Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ the difference knowing makes ❯ Chapter 4

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

[i'm gonna make him a disclaimer he can't refuse.]

***

chapter 4

The Prince of Saiyans discovers himself at a furious impasse.

…with himself.

Over that galling, wretched excuse of a woman, for whom his distaste grows unfathomably greater every passing moment.

Two days now he's lingered at the compound, wasting precious training time, scowling at anyone who comes near, trying -and failing—to maintain the pretense he's meditating and not waiting for that infuriating woman to come to her senses and recall her offer.

Seeking her out himself to remind her is out of the question; such an errand would be a great deal beneath his dignity. Vegeta's no supplicant come petitioning, and he means to suffer no further affront on Bulma's account. And, royal lineage aside, he's made a careful habit of not treating with the Imminently Deceased. With prey.

Nevertheless, (as testament to all of the many, many ways Zarbon had infected him), Vegeta finds himself nursing a most un-Saiyan sense of curiosity over the possibilities of the Briefs' gravity machine; try as he might, he can't shake his preoccupation with the prospect that he, like Kakarrot before him, might so rapidly and so enormously enlarge his power level -and perhaps even divine the coveted key to ascension in the process.

Imagining himself ready to challenge the peasant fool to a rematch immediately after his revival consumes the Prince's every thought, and so, by consequence, does that infernal machine; appealing to his better sense about the matter has accomplished little beyond strengthening his irritation -he knows, after all, that while access to the technology might accelerate the growth of his power, one way or other, sooner or later, he would -inevitably—achieve his birthright, gravity machine or no. He doesn't need it to beat Kakarrot.

But Bulma's wretched enticement, offered allegedly without ulterior motives or expectation of reciprocal advantage, holds him here in unbreakable thrall.

He has speculated on the likelihood of treachery, the possibility that the woman had only tendered her offer at all in a sly, premeditated bid to get her hands on his armor; ultimately, however, he discards the notion. That Bulma Briefs is capable of the deception he has no doubt, but long reflection on their encounter inclines him to believe her sudden preoccupation with his armor had been both genuine and genuinely spontaneous. But more than that, he's gradually learning to trust the Earthers' conspicuous lack of even a fledgling shred of preservation instinct; they've withheld nothing, providing for him a place to live, ample food to eat, genial -albeit very much unwanted—companionship, all despite continued professions of his intent to annihilate the lot of them (and full appreciation of his fondness for spilling blood, besides) -why then, should he question the woman's sincerity in this matter? If she wished to play an active role in facilitating the extinction of her species, who was he to protest?

Out of consideration for the general uselessness of her people, Vegeta'd given her a generous interval (the full breadth of two days) to deliver, prowling the lawn before the ship in anticipation of her emergence, convinced his presence alone would be sufficient to jog her -clearly deficient—memory.

Except…she never shows, making of his generous gesture an exercise in gravest futility.

When at last he reaches the limits of his patience, sometime late into the second afternoon of his seething patrol, he resolves that Bulma Briefs is going to be very, very sorry she left him to idle for so long in unanswered expectation -and doubly so for forcing him to come to her, in an ever-lengthening chronicle of outrage.

Concentrating, he sets to searching her out, honing in on the flimsy-strange energy signature that belongs to her, and her alone…there—

"Yoo-hoooo, Vegetaaa!" As ever, he can't seem to stop himself from mentally squirming at the sound of that voice. Focus shattered, he slips the Briefs matriarch a menacing glare over his shoulder -the very glare, in fact, he's been using to terrorize stray, brave, or waywardly curious Capsule Corp employees since he'd first taken up roost on the lawn, in open defiance of the woman's repeated instructions to treat her peons with some measure of 'common courtesy.'

He supposes he should be prepared by now for this sunny female's sanguine unflappability, but he instead takes umbrage at the woman's dam, upon whom even his fiercest demonstrations remain unaccountably, utterly without effect. If anything, his murderous bent seems to amuse her; when she reaches him, she smiles brightly and pats him on the shoulder, tittering softly.

"You're just so intense, aren't you?" Clasping her hands beneath her chin in an obnoxious exhibition of puerile delight, "Oh, it's just been too long since Bulma's brought home such an enthusiastic admirer!" Something in Vegeta goes cold, gives a shiver of pure, existential terror: this brain-damaged human could not possibly be suggesting he, Prince of the mightiest warrior race in recent memory, had…intentions toward her infuriating daughter beyond the ultimate object of said offspring's violent death at his eager hand. "Yamcha's darling, of course, but I do believe they've been seeing other people, and Bulma's always had a thing for dark, mysterious types, and I'll just be darned if that isn't you to a 't!'" Still suppressing the outrage of her ridiculous observation, and her corollary comparison of himself with -if he isn't mistaken—the woman's dead, weakling mate, Vegeta remains resolutely silent, refusing to respond to these confounding reports.

Not that this deters her; she chatters on about gods only know what for long enough that he lapses into a sort of horrified trance. Bulma's entire family have apparently no concept of brevity or discretion.

Eventually, abruptly, she changes the subject, though there's nothing to suggest she's done so to spare him further agitation. Or that she's even perceived his agitation.

"You'll have to give Bulma some time, dear. She's just like her father, I'm afraid; gets lost in machines, forgets the rest of the world when she sets herself on a new project. But never you mind, sweetie, she'll happen along sooner or later, when she runs low on caffeine or remembers it's been a while since she's seen the sun." Setting her hands at her hips in a manner uncannily like the woman's, "Whatever it is you're waiting around for from Bulma, surely you have time to break for a quick meal? I've been relearning a dish Chi Chi taught me to make, years ago, and I've just gotten the recipe back up to snuff. What do you say?" Instinct entreats him to turn her down, though his stomach raises an immediate, impassioned objection.

Hating himself, hating this mindless female, her hideous daughter, all of her useless warrior friends, the whole of her idiotic species, this entire cursed planet, Vegeta spits out a non-committal 'feh,' which the chipper Mrs. Briefs somehow (annoyingly) interprets correctly (dammit) as assent, and by strength of will alone manages not to blast her into oblivion when she claps excitedly and emits a high-pitched squeal that has him inadvertently cringing.

"Oh, you won't be sorry!" She elatedly guarantees, while Vegeta darkly concludes he already is.

***

Far above the terrestrial plane, hovering just beyond the perimeter of Heaven, the Demon King feels very much out-of-place.

Piccolo had had absolutely no intention of coming anywhere near this God-awful place, refusing Muuri point-blank the night before when he'd been asked to accompany the Elders to seek Kami's guidance in locating a suitable new home.

And yet…here he is, at arguably his least favorite venue ever, having set out for Heaven automatically as Popo'd arrived at the Briefs' terrarium to escort the small contingent, as though he'd actually meant to come all along, even though he's pretty damn sure he hadn't.

Still more out of character, as they'd reached the Lookout, Piccolo'd had to check himself, pausing and then deliberately hanging back after instinctively starting to follow the other Namekians onto the platform. Which is conspicuously odd, since it's the opposite of the instinct he's had toward this place since -well, since before the beginning of his present incarnation. The Demon King holds no dominion where treads God, he reminds himself crossly, and he'll be damned if he ever gives Kami the satisfaction of willingly traversing the limits of his domain.

The almost-incident has him impulsively blaming the psychic 'split' in his personality, when he remembers that, for going on a month now, he hasn't felt so much as a shiver of the Other's consciousness. The spiritual fracture had finally mended, closed over, and -save for the occasional, involuntary intrusion of his pupil—the sanctified privacy of his mind is again absolute. Yet, on such days as today, when he finds himself making an impromptu social call on his lesser half, it becomes resoundingly clear that, though the entity that was 'Nail' is no more, with him had gone some crucial part of Piccolo; he's changed, no longer consummately himself.

The price I pay for power, he mentally grouches.

Assembled in a crude ring near the edge of the platform, alternatively making hushed conversation amongst themselves or gracious inquiries of God's flower-watering stooge, Muuri and the other Elders wait patiently for Kami to put in an appearance. (The self-important bastard always was one for making others wait...)

Gohan's there, too, naturally, running amuck with the runt. Wherever Piccolo went, Gohan was almost certain to be within spitting distance, and wherever Gohan could be found, so too could Dende; they were sort of a package deal these days. It's not exactly the ideal situation, but Piccolo's learning to make the most of it; at least with Dende there to defray the kid's pinballing attentions, Gohan isn't always talking his ear off or insisting the Demon King join him in playing such reputation-shattering games as 'tag' or 'hide-and-go-seek.'

Suddenly—

"WOW!" Piccolo snaps his gaze askance, settles on the diminutive figure poised at the lip of the Lookout, eyes wide with astonishment and stubby green finger leveled at the thick layer of clouds directly beneath them. "You can see the whole world from here!" Dende exclaims, exuberant. Gohan skids to a halt, pulling up beside him, and peers over the ledge.

"I don't see anything but clouds." The kid pouts, petulant. Dende doesn't respond, his eyes darting frenetically in every direction, disbelief and joyous amazement warring for primacy on his face.

While Piccolo begins reevaluating the sproutling's usefulness, the never-punctual deity of Earth furtively makes his entrance, and wastes no time announcing himself:

"Child," he speaks, and all eyes -including Dende's—shift back to take in the person of God. Kami's focus, meanwhile, belongs exclusively to the runt. "What is it you See?" Sputtering as Kami approaches, Dende begins twiddling his thumbs, and Piccolo recognizes the nervous affectation as Gohan's. "No need to be alarmed, Child." God disarmingly assures. "I'm only curious." After a moment of anxious hesitation, the little Namekian casts his gaze back over the horizon.

"P-people," Dende stammers, "so-so many people, and birds and beasts, and…and mountains and forests and vast oceans, little villages and big cities and…and…things I don't have names for, like thick, white sand that freezes, and great, huge houses made of hard earth—" The runt's speech comes to an abrupt close, hands fisting into the fabric of his cloak -another habit likely rubbed into his repertoire via Gohan's influence.

"Snow," Kami indicates the icy tundra, "and those," he points here and there, Dende following the line of his finger with rapt attention, "are castles, built of stone, to house self-styled rulers of men." Gohan looks lost, as do nearly all of the Elders. Except Muuri. He beams proudly, even as Kami smiles down at the runt with bright eyes. "And you, young Dende, have an exceptional gift."

"He's a Dragon Type, just like his father." Muuri reveals. The unfamiliar term means nothing to Piccolo, but he surmises from context that 'Dragon Type' likely has something to do with the runt's ability to track the goings-on of the earthly-bound -a phenomenon previously limited to Popo, Kami, and himself (-and for some reason, Goku, but that's an aggravating story for another day). He wouldn't be surprised if the sprout's freshly minted healing powers -on par with senzu beans in effectiveness, if not quite as fast-acting—didn't factor into this equation somehow, too.

"Indeed he is." God affirms, sans elaboration. "It's no easy feat, to perceive terrestrial affairs from Heaven. Not everyone can See as you do, Child."

"I definitely can't." Gohan volunteers good-naturedly. "I don't see anything." Dende flushes with pleasure.

"I'd originally planned to wait another few years for him to be ready, but since Saichorou-sama was forced to unlock his potential so early, I intend to start his training right after we've settled into our new home, in another few months." Muuri turns to his son. "Only the basics, of course, exercises to help ease you into your new power."

"Hmmm…yes." His lesser half mumbles, again with nothing instructive to contribute. "I have a funny feeling we've yet to see the end of your talents, little one." Kami has that annoying, prescient twinkle in his eye, and Piccolo understands the intimation as more than idle conjecture; God is dropping prophetic breadcrumbs, foreshadowing some unknowable future -even though the only one who could possibly benefit from the wrinkled geezer's too-vague tip-off is the wrinkled old geezer himself. Boundlessly useless and self-aggrandizing, this deity of theirs. "Now, friends," Kami leans against his staff, "speaking of your new home, what say we turn to the day's business? I've pulled a few strings and managed to get a few good leads on two or three planets suitable for immediate settling, and if we could all adjourn to the temple proper, Mr. Popo and I will be glad to show you what we can of the candidates, limited though our guidance may prove." He gestures to the djinn, who placidly leads off toward -if Piccolo's guess is correct—the Hyperbolic Time Chamber, where Kami gets up to most of his rule-breaking.

Watching the others trail after Popo, Gohan and Dende giggling as they bring up the rear, he waits until none save he and God remain.

"'Pulled a few strings,' huh? Bet by now you owe quite a few favors, old man." Once upon a time, Piccolo had literally been in the same shoes as the deity before him-and he knows himself far better than to believe that Kami hasn't been dipping his righteous-godly fingers into some seriously forbidden cookie jar or other to scrape up his measly 'few good leads.' "Who knew deities were allowed to broker real estate?" God smiles, ever fucking serene-like.

"There's no shame in doing what one can to help friends in need, Ma Junior."

"Careful with the handle, Kami. You'll make me nostalgic for old times." Something sly worms its way into his counterpart's expression.

"You've come a long way, haven't you?" Kami muses dreamily, apropos of nothing. "That you consider yourself beyond your old darkness speaks to the enormity of your progress."

"Don't patronize me." Piccolo snaps. "I'm not so beyond my darkness that I'm above offing a scrawny, decrepit old fraud."

"By all means, my son," he performs a shallow bob of a curtsy, "do feel free to step into Heaven." Both are well aware the Demon King will be doing no such thing, that the invitation is no invitation at all, and instead a challenge. "You're always most welcome." Piccolo almost wants to, if for no other reason than to wipe the smug grin off his face.

"Tch. Don't you have some cosmic bylaws to break, God?" The title is venom on his tongue. "Go see to your guests."

But Kami has one last specious-friendly dart to cast—

"Sure you won't stop in for some brown rice tea? Mr. Popo makes an excellent brew." His previous incarnation had spent a few unhappy centuries holed up against his will in an electric rice cooker; it's no big leap for him to understand Kami's choice of brew as a deliberate -if oblique—sling.

Narrowing his eyes,

"I don't have to touch down to fry your ass, Kami." Apparently tickled pink by Piccolo's hostility, Earth's deity quakes with quiet laughter, shaking his head and raising a hand in farewell as he turns to leave and join the others.

The Demon King considers razing God's well-tended gardens.

***

The meal does little to abate Vegeta's antagonism, but does crystallize his resolve; no sooner has he left the dinner table than he's zeroing in on the woman's offensively negligible ki, and after that it's only a matter of following the vapor-fine trajectory where it leads him -which is through an out-building in the restricted-access 'engineering wing' of the grounds, past several employees who either scurry immediately out of his way or attempt weak protestations as he barrels heedlessly by, down three or four flights of stairs (he's well underground by the time he senses he's on her level, though he can tell the facilities penetrate to a much greater subterranean depth), and weaving his way along one twisting corridor after another until he comes at last to a mechanized entryway encased in a sturdy, slate wall of metal, words he recognizes as prohibitive to 'non-authorized personnel' emblazoned across its median in bright, bold lettering.

He can feel her, light, teasing touches of her ki fluttering wild at the farthest limits of perception; she's somewhere just beyond this threshold, secreted away in her mechanical sanctuary, blithely unaware of the deadly aggression she's provoked, taking for granted the safety, the impenetrability of her steely stronghold.

A fatally false impression on her part, and easy enough to remedy on his. It's little trouble to simply remove the door, to fit his fist through the metal barrier, brace his fingers against the surface plating on the opposite side, and cleanly pull it out of the wall, wicked pleasure lighting through him as the frame fractures, begins to buckle.

The screaming picks up even as he's dislodging his fist and flinging the door carelessly aside, where it slams into the ground with an ear-splitting crash, kicking up dust and debris as it craters through concrete, smashes through the floor, and free-falls to the level below.

When Vegeta finally turns his attention to the interior, he takes in the vast array of gutted machinery and the repellent stink of oil, grease, smoke and sweat. Then there are the dozen or so shrieking, nameless human scientists ducking behind desks in fright, tripping over stray wiring, evacuating through another door toward the rear of the workshop, all like the spineless fleas they are.

And then there's Bulma Briefs, standing stunned in the midst of it all, one hand clutched absently around some heavy-looking tool, gaping at him in shock -and just shock; there's not a whit of the wailing panic exhibited by her underlings. And even that vanishes after a moment, giving way to brilliant anger, again shorn entirely of rational awe or predictable alarm.

It…bothers him, her outright refusal to treat him in a manner befitting one such as he, who could -and definitely would—bring her life to a summary finish with remorseless, unflinching ease. Who had just torn a two-ton door out of the damn wall!

She wastes no time ruining what remains of his satisfaction, striding recklessly forward and screeching at him for destroying her lab at an ear-fracturing pitch. He responds in kind, yelling heatedly back at her that if she doesn't want him to have to go around destroying things, she should maybe consider being available to cater to his every whim, inspiring her to impressive new levels of pink rage -and, remarkably, to (attempted) violence. Whatever metal instrument she hurls at him sails harmlessly past; to start, her aim is abysmal, though even had it struck true his ki shield would most certainly've absorbed the full brunt of the impact. The tool clatters to the ground somewhere behind him, and the woman stomps her foot in a childish fit of temper.

Finally, as he's suffering from whatever madness has him unconsciously likening her to some furious warrior flush from battle—

"FOR FUCK'S SAKES, VEGETA, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?"

An unprecedented situation: he's completely lost track of the reason he'd come. Put on the spot, he fumes in silence, unable to reconcile himself to this astonishing turn of events; she drives him to such distraction that he's completely taken leave of his senses.

Before he knows it, he's tearing right out of the lab, rocketing through four levels of workshops and then the domed roof of the building and causing as much damage as possible on the way out, purely out of spite.

It has the desired effect: he hears her scream of wordless fury as he flies for the nearest stretch of badlands.

***

Goku's been manfully struggling to pull himself into the outfit for going on a full hour -or probably closer to four hours, as they measure time here. However long it's actually been, he decides, it feels like it's taking forever. As someone who's always kinda thought clothes get in the way of fun stuff, and seized every opportunity to wear as little of it as possible, he's beginning to believe this really isn't worth all the hassle.

Still, Chi Chi's insisted -many, many times—that he can't just go around naked whenever he pleases, and she especially insists that nudity before strangers is a no-no. Someone had gone to all the trouble of making this for him, besides, the product of long hours of custom fittings to shape to contours and body proportions never before encountered on this planet. His intuition suggests sternly that it'd be rude to cast all this hard work aside. (Weirdly, his intuition sounds an awful lot like Chi Chi.)

While he continues trying to make heads or tails out of which piece of his costume goes where, he lets his mind drift over the past several weeks, the exciting strangeness of his new friends and their equally strange planet, with its endless landscape of towering purple rocks jutting up into the vault of a creamy orange sky, where -like Namek—one of two butter-yellow stars seems always to be shining. (It'd taken him a long while to adjust to roughly three weeks of continuous sunlight, punctuated by only two-ish days of semi-darkness. After his initial comatose interlude, he'd gone long, insomniatic stretches without sleep, hard-pressed to accustom himself to a world without night.)

The air's pretty dry, and the wind has a tendency to bite, but overall the weather's nice enough in 'The Settlement' (which is as much of a name as he's been able to get for the Yardrats' sprawling colony), though every now and again, in the course of his daily jaunts (undertaken out into the wilderness against the warnings of his friendly hosts), he'll run across the odd titanic storm -wild, heavyweight typhoons, or great, boisterous blizzards, which make for choice sport in a world without sparring partners. (What he wouldn't give to test his new strength against Piccolo, who's bound to've learned some new tricks at Kaio-sama's, or even Vegeta, if the proud warrior could be persuaded to mellow out a bit; the Prince is certain to've reached a whole new plateau of power himself, having recently been resurrected from death, and Goku can't wait to fight him again -although, admittedly, he'd rather it were possible to just have a friendly match, without all the death threats and doom-talk.)

Even if he's got no one to match himself against for the time being, though, what with the Yardrats having almost no ki whatsoever, his fishy friends are not completely without martial ability: many of them practice crude defensive arts, and while the forms are slow, meditative, fashioned primarily to focus the mind instead of to strengthen the body, Goku's always happy to add another combat style to his inventory, and right now what he needs isn't additional strength, anyway, but careful, diligent mental focus to contain -and later wield—his own radically temperamental ki.

In fact, until he's better used to harnessing all that angry, ominous energy, he plans to avoid transforming altogether. It wouldn't be safe -not for him, and not for his alien friends—to tap that reserve without full knowledge of where the power had come from, and how he'd been able to call it out to begin with. And the only way to get that knowledge, he knows, is to relocate his center, which had loosed and slipped its unshakable seat and gotten itself lodged somewhere deep and dark after his battle with Freeza. What small amount of it he's been able to nudge back into place has been largely thanks to the Yardrats, whose true abilities, as it happens, aren't physical at all -but psychic.

For starters, they're completely telepathic: not a one of them has spoken an actual word since he's woken up, so as best as he can figure, they can't speak. They can make sounds -and do, whirring or clicking noises that mean mostly nothing, but Goku's glad for them anyway, and he suspects they only bother with the noises for this reason, to make the whole 'telepathy' business slightly less strange for him. He's always been a little psychic, to some very, very basic extent, but it's not a skill he's ever honed for interaction -only for sensing and hiding ki, only to bolster his physical strength. So it is strange for him, their psychic 'speech,' which isn't true 'speech' by any measure, but instead transmitted sensation, somehow more expressive and easy to interpret than any words he's ever heard.

They've attempted to explain to him several times how this process works, thinking maybe he'd like to learn the 'language,' but it'd all been waaaaaaaay over his head, and his friends had eventually given it up for a lost cause.

Goku has learned, though, that the Yardrats' telepathy is only the tip of the iceberg where their psychic techniques are concerned -their entire society moves to the rhythm of their minds, connected in a vast network so in sync that they don't even differentiate between individuals; each understands himself only as one semi-independent part of a cooperative whole. He thinks they would be super efficient, super scary opponents, and decides the Ginyu Force was lucky they were put out of commission before they made it here and had their own minds turned against them. Or had their abilities to perform higher order functions simply…switched off. Permanently. Or even -he grimaces at the thought- had their brains liquefied in their skulls.

Goku isn't much interested in being taught how to manipulate or destroy anyone else from within; he definitely prefers to fight things out in the flesh. But there is one technique he really-really-really wants to learn, which Matcha (as he's taken to calling his escort, whose green-mottled skin evokes fond memories of Chi Chi's delicious matcha dango) had mentioned in passing just the other day: 'instant transmission.' With it, he could go anywhere, on this world, in this solar system, in the Universe, so long as he has a familiar ki to hone in on, and all in the blink of an eye. It is not, Matcha had explained, moving 'fast' —it's moving 'instantaneously,' hence the label.

The appeal of the technique had hit him immediately; as the levels of his opponents climb higher and higher, speed becomes more and more crucial in determining the victor. And, he reflects gravely, with a technique like that, he could avoid any more tragic situations like the one in which he'd found himself when the Saiyans had arrived: himself, unforgivably late, and most of his friends, dead because of it.

He hadn't had to do much pleading to be shown the ropes, either; the second he'd demonstrated an interest, Matcha'd readily and happily volunteered to teach him. He'd been warned that it'd likely take him upwards of a couple years to master, but he hadn't blinked an eye at the prospect; he'll miss his friends back home, and his wife and son especially, but this is one ability he reasons he can't pass up learning, both to satisfy his own irresistible appetite for new skills and to ensure he's better able to protect all his loved ones in the event of future threats. In the meantime, while he's figuring out how to 'fold space,' as Matcha had put it, he'll also be hard at work getting a handle on what it means to be -as both Freeza and Vegeta had called it- a 'Super Saiyan,' so that by the time he's ready to go home, his dangerous control issues will've been well laid to rest.

And his instant transmission training's set to start today! Right now! Or anyway, as soon as he manages to fit himself into this confusing, frustrating, headache-inducing outfit of his…

When, in spite of his valiant efforts, another several moments tick by without success, he wraps his midsection in the largest swath of fabric and leans around the threshold of the door, where Matcha waits, eternally patient. Goku announces himself by way of a sheepish chuckle, which the alien receives with a broad, thin-lipped smile of its own.

The cordial offer of assistance impresses itself into his mind, and he nods, one hand braced in embarrassment at the back of his head. Embarrassment, because…well, because it's not exactly the first time he's needed help getting into these same clothes. (And he suspects it probably won't be the last, either.)

"Thanks a million," he says, earnestly, "Think I'm too excited to remember what goes where." Matcha produces a high-pitched, fluttering trill Goku decides must be laughter, and waddles his way into the room to help.

***

When he cools down enough to revisit the matter, several days after the fact, he returns to Capsule Corp thinking it best he'd forgotten to ask Bulma to show him how to man the gravity machine. He never seems to accomplish anything with the damned woman as it is; stalemate seems the only outcome they'll have. Even supposing he'd gotten her into the ship to follow through on her offer, he has to imagine they'd have ended up in yet another gridlock standoff, which would've been to no one's benefit. And, quite possibly, to her untimely death.

So the Prince goes to see her father instead.

Without preamble, he demands to be taken through the ship and shown around, instructed in the proper use of the navigation system and the gravity apparatus. Dr. Briefs looks up at him, his gaze bespeaking vague awareness awash in a sea of owlish vacuity.

"Interested in gravitational physics, my boy?" Vegeta mulls the question over, determinedly ignoring the 'my boy' for the sake of his maneuver; the object is to get around the woman, to avoid having to see her, and murdering her sire would surely prove counter to this end.

At length, "You could say that."

"Well why didn't you say so! Of course I'll show you around." Dr. Briefs is already on his feet and breezing past a mystified Vegeta, who'd come into this fully expecting he'd have to persuade the doddering fool to give him the grand tour (portending the happy potential for wanton destruction); instead, the old man demonstrates more of the strange, impulsive openness of Bulma's people, and hops to comply without a second thought.

As he gives Vegeta his back and begins to lead the way out of the lab, the Prince's gaze lights onto the feline slung languidly over his shoulder; the little bundle of fur promptly puffs to twice its original size, and from somewhere within that overwrought mess of hair, the creature emits a low, warning hiss, instinctively responding to the threat he innately embodies. It's the most sane reaction he's gotten since he arrived on this ridiculous planet. "Although if you want the newest specs, you'll have to see Bulma for details; 'fraid I haven't gotten around to checking out the renovations yet, myself." The man adds, a belated afterthought, either unaware of or unconcerned with his pet's poor manners.

"I will bear this in mind." Vegeta promises, tuning the scientist out automatically as he slips into that incomprehensible, mumbling technical vernacular, having learned by now that the woman's father can rattle off inconsequence just as well and incessantly as she, the difference being that his offspring commands attention and engagement, while the old fool commands only tedium and slow-boiling irritation.

Nevertheless, he decides, the weed-scented old man is much preferable to the blue-eyed alternative.

—whom he now appears able to summon by thought alone.

There's the telltale frisson spidering its way across his skin, a psychic pinch at the base of skull, and then—

"Dad?" The woman rounds the corner, pulling up short as she absorbs his presence at her father's back, hair-trigger suspicion alighting in the lambent blue of her eyes, mitigated only by momentary bemusement; he fixes her with an openly disdainful expression, cursing his bad luck.

Of course she would choose now to vacate her sanctuary. Her knack for disrupting his life proves, yet again, impeccable.

"What's up?" She queries, directing the question at her father. Before he can even begin to respond, it clicks: "Oh, papa, please tell me you're not taking him to see the ship!" There's a weary note of entreaty in the admonition, edged with grimmest resignation.

Dr. Briefs disaffectedly strokes the feline at his shoulder.

"Come now, Bulma, what's the harm in letting the young man have a look around?" The woman transitions smoothly from incredulity at her sire to burning reproach, which she makes a point of casting toward him. Proximity gifts him with the opportunity to read her present indignation as more than merely the product of the moment; she's radiating anger, kept diligently fresh over the course of several days -likely since he'd (literally) torn into her lab to demand an audience. He can tell she's raring to mete out punishment.

"Oh, I'll show him around, papa." Oblivious entirely to the thickening tension between the Prince and his intolerable offspring, Dr. Briefs raises as much objection to this ill-meant offer as he had to Vegeta's impromptu demand to be shown how to use the ship -which is to say, none at all.

"Really?" Smiling crookedly, the old man is already twirling back in the direction from whence he'd come. "Well, if it's not too much trouble. I'll just be off, then." In the same blasé-absent way he appears to perform most -if not all—tasks, her father ambles away, puffing his noxious smoke and mumbling to himself all the while.

Vegeta's enmity for the woman peaks; this is precisely the situation he'd hoped to forestall by seeking out her father. He's no desire to endure more of her banshee screeching about his most recent 'misbehavior.' Honestly, he hadn't even killed anyone -a supremely magnanimous gesture, if he does say so himself.

Although, if she starts in on him, rectifying his lapse of 'humanity' is no difficult matter…

But she leads off with naught save a dirty look, and he follows her, half suspecting she means to let the issue lie -until they clear what he takes to be her estimation of her father's earshot, at any rate, briefly after which she slows to a stop, quiet for an introspective moment. Then she pivots, battle in her eyes.

"Let's get one thing straight, buster: you can't go around blowing things up every time you want something and expect I'll just jump to do your bidding. That is NOT the way things work here."

"I don't know; this tack appears to be working well enough so far." Looking quite like she might be reevaluating her own 'no killing of guests' policy, the woman sets herself on the defensive.

"This is only happening right now because my dad's the most absent-minded man on the planet and you've been known to fry things that annoy you and there's no way I'd trust that combination alone in our very expensive, soundproof getaway vehicle; and this is only happening at all because I already generously offered to show you the ship. Which you could maybe have considered BEFORE you decided to tear my door out of the wall!"

Nastily, "That would hardly have gotten the point across." The mild anticipatory thrill Vegeta feels at her militant anger fades in its turn; regrettably, he reminds himself, this mouthy she-devil is no warrior, and would hardly be worth the sport.

"If the point is that you're a socially retarded ASSWIPE, then congratulations: message received! But dammit, Vegeta, there're engineers all over the place; you could've asked any one of them, they'd have put you through to me right away—"

"I do not 'ask' for anything." He cuts in.

"Yeah, I've noticed." Bulma sneers, her insolence ever his peerless, dutiful companion. "And now I'm 'not asking' you, either, when I tell you to stay the hell out of my lab until you figure out a less barbaric way to get my attention." She gives him a peremptory look to kill the retort on his tongue, and stomps off in a huff.

He hangs back, sorting through a catalogue of options for her slow, painful death until she glides to a halt and shows him her profile and a lifted brow.

"You coming?"

Vowing silently that Bulma Briefs will be made to answer for her endless impudence, Vegeta nods, glaring evenly at her as he follows.

***

The malevolence of her manner evaporates the instant they set foot inside the vessel; she's suddenly glowing with pride at the opportunity to showcase her (and her father's) mechanical achievement. He absently records the bright excitement of her visage, scowling when she turns the force of it on him.

"If there's been anything good about all this crazy alien business, it's gotta be this baby. The ship we took to Namek was apparently how Kami-sama came to Earth, and we were in kind of a hurry to get going by the time we got hold of it -what with you already having such a big head start on us and all—so dad and I didn't have too much time to check it out, but fortunately there was still your big-angry-bald-friend's pod…which I may or may not have accidentally destroyed," she coughs, "but that turned out to be an unexpected windfall for us; thinking no one'd be able to salvage anything useful from the scraps, the government willingly handed the wreckage over to us, and dad -being the mad genius he is— pieced ol' Humpty-Dumpty back together again, no problem. Supplementing what little we were able to learn from the schematics of Kami-sama's ship, dad's team built Earth's very first working, long-range spacecraft. Once again, Capsule Corp is light-years ahead of the competition!" She makes a god-awful cackling noise, and he makes a mental note to discourage any future episodes of her happiness at all costs. "Who knows when Capsule Corp would've looked to the stars if you guys hadn't shown your ugly faces…? Plus, I guess it's nice to know where Goku's from; I always felt like the universe owed us an explanation for that bizarro kid." He snorts; of course this overconfident female feels the universe has obligations to her. "Although," here she cuts him a Look tipped with poison, "I'd've preferred to learn about his heritage without any of our friends having to die."

He doesn't fight the devilish grin nicking up at both corners of his mouth.

"It's hardly my problem your species is afflicted with both insanity and pathetic weakness."

"You really don't want to know how to use the GR, do you?"

"Renege if you must; I'm anticipating your word will turn out to be every bit as hollow as that head of yours." She stands with small hands balling spasmodically into fists at her side, jaw clenched.

"I'd always intended to keep my word, dammit," she snaps out stiffly, responding to his unspoken accusation, "I got distracted is all. If you would only've waited a while—"

"I waited patiently for days—"

Incredulously, "Ripping a door out of the wall was you waiting 'patiently?'" Then, falling back suddenly and setting her ire on ice, "You know what? Never mind. Let's just get this over with so we can get the hell away from each other."

Well, he doesn't intend to argue with that. His silence tenders assent, though it takes the woman longer than it should to realize as much. When she finally catches on, she runs a hand back through her hair in exasperation, chokes back whatever Nasty Sentiment she so obviously wants to share, and waves her hand vaguely toward the ship's central pillar. "This," she raps a knuckle lightly against the column as she reaches it, "is the gravity well. At the moment, it's only calibrated to reach 50x Earth's normal force, but I can dial it up whenever; just need a few hours to do it. If you can manage not to piss me off for a day or two, I might even consider doing it sooner rather than never." He ignores her peevish threat, and she surges forward, transitioning smoothly into Lecture Mode after a terse interdiction against touching anything until she's had a chance to explain everything she means to, lest he accidentally flatten her into a blue-hued pile of flesh-and-gore all over the craft's freshly-polished floor.

He isn't surprised when he only manages to make it through the initial 'this-button-does-that' portion of the tutorial before he's unthinkingly reaching out to fire up the machine, but Bulma's hand shooting out to intercept him does bring him brief pause.

Gloveless, he experiences again the problematic sensation of her touch, cool fingers settling at his wrist; after a beat, he shakes her off and stays the course. She wastes no time inserting herself bodily between himself and the panel, arms flung wide.

His focused goal to keep from touching her is the only thing stopping him from reaching through her.

"What are you, slow? Wait 'til I've finished and gone, will you? What part of my mushy-scientist-puddle lecture didn't you understand? My body can't take the stresses of too many more G's, dammit. I will die." And here again she candidly volunteers more of her species' vulnerabilities; there's simply no saving these fools from themselves.

"All the more incentive." He nudges her aside (just barely -she's every bit as fragile as she's indicated) with two fingers at her hip, grinning as she determinedly attempts to ground herself and finds herself utterly unable to resist him; she stumbles, stubs her toe against the core's casing, swears creatively about his lineage -and throws herself frantically back into his path.

There's no reason she should've been to accomplish such a feat; he's capable of moving several thousand times faster than she, after all. In no time, he could've had the machine humming to life. Which would have put an end, once and for all, to this obstinate female and her incessant screeching. Why then, the hesitation?

"I suggest you run along, woman. I have no further need of you." Sparking with indignation, she swats at his hand as he forgoes shoving her aside a second time and instead moves to reach around her.

"Listen here, Oh-Mighty-Lord of Ungrateful Freeloaders: I know you're probably used to everyone accommodating your bitter-psychotic-bastard quirkiness, but while you're living here -where, I'll remind you, you've been charitably put up free-of-charge—you will stop dismissing me and threatening me all the live-long-day, and you will learn some basic freaking manners, and treat me with the respect I deserve for being your gracious, gorgeous host." Her eyes are blue fire, seared through with rebuke.

Fearless.

Feeling every bit the predator he is, he blurs into existence a hair's breadth from her face, sending her stumbling over herself in the suddenly confining ambit of his arms, which hem her in on either side, palms flat and fingers still on the cool metal paneling of the gravity well.

If he cannot have her fear freely, so be it.

He will simply have to earn it.

"Woman," he breathes, gaze catching on the startled pout of her lips, "it is time you learned your place." She swallows whatever trepidation holds her so stiffly in place and glowers right back, eyes dark and skin flush.

Quaint, he muses absently, that a sidling step forward would align his body with hers -and peculiar also, that this detail should avail itself to him at all.

Then: with a sharp, biting shock, he discovers himself casually weighing the merits of the action.

The revelation is something quite the opposite of pleasant, and the impulse to end her follows swiftly on its heels with new, dynamic urgency.

"Stuff it, Vegeta. This is my spaceship, my house, and my planet; you don't get to order me around here." It's all the challenge he needs to move closer, to set his mouth at her ear; she emits a startled, 'hey!' with a warm displacement of air at his cheek, braces a single, finely quivering hand at his sternum -to bridge their meager distance or hold him at bay, he has no idea.

"Oh?" He considers wrapping his hand around her throat again, to feel the trip-rhythm of her pulse, to puzzle over such cretinous incongruences as the water-smooth texture of her skin against his own battle-hewn fingers. Instead, he fastens his grip at her forearms where fabric conveniently spares him the distraction, "I disagree."

Eyes wide as she immediately reads his intent,

"You can't throw me out of my own ship, dammit! It's mine!" But it's already too late, he's already materializing over the lawn, smirking as the woman slowly processes that she's no longer on solid ground. Still looking more stunned than outraged (though he doesn't doubt that will come, and soon), he drops her, and delights in the show of her crumpling helplessly at his feet. He doesn't wait for her to gain her own feet, instead zipping back for the ship the instant he deduces she's sustained no serious or lasting injury (other than, perhaps, to her pride), smirking as he hits the correct sequence of buttons to close the hatch and hears her howling obscenities at him over the noise of the mechanism.

The last thing he sees before the threshold seals over is the flash of her eyes, glimmering with lethal intent.

***

"My scouts tell me you went all to pieces over some callow simian, little brother." Freeza's tail twitches sharply, and the screech of metal hinging against metal sings sinister in the shadow-darkened infirmary.

Caustic, "I don't imagine this will be nearly as funny when I tear out your throat." Cooler doesn't flinch.

"I jest, Freeza. Calm yourself. I'm sure you hurry even now to rectify this frightful transgression against your dignity; you'll be seeking retribution, I expect, as well as to restore our Clan's reputation where injuries have been incurred. It is no lasting disgrace." Always, the supercilious cut of his elder's words, designed to disparage and crafted to penetrate. "By the boundless stars, Child," Cooler pretends to study him, the mischief in his appraisal warning enough of the slight to come, "that Saiyan really did a number on you, didn't he? You are but half the Emperor you were." The Ruler Supreme of the Eastern Galactic Empire meditates on the merits of fratricide, balling his fists at his side and feeling three-hundred turns younger, an effect uniquely evoked by Cooler, whose countenance now reports derision and tragic disappointment.

"Cooler." A deeper, distinctive voice hails from the gloom at his back, near the bay's sole entrance. "A little civility?" His father steps into what sparse light the room has to offer, all but filling the space with the immensity of his being. Freeza espies half-hearted chagrin on his sire's face, leveled forward at the monitor, through which Cooler can be seen standing at sudden, subtle attention, long tail carefully stilling at his heels. But his brother coolly smiles his way through the perfunctory reproach, even as he inclines his head in deference.

"I would hardly dare otherwise, Father. Freeza knows it for sport, that I'm being facetious. Don't you, hatchling?" Freeza knows better than to dignify this baiting with any reaction whatsoever. He contents himself with dreaming up the best, most perfect way of eviscerating one's obnoxious sibling. "I called only to offer commiserations, and to volunteer my services, should you have need of me. The report I received lauded your monkey upstart as a warrior of uncommon caliber, and I felt obliged to extend a helping hand -or, in your stead, to redress this villainy myself, should you decide you aren't up to the task." Freeza prepares to snap out a scathing reply, but his father calmly heads him off.

"Stop goading your brother, Cooler; we are all family here, aren't we?" The word is intentionally ironic in delivery; blood has cultivated no fondness between these brothers. When neither of his offspring appear inclined to respond, Kind Cold sighs, weary. "At any rate, if what we are in fact dealing with is a 'Super Saiyan,' as Freeza seems well beyond convinced we are, then it's no matter left to chance, and warrants the express, immediate attention of someone equipped to handle the over-powerful little monkey. And who knows? Perhaps I'll see some worthwhile action before the Universe is wiped free of the Saiyan menace once and for all."

His brother's eyes reflect flickering surprise, stark bemusement.

"You're…going personally?" Cooler echoes back, clearly still digesting this newest nugget of information. In spite of himself, Freeza smirks, malicious. It'd been a hundred turns at least -maybe longer—since Cold had deigned to intercede on behalf of either of his progeny, though only half that since one of them -Cooler—had been in dire need of it. Freeza experiences a rapturous moment of savage pleasure, recalling his older brother's thinly-veiled desperation against the threat of an intergalactic alliance twelve planets and several billion sentient soldiers strong -and their father's baffling, frigid indifference to his plight, leaving Cooler to the mercy of the myriad ferocious, vengeance-minded legions out specifically for his blood.

Unfortunately, Cooler had lived through the ordeal, albeit barely, and the incident had instilled in both of Cold's sons the notion that, under exigent circumstances, they were to be left to whatever fate befell them; they would find no quarter with their father.

The king's interest in his well-being in the aftermath of his defeat by that monkey bastard defies this conventional wisdom, however, quite clearly to Cooler's bitter unhappiness. And Freeza's sadistic delight.

"Well that is, that's…" Cooler begins, lapsing into brief, furious incoherence. At his side, their father's gaze is level, disaffected; if he notices Cooler's discomfiture, he offers no indication of it. Recovering himself at length, "That's splendid, father. Overkill, perhaps, but I wish you both swift expedition all the same; hope your massacre goes swimmingly, and so forth."

"Make no mistake, the monkey will pay." Freeza finally puts in, the force of his wrath undoubtedly contorting his features most distastefully.

"I have the utmost faith." Cooler returns, curt, his earlier humor entirely evaporated. "Brother, father." He nods at each in turn, and the transmission unceremoniously cuts out.

"Tch. Too long on the fringes, that one; lost all sense of manners." Absent remark dispensed, King Cold pivots coolly and strides out of the infirmary without further comment. Freeza, newly optimistic, is very nearly giddy, and puts in a call to the gallery for victory spirits.

It'll be several months yet before he's anywhere near back to top form. But he can feel it already, the raw tingle of new, artificially-enhanced power, and he feels certain once his convalescence is complete, Son Goku will be made acutely aware of his humiliation.

***

next chapter: zarbon takes a crash course in saiyan diplomacy, bulma breaks the camel's back and receives a similar education, kami pulls a Xellos Metallium, and princey-poo unwittingly saves a man's life (and Learns Nothing from the experience).