Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Darkened Ship ❯ Chapter 3

The two males ran through the halls of the large vessel, their spirits high as they made it to the top deck. With a hoot they waved good-bye to all the people on dock as the horn of the liner shouted it's own cheer.

“Good bye, fuckers!” Radditz yelled as he jumped up and down. The thousands of people around them waved good- bye to their loved ones as the ship left the harbor.

 

Vegeta smirked as the pair entered their room. Two other men looked up and with a frown looked at each other.

“I thought that Kakarot was coming,” one said in Japanese. The other shrugged his shoulders as they watched the two men climbed into the opposite bunks. The smaller one threw the large one off the top.

“Who said that you get the top bunk?” he said with a frown before climbing onto it.

 

Yamcha looked around the large room, its windows large, letting the sunlight into the dim room.

“This is your private deck, sir.” Yamcha nodded as he looked out the windows onto the sea below. Trees decorated the wooden room; it's wooden floors pale and shiny. A few reclining lawn chairs sat together facing the middle window. “Will you be needing anything else?” The young man said nothing, but shook his head.

 

Maids ran around the room making it presentable for the rich guests. The azure haired girl smiled, as she looked at a painting in her pale hands. In the background a maid placed a white vase full of roses on the mantel.

“Would you like all of them out, miss?” the young made inquired as she pulled out a painting of a ballerina. The girl nodded.

“This room could use some color. It looks so much like a prison cell.” With a nod the woman began to unload some more of the paintings while the azure haired girl place the large one in her hands in front of the fireplace. A man to the left of her instructed some men where to put some more of the luggage, while another man entered from the deck.

“Kami, those finger paintings again,” the man muttered. “They were such a waste of money.” The girl's face did not change as she picked up another painting, this one of lily pads on a murky pond.

“There is one difference between Yamcha's taste and my own,” the girl said as she sat the painting down in a chair. “I have some.” She looked down at the paintings before her. “It's almost like a dream. There is truth, but no logic.”

“What is the artist's name?” The girl frowned.

“Something Picasso,” she said thoughtfully. The dim room brightened as some of the maids opened the curtains and let the rising sun in. Around them the walls looked like cherry wood with gold trim. All that decorated this room was burgundy and cherry colored furniture, some couches and loveseats. Yamcha snorted.

“This something Picasso won't amount to a thing,” Yamcha said disdainfully as he looked down at a picture.

“No one asked your opinion,” the girl said.

“He won't. Trust me.” The girl said nothing as she disappeared into the bedroom with another picture, the same maid followed with another one. “At least they were fucking cheap,” he muttered to the man directing the workers.

 

The girl placed the picture in her room while the maid placed hers on a chair.

“It smells so brand new,” the young maid gushed. The azure haired girl smiled. “Just think. It's like the ship was made just for us, I mean when I crawl under those sheets I will be the first.” Yamcha entered the room, a dirty smirk on his face.

“Just think, when we crawl beneath the sheets I will be the first.” With a flick of his wrist he dismissed the maid. “The first and only, right Bulma, my love?” Bulma looked at the floor, her cerulean eyes detached, though her face betrayed her disgust. Yamcha began to kiss her neck and smell her so she leaned back and kissed his cheek as they stood, there, his arms around her small waist as he rested his head on her shoulder. This was going to be a long life.

 

Short, but sweet. How do you like. I am following the story line closely, but this will change, I guarantee you that. It may not detour too much from it, but some words might change, and there will be cussing. This is not just a fucking love story. We need lots of drama. *Clears throat* Sorry, got a little carried away.