Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Ransom Due ❯ Scratch My Back ( Chapter 5 )

Ransom Due - Chapter 5 - Scratch My Back

 

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He thought about the vial. He surmised he'd put too much stock in the control it had afforded him. Perhaps that had been the beginning of the string of mistakes that had ultimately led to the destruction of his ship and the termination of his command. It had seemed such a simple solution to what he'd seen as a potential problem. The small glass tube had contained some kind of colorless oil or liquid, he had been aware of a slight sharp, pungent odor whenever he uncapped it. It had proven effective in the control of the slave's transformations - for a time. Looking back, it seemed that gradually the effectiveness of the solution waned, while spontaneous transformations occurred more often. By the time he had been made aware of ominous implications of the situation, however, it was far too late.

 

The slave's transformed state proved much stronger in terms of the paltry strength apparent in the race. It also seemed the salve's personality in that condition was characterized by an obstinate bravado that never failed to anger him intensely. In short, the transformed slave bordered on the edge of having a modicum of control over him, rather than the other way around. He had been loathe to be around the transformed slave, but was forced to often enough because Captain Daax saw another skilled gunner in the ranks of Missionary's troops as more of a practical asset than a mere domestic slave was. The captain also apparently found some amusement in the obvious consternation the transformed slave caused Raditzu, who consoled himself with the fact that at least the woman was more forthcoming with information about his brother during times while she was transformed. Unfortunately, his own obstinate and proud nature had allowed him to overlook, once again until it was far too late, the fact that the salve only did this out of the entertainment value his reactions afforded her.

 

Daax only increased orders to trigger the slave's transformation after the first mission she was deployed on with squad 57 had been a rousing success. For a squad of regular infantry to clear a world so quickly had been almost unprecedented. All reports from the squad commander indicated that the slave, which the entire squad had taken to referring to by her ridiculous given name, Lunch, was not only a master in the handling of munitions of all kinds, but seemed to thrive on the mission itself. He'd even gone so far as to remark that her nature on the battlefield came close to being Siayan-like, a comment for which he'd almost lost his life. As if the scum knew anything about the Saiya-jin, save for rumor and conjecture. In the end Raditzu had let it go because Daax was right - the bump in Missionary's overall statistics due to squad 57's performance as a whole was good for all of them in the long run. It would not do to remove their commander in an untimely manner. After several similar performances by the squad during ensuing months of service, (which seemed to be rubbing off on some of the other infantry divisions aboard Missionary as well) both the Captain and his Sub-Commander were given a nominal raise in their part of the take on the cleared planets. They had even landed themselves a place at the annual tournament on Freiza planet No. 75, which was considered more than a little bit of an honor in the ranks of such roving starships.

 

The slave had actually had the audacity to start what she referred to as `casual conversation' one evening over a mug of Arlian ale in the ship's bar. Much to Raditzu's chagrin, her first-rate performance had brought with it more than the occasional bar chit. She had been engaging in `casual conversation' with a couple of other soldiers from her squad when he entered, but they made as hasty an exit as they could manage upon noticing him. As usual, the slave acted as if no one in particular, let alone her master, had walked in. He made a point of stomping in sanctimoniously, which turned out to be not much of a point at all because the stupid gravity was kept so low on common parts of the ship for the weakling personnel. He opted to glare at her as he sat himself on the stool next to hers. She simply glared back for a moment. Suddenly her face broke into a wide grin, which completely took him aback. It was an expression that he'd never seen cross her features before (at least not up close, he was familiar with this from the first battle simulation with squad 57 - specifically when she'd been picking off snipers like flies.) She produced a bar chit and slapped it down onto the bar pointedly.

 

“Hey!” she yelled at the bartender. “Give the boss here one of whatever he wants.” She then turned back to Raditzu and grinned again. “Consider it a thank-you,” she said.

 

The grin was really closer to a self-important smirk. For the first time he realized that it wasn't just her attitude, but something about her transformed appearance that really unsettled him on some primal level. It seemed as though her eyes, while that strange emerald color, took on some unforgiving viciousness that was positively absent before the transformation. He couldn't put his finger on it, and in truth hadn't really even admitted it to himself, but something about the combination of those eyes and the almost golden colored hair gave him an uneasy feeling that was just… wrong.

 

“I really think the upgrade in accommodations has been long overdue, considering I've been on good behavior and all, don't you?”

 

He was only half paying attention to what she'd just said because it had dawned on him that he hadn't triggered the transformation. He'd only just started becoming incredulous about that fact when what she'd said registered.

 

He tried not to let his temper boil over completely. There were other people in the heavily frequented common space and he really didn't want it to show that his slave had the ability to get under his skin to a large extent. He really didn't want to get chewed out by the Captain for destroying the bar, either. He could tell by the look of the bartender, who'd been waiting patiently for his order, that he was only marginally successful in this. For all that had been Vegetasei, one thing he could admit to himself was that he was terrible at pulling off this sort of bluff.

 

“The same,” he said to the bartender and waved him off without removing his undoubtedly scathing gaze from the slave. “What,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, “are you talking about?” She started to say something, but he continued. “And why, pray tell, are you sitting around here… like this? I thought I ordered you in here to have all the glasses and any other utensils cleaned.”

 

“Oh, but I finished that,” she said offhandedly. Apparently it was the last thing on her mind. For a moment the grin wavered. “I think?” She turned back to the bartender who had returned with Raditzu's ale. “Hey Chucky, did I clean a bunch of cups an' stuff when I came in here?” she asked.

 

“Well yeah,” the bartender replied assuredly, “every one.” The bartender knew better than to address Raditzu without having been asked to, but he continued, obviously for the Sub-commander's benefit. “Like crystal. Every one.”

 

Raditzu turned his glare in the bartender's direction. The bartender immediately scurried back to the storage room on the other side of the bar, outwardly deciding that this particular `casual conversation' was something he wanted no part of.

 

“Anyway,” she was grinning at him again, “I ain't got much but I figured you scratch my back, I scratch yours, right, Boss?”

 

How could she possibly go on as though the very air around him wasn't literally crackling with his rage?! He took a deep breath and tried once more to make his point without exploding.

 

“I gave no authorization for a change in living arrangements…” he began.

 

The grin crumbled. “Oh… Captain Daax gave the orders and I thought surely they had come through you because… oh.” She stared at the remains of her ale for a moment.

 

“Oh, please, do go on,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because?”

 

“Well, because last I heard I was your responsibility.” Her attention snapped from the glass back to him. The audacious glare had returned in full force. “Don't even tell me that El Capitan is in charge of me now because even in alien terms he is just waaay too ugly for me to take all that seriously, know what I mean?”

 

The absurdity of the situation finally overcame him and suddenly all the anger disappeared, if just for a moment. He suddenly did explode, but uncharacteristically, with a deep, throaty laugh. The very idea that he'd be sitting in a bar on a galactic class starship that he was mostly in command of, discussing the ugliness of his captain (one of Freiza's hand-picked agents) over a beer with a human slave that had somehow come into his possession… the whole thing was just completely bizarre. (Except that Daax was pretty damn ugly, even for his race.) For her part, the slave was totally put off guard by this. He thought she actually jumped off the stool a couple of inches. He finally was gaining the upper hand in this practice of `casual conversation.' His laughter diminished to a low chuckle and he downed the ale in its entirety, at which point he looked directly at her, anger evident again, and asked, as nonchalantly as he could muster, “so how'd you transform this time?”

 

Her composure was shot. Looking back he realized that she had more than likely had a lot more than one Arlian ale, which was pretty strong stuff by most race's standards, but at the time he'd been sure that this was a definite victory in whatever game fate had haphazardly thrown him into.

 

“Oh, that.” She cleared her throat and looked back down at the bottom of the glass in front of her. “It really can't be helped. You see it's just always been this way. I drink, she gets to enjoy the lovely parting gift known as a hangover.* I'm really sorry, Boss. She's a complete teetotaler and I just can't perform on Shirley Temples and virgin bloodies alone… How could anyone in this place?”

 

“Well,” he replied icily, “what you just said makes little or no sense at all, so let's just head on down to the med unit and continue this discussion with that sorry whelp that calls herself a medical technician, shall we?”

 

He grabbed a fistful of the distressing blonde hair as he'd come into the habit of doing (he'd figured out that it was one of the few physical options he had without breaking anything, as long as he could manage not to jerk too hard and snap her neck) and forcibly led her out of the bar. He only let her go when they were securely inside the anti-grav lift up to the deck the med unit was located on. Once there, she started talking again.

 

“Um… there was actually something I've been meaning to ask you about.” He smugly reminded himself as he nodded curtly that she still looked somewhat worried at the turn their conversation had finally taken. “This thing on the Freiza planet, they posted a roster that has you and Daax each in a one on one with somebody. The guys in the squad said there's an incentive lottery of sorts, but we're all expected to bid our chits on you guys out of respect and all.”

 

“Uh huh.” He was barely paying attention. This was common knowledge and hardly mattered to him. The tournament battles at such events were conventional. There were usually few surprises, the point being that Freiza reinforced the reason he picked who he picked to be responsible for certain things. It was a show of where the already obvious power in the trade was, and little more. Raditzu had actually yet to attend such a function. Rumor had it that the only recent exception to the traditional flow of things had been several of Prince Vegeta's bouts. It was one of the few things he looked forward to witnessing at the event.

 

“The roster has your power levels and stuff listed right there in black an' white. I figure if you spend a lot of time training before this deal, you could just about catch up to your opponent.”

 

“So what? The up to date power levels are always posted just before the match. My opponent will undoubtedly train as well. Those fights are little more than tradition, there's no real sport in them. Feh!” He actually spat at the floor of the lift just thinking about such a farce being referred to as competition. It was so much of a waste. “Whatever you're thinking about the common bidding pool, forget it. It's little more than a show of tribute from you lowlifes, nothing more.”

 

“But I heard some rumors that there's a bigger pool that the well to do participate in ever since that Prince Something-Or-Other pulled off a couple of upsets, or nearly did, at the last few tournaments.”

 

He raised an eyebrow and perceptibly looked down his nose at her. “That would be Prince Vegeta, and you'd better refer to him as such from now on, especially within his earshot, or you will be killed. Without question.

 

“He's Saiya-jin, like you, right?”

 

“Yes,” he sighed. This was getting tedious.

 

“Then perhaps you could pull off an upset…”

 

“Not likely. Prince Vegeta is potentially the strongest thing in the universe, save for Freiza himself.”

 

“Come on, now. Don't sell yourself short. Besides, you don't have to get that much stronger, just enough to beat your opponent. If you keep your power level down when they run the final scans and during the majority of the match you could totally pull it off. It could prove to be very lucrative for somebody when it's all said and done.” She was grinning again as she said this, and actually had the nerve wink at him as she completed the statement.

 

“Don't be ridiculous. You can't hold down your power level. Even if you could you can't fool the scouters. It's just not possible. The very idea is just stupid, so give it up.”

 

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really. Funny you should say that because your little brother does it all the time. I hadn't really thought he'd outclassed you all that much. I mean, it seems such a simple thing, I had no idea that you would be unable…”

 

The lift reached its destination. He resumed his grip in her hair and pushed her forward. “Just shut up. Maybe we have to go over your story as far as just how well you know Kakarott because you ceased to have any credibility the minute you brought up this subject.”

 

“You mean the part about keeping your power level down or the part about not selling yourself short?” He couldn't see it because he was behind her but he just knew she was smirking again. He sharply twisted his grip on her hair. “Ow! Hey, I was just trying to do you a favor, it's your loss if you don't want to listen.”

 

They'd finally arrived at the med unit. He told the tech that the loss of control of the transformations and the steady flow of apparent bullshit was to cease immediately on no uncertain terms, reminding her that med techs were a dime a dozen and she could easily and speedily be retired and replaced at his whim. He was about to stalk out of the room when he turned abruptly and added that errant slaves turned up as little more than organic vapor all the time as well, which also could happen at his whim. Then he stalked out of the room.

 

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The medical technician had brought the slave directly to him this time, in its non-transformed state. She explained that the dosage of the original serum had been increased and the oversight on this particular occasion had been a fluke, nothing to really worry about. He had asked about the nonsense that the slave seemed to have come into the habit of spouting as of late, to which she'd replied that whatever memory loss accompanied the transformations must surely be responsible for.

 

He'd made sure to keep the slave from transforming at all up until just shortly before the next purging mission due for squad 57. It made his life simpler in that he had a lot of backed up logs that had to be filed, and he had wanted more training time. As much as he had brushed off talk about the tournament, it was always better to make a good showing than not, even if you were slated as a looser. Freiza sometimes had particularly poor performers publicly dispatched. To keep things interesting, it was rumored. For this reason, even if there was some kind of rich-man's gambling going on at the tournament, it was unlikely anyone would deliberately throw a fight. The more he thought about it, the more he could see how the idea of an upset would have been an attractive subject for debate by a bunch of infantry that had never thought they'd have had the chance to even see such a tournament. Some of the indentured had relations that actually had some semblance of paltry assets. Such an upset against the odds could indeed make someone more than a few credits. It was something he might have at least debated with himself on doing if it were at all possible, but it just wasn't.

 

Even still, the nagging supposition that his younger brother may have figured out some technique that would forever elude him began to gnaw at him between training sessions. Finally at one point when he happened upon the slave in the midst of cleaning up in his barracks (he was running low on tasks that would give him an excuse not to let the slave transform, normally he wouldn't have let her into his personal quarters alone) he resurrected the subject.

 

“You told me a while ago that Kakarott has the ability to…” he'd had to stop for a moment. Something was different about the room. He could clearly see the stars through the two large portholes he was allowed in the upscale quarters, which he'd never particularly noticed before. If he'd had any more skill at navigation, he could have probably charted a course for the ship by the bright pinpoints now visible, albeit tinted a garish green by the color of the glass, which he'd always assumed was just frosted. She was strangely backlit by this and the reflections of the standard lighting in the room, which made her dark hair look almost blue.

 

“You didn't want those cleaned?… I'm sorry.” The slave was looking sheepishly down at her shoes and began wringing the offending washrag still clutched in her hands.”

 

“No,” he replied, “it's not that, I just thought… Never mind!” How the hell had she goaded him into conversation again? He actually enjoyed the luxury of having a slave when she wasn't transformed for the very reason that she was unquestioningly obedient, genuinely frightfully cowed in his presence and generally stayed out of his way and kept quiet. “I wanted to know about Kakarott and this technique that masks power levels. How does he achieve this?”

 

“Well,” she looked up at him thoughtfully, but not in a totally disrespectful manner. “He did have a lot of training, but I think the way he described it was that he found the stillness in his heart?… No, wait. It was more like he learned to make his heart still.”

 

“Training? Who of the pitiful population of your planet would be worthy of training a Saiya-jin?” The first part of her statement had captured the entirety of his attention; he didn't even waste time trying to make sense out of the second part yet.

 

“God.” She shrugged and went back to fidgeting with the washrag.

 

He started laughing, for the second time in only a standard year's passage, as he moved to usher her out of his quarters. “You're clearly pulling my leg again. That's ridiculous.” He'd heard of alien cultures that believed in such `supreme beings' or `world protectors,' but in all his years of purging planets he'd never seen a shred of evidence to support such mythology.

 

No, really!” she protested. “I told you he was really strong, didn't I? Surely he's as strong as you, if not more. He only got training from God after he defeated the Devil.”

 

He laughed a little bit more. He found her explanation so preposterous it wasn't worth his getting angry about. By this time he had her securely by the hair and was pushing her towards the portal. “Yeah, sure. With the picture you've painted I'd think he'd want to keep the Devil around just for kicks.”

 

“If you had control over a whole planet, would you want to share it with the Devil?”

 

This last actually gave him pause. Not only did it make perfect sense, (in terms of a nonsensical argument, anyway) it conformed to his, for that matter any Saiya-jin's base temperament. It was true; if he had claimed something all to himself he wouldn't tolerate sharing it with anybody, not even the Devil if such a thing existed. Case in point, the fact that he hadn't let her transform in so long. He was, among other things, essentially sick of having to share what was his, by all standard rules of the trade, with the Captain and the riff raff that was squad 57. She had also made this last statement and the one before it with a modicum of conviction and assuredness, which seemed to be rare when she said anything in her non-transformed state. She, at least, unquestionably believed these things to be true of his brother.

 

“Show me.” He spun her around to face him and then let go.

 

She rubbed at the back of her head where he'd had hold. “I…I don't think I'm qualified to provide the caliber of training one would get from God, do you, sir?”

 

Damn her! She was managing to make him look as if he didn't know the obvious even when she didn't have the snide attitude that came with transformation. He briefly considered tossing her out again, maybe all the way out the nearest airlock, but he'd already allowed himself to get dragged into conversation this far, so he let it go. It would have been a lie if he had claimed his curiosity wasn't piqued. In a place where things tended to follow status quo and nothing else, if it was possible to learn such a technique he'd decided he was going to do just that. “Well, perhaps,” he said in an acid tone, “you could start by pointing me in the right direction.”

 

“OK.” She took a deep breath. “I believe you would have to start with some kind of intensive meditation. There must be some form with which you are familiar…” The confusion he felt at this statement must have shown because she went on, “… or maybe I should show you one?”

 

“Fine.” He grudgingly stepped aside to give her room to demonstrate whatever it was she had to show.

 

She moved to the emptiest part of the floor and sat, took another deep breath and upon exhaling closed her eyes, brought her arms to the fore and pressed her fingers together in what looked like the imitation of a pyramid. “And then you would go about the process of clearing your mind. I guess from there you'd have to find your heart and make it completely still, but I really have no idea how it's done, to be honest.” Her dark eyes snapped open again and she hopped up off the floor.

 

“Well?”

 

“That's it. I really don't know any more…” She looked completely flummoxed.

 

“I said show me. You only gave instructions.”

 

“I don't… I don't meditate myself. I can't, I mean I'm no good at it.” For a moment a look of terror crossed her features that seemed more intense than even the first time he'd interrogated her when she was dropped off on Missionary. She quickly regained her composure, though. “I'd hate to demonstrate the wrong way and get you off on the wrong foot from the start, sir. Maybe you should just give it a try and we can go from there?”

 

He grunted sharply and took the spot she'd just vacated on the floor. He imitated the process she'd just shown and tried to clear his mind. He heard a strange squeak from her direction. He opened one eye and looked over to find her red-faced, trying desperately to stifle laughter. A growl escaped him as he shot up from the floor and moved in her direction. “You're just doing this because you want to make a fool of me?!”

 

She scurried behind the nearest piece of furniture, which happened to be his desk, faster than he'd thought she was capable and cowered there. “No, no! Sorrysorrysorrysorry…” She whimpered as she futilely tried to shield herself with the washrag.

 

Just as he reached the desk he managed to remind himself that what he was about to do would surely kill her and he might never know the proper way to mask his power level if he did that. He stopped a step away from launching himself to the other side. “Am I to assume I'm doing something wrong then?” he asked in as even a tone as he could manage.

 

Her head tentatively popped up from behind the opposite edge of the desk. “You just looked like it was almost painful for you to do that and I've never seen... You must know how to relax…?”

 

“Of course,” he said, probably too forcefully because her head disappeared behind the desk and under the rag again.

 

“You have to be completely relaxed and focused when you're doing this or there's no way it will work. I do know that for sure.” She spoke so quietly and in combination with the `protective layer' of washrag covering her he could barely discern it.

 

“Fine. Come out of there and I'll try it again… as long as you can manage not to mock me.” He moved back to the center of the room to let her know it was safe to come out.

 

She slowly emerged from behind the desk, albeit still on her hands and knees. He went ahead and repeated the motions she had shown him.

 

“No,” she said flatly. She was sitting on the floor on the nearer side of the desk with her arms and the rag wrapped protectively around her knees. “I can tell you're still too rigid.” She carefully scooted a little closer to him. “Uh… hold out your arm.”

 

He stuck out the arm nearest to her. She slowly moved closer and went to put her hands around his forearm, but then stopped. “May I?” she gestured towards his arm.

 

“If you must.” He desperately struggled to stave off his exasperation with the way the whole affair was turning out. It was certainly unlike any training he had ever even heard of.

 

She grasped his arm above the elbow and tried to shake it. Nothing happened. “Are you relaxed now?”

 

“I'm trying to be.”

 

“Well, stop trying and just do it.” She paused for a moment and tried again. This time his arm moved with her efforts. “Now you're moving it on purpose. You have to let it go.”

 

After many, many attempts he finally found his arm hanging limp in her grasp as she moved it. Her grip was more than a little shaky from the scare he'd given her, but to her credit she steadfastly repeated the exercise until he managed this. So many failed attempts at something would have bought him at least more than a few bruises if not broken bones in any training session he'd been familiar with. Any other mentor would have at least given up in irritation if not complete anger. This one seemed to have nothing to offer save for gentle patience. It was truly a wonder anybody on her planet still lived. It was clear none of them would have a chance of survival when he arrived there.

 

“Good,” she suddenly brought him out of his thoughts. He realized she had already released his arm. “Now you can try doing the whole thing.”

 

He once again performed the motions required. He managed to hold the position for a moment when he heard quiet applause from the slave. He opened one eye again and peered at her. “Yay!” she exclaimed “See, that's the easy part.”

 

“I can't possibly clear my mind with you doing that,” he hissed.

 

“OK. It's almost time for me to get into the galley and start fixing the late meal, anyway. Am I dismissed?”

 

He waved her off in the direction of the portal and began the process again. No sooner had he reached the proper position than she interrupted again.

 

“Hey, I suppose if you went ahead and put the gravity up where you like it you might have an easier time with that…”

 

“Fine,” he grumbled. He was loosing the relaxed state that he'd worked so hard to achieve, but at least he had some idea of how to reach it again. She started toward the portal again when in a momentary lapse of anything akin to his usual character he told her to wait. He got up and went to the desk and searched around in one of the compartments until he found a long forgotten recreational chit. He tossed it at her. “After you're done in the galley, go do whatever it is you do for recreation… just don't let the Captain see you wandering around aimlessly. Now get out so I can turn the gravity back up.”

 

He thought he saw her smile just a little as she exited through the portal. After it slid shut behind her he was sure he heard her humming to herself as she retreated down the corridor. Yup, he thought, those fools on her planet may as well be dead already. He went to the gravity controls and cranked it up eight clicks. As an afterthought he set his scouter on the desk facing where he was practicing the new technique. After some time, when he felt that he had at least managed to still his mind (he was yet unsure of this business of finding his heart, let alone forcing it still) he scrolled back through the readings on the device. Sure enough, his power level did read five points lower than when he began. This wasn't enough for anyone to believe it was more than malfunctioning equipment, but he knew his scouter was in perfect working condition. He'd just had it overhauled and checked for defects. Surprisingly, the whole cockamamie routine really had something to it. He resolved to continue his efforts indefinitely. He'd make sure Kakarott had as few surprises for him as possible when he finally reached Chickyu.

 

………………….

 

He'd eventually learned the technique to sufficiently suppress his ki, and in plenty of time for the tournament. Perhaps it was not mastery; perhaps he would have required training from a God to gain complete mastery. He wasn't even sure that he had properly initiated the process of making his heart still, but after spending literally every free moment in his quarters trying to find stillness specifically, he'd finally found it in the form of a long buried memory. It turned out the technique was similar to what he had experienced so many moons ago, when he had been little more than a gangly adolescent, mere months after having been retrieved from his infant mission. He hadn't even been training when the epiphany of sorts came upon him; in fact, he'd been in the middle of stuffing his face at an early meal, thinking over the process, the idea of making his heart still, when the memory surfaced in auditory form.

 

“Still yourself!” A direct command, it had seemed he'd heard it as clearly as so long ago, just as spoken in the gritty baritone of his mother's voice in ozaru form. The memory unfolded from there in intense clarity; the desolate, ruined planet with its battered, dim moon and the almost perfect quiet that had come with his first taste of self recognition in the form of the great ape. This particular memory of his mother in ozaru form was actually the clearest one he possessed of her. Training a novice ozaru to gain control was one of the few duties required of female Saiya-jin in regards to their offspring. Pod technology had made even providing sustenance to infants obsolete, allowing females to be almost completely unfettered by their young and able to go about whatever business of the warrior culture they chose to pursue. It was the final initiation into Saiya-jin adulthood, the pupil either learned enough of a modicum of control to be an effective combatant in ozazru form, or their life was extinguished. This was also the last responsibility for a mother, the judgment of adequacy and possible execution being the final gift they were obliged to bestow upon their progeny.

 

In unearthing this memory he'd been able to use similar concentration to what he was familiar with in controlling the giant ape to rein in his ki. After that it was only a matter of convincing himself that he could actually pull off such a thing in the all-powerful presence of an audience consisting of, among others, Freiza and his finest. The decision to go through with it had come as a result of the greatest shame he'd ever suffered; the events that had culminated on the nearly failed mission that was the planet Andolonusia. He sick feeling in his stomach remembering the feeling of teetering on death's very edge and the realization that the only thing keeping him from going over was the efforts of his feeble slave - who didn't deserve to look him in the eye much less deny him death in battle. When he did actually pull off the upset during the tournament, stunning the most influential personages of the entire galaxy, his success was soured almost completely by the fact that the credit was almost wholly due to the achievements of his insignificant, weakling slave. It wasn't very long after that he'd completely lost his temper with the bitch and nearly killed her. Now he was not only bereft of all he had worked toward during his years in the trade, it was very likely possible that Vegeta's threat had been more than the bluff he hoped it was, proffered to whoever was possibly listening on the airwaves at the time.

 

That particular problem, and his ill-conceived jaunt to station Xi-599 to somehow save the life of the slave was all the fault of that narcissistic bully Zarbon, who'd shown up after the tournament to gloat over his unbelievable luck. The dandy had won a massive amount of credits betting on Raditzu's fight; on the offhanded notion that he had so many that he could make a show of throwing a significant amount to the wind. The bastard had then gone on to blather about some standing bet he and his companion Dodoria had come up with upon hearing that a mere third class Saiya-jin had somehow acquired a slave. The man had put quite a lot of credits up on the supposition that such a `savage' couldn't make it the rest of the standard year without dispatching his own material-goods. Vegeta had later made it clear, exceedingly clear, that he didn't want to even hear that a Saiya-jin was responsible for Zarbon gaining any more credits, not even one. Bad enough that Dodoria stood to make out like a bandit, but Vegeta had a particular distaste for Zarbon. The Prince had every right to be livid, and most probably genuinely was. He would surely consider this dreadful turn of events less than thanks for having invited a third class soldier on one of his and Nappa's personal privateer missions. Only time would tell the truth as they were supposed to rendezvous on Chikyuu and move on to a supposedly difficult purging. He could only hope that the apparent need for maybe even more muscle than three Saiya-jin, possibly four if Kakarott joined them, would cause Vegeta to reconsider his threat.

 

He silently cursed Zarbon, cursed Kakarott and cursed his slave to whom he owed nigh on three standard years of misery, not to mention his ship, his living and just about every shade of self-respect he'd ever had. It was quite possible that his very existence was now effectively null and void.

 

“Damn!” he cursed loudly to himself, stifling the urge to kick at the tattered interior of the pod. The thing had seen better days and he could easily breach the hull in such a fashion anyway. The standard lighting flickered; the battery gage was reading three-quarters full. The infernal wait was almost over.

 

 

 

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A/N …* I know this part here is a total and almost direct swipe from the flick “The Three Faces of Eve” but I couldn't write a story about a split personality and resist referring to the classic split personality story.

 

Critics, anyone? Speak up if this isn't running smoothly or has too many holes or whatever. I had to re-think a lot of the direction of this and writing isn't exactly my forte - I'm just doing this for fun -so give a holler if necessary. Or if you like what's going on, feel free to drop a note, too.