Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Only the Weak ❯ Chapter 12 ( Chapter 12 )

Only the Weak

 

By Karete-chan

 

Chapter 12:

 

Ophis tapped his fingers impatiently on the polished wood table of the Briefs dining room. Beside him his two advisors had their head on their hands, leaning heavily on their elbows. The three had been sitting in an uncomfortable silence for the past hour and Ophis was beginning to get annoyed. As a high ranking Maiyosh-jin he was not accustomed to waiting

Dr. Briefs had insisted that the meeting was urgent, had he not the small delegation Maiyosh-sei had deemed to attend to this backwater little planet would have left some time ago.

“Damn them to the depths of hell! What is taking so long?” Ophis growled, slamming his fist down on the table.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Hontij replied quietly as he slipped into the room, sporting Dr. Brief's small black cat on his shoulder. “The good doctor has had some unexpected guests.”

Ophis snorted and glared at his friend. “More important than I?”

Hontij smiled gently. “Important enough for Dr. Briefs to ask your permission for them to sit in on this meeting: they may be able to help us.”

“I highly doubt that.” His advisors muttered their agreement. “We are the forward point of the rebellion; there are no others out there who can bring anything other than hindrance to our cause.” He paused and sighed, waving his hand idly at the door. “But I have waited long enough as it is. Let the doctor bring his guests in and let's have this damn meeting over with.”

Rolling his eyes at his friend's flippant manner, Hontij nodded and turned back to hold the door open for as Dr. Briefs entered the room followed by a throng of people.

Brief's blue-haired daughter and the dark-haired man at her side he knew already and Ophis nodded amiably at them as they took their seats, but the rest of the company he stared at with open contempt.

The tall three-eyed man sat down quietly but had a child trailing at his side; a ridiculous albino who looked about ready to burst into tears at the slightest noise. They were closely followed by a midget who bore the Chikyuu-jin mark of a monk on his forehead.

Weaklings, all of them, Ophis moaned quietly to himself.

And then the Namek walked through the door.

Ophis and his two advisors nearly fell off their chairs.

“By all the hells! How did you get a Namek here?” he cried, pointing madly in Piccolo's direction.

Hontij calmly handed him a glass of potent smelling liquid and set a hand on his shoulder. “Friend Piccolo has lived here his whole life.”

The sullen green-skinned alien crossed his arms and lent back into a corner of the room. “I'm nobody's friend.” He glared between Hontij and Ophis. “Namek? Is that what my people are called?”

Hontij looked startled. “You didn't know?”

Piccolo closed his eyes in exasperation. “How am I to know when there are no others to ask?” His black eyes opened again and fixed Hontij with a piercing gaze. “Judging by his reaction though, we're well known. Why is it so surprising to him to find me here?”

Hontij glanced sidelong at Ophis. “Well, Nameks are a bit of a legend. A hidden race almost. The only reason we know you exist is because one pops up on a random planet from time to time; and, of course, there are the stories.”

Ophis noticed that the others were all sitting forward in their seats. Obviously this was news to them as well.

“Stories?” Bulma asked curiously.

Hontij chuckled nervously and slid into the seat opposite her. “They're silly things really; universal fairy tales about magical balls that grant wishes, called…”

“…Dragonballs?” Bulma asked quietly.

“Dragonballs?” repeated a voice in the doorway. “Are we collecting them again?”

Ophis looked up at the man in the doorway and paused a moment in confusion. Then his eyes went wide and he stood and pointed wildly, violently knocking his chair over as he did so. “What in the hells names is he doing here?”

“I thought you had explained about this, Hontij,” Briefs said mildly from his chair.

Hontij looked sheepish. “I really have no excuse, except that I forgot.” He turned to Ophis. “It really is nothing to worry about, it isn't what you…”

“Nothing to worry about?! It's a bloody Saiya-jin!” Ophis was quickly turning purple in rage.

“Ah, yes, I forgot to mention that also,” he muttered, scratching the back of his head.

“Son's a what?” Bulma screeched across the table at Hontij, making her friends wince with the volume. “But you said that…that…”

Son Gokou tilted his head to the side and regarded the rest of the room. “Um, if this is a bad time, I'll come back later.”

“Don't be dense!” Bulma growled. “Get in here and sit down.” She glared at Hontij. “Our esteemed guest, who tells us all we need to know of the universe, is going to explain what, by Kami, is going on.”

“Don't let that thing in here!” Ophis cried, backing up against the wall, his two advisors by his side. “You're all mad. He'll kill us!”

Hontij stood and walked over to Ophis, his hands spread in open gesture. “Ophis, this is Son Gokou, he is a very old friend of Bulma's. I assure you, there is no danger.”

Bulma sighed and set her elbows on the table, placing her head in her hands while Ophis kept a wary eye on a bewildered Gokou as he hesitantly retook a seat next to Yamcha, who jovially slapped him on the back. The Maiyosh-jin winced.

Hontij walked back around the table and stood behind his chair. “First, I apologise for the lack of communication on my behalf.” Ophis glared at him. “However, I am assured that Son Gokou is not a threat to us in any way, and after speaking with him myself, I agree.”

“But he's a Saiya-jin,” one of Ophis' offsiders practically moaned.

Hontij nodded. “Yes and no. He is but he doesn't remember or know anything about them. I have taken the liberty of filling him in on this and, it seems, filled in some answers to a few confusing events in his childhood,” Hontij smiled.

“Son-kun's an alien. Who'da thought?” Bulma whispered to Yamcha; a grin on her face. “We should call the authorities, we've been invaded.”

Ophis snorted. “A notable day in the science journals,” the red skinned man said dryly, “a non-threatening Saiya-jin.” He turned to Hontij but kept his eyes on Gokou who was standing against the wall near Piccolo. “I take it that you have looked into his possible history?”

The locks of Hontij's dark red hair moved gently as he nodded. “I have. Judging by his age Gokou was one of the last infants sent out on their purging mission.”

“That's that thing where I was supposed to kill everything on the planet?” Gokou asked; eyes wide and innocent. “But I didn't `cause I hit my head, right?”

“That is correct. With that information,” he said, addressing the table once more, “I believe I know who your family was.”

Ophis opened his mouth but Bulma butted in.

“Was?”

Hontij sighed. “It is like I said, Bulma, the Saiya-jins were wiped out by a stray asteroid that struck their planet.” He paused. “His father was a man called Bardock.”

Slamming his fist on the table Ophis hissed, “Bardock! Bardock the scientist?”

Hontij tipped his head to the side to regard his Maiyosh-jin friend. “You knew him?”

Ophis nodded, a scowl on his face.

Bulma stole a look at Gokou. The man had become quiet but was gazing with steady attention at Ophis.

“I had met the man on a few occasions,” the Maiyosh-jin was saying, “when I visited Vegeta-sei. He was nothing special. But…” he trailed off as a sudden thought struck him. “Wait, if he's Bardock's son then that means…” He clenched his hand tightly into a fist as his face screwed up in hatred. “Radditz.”

“Radish?” Yamcha asked. “What's food got to do with this?”

“No, Rad-ditz,” Hontij supplied. “He is one of the surviving Saiya-jins; along with the Prince, Vegeta, and his bodyguard, Nappa.” He looked directly at Gokou. “Radditz is your older brother friend, Son Gokou.”

“Is he strong?” Gokou asked softly.

“Very,” Hontij answered. “Though he is nothing compared to Vegeta and his guard, and they in turn are nothing compared to some of the rest of Frieza's men, not to mention Frieza himself.”

Bulma paled. “But, but Son-kun is really strong. I mean, he beat up all those evil guys.”

Hontij shook his head softly. “Like I said Bulma, these people are like nothing you have ever seen before.”

“Which is why I feel it is appropriate to interrupt the conversation at this point,” a new voice announced.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The bridge was quiet when he walked in. Console screens glowed softly, the yellow and green data scrolling across the black backgrounds. Here and there, there was a flash of red and one of the bridge techs would wander over and consult the problem. Zarbon frowned. It was any wonder the Rebel master-tech eluded them so well, when theirs appeared to only work if they felt like it. He cast his eyes around the room and spotted his quarry immediately. This one was hard at work; but then even lowly techs were allowed to harass the slaves if they thought they deserved it.

Petak was on his hands and knees, scouring the floor clean of…whoever the mess had been. The old man's wrinkled hands were clenched tight around the cloth he used and when he stood and bowed as he noticed Zarbon approaching, Frieza's Right Hand noticed that he had been at the job so long that his hands had cramped into place.

“My Lord,” the head of the slaves said, bowing further. “How may I assist?”

Zarbon looked down at the shorter man for a moment. “The slave you spoke of, the one I asked to be sent to me; why is she allowed to continue with her game of dirt?”

Petak clutched his blood soaked rag tightly. “I am sorry my Lord. They are my charge and I have done nothing to discourage them.”

“I did not ask, what you had allowed,” Zarbon cut him off icily. “Why are they allowed to continue?”

The old slave swallowed and twisted the rag in his hands. “I would lose four slaves if I asked them to stop.”

“Four? There are four of those…things, walking around this ship?” Zarbon pinched the bridge of his nose in agitation. “I have never heard anything as ludicrous as this farce in my entire life. Have them end this game.”

Petak wrung his hands together. “May…may I be bold, my Lord?” he asked hesitantly.

Zarbon raised a fine green eyebrow before nodding slowly. He was curious as to why Petak who had served faithfully all these years was now risking his own position for a few lowly underlings.

The old slave sighed. “I was…being selfish my Lord. I have very few and far between people that I can call friend on board this ship. When those girls came aboard I saw an opportunity, a chance to start anew.” He paused and looked up at the younger, taller and more powerfully built man, but Zarbon said nothing and so he lowered his eyes and continued. “But no sooner had I set out to try and protect them, they took it upon themselves to do it on their own.” He looked up again. “And my Lord, it worked. I have never seen the like. While the others hindered them and in many ways still do, they, by having the lowest and most despised jobs on this ship are exactly where they want to be: out of sight of anybody who truly matters.”

“Except for that one,” Zarbon replied. “And had you not spoken about her openly, I never would have known.” He sneered at the older man. “You do a poor job of protecting your subordinates Head Slave.”

Petak nodded sadly. “I have not changed,” he muttered softly to himself.

Silence fell between them, the humming of the bridge computers and the techs tapping away at various programs the only sounds in the badly lit room.

After a moment Zarbon spoke. “Her name, the one that is sent to me, what is it? I grow tired of calling her slave.”

Petak shook his head. “I do not know my Lord. The other slaves gave them the names we use now. They call her ThreeBrown.”

Zarbon looked sceptical.

Petak explained: “Three because she is the third tallest of the four and brown because that is the colour of her eyes.”

Frieza's second in command crossed his arms across his chest. “I find it hard to believe that you do not know their names. Did not the capture squad take them from them?”

The Head Slave shook his head wearily. “No, my Lord; and while they did not come to us covered in as much dirt as they wear now, they have never spoken a word aboard any of Master Frieza's ships.”

Zarbon was partially stunned by this last revelation. Not that they had never spoken, but that they had not always been caked in the layers of filth they wore now. He berated himself for this oversight. Frieza's underlings, no matter how little of a working cortex they possessed between them, would not have put their own lives at risk by bringing something so ugly onto the ship deliberately.

Petak glanced up at his lord. The man had an odd look in his golden eyes; he almost seemed angry with himself.

“They were not always covered in dirt?” he repeated, almost to himself. “Then what do they…” he trailed off, annoyed at himself for voicing his curiosity.

Petak bowed his head. “Forgive me my Lord. I had forgotten that you did not know. It makes…” the old man swallowed. “It makes my mistake of speaking about her all the worse.” He dropped to his knees and touched his head to the floor. “Thank-you for not taking her life,” he finished softly. “She makes mine easier sometimes.”

Zarbon frowned, not willing to admit that she did the same for him. “I supposed she would have learnt something in all her years, and it gives you someone closer to your age. How long has it been since the last of the old folk died?”

Petak glanced up sharply. “My age, my Lord? You flatter me, but they are far closer in age to Prince Vegeta in years than to me. Younger if I am not mistaken.”

Younger than Vegeta? Zarbon slowly digested this information. Vegeta, for all his arrogance and haughtiness was barely out of boy-hood. The slave couldn't possibly be near his age.

He glanced down at the old man. “Go back to your duties. You will find a reward for your compliancy in your quarters. In the next duty session send her to me, and warn her,” he lent down and whispered menacingly in the old man's ear, “she will speak to me or her friends will die.”

Petak watched helplessly, his heart sinking, as Frieza's second in command strode from the room, his cape billowing behind him.

 

~*~*~*~

 

She was not known for her prowess over her own inner strength but even Bulma noticed the sudden and violent surge in Piccolo's ki at the sound of the intruder's voice. She flinched, screwing up her nose as if the hatred that washed over her smelled as bad as one of Yamcha's sports socks.

“My, my Piccolo, is that any way to treat an old acquaintance? And you are disturbing your hosts,” the old voice laughed low, a rattling in its chest.

She looked around and could have sworn that Piccolo Diamo stood on the threshold to the meeting room…except that he was standing against the wall directly on the other side of the table from her and looking more than forty years younger.

“I am Kami,” the old - what had Ophis called them? - Namek said jovially, leaning on his heavy staff. “And this is Mr. Popo,” he gestured with his free hand.

The others all leant forward, to see something that was hidden by the length of the table from her and she scowled. Why could they never remember that she was shorter than all of them? Well, except for Krillen. Who had stood on the seat of his chair to get a better view. She leant back in her seat to see around Yamcha's back, tipping her chair onto its back legs and placing a hand on the wall so that she didn't make a fool of herself by landing sideways on the floor.

It was a short, fat version of Hontij, lacking the red hair - though it may have been hiding under the hat - and gaining a pair of large lips. Bulma stared.

And then her hand slipped on the wall.

She squealed and frantically waved her arms in front of her, desperately trying to counter balance her weight on the likely-to-topple chair. Yamcha calmly reached out and put a hand on the chair between her legs pushing it back into its natural position. She sighed in relief, her feet firmly planted on the floor.

He grinned at her. “He doesn't look that scary babe,” he whispered.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. Sometimes it was hard to tell if he was serious or just joking around.

Kami chuckled softly. “Well, now that we have been introduced and Piccolo has made the decision not to attack me blindly,” Piccolo sneered at the barb and Bulma scooted her chair closer to Yamcha as she saw the Namek clench his fist tight, “I would like to offer you the chance to come and train at my home.”

“Your home?” Krillen asked. “Where's that?” He raised a sceptical eyebrow. “And who are you exactly?”

“He is Kami,” Piccolo answered, still glaring at the older Namek. “He is the caretaker of this planet. He and I,” he sneered, “were once the same being.”

Gokou's eyes went wide. “Like before you were Piccolo Diamo. Wow.”

Piccolo snorted and turned his head away in disgust for Gokou's obvious awe of the other Namek.

“In any case,” the old Namek continued, “I would like for you to come and take special training at my home. This new enemy is like nothing that you have ever fought before. He and his empire are feared throughout the four quadrants. Even those stronger than you are now are nothing against him.”

“And your training is going to help? You aren't even a fighter old man,” Piccolo rudely muttered.

“I will not be the one training you,” Kami replied evenly, a smirk tugging at the wrinkles around his mouth.

The younger Namek looked sideways at his elder and studied him for a moment. “I will come to observe this trainer. If they are as good as you seem to think they are, I will join these humans.”

Kami fought to hide a grin. “As you wish.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Radditz lent over the crate looking down at OneBlack. She glared back at him. He grinned. “Bad slave. You shouldn't be so defiant.”

She sighed and plunged her hand into the open box in front of her, pulled out a package and tossed it up to him. He caught it, ripped it open with his teeth and proceeded to practically inhale the contents.

It had become almost routine for this little meeting to occur every second day or so. She would come down with the other slaves to unpack and rearrange the storage, forced to do most of the heavy work, the other slaves would leave early, leaving her to clean the mess they left behind and when she had finished she would find that he had silently appeared behind her.

She had her suspicions that he had been in amongst the crates when she and the others had arrived for their shift but as he never bothered them, or sat in an area where they might find him, she couldn't be sure. Today he had wanted more sweet goods. Last time it had been new linen for Vegeta. She wondered if anyone was asking questions about where he was getting all these things from but the likelihood was that no one cared. She had seen other soldiers down here searching for this and that. The difference with Radditz was that he knew that she knew where everything was, and so saved himself the hassle. Plus he had figured out what she was doing and she was not about to risk him telling anyone; especially since she hadn't even told her friends.

He dropped down beside her suddenly, causing her to jump. “Still not talking?” he asked, and grinned at her again.

OneBlack was sure he enjoyed teasing her about her silence, it had become a game for him; trying to get any amount of sound out of her. So far he only had the guttural cry she screamed when he'd pulled her off that other slave. She wiped a clump of dirty hair out of her face, smearing dust and grime across her scarred eye.

“Can you still see out of that thing?” he asked.

She hadn't realised he'd been looking. Slowly she nodded her head. He was in a strange mood today; asking her personal questions, picking her up and hopping nimbly over the crates until she pointed to the one he was looking for where he would usually make her climb.

He bent down to look eye to eye with her. It was an effort on his part as she was deliberately hunched over, to make herself look feeble. “What about that ki of yours? Learnt to throw it yet?”

Now she was worried. What the hell was going on?

She shook her head vehemently and backed away from him. She had to leave. Now.

“Hey,” he called as she ducked sideways between two crates. “Hey! What's the matter?”

I've a crazy Saiya-jin near me, she thought. He's being nice. I'm insane for doing this! She quickly wound her way through the maze of crates, heading for the ramp leading back up to the lesser storage areas.

“Hey!” he shouted, grabbing her arm and forcing her to stop abruptly. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

I hate Saiya-jins! OneBlack shook her head again, at a loss for a way to communicate that she was confused as all hell by the way he was acting, not to mention that he was scaring her. Not that he would have cared.

“Insane slave,” he muttered as he let her go. She stumbled backwards and fell hard onto her rear. “You're as unpredictable as Frieza.” He glared down at her, before snorting softly and striding past her to disappear behind yet another tall pile of crates.

She stared after him for a moment before her shoulders sagged in relief.

“And get down here early next time!” he growled, poking his head of long shaggy hair back around the corner.

She cried out and whacked the back of her head on the edge of the crate behind her.

“I get bored easily.” He grinned again and his canines glinted in the bright lights of the cargo bay. “Gutteral cries and screaming; your vocab is coming along girl.”

His laughter at her indignant expression followed him as he disappeared from her sight again.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Dodoria squinted at the readout before him. It was encrypted, but the tech at the console next to him was working furiously and slowly the text was becoming visible. It ended up being only three sentences long. The encryption had read like an essay.

Fat pink fingers tapped at the screen thoughtfully. Usual procedure would have him run a printout of this message and finding Zarbon so that they could work out how to approach Frieza with the news but he had grown sick of the blue skinned man recently, as his counterpart seemed to have little time for him and rejected every suggestion he made. Irate, Dodoria was not about to pass this chance to remind Frieza why he had elevated him to such an honoured position in the first place.

He ran the print off and strode across the bridge into Frieza's Audience Room.

“Master Frieza,” he knelt as the diminutive Tsiru-jin turned from the console he sat at.

Frieza glanced around the room. “Dodoria,” he paused. “Where is Zarbon?”

Dodoria dug his fingers into his palms. “I do not know Master Frieza; he has been quite…erratic lately.”

Frieza scowled. “What is it?”

The pink man stood. “A message, from the Bryu-jin.”

“The scrap people?” Frieza asked, mildly surprised. “What trash are they offering now?”

Dodoria handed the printout to his Lord. “The co-ordinates of Chikyuu-sei.”