Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Rhapsody in Flames ❯ Chapter One - Shra'far ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

The dull, echoing cries from the trade floor were muffled, but loud.  There could be two, perhaps even three hundred Saiya-jin combat-class soldiers bidding today.  It was the busiest day in at least a week and the more bidders there were then the more slaves would be sold.  As she pressed a dirty cheek against the heavily insulated wall, a gritty sort of hope danced in her chest.  There were twenty of them in the holding cell today, but she had been chosen for the trade floor every day since her transfer to the Mahelka three weeks ago and so far, nothing.
They’d found her little guns.  Well, it might be unfair to call them ‘little’.  But they’d found them, dismantled them and sold the parts in any case, the bastards.  Their security squads had ruined everything she’d worked so hard for.  Now it was back to square one for her skinny ass, and she was beginning to get desperate.
The electronic shackles on her wrists were chaffing her skin, and the smell of the other slaves, the noises of their many different languages, even their alien faces were enough to drive her mad.  The door panel was opening.
Although she had barely moved from the corner of the room for three hours, the trade jailer who entered pointed a finger at her directly and shouted something in Saiyago.  She did not quite understand everything, but the brute chuckled and put both hands on his wide, strong hips.
“YOU!”  He shouted at her, and when she did not move immediately, he strode quickly to the corner and gripped a handful of her mussed, muted blue hair.  She flinched as he hauled her to her feet, but made no sound, and wished heartily that simple hatred were powerful enough to kill him where he stood.
“I’ve been waiting for your turn, buhala-kalzan.”  He sneered at her.  He smelled like most Saiya-jin:  spicy and close to the ground they were born to.  But this one, his breath reeked of drink—whatever it was that they drank.  She wrinkled her nose up at him, and he let go of her hair.  He spat something she again did not understand and then, with a shove, “let’s go.”
Some of the others in the holding cell stared openly at the exchange, while others looked away with trepidation as they surely imagined their own fate on the trade floor.  Would it be a comparatively unimportant city guard who purchased her?  Perhaps a palace dignitary who had fallen out of favor with the Saiya-jin royalty?  The crowds this week had not been Elite Class military; that was a fact.  But then who else would buy a dirty and smirking little refugee from Earth who, three or four times a week, had built small, torturous little tech devices with which to murder her previous owner?
“…should have had you cleaned before we put you out.”  The guard was telling her as he led her through the short hallway and toward the bulkhead that separated the holding cell from the trading floor.  Yes, she would have enjoyed a lovely bath with some soap and a small helping of dignity.  He gripped her shoulder cruelly and spun her around to face him.
They were just like humans, she mused.  In fact, if not for their strong ki abilities, unnatural physical strength, eerie black eyes and exceedingly thick hair she would have difficulty distinguishing them from her kin.  She smirked at him, though, and flared her nostrils.  How she hated him.
“You stink.”  She told him, though her accent was not quite what it should be.  He understood though and he snarled, then reached out to wrap careful fingers around her neck.
“Buhala,” he spat, “if you were ugly, I’d kill you now.”  He pushed back a few wayward strands of his thick, raven hair with his free hand.  “If you don’t fetch me a good price today, you can go back to the fleet ship!”
She sneered at him, but said nothing.  The fleet ship wouldn’t take her back, and he knew it.  He must have known this reality, because he growled and spun her back around.  She stepped forward, albeit reluctantly, and stopped in front of the bulkhead.  The jailer reached over her shoulder and punched in a code on the security panel.  The bulkhead shuddered as it opened, and his hot breath in her ear prickled her annoyance so much that she shuddered.
“Maybe today they will eat you alive, Chikyuu-jin ku’fuu.”  
If she made it through this, she was going to learn their barbaric language so well that it would frighten them.  And then she would take them down from the inside out, even if it killed her.  The stinking, malevolent son of a bitch behind her would be her first victim, she thought with glee.
Her senses were assaulted by the space the open bulkhead had now created in front of her.  At first, it was too bright to see.  But as the jailer pushed her out toward the void of light, she could see them.  She had thought there were perhaps three hundred, but now she could see that there were closer to five hundred soldiers on the trade floor.  She steadied herself, and came alone to the center of the sale block.  The sound of their calls and chants was deafening, and her eyes began to water with the power of it.  But she straightened her back; none of these evil fuckers were going to take her on her knees.  Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the light, and she could see them.  The auctioneer was shouting at them to be quiet, and begrudgingly they complied.
“This is something new…!”  The auctioneer guffawed at her, surely because he had never seen an Earthling and certainly not such a young female.  She could not understand the rest, but the crowds cheered and laughed in reply.  “A starting price for such fine ku’fuu ghala??” He shouted.  “What say you?”
Her palms sweat, and she wriggled her wrists ever so gently in the shackles.  At first there was silence, and her hopes of ever getting off the Mahelka threatened to burn to ash in the fire of her hatred.
“Come, come now!”  The auctioneer’s voice echoed around the trade floor.  “None of you is so bold?”
More silence, until the auctioneer laughed amusedly.  But then, another voice, and this one sounded familiar.  Her eyes narrowed at the tone of it, and she searched the floor fervently for its owner.  The other members of the crowd were doing the same.  But someone else had challenged him already, and had called out a new price.  The auctioneer laughed aloud as a third joined in, and a fourth.  Many were astonished by the large amounts being offered, she could see that.
Finally though, the original and familiar voice had stepped forward toward the front of the crowd.  There were murmurs as he crossed both arms over his chest and looked her right in the eye.  Her lips came open in shock.  Could it really be him?
Eight months had passed since her initial abduction onto the Saiya-jin fleet ship, and her hellish imprisonment inside its slave quarter.  Just three weeks had passed since he’d sent her to this stinking, rotgut ship.  But she could still recognize his face, and she knew that voice:  the voice that had given the order to murder her father and slaughter the rest of her family.  He lifted a defiant chin and gave his final price.  The crowd erupted, partly in admiration, but she could see some were aghast that she should fetch such an extravagant price.  She pressed her lips back together and met his gaze from across the room.  And just as the jailers had begun to drag her off the trade block, she smiled at him.  If only he could see the evil intent in her mouth, she thought.  But then, as he returned the gesture she realized, perhaps he could… …

Bulma shot upwards in her bed so violently that the coverlet surrounding her slid to the floor.  Her body was covered in a cold and merciless sweat that, now exposed to the salty sea air in the chamber, sent gooseflesh flying over her skin.  She trembled as she slid to the edge of the plush bed and fingered the damp ends of her body wrap.  A few more shaky, unsure breaths and she was steady again.
The dreams had only begun about three weeks ago; three weeks since her trial, three weeks since her sentencing and redemption, and yet that was when the nightmares had come back to her.  Many years had passed since she’d dreamt of the slave ship Mahelka, or of any memory during that time in her life.  Raditsu’s knowing smile had not changed since that day on the trade floor, and the thought of it now made her shudder again before she picked up her coverlet, stood and threw it back on the bed.  She sighed, rubbed both hands over her sleep fogged eyes and straightened her bed.
It was a task she had had no trouble remembering.  Though she had been a free citizen of the Saiya-jin Empire for two years, old habits die hard and she found that adjusting to her new life as a royal house servant was not as difficult as she had thought it would be.  Vejiita had seen that she was given amenities other slaves did not have; she had her own, modest but respectful quarters.  One window, though small compared to the sprawling open windows of the governor’s quarters, offered her a view of Mizukashi’s West Sea, and a small glimpse of Geishan’s merchant district a few kilometers below.
But she had not visited the governor’s quarters since that night after her trial, when Vejiita had met her there and promised his revenge on the Aisu-jin, his quest for ascension and his breathless decree that even she would not stop him – as she had tried so desperately to before.
Bulma smiled wanly to herself as she unwrapped her breasts, still coated with a chill, and slid from her undergarments.  No, she had not been to those quarters since that night, and she had a fairly good understanding of why.  Vejiita reveled in every moment of that.  She could see it every time he summoned her, every time he addressed her as Bulma-kalzan, and every time he had to remind her of her position in his household, which was quite a frequent occurrence.
Bulma slipped a loose tunic and work pants on so she could head to the bath houses reserved for servants.  Even though her private quarters were well-appointed for one so low, she was not allowed such a luxury as a private bath.  But something about this ritual made her feel calm; it reminded her of her days in Raditsu’s household after leaving the trade slaver Mahelka, before vengeance had truly claimed her, before she had really known what she thought she had to do.  Maybe that was what had brought the dreams back, Bulma thought.
She pressed a palm down on the comPanel at her door and waited.  An irritated, female voice addressed her in Saiyago.
“What do you want, Chikyuu-jin ku’fuu?”  
Ah, today Tul’fahn Avera, the closest thing Bulma could equate to a lieutenant, would have the pleasure of being her escort.  The female Saiya-jin, one of the first she had ever had true contact with since becoming an unwilling part of their world eight years ago, was not her friend.  Bulma had learned years ago from Raditsu that female Saiya-jin were outnumbered by their male counterparts nearly six to one, and they had of course learned to become very competitive by nature.
“I wish to be escorted to the baths, Tul’fahn.  Suukah.”
There was silence on the other end of the comPanel, until it blipped innocuously and the door to Bulma’s small chamber slid open.  Avera stood facing her, perhaps three inches taller than she, armored and suited as befit her station.  She was solid, strong, and undoubtedly pretty; with a burst of long, straight hair that hung over her shoulders like a nest of black silk.  Different than the men, her long, bare legs were stunning not just in their shape but in how that beauty concealed the strength of stance and power that could easily crush Bulma (a mere human) if she so desired.  Bulma was sure she desired it.  Avera regarded her with an expression one might give a drowning pyuce rat, and Bulma straightened her shoulders so as not to appear so very… small.
“You wish to be escorted to the baths, buhala-kalzan?”  She asked, effectively insulting Bulma twice.  Avera knew how to say “cock-choked slave bitch” in the just the right tone.  Bulma bristled, and attempted to conceal it.
“Yes, Tul’fahn,” she replied to Avera smoothly, effortlessly.  “I am due in the Lab Wing in half an hour – so ordered by His Highness, my ka’fuu.”
“Feh!”  The other woman spat.  “You can stink like the filth you are, for all I care, buhala.”
Bulma reached over her waist until she was clutching her right wrist, where a new conLink had been attached following her reinstatement as a slave.  Avera was not past using the device to inflict whatever pain she felt necessary, but Bulma had thus far been able to stave off her animosity.
“Lieutenant,” she said slowly, in flawless Saiyago.  “My master has instructed me to remain in proper health if I am to continue my duties in the Lab Wing as commissioned by him.”
“You look meaty enough!”  Avera said, reaching out to poke a finger at Bulma’s high, full right breast and dig, hard.  Her hand then returned for the conLink control at her belt, near her curled tail.  “Come now, you’ll go to the Lab Wing with no bath, and no objections, ku’fuu.”
Bulma took a deep breath.  She was no stranger to the pain the conLink could inflict, though it had not been used on her since before Raditsu had become her master.  In fact, she doubted the Aash’an had ever used it on any of his household slaves; it was not in his nature, even as a Saiya-jin master.
“I don’t suppose my ka’fuu would appreciate your use of the conLink on me,” she said, referring to Vejiita, “even if I did insist on bathing.”
Even after so little time as a free citizen, Bulma did find it hard to be respectful; especially when Avera treated her with such open contempt.  The female Saiya-jin spat on the floor beside them and stepped within inches of Bulma’s face.
“You’d do well to hold your tongue, you low-life fuck slave.  Vejiita-Zarshon would not punish a Saiya-jin guard for teaching her subordinate a lesson!”
A male guard was approaching from behind Avera, and he was smirking, the arrogant prick.  Bulma had seen him prowling the slave wing, converted from the governor’s personal servant quarters.  She wondered if they were fucking.  But would anyone bed such a prickly bitch?  Bulma took a deep breath as the other one approached; she couldn’t quite recall his name.
“Tul’fahn,” he said as he came behind her and placed a strong hand on her shoulder.  Avera’s body relaxed only a bit; yes, they were definitely fucking.  “Don’t waste your time.”
He gestured to his own conLink control and lifted a chin towards Bulma.
“Come with me, Bulma-kalzan.  I’ll escort you to the baths.”
He had a soft face, by Saiya-jin standards, and a swath of black hair that rivaled Raditsu’s.  Bulma let her lips curl into a smile that was beautiful as it was defiant, and she turned to bow very slightly in Avera’s direction.
“Of course.  Tul’fahn Avera, suukah.”
The lieutenant’s face was a mixture of lovely acquiesce to her apparent lover’s favor, and putrid disdain at the slave who stood in front of her.  When her hand left the conLink control at her belt, she stroked her own tail and let out quite a beastly snarl in Bulma’s direction.   The Saiya-jin male chuckled low in his belly and motioned for Bulma to follow.
It didn’t take long to reach the slave baths, and Bulma was quick to undress and begin to scrub herself clean of the night’s sweat.  She stepped from the stall and was acknowledged by a few Mizuka-jin house slave girls, who nodded their greeting to her warily.  It had been many weeks since any of them trusted her loyalties enough to speak to her.  Bulma had had no word of Iriyon’s whereabouts since the return to Mizukashi and the subsequent coup of the capsule and weapons factories on Ten’rili that had been used for the resistance.  The Saiya-jin War Council had seen to their reinstatement as lunar military bases, and being that Iriyon was a sovereign and free citizen of his world, she doubted that she would ever see him again.
Bulma sighed and dried her freshly shaved legs, noting that the Mizuka-jin house slaves had left her a new body wrap and tunic.  The jumpsuits she had requested in space were now too hot, as Mizukashi had entered its summertime quite quickly, and unexpectedly.  She donned the wrap tightly around her breasts, careful to conceal their fullness – Vejiita had already expressed to her on several occasions that she was not to allow herself the luxury of apparent beauty.  And each time he told her that, the smirk on his full mouth and the glint in his damnable black eyes made her furious.  Kami take his handsome grin: the luxurious way he observed her with a lust only he was free to give her now.
But, Bulma thought with growing frustration as she wrapped her thighs with the black body wrap, he was free to give it but he had not.  No…  Vejiita had not summoned her since that night on his balcony.  She knew he could have and could see that he wanted to, with dizzying ferocity.  But no.  All the gods, he had not even touched her…  The thought brought a flare to her nostrils, and she finished the wrap with a violent jolt.  When she threw her black tunic over her head, the guards were already waiting at the bath entrance, leering at her like little Earthling coyotes while the marble halls of Geishan’s palace reflected her position amongst them with devastating reality.
And despite Bulma’s reprieve:  despite that there were many Saiya-jin who still respected her, despite all that had happened, there were a few she still hated.  Gods, if she was being honest, she still hated them all.  It was a dangerous line she still tread, even after so much time and even after realizing that they were her only salvation; the line between that hatred and her desire was so fine it was nearly indiscernible.  
Bulma breathed out heavily through her nose and approached the guards, whom she followed silently through the quiet halls toward the Lab Wing.  Avera’s companion shot leering glances at her every now and then as they walked.  It would take a long time for her to start appreciating the second chance she’d been given:  a long time, indeed.

“It would be easier to find a Calakastian whore than find that putrid fuck!”  Aash’an Raditsu raged against Furiza’s continued elusiveness.  His fingers were curled around a virtual depiction of Yuki-sei, and he threw it off-screen.  The representation of its solar system still floated in the air above the fourteen foot table he leaned over, and Vejiita let a snort of amusement creep up through his nose.
But his captain, his commander, was right.  Calakast was a sovereign planet about two light-years from Mizukashi, and quite a religious lot who hardly drank purya let alone condoned whorehouses.  Not that their bodies were compatible for most other species in any case…  Vejiita blinked and drew his hand over Yuki-sei’s solar system.  The Aisu-jin planet reappeared, and he frowned.  The Com Uplink shared by all galactic sovereigns in Saiya-jin space was silent, and had been since the destruction of Shafuri.  No one knew where Furiza was hiding, and if they did – the traitorous filth – none of them were bent on revealing it.
“He is not in Aisu-jin solar space,” Vejiita said quietly, exhaustedly.  But the image of Yuki-sei, still intact and taunting his sensibilities made him furious.  It had been hard, these past weeks, training himself to be more on guard – less impulsive.
“Vash’halla…” He cursed, brushing a palm over his face and turning away from the holo map.  Raditsu watched him, questioning.  Surely, Vejiita’s uncharacteristic fatigue was disorienting to the taller Saiya-jin.  “I want to destroy it, Raditsu,” he said finally.  “I can see the desire in your eyes, I feel it in my soul.  But Yuki-sei is too precious a commodity; if we eliminate it now then we have no leverage in this fight.”
“We can do without the tungsten.”  Raditsu told him, urgency dancing on his words.  “Our auxiliary fleet has been in position for three weeks, My King.  My father’s security forces have all but secured our flank; give the order, I beg you on the conscience of his pain.  Bardock’s will for revenge is stronger even than my own; and so is his impatience.”
Vejiita watched Raditsu for a moment.  The other Saiya-jin had grown increasingly ill-tempered since Furiza’s retreat and the subsequent stalemate that had permeated all breathable air on Mizukashi.  Kakarot’s death was still sore in his mind; he would not forget the moment when Bardock told him of his younger brother’s death.  The twisted, agonizing pain had been visible on Kakarot’s twin, Turles’, face.
Vejiita resisted the urge to snarl; as if the dignity of his own house had not been damaged -- exterminated!  As if his very existence, the existence of all his race did not rest on his shoulders.  Instead, he turned and pressed down on the table with all five fingers.
“Your father’s pain will need some quelling, Aash’an Raditsu,” he said pointedly.  “We have lost more than a few of our sons – daughters, children.”  Raditsu’s eyes lost some of their potency, and he nodded his head in respect.
“Suukah, Vejiita-Zarshon.”
Vejiita’s eyes narrowed and he reached over to the holo file control panel.  He touched a few screens and brought over the file containing the Videon’s seventh sector:  largely and purposefully unexplored, Sector Seven was one place they had so far left unattended.  Vejiita drew in a breath as he looked down at the map.  Its star field was mostly empty, devoid of sustainable planet shelter but suspiciously quiet nonetheless.
“If we lose Yuki-sei as a bargaining chip now, all we have is an angry Furiza with unstable plasma core canons, ready to let loose with impunity if his home is destroyed.  But if we keep it, Raditsu – for now we have a means to draw him out.
“Keep the fleet in position.”  He left the holo screen and went towards the spanning, open windows of the Map Dome.  “Our presence there will be a constant reminder of our superior numbers.”
“And our weaponry, Vejiita-Zarshon?”  Raditsu asked.  Vejiita did not miss the unsure disgust in his tone; the Saiya-jin as a whole had never much condoned its use in warfare, because until now they had had no need for it.  “It is clear from our last encounter that the jal’a is not enough against those lizards, especially with their dampening abilities.  Even the artillery on Kuraoh was barely sufficient, and was only successful because of our surprise attack.”
While he watched a soaring bird, Vejiita felt a smirk creep up on his face.  He remembered the shuddering walls of the Aisu-jin ship, and the naked anxiety on the face of his little turncoat Chikyuu-jin:  her vengeance laid to waste.  A real smile danced on Vejiita’s mouth now, and he turned to Raditsu.
“Our weaponry, Aash’an?”  He said, incredulous.  Vejiita’s fists clenched, and he crossed both arms over the width of his white tunic.  His right thumb ran absently across the royal insignia on his left breast, and he felt his gaze darken against the bright Mizukashi sky.  He thought long and hard before replying.
“I have commissioned our weapon development to my most trusted shal’gata, Raditsu.”
“To Bulma?”  His commander’s voice was wild with uncertainty, and tight with controlled respect.  “Vejiita-Zarshon, I must respectfully--?”  He stopped, and when Vejiita turned to him, he could see the latent disdain there.  Well, perhaps it was not so latent.  Vejiita chuckled.
“Bulma-kalzan is under strict supervision and is operating under my commission.”  He told Raditsu.  The other Saiya-jin’s fists clenched at his sides, and his chest expanded with restricted breath.  Vejiita lifted his chin.  “You disapprove?”
“With your leave, My King.”  Raditsu paused, his nostrils flaring.  “I question not your judgment but her loyalty – as always.”
Vejiita’s brow lifted momentarily, and he went back to the holo screen on the table.  Replacing the file of Sector Seven with that of Mizukashi’s moon Ten’rili, and the other cycle moons that orbited it, he pointed to the former.  
“When our security squads infiltrated the rebel bases on Ten’rili, do you know what they found, Aash’an?  This time you were not there to discover her little weapons.”  
Raditsu regarded his king with a barely manageable rage, but shook his head.  Vejiita enlarged the holo of Ten’rili and pointed to its western hemisphere; even on the holo, the factories there were visible.  Raditsu’s eyes squinted, and he approached slowly.
“While a free citizen, our blue-eyed Chikyuu-jin created enough plasma containment devices to last four lifetimes – no doubt to support her Mizuka-jin rebellion.  Her only setback was that she had thus far been unsuccessful in stabilizing the plasma inside the devices, as the Aisu-jin had done with their guns and canons.
“During our escape from Shafuri, she stumbled upon a way to diffuse a core, Aash’an.  She stumbled upon it.  And you see here,” he pointed to another small structure, “a separate, smaller facility where she was starting manufacture of ‘capsules’:  a micronization device her father created on Chikyuu before it was purged.  It’s lucky for us, Aash’an Raditsu, that you ordered the salvage of some of that material before your subordinates incinerated her father’s lab.”
Raditsu watched with guarded irritation, and leaned one palm against the table.  Vejiita noted his discomfort; the Captain was always most aggravated by discussion of his former slave and lover.
“What use have we for such tech?”
“’What use have we’?”  Vejiita snorted in derision.  “These ‘capsules’ are capable of housing entire star-vehicles, Raditsu.  With time, she could use them to micronize entire planets.  The Chikyuu-jin is no idiot, and Brolli was right to give her free reign--!”  He held up a hand as Raditsu made to interject.  “Do not think I insult you, Aash’an, for the love of the gods!  Brolli’s biggest mistake was to allow her unsupervised research to continue.
“Bulma’s insurrection assures that she will never again be granted Saiya-jin citizenship, but if I can use her to develop this type of tech,” he jabbed a finger at the holo of Ten’rili, “then by the bloody gods I shall!”
Raditsu lifted his hand from the table and crossed both arms over his massive chest.  His jaw clenched with frustration, because he too was no fool.  Bardock’s scientific mind may have by-passed his twins but Raditsu had gained much of it over his years as a first-class warrior.  A thumb graced his bottom lip, and the Captain’s eyes finally met Vejiita’s.
“And you trust her to continue this research, the Empire’s best interests at heart?”
Raditsu’s stature seemed to shrink as Vejiita stepped within a foot of him, and the Captain’s arms dropped to his side as if he had suddenly remembered his place.  Vejiita’s approach sent a gust of surging blue aura around the two men, and the tails of Raditsu’s tunic flurried around him like wings.  Both warriors’ tails hovered in the air, unsure.  Raditsu lowered his eyes against the fury of it, ready in case his king challenged him head on.  Vejiita felt the weight of his crumbling royal line suddenly press him for any advantage available.
“What ‘Empire’ do we have, Aash’an?”  He asked the bigger Saiya-jin.  “Our home is gone; two-thirds of our race has been exterminated and what few remain are scattered throughout the galaxy like shit on the vast plains of Hell.”  Vejiita clenched his fist, and the aura around him boomed distantly, like an approaching storm.  The Captain lowered his chin this time, and stepped backward.  “I ask you, Raditsu; what interests must we keep now?  If you and your battalions are going to help me take out these lizards and ensure our survival, you will need to put aside your past with that female now and use her to what advantage we can.”
The tenor in his voice had begun tearing at the inside of his throat, Vejiita realized, because he had never spoken such words since the destruction of Vejiita-sei.  Since the death of his father and the role he’d had to assume.  Gods…  No one here knew the burden that lay before him.  No one!
He looked away from his clenched fist and allowed his aura to dissipate.  Raditsu regarded him with a strange mixture of awe, respect and chagrin.  But there was something else there, Vejiita thought.  Something he could not quite place.  The Captain saluted him quietly, and some of the guards that scattered the room seemed to sigh with relief.
“Zarshon-kalan,” Raditsu said, reverently.  “I am at your disposal.”
“Your fucking balls are at my disposal, Aash’an!”  Vejiita shouted with sudden wrath.  He kept his aura in check this time, but gestured with a mere jerk of his chin toward the door.  “Go and make contact with Kuraoh.  You will also contact Commander Bardock and instruct him to hold his position, along with the rest of our auxiliary fleet, and no exceptions.  Am I clear, Raditsu?”
The Captain nodded curtly, saluted and turned to leave Vejiita staring at the holo of Ten’rili.  In his deepest soul though, Raditsu’s words had radiated.  Bulma of Chikyuu was not to be trusted, but she had been spared the trial of death for a reason and Vejiita was not so blind to his own ambition as to deny his relief of it.  But if that sly, stunning genius could diffuse plasma cores and micronize large pieces of machinery, well, then…?  What else was she capable of?
Vejiita felt his lips curl as he thought of her, probably still mulling over his lack of attention this last month or so.  He drummed his fingers against his chin and remembered her in the throes of complete release:  a reprieve the likes of which only he was capable of giving her.  Now that she knew – really knew what she was.
It was time to see her now.