaps in pleasure. One hand lands on his own chest absently, begins to thumb a nipple wet with soap. The shoulder movements tell me the other hand may be stroking himself. Just great. The man is getting off on his whole delicious life, all his conquests over enemies and over women. I have seen this sort of scene so often it no longer titillates, but I admit I used to want to touch my own flesh as I watched this warrior pleasure himself. Vitality emanates from his every pore; he is bravery embodied, his chest and face covered with ancient scars--some whitened into mounds that decorate his arms like pebbles in a sand garden, some dark and deep like the gaping X on his cheek. His face contented, and his lips stretched into that thin, half-sneer of superiority. He is free--from attachments of family, from the burden of remorse for the many murders in his past, and, as far as he knows, his future is one great white blankness.

 

I hate him. If there were only some way to trade my life for his.

 

And then an idea rises, hot and cleansing as the steam in Bardock's bath: there is a way.

 

Foresight transference. I could learn the technique. My gift for foresight is extraordinary--everyone says so!--and no one in the government would refuse my petition for further mastery of mystical skills. Of course, I would have to lie--I would have to say that I have seen the arrival of a new, even more talented Kannasan who could use it. Someone who will be revealed to me on the day of the final battle with Bardock's monkeys--only then will I give up my life to pass on my gift to this special Kannasan, our mysterious savior. There is no such Kannasan, of course. Just as there is no reason for me to spend even one more evening recording the same visions over and over. Our planet is doomed. I myself have been doomed with the knowledge of its doom.

 

I will petition for special training first thing tomorrow. I will ignore the assignment of saving my people and concentrate on a truly attainable goal--the cursing of the Saiyan Bardock.

 

Yes, I will invent my visions from now on. No one would tolerate the transfer of foresight to another species, let alone our dreaded foretold enemy Bardock, so I will say I know how to save our people. Master's empathy is so shut down he will not sense my vengeful motives, but I will have to guard my thoughts carefully around the elders if my plan is to succeed. I will project my joy, my confidence for victory.

 

I will see that smug look wiped clean off that Bardock's face. I may not be able to defeat this warrior, but I will tender him a present before I leave this life--his own vision of death, the dread details of how his Saiyan race will end, how his bar-mistress will look as she crumbles into the decrepit pain of old age. Or is she melted along with so many others of his kind when Frieza launches his attack on Bardock? Whatever, the monkeys are doomed. They end with the death of Prince Vegeta and that miserable descendant of Bardock's, kneeling in the prince's blood, humiliated, defeated, finished. Ha! How will the whole horror of a certain, unredeemable end weaken that big, contented man?

 

Bardock splashes water. His head snaps up, and he growls as he releases. I see another vision superimpose itself on this familiar scene: my hand is slamming into the base of Bardock's skull, and the man's mouth opens in a gasp, a release of pain not pleasure this time. Is this assault real? Have I somehow changed the future?

 

I scan my senses for any change in what I have known for years. Check, check…. All the data cells of my ability tell me, again, that Bardock will kill me; nothing I can do will change that fact. But there is a new gladness in my heart. I can hurt him. I will hurt him. I, a Kannasan cursed with foresight, will bestow my curse on Bardock.

 

He emerges naked from a clear bowl-like tank. I am no longer watching Bardock in the familiar bath scene--this foresight is new. Some light but viscous fluid that is not water clings to his nude arms and legs, shimmers with a prismatic greenness in the spikes of his hair, looks like dew on his tail. He's been in some sort of recovery chamber, bathing in DNA, healing from the wound that I, Turo the Kannasan, gave him.

 

But he is not healed--no, he is far from healed.

 

His future has splintered into a million pieces. Bardock's face looks odd, mournful, the arrogance in his eyes killed outright.

 

For the first time in a long time, my own future is not so bleak. Good night, stupid journal. Tomorrow you, if not my destiny, will be erased.

 

~END~

 

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A/N: The movie Bardock, Father of Goku tells the rest of the story! Thanks to LisaB and Denmark de la Croix for beta help, to Bardockgurl for making me scrutinize the movie (especially Bardock's abs!) and to the readers in the Writers' Workshop at the Dbz Fanfic Salon for comments on early drafts. You may visit the Salon at this website: http://s8.invisionfree.com/DBZ_Fanfic_Salon

 

 

 

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