Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Playing Raditz's Game ❯ Turnover ( Chapter 3 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

The earth moon would be full that night. Raditz had been laying low and waiting on it. In the two days since he had seen Bulma on the island he had only touched a few minor cities with minimal opposition, having opted to wait for his Oozaru transformation to truly begin his work. During the elapsed time he had grown increasingly bored. He was itching for some sort of action – the moon couldn't rise fast enough. Nevertheless, let it not be said Raditz couldn't enjoy the finer things, or a moment of downtime when it found him. That morning he had took a bit of a pounding from a green man who had attempted to apprehend him as he terrorized and ultimately destroyed a city to the northeast of the hot spring in the mountains where was currently enjoying a soak, eyes closed and thick muscles relaxed. He was nodding off when the intrusive noise of a motor filled the air, causing Raditz to groan and crack his eyes open. Whoever had arrived, and he had a fair idea to their identity, cut the engine and stepped onto the rocks.

“You know, you're a hard guy to find. I had thought you would be leaving a trail to follow, but you're too neat for that, aren't you?”

He recognized that voice now. “You again.”

“Yes, me,” Bulma said. “No one else even wants to come look for you. Cowards.”

Raditz shifted and stood, “Now now, little earth woman. That's unfair of you. I did encounter one or two of your kind when I destroyed the cities that formerly lay to the northeast of here. I killed them, of course, but they did put in an effort.”

Bulma refused to react to his baiting. He couldn't tell if she had known that her friends had tried and failed to resist him or not. Her expression was like steel. “I didn't come here to talk about your demolition schedule.”

“Oh really?” he asked, turning around to face her. He stepped out of the water. “And why then did you come? Did you miss me that badly?”

Bulma blushed beautifully and turned away, “No.”

Raditz laughed at her and dried his body by raising his ki before dressing. Bulma waited until she heard the sound of him slipping on his boots to address him again.

“I came to talk about Goku and Gohan.”

“They're dead,” Raditz said gruffly.

Bulma cracked a huge grin. “No they're not. You've only sent them away.”

Raditz schooled his expression. “No, they're dead,” he denied.

“Whatever, I know you're lying,” she seethed. “And I wanted you to know I knew, and I wanted you to know that Goku will never let us be forgotten.”

Raditz scoffed, “Duly noted.”

His lack of response seemed to shake her, but still she spoke again. “He only gets stronger.”

“Most Saiyans do.”

“So he is alive!”

“He's dead to you.”

That closed the conversation. She bit her lip and swung her leg back over the motorbike she had come on then kicked its engine back to life. Again, Raditz let her go. She was just too entertaining to kill this early in the game; too full of surprises to waste. How she had managed to figure out that her friend his brother and son were living was beyond him, and he half suspected she was bluffing. Either way, he wasn't quite ready for her to flicker out of existence yet. She was a ripe area for comedy and what did it matter that she knew Kakarrott and his boy were alive, anyway? They were on their way to the purging station now and they wouldn't be coming back. Besides, Raditz rather liked Bulma and her stupid bravery. He cracked his neck and stretched.

He would save her for last.


The purging station that Raditz, Nappa, and Prince Vegeta called home was one of the smallest bases on its side of the quadrant. It was built upon a watery planet that had once been inhabited by amphibious people who had long since been wiped out; there were virtually no remnants of their civilization now. The only things standing on the planet's limited land were dormitories and infirmaries for the warriors who lived there between assignments, a mess hall and five numbered training arenas, and the hangar. The rest of the planet was unusable swamp land that gurgled and hissed with pollution. All in all it was a desolate, uninspiring place with the primary function of prison for the Saiyans. Here they could do no harm, lead no coups d'état, and grow no stronger than what was carefully allowed. The three of them were constantly under surveillance and their power levels monitored for unsolicited jumps and spikes. Frieza wanted the Saiyan prince and his companions for pomp and prestige only. He didn't want soldiers he couldn't control, so they were carefully trimmed and pruned like bonsai trees. They were given just enough to be phenomenal by all other standards, yet kept at a level that was insignificant in the sight of Lord Frieza. They never went anywhere or did anything that wasn't painstakingly pre-approved. How Raditz had managed to gain clearance to go off hunting for his baby brother was beyond the Saiyan prince.

The third class among them was an unnaturally lucky bastard if there ever was one.

“The prince should report to the infirmary, sir.”

Vegeta stared coldly at the reptilian caretaker of the hangar and narrowed his eyes. Of course he was to report to the infirmary. He was physically damaged; the beating his armor hard taken and the deep gashes in and bruising on his skin were evidence enough of that. His body's natural healing mechanisms were already at work knitting him back together and he had to return to the infirmary so that they could be stopped. A Saiyan's body grew stronger in both defeat and victory, and it grew strongest when left to its own devices. The regeneration tanks were efficient at returning a body to its prior state, but that was about it. The accelerated rate of healing didn't negate their ability to become stronger after sustaining injury, but it did hinder it. There simply wasn't enough time.

He brushed past the alien gruffly, Nappa following close behind. The larger Saiyan was shredded pretty well himself and doubtlessly had a date with a regeneration tank, too. So was life in the elite. Their higher power levels meant they endured the most difficult missions of the Cold Empire, and as Frieza's pet monkeys they were expected to defeat their targets with minimal effort, or at least with the minimal appearance of it. Appearances were everything. Appearances and power.

The infirmary was perhaps Vegeta's most hated place in the purging station. The gel of the tanks reeked and left a film behind that was impossible to scrub off for a week, and his subjugation to the doctors there merely served to remind him how totally under Frieza's thumb his life truly was. He was healed under the pretense that it was for his own good health, but the prince knew better. He had been kept small, kept weak, and kept far from his true potential.

But that would change. That would change very soon, he thought as the doctors fitted him with a breathing mask that sealed tightly to his face. Around his naked body the tank filled with gel as gas filtered into his air supply, numbing his senses and rendering him comatose.

When Vegeta awoke, the station's commanding officer Chamo was waiting for him, which was never the sign of a good thing. Chamo was a hulking figure of a man with deep crimson skin and hair the color of grain whose power level outstripped Vegeta's by several thousand units of measure. He would have been utterly wasted here in this insignificant purging station if it wasn't for his active role as warden to the Saiyans.

The prince stood and wrestled his breathing mask away with hollow-feeling arms. It would take a few minutes for the after effects of the regeneration gel to wear off, and until the did all of Vegeta's muscles would feel as if they were asleep. The tank opened and Vegeta stepped out on pins and needles, naked as the day he was born. He stood straight before Chamo, his tail whipping frantically behind him as he tried to keep balance.

“Prince Vegeta,” Chamo said, “I trust your mission was a success?”

“Naturally,” he spat. “What do you want?”

Chamo sighed. “Please, Vegeta. Try to have a little decorum.” Vegeta didn't respond. He trusted is unamused expression spoke volumes enough for him. It was a successful assumption and Chamo sighed again. “While you were deployed we received a transmission from Raditz that he had indeed found his brother.”

Vegeta turned his back to Chamo and his attention to the fresh clothes laid out for him by the doctors. “What a joy,” he lamented, beginning to dress. Chamo ignored him.

“The Saiyan Kakarrot and his son will be arriving at the station in approximately two months time, Prince Vegeta. It has been decided that Nappa will handle the adult specimen and the care of the infant has been assigned to you.”

Vegeta froze. “What?”

Chamo chuckled. “You heard me. Apparently Kakarrot's brother bred with the very species he was sent to end. Poetic, isn't it?”

“Damn disgusting,” Vegeta allowed, fitting on the last of a pair of fresh boots. “Why am I being saddled with the brat? I'm the Prince of Saiyans, not the nanny of halfbreeds.”

At this Chamo outright laughed. “Oh, Prince Vegeta. You slay me.”

“Is that an order?” the prince asked sarcastically while reaching for his gloves.

“Hmph. All joking aside, Prince Vegeta, this is a very serious assignment.”

Serious? It was babysitting. His time was wasted on this, time that could be spent trying to press the limits of his jailing to become stronger. Strong enough to end Frieza's reign.

“I can see you haven't grasped it quite yet,” Chamo continued, “so allow me to explain fully. This child, this son of Kakarrot, bears the blood of your people. It's diluted and probably worthless, but it's there. And it had been tasked to you to determine whether or not this child, this Saiyan child, is an asset to the Cold Empire and should be kept, or if we will terminate him.”

Vegeta stopped dressing. It had clicked.

“...Of course,” Chamo drawled, “on the opposite end of the spectrum, if he's too strong.... well. You know.”

“He'll be killed,” Vegeta finished.
 
“Precisely.”

By this point in conversation Vegeta's body and extremeties once again felt as if they belonged to him. He stood up straighter and stared down his commander fearlessly and without the slightest suggestion he had comprehended what was being said. He was being given charge of Kakarrot's infant as an exercise in futility. The decision to terminate his charge had all but been made already. This was just another psychological bout between himself and Lord Frieza where the child would be the casualty. Kakarrot's son was just the latest nail hammered home that there wasn't a thing Vegeta could do to preserve his people, that he – the Prince of Saiyans – was a prince of nothing. There was no magical window of usefulness by which the child would be saved. Rather, he would be allowed to keep the child long enough to become used to it (because he would not care for it) only to have it stripped away.

Honestly, it was almost as if Frieza had given up trying. His schemes for breaking him were getting more and more tired with every attempt.

“Are we finished here?”

The commander smirked. “Dismissed.”

Vegeta needed no further prompting. He left the infirmary quickly and made for his quarters, a small room he had the distinction and privilege of not having to share with a bunkmate, and keyed the door locked behind him. He glanced around the spartan room which contained the few items he actually owned. None of it was very important; any of the objects and things he had placed value on had long since been taken from him. There were changes of clothes in his closet, a handful of books he didn't read on the shelf, and a bed that was akin to sleeping on stone. These were the things he had, these things and his pride. He slumped onto the hard bed and closed his eyes.

He wondered if the decision had been made whether or not to terminate Raditz's brother like it had already been made about the brat. It was a far stretch to imagine any kin of Raditz being particularly strong, so Vegeta doubted Kakarrot would be labeled as a threat, and Frieza's point would be well enough made by killing the child. Doubtless Kakarrot would be a burden just like his brother. Vegeta held out no great hopefulness that Kakarrot would be anything but another third class disgrace of what remained of their race, and the thought almost didn't bother him.

Vegeta had always been alone. Friendless, peerless. It was his destiny. He would become stronger on his own, and he would rebel against Frieza on his own, and he would win. He knew it in his heart, felt it in his bones, and with that thought in mind the prince decided for the millionth time that he didn't need anyone's help to do it. Nor their hindrance, he thought, deciding as well that if Kakarrot proved a difficulty, he would terminate him himself.


Author's Note: Naked Saiyans. Naked Saiyans everywhere.