Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 36

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he's decided to share them with.

Author's Notes: Thanks for all the reviews everyone! The support and kind comments have been awesome, and so very appreciated! And sorry to everyone who has me on FFN's author alert - the formatting issues in the first 26 chapters have all been fixed, and again I'm sorry if your email inbox has been spammed by my edits.

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PRESENT DAY

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Gohan yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth since his mother was fast asleep, and he knew that Radditz wouldn't care in the least. The three of them had not left the infirmary since Goku had been brought in a little over three hours ago. He was in the regeneration tank now, and there was really no reason for any of them to be there, but they were all reluctant to leave just the same.

“Hey, Brat,” Radditz rumbled from his seat on the counter, “you can go to bed if you want.” He shifted and scratched his armpit.

“Nah, I'm okay.” Gohan replied, though he did cast an envious look toward his mother, who was stretched out in relative comfort on the padded examination table. Puar had brought them each a blanket and pillow to keep them cozy while they did their sentinel duty. He'd offered to stay too, but Radditz had sent him to away two hours prior, telling the shapeshifter in low tones to go and keep the bed warm, even though they both knew he wouldn't be coming back to it any time soon. “Maybe if Mom went to bed I'd feel a bit better, but I don't want to leave her here all alone.”

“Pah, I'm here!” Radditz scoffed, but he was grinning nonetheless. They both knew that while Chichi had grown to tolerate and even accept the saiyan presence in her life, the idea of waking up alone to find only Radditz watching over her would not be an appealing one to her.

“No offense or anything.” Gohan shrugged beneath the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his uncle laughed.

“None taken, kid. Hey, why don't you toss me one of those pillows? This counter's damn solid!” Radditz complained, shifting to one side to rub his aching butt.

“Radditz,” Gohan paused, “can I ask you a question?” He grabbed the extra bedding and hauled himself up from the floor before plodding over to the counter and hopping up to sit beside his uncle. There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the sounds of shifting as they both manoeuvred pillows beneath rumps and blankets around shoulders.

“Is it about hormones?” Radditz asked, “Because if it is, you might want to make sure your mom is actually asleep. She doesn't seem like the type to appreciate what I'd have to say.”

“It's about tonight.” Gohan raised an eyebrow at his uncle. Thanks to two years of cohabitation with Radditz and Nappa, Gohan doubted that he would ever have questions about anything that he didn't already know the answer to. “You felt the power surge too, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” Radditz nodded as he adjusted his blanket a little. “Everyone did. It's why we all came running.” He glared at his nephew, one eye squinting ever so slightly. “You two interrupted what was going to be a very good night.”

“Anyway,” Gohan continued, trying to pretend that Radditz's last sentence had remained unsaid, “did you notice anything odd?” He watched the adult saiyan carefully, his small eyebrows furrowed together as Radditz thought about it, an almost identical look of concentration on his face.

“The surge,” Radditz said at last, “it was enormous.” He frowned, trying to reconcile this new information with what he knew of his brother's meagre power level. “Fucking astronomical, for Kakarott.”

“That's what I thought. And when he was having the attack,” Gohan paused, picking his words carefully, “he flickered.”

“Flickered?” Radditz repeated, eyebrows high in surprise as he turned to face the boy.

“Flickered.” Gohan confirmed. “It was almost like the first time that Vegeta nearly transformed, right before he told us to come to Red. Not as intense,” he added hastily, knowing that what he was saying was practically sacrilege. “Not as powerful. But I...I'm almost sure I saw it.”

“Impossible.” Radditz blurted, but he didn't sound at all sure of himself. “You mean to say that you think Kakarott almost went Super Saiyan?”

“No, not even close.” Gohan sighed and kicked his booted feet against the cupboards. “He's not strong enough. But I think...” He trailed off, unsure how he felt about what he was saying. On one hand, he should be pleased to have a father with such potential. On the other, he felt almost betrayed on behalf of Vegeta, as though it was not his father's place to usurp the prince.

“This is major. We've got to tell Vegeta.” Radditz scrubbed a hand against his face and sighed deeply, as though contemplating how that conversation might go and the multitude of ways in which the volatile monarch might react. He dreaded about ninety-two percent of them. “Even if it turns out to be a bucket of piss, we've got to tell him.”

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Bulma sprawled backwards in her chair and rubbed the aching muscles of her neck, even though she knew it wouldn't really do anything to curb the pain unless she followed the massage up with a strict cease order on what was causing it - not likely. She groaned and sat up straight once more, the springs in the backrest creaking as she did so, and surveyed the mess before her. For a man so enamoured of machines, Dr. Gero had been a terrible hypocrite when it came to computers. The files in his private account comprised only a small percentage of what was to be found in hard copy - scribbled bits of paper tacked haphazardly together with tape, paperclips, and in the case of a few fair-sized packets, a length of twine. The paper records were meticulous in their detail and kept as complete sets, but the filing system was nonexistent. The clipped and stapled sheafs were everywhere; hiding in drawers, sitting piled amongst parts under tarps, stuffed into boxes, and stacked beneath tables. It wasn't exactly a mess, but it was close, and it was damn near driving Bulma insane. She was tempted to just scrap the whole lot of it - incinerate it and toss it out with the ship's trash - but the fact of the late doctor's genius kept her from doing so. As much as she hated to admit it, Gero's notes were valuable and would probably come in handy one day.

Besides that, she was desperate to find more information on the twin androids that she'd suddenly gained custody of. The files in Gero's computer were sadly lacking, and as the two bodies inched closer and closer to completion, Bulma was becoming desperate. Sixteen seemed certain that Gero had performed some sort of programming wizardry and all that was necessary to the twins' survival was not disrupting their power supply, but Bulma doubted that the process would just complete itself and the twins would fall out of the tanks as two sopping wet, fully functional adults. Whatever gaps might exist would be in her hands.

Bulma checked her watch and glanced backwards over her shoulder toward the rear of the lab, where the objects of her concern lay. Sixteen had gone back there over an hour ago, simply to sit and watch, as was his habit since the old man's death. Bulma wondered how he was doing. He seemed to be coping quite well, but it was always so hard to tell with the big android. He could be joyful or in the deepest pits of anger, and his expression hardly seemed to change. Bulma hoped that Seventeen and Eighteen would show some advances in that area; she loved Sixteen and thought of him as a dear friend, but his stoic face and monotone voice could be surprisingly trying and she didn't know if she could deal with it from three directions at once.

“Okay babe,” she said to herself, “concentrate.” She rubbed temples for a few seconds, squinting down at the next stack of papers as though she might develop selective x-ray vision and be suddenly able to skim through the whole pile at once. For every amazing, brilliant idea Gero wrote down, it seemed he expounded on at least two crackpot ones, making a tedious job of what could have been fascinating research. She'd been at it for hours already, and the knowledge that she had hardly made a dent in it all was crushing. Maybe just a little break...

Five minutes later, Bulma was whirling away from the desk, cursing Gero's uncomfortable chair as she stood and tried in vain to stretch out all the kinks in her spine. She spun the seat back toward the desk, wincing at the creak in the mechanism, and tried to decide whether to bother oiling it or to just trash it. The chair in her own lab was a thousand times more comfortable anyway, and she'd be moving it in along with all of her projects in as soon as she finished organizing Gero's leavings. At the same time, the past three years had made her cautious of wastefulness. Bulma shook her head briefly, telling herself that there were more important things to think about than the fate of a crummy chair, and started picking her way to the back of the lab.

“Hey Sixteen.” She said, alerting the big android to her presence as she came up behind him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, still almost as tall as she was standing, patiently watching the two tanks. “How's it going?”

“Things are progressing as expected.” Sixteen replied, nodding toward the tanks as Bulma lowered herself to the ground beside him. Maybe she'd wheel the awful old chair back here for him and move hers in right away. “They are nearly complete.”

“How can you tell?” Bulma asked, eyeing the tanks suspiciously. It still made her a little bit uncomfortable to look at the twins, both stark naked and in varying states of completion. The first time she'd seen them, they'd both had little in the way of lower extremities, but now they both had proper legs and feet, and were working on toes. “Are they done once they're complete on the outside? What about their brains and innards? Brains take a really long time to develop in humans.” She paused, “But I guess it isn't really the same thing, is it?”

“I suppose not.” Sixteen shrugged his massive shoulders, “Though I must confess, my knowledge of human reproduction and development is somewhat lacking. Father did not see fit to teach me all of the details. ”

“Oh,” Bulma said, a little surprised, “well let me know if you ever have any...ah...questions.” It was always a bit shocking to find out about the weird gaps in Sixteen's knowledge; he seemed to know so much about the ship and about the universe around them, and given that Gero had designed Sixteen with the role of medical personnel in mind, it was odd that the big android hadn't been schooled properly in human development. Then again, she figured Gero probably hadn't been planning on finding himself a wife and making babies any time soon. Bulma squinted up at Eighteen in her tank, the only female Gero had ever built, and suddenly it occurred to her than his plans might have been less than noble. “What...what do you think will happen when they come out?” Bulma asked, suddenly unsure as to whether she should be allowing Sixteen to sit here with Eighteen's nude body in full view. “What will they be to you?”

“My siblings.” Sixteen answered, and Bulma could hear a surprising note of happiness in his voice, remarkable not for the sentiment but for the fact that it was audible in the first place. She felt a little better. “I will be their elder brother, and I will teach them all that I know about living, and I will remember to them our father.”

“And what if they turn out like he did?”

“They will not.” The big android said, firmly. Then, a little less surely “And if they do, you will fix them. I will help you.”

“Oh.” Bulma replied, eyeing the near-complete toes of the twins and resolving to get back to her search for Gero's documents. “I guess I'd better get back to work then, if I'm going to be prepared.” She got up, grimacing as her back cracked. “What's the deal with all the paper?” Bulma complained as she adjusted her shirt, which had pulled up a little as she stretched. “Hardly half of Gero's files are on the computer.”

“My father was a paranoid man. He feared computer hackers, but trusted the relative security of any hard copy kept here.”

“Hmm, sounds like the Gero I knew, all right.” Bulma shook her head, thinking about how easy it had been for her to get past his locks and sneak into his lab. Then again, the old coot had caught her right in the middle of her covert operations, so she supposed his way of thinking wasn't all wrong. She shrugged her shoulders, as much in gesture as an attempt to loosen up her tense muscles, and turned away from the regeneration tanks. She shuffled back toward Gero's old desk, dragging her slippered feet as she went; the prospect of going through every detail of the old man's research was suddenly a daunting task, given her shortened time frame, and she was no longer certain if she had the energy to continue. “Maybe I'll get dad down here to help,” she muttered, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she pulled out the wheelie chair from hell and plopped down, “though I have no clue why he isn't beating down the door himself. Well...” she added, glancing around at the mess as she reached for another stack, “maybe I do.”

Bulma spent a few moments shuffling through the pile, glancing at the headers - one was just a napkin with “Arms” scribbled on it, and upon closer inspection, the following sheets comprised a packet of various sketches of mechanical arms, including Sixteen's wire and cable mock-up of a human limb. She shrugged and set it into the pile of non-critical android information to be reviewed later. Next in the stack were some notes on Gero's early ideas for Red Station, which she put in another `sort through later' type pile, just in case any of it might be viable for future designs. “Come on, where's the `So You're Going to Have an Android?' pamphlets? My school guidance counsellor did not prepare me for this.” She shook her head and rifled through the documents in her hands, looking for something interesting. Well, the truth was actually that most of what she now had in her hands was interesting - the problem was finding something relevant.

“Oh ho, what's this?” She plucked a fad wad of papers from the middle of the pile and set the rest aside before removing the clip that bound the packet together. The front page which had attracted her attention was a sketch of what looked to be another android, though unlike the others it did not appear to have strictly human features. Another odd detail caught Bulma's attention as she squinted to make out the labels in Gero's cramped handwriting; this one was not numbered, but was labelled instead with a name. “Cell.” Bulma said aloud as she flipped to the next page and began to read about the planned android's theoretical specs. “Perfect being, blah, blah, blah.” She rolled her eyes at Gero's ego before turning to the next page.

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Sixteen sighed happily as he looked up at his soon-to-be brother and sister, feeling the odd, warmish sensation that Chichi called `contentment' and knew it to be true. He was sad for the death of his father, and yet at the same time, he could not recall ever having felt the same sense of excitement, of budding happiness, as he did now. The arrival of Bulma and the others on Red Station had been interesting and wonderful, but those sensations had been tempered by the reluctance and scepticism of his father, with his paranoia and pessimistic ways. This time, Sixteen felt free to hope for the best, and to expect that things would work out. He knew Bulma was wary of the twins, probably because of the spectacular show of unbalanced rage that Gero had left as his final legacy, but Sixteen was confident that the twins would not suffer the same ill-effects as their father had. They were of a completely different construction, for one thing, and there was none of the clumsy haste that had characterized Gero's transformation lurking within their design.

Sixteen smiled, thinking of Bulma. She had been a very good friend to him the past three years, and even moreso since the passing of the doctor. He had no doubt that she would be able to take over as a parental figure to the twins. He actually felt that she was likely to do a much better job than his father had done with him, and he was pleased to be able to offer them that. Now if only Bulma could be so confident in herself, he thought, smiling as he pictured her hunched over Gero's desk, tumble of blue curls obscuring her face from his towering height.

“I am so excited.” Sixteen said to the twins, though no one who did not know him well could have guessed from his tone of voice. “Soon you will be complete, and we will finally meet. And you will meet Bulma and Chichi, my two very best friends. And you will meet the others too; Krillin and Puar, and the Briefs and the saiyans...and Piccolo and Tien and Master Roshi and Oolong...do not listen to Master Roshi and Oolong. If you have questions about sex, ask Bulma or Chichi. Krillin is also good at answering questions. Vegeta yells and is sullen but probably won't actually hit you outside of the training rooms.” Sixteen paused and rethought the wisdom of his last statement, even though he wasn't sure how much the twins could actually hear and understand. “Refrain from testing this theory.” He added, before lapsing once more into silence. He'd spoken more in the last five minutes than he had all day, and the urge to voice his thoughts had suddenly run dry. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, and watched the subtle swirl of the bluish fluid as it slowly worked its way around and through the tank. He followed the occasional bubble with his eyes, smiling as the tiny pockets of air worked themselves free and shot upward to freedom.

Eyes half shut with near meditative concentration, Sixteen almost missed the quick twitch of Seventeen's fingers, and had it not been for the small swath of bubbles released in its wake, the movement might have gone completely unnoticed. As it was, the big android wasn't quite sure that he'd actually seen what he thought he had, until he moved closer and, peering in, saw his younger brother's index finger move just the barest hint, uncontrolled like a second spasm of the tendons. “B...Bulma!” he cried out in shock, backing up to stare at the pale face in the tank, expecting the eyelids to crack open at any moment. “Bulma!” He called again, walking backward a few steps, reluctant to peel his eyes from the tank lest his brother stop moving, before he turned and stumbled through the labyrinth of half-finished projects and spare parts that was his late father's lab. He called out to her again once she was in view, though he thought she must not have heard him the first two times, for she was startled enough by his appearance that she dropped whatever she'd been reading, papers flying every which way and scattering across the floor.

“Sixteen!” She squawked, dropping immediately to the floor and scrabbling for the strewn records. “What is it?” Bulma asked, sounding breathless, and had he been less excited about his own discovery, he might have noticed the shaking tips of her fingers, and the unusually wan pallor of her already pale skin. “No! Don't help!” She shouted as he bent to help her, and when he jerked back in surprise, she laughed uncomfortably. “I mean...um, this isn't important, just leave it! Hahaha....I uh, I can get it later.” She dumped what was in her hand on the desk and brushed the dirt from her knees. “So what is it?”

“You must come and see!” Sixteen said, and though his voice was as monotone as ever, Bulma could see that he was shaken by something. “It's Seventeen! His fingers moved! Come and see!” He turned and started back toward the tanks, papers forgotten, and Bulma trailed behind, casting nervous glances back at the mess on the floor.

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Guldo poked his head into the hallway, scowling left then right, before pulling back into the small meeting room and shutting the door. He stood with his back straight, legs firmly planted on the ground, feet shoulder width apart, and hooked his hands together behind his back so that his chest would puff out as proudly as possible, waiting for his comrades to notice him.

They did not.

“Hey Recoome,” Jeice elbowed the much larger warrior in the ribs and grinned, teeth blindingly white against the scarlet of his skin, “who was that pretty little nut I saw you disappear with last night, hmm?”

“Dunno.” Recoome shrugged his massive shoulders, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration as he bent over the table, attention focused purely on trying to spin the coin he had, as Burter had shown him. “Didn't think to ask.” He continued, frowning as the coin spun once, lopsidedly, before rolling three inches and falling on its side.

“Ugh, not like that, idiot.” Burter snorted and reached for the coin. He held it upright on the table with one finger, then flicked it with his other hand and watched with smug satisfaction as it whizzed around the tabletop.

“I still don't get it.” Recoome slammed his hand down on the coin, stopping its motion in mid-spin, and balancing it carefully beneath his meaty finger once more.

“Try, try, and try again!” Jeice chanted in a sing-song voice, rolling his eyes at the largest member of the team.

“Ah-HEM!” Guldo coughed loudly from his place by the door, and only Jeice turned to look.

“What's up, little mate?” He drawled, kicking back his chair and propping his feet on the table.

“I've called you all here today,” Guldo began, striding toward the table in his best impression of a respectable war general. Whatever small effect he'd managed to cultivate was ruined when he stopped at the one empty chair, whose seat reached his shoulder. He scrambled up, grunting, and sat, his bulging eyes barely visible above the tabletop. He hauled himself to his feet and stood, a little unsteadily, on the plushy seat cushion. “As you all know, our beloved Captain Ginyu has died, leaving the leadership of our esteemed group in the balance.”

“I nominate me.” Jeice put in.

“What?” Guldo sputtered, “No!”

“Yeah, I'm a much better choice.” Burter said, not even bothering to look up at the others as he picked up Recoome's coin, patiently standing it beneath his finger once more “You hold it with one hand, and flick it with the other.” He explained again, miming the action with his fingers.

“That's what she said.” Jeice snickered.

“In addition to my excellent leadership skills,” Guldo continued loudly, as though volume would be proportionate to respect garnered, “I have the same initial as Ginyu; we wouldn't even have to change our uniforms!”

“We don't have a G on our uniforms, frog face.” Burter pointed out, taking Recoome's hands and positioning them for optimum coin-spinning luck.

“Hey, who are you calling frog face?” Guldo spat, “And we do so have a G on our curling team uniforms!”

“You're not even really on the team.” Burter said.

“Yeah, you can't sweep for shit.” Jeice added. “Waterboy.”

“Water is important!” Guldo shrieked. “Ginyu said so!”

“Ginyu's dead.” Jeice pointed out. “Shit, guys. We're going to have to find another skip if we're going to win this year's bonspiel.”

“The team captain should be skip.” Burter nodded. “So that means Guldo is out for sure. Too bad Zarbon turned traitor; he was an excellent caller, and a decent fighter too.”

“Enough about curling!” Guldo slammed a fist on the table. He was always getting the shaft when it came to the Ginyu Force's participation in army intramurals, but that would change once he was captain. He'd never be relegated to water boy again. “I propose a vote! Right here, right now. We pick a new team leader! I vote Guldo!”

“I still vote for myself.” Jeice said.

“Me too. A vote for Burter is a vote for better.” Burter clapped his hands together as Recoome balanced the coin and flicked it with his thumb and middle finger, finally sending it spinning like a top. “Hey, good job man!” He patted the big lug on the back.

“Burter.” Recoome said, grinning from ear to ear as he watched the little disk whiz around. “I vote Burter!”

“Well damn, I guess you win, ” Jeice said, shrugging and leaning back in his chair. “Well played, mate. What'll we call ourselves? The Burter Squad? Burter's Bruisers?”

“Shit! This is shit!” Guldo slammed his fists against the table.

“Team Burter?” Recoome wondered.

“The Burter Brigade?” Jeice asked. “I kind of like that one.”

“Hey, me too.” Burter was nodding along. “What do you think, big fellow?”

“I like it.” Recoome said. “Seriously though,” he said, glancing at Guldo, who was stewing silently in his chair, “we need to find another member before curling season starts.”

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“You are shitting me.” Vegeta said, quietly glaring across the room, to the regeneration where Goku slept, completely unaware of the turmoil he was causing.

“Blasphemy! To even suggest such a thing!” Nappa spluttered, his cheeks flaming red with anger. “Complete and utter blasphemy!”

“It's not!” Gohan balled his fists up, trying to stand firm in the face of adult disbelief. Nappa was fuming mad, but Radditz had been open and Vegeta was remaining calm, so Gohan took it as a good sign. “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“Tell me again.” Vegeta commanded, and Nappa turned his red, sputtering face toward the prince in shock.

“You actually mean to listen to this, Vegeta?” He squawked.

“Tell me again.” Vegeta repeated, lifting a hand to silence Nappa, even as his eyes remained fixed on Gohan. “Leave nothing out.”

“I told you, he...he flickered. Not as strong or as obviously as you did, even the first time it happened. Not nearly that.” Gohan stuttered, feeling the strain of the prince's glare, desperately wanting to look away, to bow or perhaps bare his throat like a submitting animal. The weight of Vegeta's hostility was something he did not want to bear, but he could not disservice his prince by lying. “I saw it...your highness.” He added, weakly grasping for something, anything, to lessen Vegeta's ire.

“So are you telling us that he went Super Saiyan?” Vegeta asked, and behind him Gohan could feel Radditz shrink a little at that deadly tone. Was his uncle regretting their decision so soon?

“N...no.” Gohan forced himself to meet Vegeta's gaze. “No, he didn't. But neither did you, that first time.”

“He is a weakling! A pathetic third class power level,” Nappa insisted, “and afflicted with the wasting, no less! There is just no way!”

“I saw what I saw. You all felt the jump of his power before he crashed.” Gohan did his best to keep the waver from his voice, feeling tears well up in his eyes and desperately willing them not to fall, at least until he could be alone. He felt the weight of Radditz's hand coming down gently on his shoulder, and snuffled them all back.

“What a force to be reckoned with,” Radditz said bravely, “for what fool would go against a team of Super Saiyans? If that bratling of a brother of mine can do it, I don't see why I can't. Gohan too; it's in the blood.” He stuck his tongue out at Nappa, who glared so hard that Gohan feared his eyes might fall right out of his head.

“What a concept.” Vegeta said dryly, rolling his eyes. He looked critically at Gohan, head cocked and arms crossed as he leaned back to rest against the examination table. He had to admit that the kid had always seemed to have a decent head on his shoulders. Flights of ethical fancy aside, Gohan had never been one to make up stories; precedent said to believe him. Still though, Vegeta frowned as he switched his gaze to the figure in the tank, the idea that one so weak and sick as Kakarott could possibly have come so close to the Super saiyan transformation was both rankling and preposterous. He shook his head and opened his mouth, about to speak, when a shuffle in the hallway caught his attention. “Sixteen approaches; I hear footfalls and feel no ki. Not a word of this conversation to anyone.” He snapped, just as the door whooshed open and the big android entered, looking faintly amused to see them all gathered there.

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Zarbon looked up in surprise, shocked to see Burter wandering into his cell. “Have you heard the news?” The blue-skinned man asked, without preamble. “Ginyu's dead. Vegeta killed `im.”

“Yeah.” Zarbon eyed his visitor warily, wondering what business Burter could possibly have with him.

“Figured you might.” Burter grabbed a chair, flipping it around and sitting down so that he straddled the backrest, folding his elbows on top and leaning forward on it. “Frieza always did tell you everything. Anyway, I'm the boss now. Of the Ginyu Squad, I mean. Well, the Burter Brigade, actually.”

“Huh.” Zarbon said, because he wasn't quite sure how to respond to that.

“A few months ago, I might have thought that would impress you.” Burter said, and Zarbon swallowed uncomfortably, feeling his insides curl at the tone of outright longing in the other man's voice. “I suppose it doesn't mean much, now.”

“Burter, I...” Zarbon trailed off as their eyes locked. “I didn't know.”

“Eh, I never said it.” Burter shrugged. “You were always too pretty for me, anyway.”

“Not so pretty right now, I imagine.” Zarbon shrugged awkwardly in his chains, cocking his head toward the pile of grimy hair, still on the floor. Burter scooted his chair forward, reaching out hesitantly to touch one long finger to the other man's bruised cheek. Zarbon flinched, his aching muscles all tight as his visitor came close, knowing that there was nothing he could do to protect himself from whatever Burter might have in mind.

“Zat an invitation?” Burter laughed sardonically. “The shape you're in, you're more of a masochist than I thought.” He caught a strand of Zarbon's massacred hair between his fingers, feeling it's smoothness against his rough hide. “Naw, pretty boy, I didn't come to take advantage.” He dropped the hair and rolled his chair back a few inches. Still close, but no longer invasive.

“So what do you want?” Zarbon sighed tiredly, slumping against his restraints as some of the tension left his body. He did not have the patience to play games, nor did he think much more could be done to him that would be worse than what Frieza had for so many years.

“Why did you do it?” Burter asked, blunt and straightforward as he'd always been. “Why did you turn traitor?”

“I'm not sure I really turned anything.” Zarbon said. What harm could telling the truth do at this point? “It was a natural progression. My people joined the empire more or less willingly, when I was young and power hungry. I admired him and he knew it. He used it against me, pulled me in so deep that I couldn't see what I was becoming until it was too late. Until I woke up one morning with his stink all over me, covered in bruises, with blood in my hair, still feeling the effects of his drugs...” Zarbon broke off, and Burter pretended not to notice the tremors running through the captive's body, despite the audible clanking of the restraints. “And I realized I was trapped in this web of sickness and pain and hatred; no escape, nowhere to go. My people were dead or enslaved, my planet populated by aliens, and nothing for me in life but to be the master's pet.”

“Tell me, is this so much better?” Burter asked, gesturing with one hand around the room and to Zarbon himself, chained and filthy, crusted with blood and bruises.

“I knew the life I was leading would kill me, one way or the other. My death will have meaning, at least.”

“You are...” Burter paused, sighing, “a stupid man. Very stupid. But brave. I'm sorry to see things end like this.”

“Feh,” Zarbon grinned, despite the pain it caused in his cracked lips. “You think you're sorry?”

“I've got to go now. I might be back.” Burter stood and looked down at the fallen warrior, once such a proud figure of Frieza's army. He felt a sudden pang of desire go through him, not necessarily physical, but moreso for what could have been. He'd never had the courage to really talk to Zarbon before, too shy of the other man's beauty and of Frieza's jealousy. And now his chance was gone, and it rankled. Abruptly, Burter turned and stalked from the room, leaving a silent Zarbon behind, not really sure what to think about the encounter.

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Sixteen ignored the heavy silence in the medical bay as he went about his job, checking Goku's vitals and adjusting the nutrient flow in the tank. He appeared to have interrupted some kind of Saiyan meeting, judging from the way everyone's mouths had snapped right shut the second he entered the room. Four pairs of black eyes followed his every move, but the scrutiny didn't really phase him; he'd dealt with enough saiyan medical emergencies to know that they were fiercely protective of each other when it came to outsiders, despite the fact that the emergencies were usually caused by infighting anyway. Sixteen had other things on his mind, such as the distraction he'd sensed from Bulma in the lab, and he didn't need more mysteries to ponder. She'd been duly excited by Seventeen's brief bout of movement, but beneath her fascination with his brother, she'd seemed nervous somehow; cagey. Not at all like her usual self.

“Are you done yet?” Vegeta's voice cut through Sixteen's muddled thoughts like a knife, interrupting his musings on Bulma's odd behaviour.

“Nearly.” Sixteen answered, not at all bothered by Vegeta's impatience ; he was more than used to it by now, though he did wonder sometimes how such a sweet and giving woman as his dear friend Bulma had ended up with such a surly character. “Is something amiss?” He asked, wondering what exactly had all of the saiyans peaceably in the same room. Such a gathering usually only happened in the middle of the day like this when sparring was involved.

“No.” Vegeta snapped. “Now hurry up.”

“Very well.” Sixteen shrugged and turned back to his task. He made a few quick notes on Goku's chart and left shortly after, knowing that whatever secret Vegeta was keeping would come out soon enough.

.

.

Bulma tiptoed through the dark, a thick sheaf of papers clutched to her bosom as she made her way toward the ship's waste disposal units. It was the middle of the night and she'd snuck out of bed specifically for this purpose, fearful of running into anyone and having to explain any small bit of what was in her arms. The blueprints for the android called Cell; Gero's perfect creation. Had these plans come to fruition, this monster might very well have been the death of all of them.

The mystery of the third regeneration tank had been sitting at the back of Bulma's head for months, but she wondered if she'd rather not have found out the answer. If she hadn't mucked it up with Tien's `unsuitable' DNA, it would be sitting right beside the twins' tanks, slowly, slowly growing the monster that would consume them both. Meant to marry Gero's organic android technology with DNA from some of the most powerful fighters in the universe, that regeneration tank had been much more important than Bulma could ever have realized, and as awful as it was to have found Tien in such dreadful condition, she was incredibly thankful for the inadvertent ruination of Gero's plans. According to his notes, he'd already harvested samples from Goku and some of the Red Ribbon Army generals back on Earth, as well as several names she did not recognize, obviously gathered once out in space. In the time since his plans had been foiled, Gero had also gathered hair and blood samples from Vegeta, Gohan, Radditz, and Nappa, and had made several tries at getting blood from Piccolo.

Bothersome, but somewhat flattering, she'd also discovered that Gero had taken hair and skin samples from both herself and her father, intending to try and make his creature as intelligent as possible. Tendrils like ice curled around her and ran up her spine as she tried to imagine when and how he'd obtained those samples.

“Snake.” Bulma hissed to herself, shivering despite the heat of the incinerator. She thought of poor Sixteen, waiting so patiently for his brother and sister, clinging to the hope that they would be a family together in the wake of his father's death. She wondered what he would do if he knew that, while the twins had been designed to be excellent in their own right, Seventeen and Eighteen had been created almost purely as fodder for this Cell creature to reach his final state. The thought of it was absolutely chilling. And that was why she was burning the evidence. All of it. She'd used her ghost drive to root out and erase everything in Gero's computer system, and now came the physical. Bulma hefted the heavy door open, cursing as it creaked loudly on its hinges, and tossed the papers into the flames. She watched, sweating, as they caught and blackened, turning to ash before her eyes.

Bulma had seriously thought about letting her father in on this secret, but knew better than anyone that Doctor Briefs was not very well grounded in reality. He had all the capability of Dr. Gero to whiz off into flights of fancy and intellectual genius, and was only tethered by slightly better ethics. Even though she and her father were more into mechanics than bioengineering, she didn't want to set ideas into his brain. She also knew that her own father was a dedicated record keeper; anything she let slip would likely be written down somewhere, and Bulma didn't want to take the chance that Sixteen or his soon-to-be-siblings would ever, ever find out what Dr. Gero had been up to.

When there was nothing left but hungry flames, Bulma shut the door to the garbage incinerator and wiped the sweat from her forehead, glad the task was over and done with. She slumped back against the nearest wall, to unsettled by the day's events to realize how achingly tired she was. Her mind was positively wired, whirring with the knowledge of what might have been, save a few key events in her life. She wasn't normally one to dwell on things, but moments like this, so deeply unsettling, tended to bring up all the uncertainties in her life; the bad decisions, the narrow escapes from danger, the things she'd said and wished she hadn't, and the things she hadn't said and wished she had. Sitting there, staring at the incinerator all alone in the middle of the night was something she'd done after Yamcha's death and the burning of his worldly possessions for lack of a body to cremate. Sitting there, she realized that in the buddings of her relationship with Vengeance, she'd slowly stopped coming here altogether. She'd outright avoided it, in fact.

Like everything to do with Yamcha, Vegeta's presence had suddenly erased her need to mourn without her even realizing it.

Bulma swallowed, tears building up in her eyes and guilt skipping down her gullet as she realized just how callously she seemed to have abandoned his memory. Even Vegeta's destruction of the only picture she'd kept had been easily put aside after her initial bout of rage. And now here she was, about to go back to the bed where that very same saiyan slept.

“I'm so sorry.” She whispered aloud, hugging herself and snuffling quietly as the tears finally broke, cascading quickly down her cheeks, soon to evaporate in the stifling heat of the room. “I did love you. I really did.” Bulma added, hoping desperately that there was something left of him, somewhere, to hear and understand her. She wanted to apologize for moving on so quickly, for allowing her feelings for Vegeta to eclipse whatever her heart still held for him, but found the words stuck in her throat. For all it probably made her an awful person, for all it seemed uncaring, she really wasn't sorry for whatever it was that she had with the saiyan prince.

Abruptly, Bulma vaulted from the floor to her feet, and fled the room. Her sense of guilt was too powerful, too immediate and overwhelming to remain where she was, staring at the thing which had served, for all intents and purposes, as Yamcha's coffin. She tiptoed quickly through the halls, willing herself not to think about it as she made a beeline for the one person who might possibly be able to help her put it from her mind, even though the fact that it was him only doubled her guilt.

Vegeta grumbled when she climbed into bed next to him, growling when she stuck her chilly toes beneath his calves to warm them up. She felt a little better, though his presence was not immediately erasing all disturbing thoughts as she'd hoped.

“Why are you sweaty and cold all at once?”

“Sorry, did I wake you?” She asked, feeling the tension in her mind begin to relax, despite his surly tone. If given the choice to do it all again, even if Yamcha had returned to Red Station, she knew without doubt that he'd not have been the one sharing her bed this night.

“I wasn't asleep. Where did you go?”

“Umm...had to burn some things.” Bulma said, after a pause. Lying to Vegeta usually didn't work and she didn't often try.

“You had to...burn...things.” Vegeta repeated, snorting. “Only you...”

“Hey, we have talked about the Bulma is crazy tone. None of that, mister.” She whacked his arm lightly and felt the telltale rumble in his chest that meant he was holding in laughter. Her heart tightened, wondering how she'd have ever lived without him. “I found some notes of Gero's today; some ideas that he had and some blueprints for a project...awful things.”

“Hn.” Vegeta responded and Bulma couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Vegeta could always be counted on to not give a shit about things, and while that often drove her crazy, it was sometimes reassuring. In that simple sound, he was saying it would be okay; Gero was dead, his influence gone. If it was worth worrying about, then Vegeta would be worrying about it. Or at least, that's what Bulma liked to think. If she told him the other thing that was bothering her - the fact that she felt guilty about not thinking about Yamcha enough - he'd call her stupid for dwelling on a dead man, his own jealousy notwithstanding.

In truth, Vegeta had plenty of his own things to worry about, things he wasn't necessarily ready to share them. He'd been stewing all night, awake and feigning sleep even as Bulma had crawled out of bed and shuffled out with her secret stack of papers. He'd wondered where she was going, but the woman's sleep schedules were sometimes as erratic as his own, and it was not uncommon for her to get up at odd hours of the night, just to jot something down or try out a sudden idea for one of her projects. Besides that, he figured he'd know pretty quick if anything untoward was happening, since he was pretty well tuned to the ki of everyone on the ship at this point. That meant he could track the movements and general state of everyone but Sixteen, and the big android did not concern him.

No, what held sway in his brain at the moment was the stupid, weak excuse for a Saiyan, floating downstairs in the med bay. Gohan was a child, but a mature one, and not prone to lying, had he even the guts to do so to his prince and leader. There was no questioning the truth of Gohan's words, but even saiyan eyes were known to make mistakes, and the mystery lay in whether the cub had actually seen what he believed he had seen.

Vegeta's initial instincts told him that it was impossible. There had never been any record of multiple Super Saiyans occurring all at one time, but nor was Vegeta aware of any records stating that the predisposition ran only in royal lines, or even in strong ones. It was simply assumed, though with the last recorded transformation having occurred roughly one thousand years prior to Vegeta's birth, there was a rather large chunk of time during which the records might have become corrupted. And if it was true that Kakarott had completed the first of what Vegeta saw as the steps toward the transformation, how long before the third class actually ascended?

Vegeta's lips curled back in a silent sneer as he imagined someone else achieving alone what he'd needed so much help to do, and a small part of him wished that Kakarott would just die in his next attempt. Of course, his rational brain understood that Radditz had made a good point; if Kakarott could transform, there should be no reason why the other three might not achieve it as well, and the thought of the power that would be contained within five Super Saiyans was enough to make him hard.

It wasn't fair though. He was the chosen one, the prophesized saviour of their people. He'd lived his life with this assumption of greatness, the knowledge that his destiny would set him apart from every saiyan who'd ever taken breath within the past ten centuries. And now a third class, one on death's door, no less, was flying in the face of everything Vegeta had ever believed. To say it was galling was very much an understatement.

“What are you huffing about?” Bulma sighed, startling him with her voice. He'd sort of forgotten she was there, to be honest, and had assumed that she would have fallen back asleep.

“Nothing.”

“If it's nothing then why are you all in knots over it. Don't lie, I can tell you are.” She pointed out, forestalling his protests. Tension was practically rippling through his every muscle and she'd have to have been dead not to notice it.

“Fine. But before you ask, the answer is no, I do not wish to speak of it.” He retorted, after a moment of frustrated silence.

“Well you're going to have to talk about something, because I sure as hell can't sleep. Tell me a story or something.” Bulma jabbed him in the ribs and shifted around, seeking a more comfortable position as though that might defeat her insomnia.

“Shall I tell you of the murder of Rasha Penthallin, emperor of Zixal? Or perhaps the purge of Omigret would make a better bedtime tale. Nice and bloody.” Vegeta snorted, moving an arm to accommodate her as she repositioned herself against him.

“You're awful.” Bulma wrinkled her nose in disgust, and felt Vegeta shrug beneath her. It was easy for her to recall why most of the universe thought him a cruel and callous monster. She had, for long enough. “Why...” she paused, looking at the clock and wondering if she wanted to open this can of worms so late at night, “why did you stay with Frieza?” She asked, swallowing her apprehensions and pushing forward even as she felt him tense up. “Why didn't you run, once you'd decided to join the resistance?”

“He would have found me.” Vegeta answered stiffly after a moment. He had not been expecting such a serious change of subject. “And I was much more effective from my position within the empire than I ever could have been as a refugee.” They were quiet for a time, neither party really sure what to say.

“Will you...” Bulma paused, biting her lip. “Will you tell me about Yamcha? Sable, I mean.” She finished, burying her face against his chest as the muscles in his arm tightened around her, then loosened and tightened again. She could feel his fingers fisting and unfurling against her hip, as he often did while trying to reign in his anger. “Are you mad?” Bulma asked, tightening her hold on him as though he might try and hop out of bed at any moment.

“I have been expecting this.” He said after a tense moment, which was not really an answer, but she was afraid to push. “We never did finish any of our previous conversations on this subject.” He continued and Bulma squirmed as unhappy memories were dredged up.

“Will you tell me now? About him? It's only that I've been thinking too much tonight...” She added lamely, as though trying to justify her curiosity.

“There is not much to tell.” Vegeta sighed, rolling his head briefly away from her on the pillow, before straightening back out to stare once more at the ceiling. “I learned of his activities and I watched him. I made contact one day, shortly before we found Gohan, when he was in trouble. And through him I gleaned what information I wished of your operations. I supplied him with what tips I could, which he turned over to you with what he'd gathered on his own.”

“And why did he never tell me?” She whispered, and Vegeta snorted.

“Aha, the heart of the matter is finally reached. Did you feel betrayed, at the end? Did you realize, in his last moments, that he'd been lying to you for years?” Vegeta asked, a little cruelly, and continued even as he felt Bulma stiffen next to him. “This is what bothers you the most about the matter, is it not?” He chuckled, coldly, but when he spoke after a moment his voice was serious again; hard and emotionless. “He knew that if he told you about his contact with me, then I would kill him, and hunt you down. That was a very dangerous time, and Vengeance was flying largely under the radar. I wanted Frieza's forces to think I was dead or cowed by fear. It would not have done for anyone untrustworthy to know I was active. Our relationship was one of business and he was not foolish enough to assume I might be kind to him if the situation required otherwise.”

“That's it? That's all you can tell me?” Bulma knew she was whining a little, but somehow she'd been expecting much more. As though Yamcha had lived some whole secret second life that Vegeta had been party to.

“What?” He laughed. “Did you think that Sable and I had long and intense conversations with each other? Do not be foolish, Bulma. As Vengeance I knew much, but I am not omniscient.”

“Yeah.” Bulma sighed and rolled over onto her back, still within the crook of Vegeta's arm, with her neck resting on his bicep. “I know. I just wish...I wanted to know what he was thinking.”

“Well, until you invent a time machine, and are able to go and confront him, consider that avenue closed to questioning.”

“Ugh, you just watch me. Maybe I will.” She pinched him on the thigh and turned her head to stick her tongue out at him, knowing full well that his night vision was at least twice as good as hers and he would probably see it.

“Vulgar woman.” Vegeta snorted, rolling his eyes. “I don't doubt you would find a way.”

“Would you really have hunted the rest of us down? Killed me just for knowing who you were?” Bulma asked softly, after a long period of silence. She wasn't actually even sure that he was awake, but the rhythm of his breath seemed to say he was.

“Yes.” Vegeta answered without hesitating even for a second. “I would have.”

“Oh.” Bulma whispered, feeling like a small child in his arms. She'd been hoping for the opposite, but not really expecting it. “I'm glad he didn't tell then.” She added after a second or two, lest Vegeta think she was upset about it. She wasn't...not really. “But later...after you and I began talking?”

“No,” he sighed heavily and her head rode up on his rising chest as he took a deep breath, “you had become very...useful...to me. I would not have killed you then.”

“Good.” Bulma stifled a yawn and hid a smile against Vegeta's chest, wondering what had happened in her brain that she equated a statement like that with a declaration of love.