Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 41

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: Happy 2nd Birthday, Vengeance! That's right folks, two years ago on May 16th, I posted the very first chapter of Ven. I'm not sure if I'm proud of myself for my perseverance, or if I should be berating myself for delaying other things for two whole years, plus however long it takes to finish this baby...haha. What I do know is how grateful I am to all of you who keep coming back from update to update, who continually leave reviews or send encouraging emails. It's ridiculous how great you guys are.

.

.

.

PRESENT DAY

.

.

Zarbon groaned and rolled over, not at all surprised that Orly was no longer next to him. The lack of shock didn't stop him from being a little disappointed and he wondered idly if Burter ever would have snuck out before sunrise. Of course Zarbon knew why Orly did it; the young charmer was seeing at least two other people, both women, on this space station and he didn't want to be caught leaving anyone's bedroom. He fed them all pretty lies and went about his business, but Zarbon knew about his dalliances. It was easy to tell, as someone who'd done the same with his own little trysts under Frieza's nose.

He wasn't quite sure why he put up with it, but it had been going on for two months now, and it hadn't killed him yet. Filled him with a mild sense of self-loathing, yes, but considering that he didn't really feel all that much for Orly beyond a stiff cock, he wasn't so sure he had a right to be pissed off. His ego had taken a bit of a blow, that was for sure, but he hadn't felt compelled to confront the other man yet, nor to stop allowing him into bed. Perhaps it was his loneliness, or the fact that he still felt a bit flattered, or even just the fact that Orly was the only person on this whole space station that he knew even remotely well. They'd left the original base shortly after Vegeta's announcement and had been travelling from place to place, trying to drum up support. There were others in the crew, of course, but the actual people rotated from place to place, and Orly was always there. It was so easy to just remain with him. There was no one else he could talk to so easily and on most days, the effort seemed too great to bother.

Zarbon shook his head and sat up. The pity party wasn't doing anyone any good. Nor was shoving all thought to the back of his mind and papering over it, but at least that way he got things done. That way, he still got out of bed in the morning and didn't give in to the pervasive urge to simply wallow in the mess that was his life. He really hadn't intended to begin his future of freedom by crawling into bed with the man in charge before following him across the universe; he'd done that once, and it hadn't exactly ended well. He was doing good work with Orly, sure. Gathering followers to the cause was important, but he was growing restless. He longed to go head to head with some of the enemy, maybe even blow up a base or two. It was just his luck that he'd ended up with a relatively pacifistic rebel cell. They rallied the people, encouraged them to go out and fight, all the while hiding behind their radio transmitters themselves.

Perhaps when Orly's team left this place, Zarbon thought he could stay behind and make a life here, for himself. Do some odd jobs to make some credit, buy himself a little ship and just take off, wreak some havoc wherever he could. Never mind that most of his accounts had been wiped out - some official, some he thought he'd hidden well - which would leave him stranded for months, maybe years on another dank hulker, floating along in space and more than half the inhabitants hadn't seen a drop of sunlight in years. Maybe he'd hang out with Orly a bit longer and scope out a few places, at least long enough for his hair to grow back to ponytail length. At the moment it was an awkward fringe of a few inches and he didn't really want to start a new life until he was handsome again.

Maybe he'd just float along for a while like he had been, waiting for the catalyst that would change his life again.

.

.

“So what's your brother like?” Bulma didn't look up as she asked the question, absorbed as she was in the circuit board on her workbench. Vegeta stood on the other side, impatiently tapping his foot as he waited for her to diagnose the problem.

“Weak,” he snapped back, and then, “Well? Can it be fixed?”

“Pff, a little more than that please, Vegeta. I meant what's he like? Is he friendly or does having a stick up one's royal arse run in the family?” She looked up to glare at him as she said this, but most of the effect was ruined by the magnifying goggles she'd strapped on. All he could see through them was the luminous blue of her eyes around monstrous pupils; classic, cartoon brainiac.

“By the gods, woman, those are awful,” Vegeta scoffed and returned to his earlier tack. “The circuit board?”

“Hold your damn horses, Vegeta. I'm trying here.” She picked up a pair of padded tweezers and her soldering iron and he wisely shut up while she worked on the delicate piece of machinery, for beneath her tools was the mother board for the gravity room's control console. Without that bit, the whole thing was useless. “So anyway, Tarble,” Bulma prompted as she lay down her tools and began the tedious process of testing her repair.

“There is not much to tell,” Vegeta shrugged, watching her nimble hands as she worked. He had only a vague idea of what she was doing, but trusted that if there was a way to fix the board, she would find it...even if he wasn't going to tell her that. “You know,” he said instead, “if you'd just fix your faulty machine, it wouldn't burn through these things so fast.”

“You know,” she returned sweetly, though there was a solid backbone of steel in her voice, “if a certain someone would stop running the room at max capacity for twenty hours at a time, perhaps the console would stop overheating.” It was the third board they'd gone through since the machine's creation, and they were officially out of spares. “Or if he would allow me the time to do proper testing, without tapping his tacky, gold-toed boots in my ear the whole time,” she trailed off, swearing, as the diagnostic tool reported no signal.

“My boots will not take insults from a woman wearing coffee-stained coveralls, who thinks a screw is a hair accessory.” Vegeta frowned as he watched pick up the board up again, peering at it through those bottle-thick magnifyers of hers. She looked absolutely, stark-raving mad.

“For your information, it's an Allen key,” Bulma pointed out as she tilted her head to the side and gestured at the bent piece of metal she was using to secure a tumble of curls to the back of her head, the way Chichi often used decorative chopsticks. “As for the coffee stains, I wear them with pride. This is the outfit of a woman so hard at work, for your benefit might I add, that she doesn't even have time to do laundry. Besides, you're the rich one; shouldn't you be keeping me in jewelled combs and silk gowns?” She grinned impishly up at him as she reached for her soldering iron again.

“You would have any gown covered in engine grease within minutes, and you'd probably dismantle a comb to make a wiring relay, or some other such nonsense. If I wanted to sweep you off your idiot feet, I'd simply let you run shrieking through Akeebah Market with all of my credit accounts at your disposal,” he paused, narrowing his eyes at her, “which, by the way, is not going to happen any time soon.”

“You don't want to sweep me off my feet?” She pouted prettily, batting her eyelashes at him in mock flirtation.

“Only if you land on your back,” Vegeta sneered in return and, to his surprise, Bulma laughed. He was actually trying to piss her off, distract her from this annoying train of conversation so that she might get it in her big, fat brain to concentrate on fixing the gravity room's control system.

“Charmer,” she muttered, leaning low over the circuit board and adjusting her lamp accordingly. “Anyway, I seriously want to know about your brother.”

“And I told you, I hardly know the runt. I was five when Frieza took me, and Tarble hardly more than a squalling newborn. I was already grown before Nappa even told me he'd survived, and in my twenties before I made contact with him. We are not what one would call close.”

Bulma paused in her work and looked up at him, the hot tip of the iron still suspended mere centimetres over the board. Vegeta watched it nervously, a million different scenarios running through his brain in which she might somehow drop the thing, irreparably damaging the precious part and delaying his high-G training even further. He opened his mouth, about to reprimand her for her carelessness, but she spoke first, stopping him in his tracks. “That's...kind of sad,” she said simply, turning her head down to her task. No tears or pity, just quiet bewilderment. He could see in her eyes that she did not quite understand his ambivalence, close as she was to her own abominable family, and it was something he could not really explain to her.

“Tarble is...mated,” Vegeta offered, after a moment of thoughtful silence in which the only sound was the hiss of searing hot metal. “He has lived a peaceful life, on a peaceful planet so far outside of Frieza's reach. He cannot comprehend...” Vegeta paused, “we do not...” he trailed off again, and this time he did not attempt to resume speaking. He watched her work, her lips drawn in and clamped between her teeth, and could tell that she was thinking on that.

“The board is shot,” she said, finally, and despite the bad news, Vegeta was glad she did not pursue the matter of his brother. “I'm sorry, but we'll have to get another one before you can up the gravity again.”

“Fuck,” he replied, though without as much venom as he would have liked to muster. He did not like thinking about his brother or the circumstances which had set them on such violently different paths in life, but now the thoughts were heavy in his mind and dulling other things. He would need to train extra hard to force them from his brain; a challenge without the boosted gravity. Perhaps if all of the others teamed up, including the humans and the androids, they could give a super saiyan a decent sparring session. Then again, Vegeta thought as he watched Bulma stretch over the back of her chair, breasts jutting out beneath those mangy coveralls, the woman across the table was always good for a bit of a work out. She was an expert at easing his frustrations.

If he could not fight, he might at least fuck.

“Know of any parts markets around this quadrant of space?” Bulma asked, oblivious to the sweep of his eyes across her body. “Or should I get online and look for one?” She was unprepared for his quick movement; one moment he was across the bench from her, sitting idly on a stool, and the next he was pressed up against her back, lips pressed against her neck. His hands were warm on her belly, fingers quick as they grasped the zipper to her coveralls. “Oh!” she gasped, not having been prepared for the sudden assault, though she supposed part of her was always a little bit ready for his advances. He came upon her so randomly and with such quickness, she had long ago worked out that he enjoyed catching her off guard, working her from cold to panting hot in the span of seconds.

Vegeta spun the chair so that she faced him and bent over her, his hands planted on the workbench, on either side of her head. “I know a place,” he said, transferring his weight to one hand and using the other to pluck the metal tool from her hair. He held it up before his face, studied its hexagonal ends, and scoffed. “You are,” he looked back at her and tossed the Allen key on the table, where it landed with a clatter, “a most unusual female.”

“Meh. Deal with it,” Bulma grinned up at him as her fingers played at the waistband of his training shorts. He wasn't wearing armour today; something she appreciated as she pushed his t-shirt up a little to reveal washboard abs. “Besides, you need my unusual brains. I'm useful.”

“You are that,” Vegeta admitted as he pushed the coveralls from her shoulders, “though your skills as a mechanic are not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Computer,” Bulma said aloud as she shrugged out of the sleeves and pulled her tanktop up over her head, “engage door locks. Disable all non-proprietary passwords.”

“Confirmed,” a mechanized voice said, and Bulma grinned up at Vegeta, who'd cocked an eyebrow down at her.

“Neat, huh? I figured it out last week, after I cracked Gero's voice recognition system. Now we won't have any interruptions.” She reached up and wrapped her arms around Vegeta's neck, drawing his mouth down to meet her own. His hands were beneath her thighs in seconds and she felt herself lifted up from the chair, heard him kick it aside and felt the table beneath her bottom a moment later. How many times had she fantasized about doing it with him on her worktable? The number was beyond counting; unfathomable by human intellect. There was no way she was taking the chance that one of the androids might decide to come it at any moment. Bulma had made it clear to the three of them that they could come and go as they please, but now was not really the time.

“Meh.” Vegeta shoved Bulma's goggles aside, half hoping they might fall from the table and break, and more carefully set the circuit board away, thinking it might still be of some use. He kissed her again, pleased with her innovation but not in the mood to talk about it. Instead, he helped her wriggle out of the coveralls and her panties, for as usual, she wasn't wearing pants under there. He stripped quickly too, in a bit of a frenzy, for he'd yet to actually have her in her lab, and she wasn't the only one who'd spent time fantasizing about it.

“Ouch!” Bulma yelped, wincing as she dug a small bolt out from under one butt cheek. “Ahh, careful!” she warned, as the table rocked against the wall and everything atop it shook dangerously. “Oh!” she cried out again, hearing something topple to the floor as she dug in a drawer for her secret stash of protection. The reality was not so simple as fantasy, in which Vegeta simply swept the table clean with one arm and everything was miraculously undamaged in the wake of crashing to the ground.

“Oh, for the love of Vegetasei!” Vegeta scoffed, hauling her up off the table again, and plopping into Bulma's rolly chair with her in his lap. “Better?” he demanded, and she nodded sheepishly. “Keep a table clean next time,” he muttered, reaching for her hips and drawing her onto himself. She straddled him, her legs on either side of his waist and sticking out in the small spaces between the arm and backrests.

“Rolly chair,” Bulma panted as her toes scrabbled for purchase on the cold floor, “why didn't I think of this before?” She grunted and let her forehead fall to his shoulder as Vegeta moved deep within her, his hands tight on her hips to steady her motions. It was actually pretty comfortable, he thought as he leaned on the backrest, leveraging his weight against it as he thrust his hips upward, though he imagined that if they went at it for too long, his ass might just get fabric burn from the seat's woven covering.

They finished quickly, clamped together on the tiny chair, with her legs quickly cramping and an awkward disentangling of limbs awaiting them. Maybe the table would have been better after all.

.

.

Zarbon watched, half with admiration and half with disgust, as Orly went over the speech he'd planned for that evening's broadcast. It was surprising how much of his hellraising oratory came from the minds of other men and women. It was obvious, by the smell of him, that the young rebel had come recently from one such female. He'd showered, but soap and water were not quite enough to fool Zarbon's sense of smell. Why, he could practically taste it in the air. Sneering at Orly's turned back, he smacked his lips, trying to swallow away the foul film on his tongue.

“Praise be!” Orly intoned into Zarbon's mirror, fisting a hand over his chest in apparent emotion. Since it was about the seventh time Orly had practiced this part of the broadcast, Zarbon knew it was all for show. “Band together, all of you, under the flag of the indomitable Prince Vegeta!”

Vegeta, Zarbon thought, indomitable? He wondered what these people would say if they knew how many times Vegeta had been beaten to a pulp by Frieza, how many times he'd been left bloody and ragged on the floor for his sorry little tribe to nurse back to health. What had changed, Zarbon asked himself, that Vegeta now thought he was a match for the icejin tyrant? Did Vegeta think he could actually win, or like Zarbon was he just so desperate for some kind of action that even this suicide plan was better than the alternative of living under Frieza's thumb for even a moment longer?

“Have you ever met Vegeta?” Zarbon asked, interrupting the other man's speech.

“No, I have not had the honour,” Orly replied, meeting Zarbon's eyes in the mirror. There was a quizzical expression on his face, as though he couldn't understand why this should matter.

“He's a prick,” Zarbon snorted and flopped back onto his pillows. They were in his bedroom but so far Orly had been too preoccupied with getting his gestures just right that there hadn't been any time to take clothes off. It was a radio broadcast, Orly had once explained, but the people on the bases gathered to watch them go out live and he needed to look suitably enthused. Zarbon rolled his eyes at the ceiling, just thinking about it.

“I don't recall you saying anything at the broadcast of his speech. You seemed pretty impressed.”

“I was impressed,” Zarbon snapped back, hauling himself up to a sitting position to glare at his sometime-lover. “I was impressed that he could keep his sense of self-importance in check long enough to even pretend he gives a shit about everyone else in the universe.” He turned his head away to look at the wall, not really certain where his sudden venom had come from. Despite his words, he had no problem with Vegeta now; certainly if they met up they would not become fast friends, but his hatred for the saiyan had dissipated with the knowledge that Vengeance and Vegeta were one and the same. It was moreso the blind faith, the fake faith that bothered him. Or maybe it had nothing to do with Vegeta, and everything to do with the pompous boy in front of the mirror.

“What's your problem, Zarbon?” Orly threw down his cue cards and spun his body around, Zarbon's little vanity stool creaking with the rough movement.

“I was like you, once,” Zarbon said, as he stood up from the bed. He felt old, suddenly, and tired. “Young and stupid, and filled with belief in something I knew nothing about. That something was Frieza, and it turned out badly.”

“It won't be the same.”

“It probably won't,” Zarbon shrugged, “but my point is that it could, and you wouldn't know the difference until it was all around you, clawing at you, dragging you down.” He choked the words out, stopping suddenly to close his eyes and breathe deeply. He reminded himself of his freedom, the flow of air around his limbs, unimpeded by heavy, metal cuffs. He could go ahead and open up, tell Orly his hopes and fears, his life story in excruciating detail, but it would do neither of them any good. Orly was young, idealistic, and too narcissistic to believe that he could ever step wrong, make a bad decision. That confidence was a big part of his mass appeal and as much as it bothered Zarbon to watch the little puppet dance, he couldn't deny that Orly's broadcasts were a good thing.

“I think I should go,” Orly looked away, “leave you alone for a bit. I'll come back later.”

“Don't bother.” Zarbon crossed the room, opened the door then stepped back and stood beside it, waiting. “Go back to your girlfriend. Whichever one,” he added, and Orly started, plainly surprised that Zarbon knew. He thought he'd been so careful. “I'm sure they'll make a better audience than you're finding here.” He closed the door as Orly left, leaned against it and heaved a sigh. There was really no reason for him to have been such an asshole and he'd likely just alienated his only friend, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. This fake sort of goodness, the blind following of anything that was simply not Frieza was no good for him. He needed real conviction, bloodletting for a purpose, violence that he could believe in, and he was not getting it here.

Zarbon pushed himself away from the door and went off to make himself up for public viewing. It was time for him to start getting his life in order.

.

.

Krillin watched Eighteen move through the crowded shop, paranoid that someone might look at her a little too long, a little too closely, and discover her secret. The rational part of his brain was insisting that she was physically indistinguishable from a normal biological being and that hey, this was outer space and androids and other sorts of genetically altered, test tube people probably existed, and that even if they didn't, the crowd was as diverse as one could possibly be; no one would question her origins. Unfortunately for Krillin, the other side of his brain, the one that was madly, passionately in love with her was winning, and all of his protective instincts had gone into high gear. Nevermind the fact that she could take care of herself and that her equally capable brother hardly left her side; no, Krillin was on watch.

“I think we are finished with this place.” Eighteen said, somehow knowing that Krillin was the chaperone of the moment, and he was somehow to be deferred to.

“D...did you find anything good?” Krillin asked, even though he knew exactly what she'd taken into the dressing rooms and had already noted the fact that she hadn't taken anything back out with her. He wasn't trying to be a total creep about it, it was just that he couldn't help but notice her.

“No.” She shrugged her shoulders, her carrier bags rustling as they moved against each other. Bulma would say she'd had a successful day, and Krillin was glad for it. Since their first excursion to a small market shortly after awakening, both of the twins had developed something of a taste for fashion and had quickly grown tired of supplementing their meagre wardrobes with borrowed items from the rest of the crew. “Where is Seventeen?” she asked, consulting an inner clock so accurate that Krillin wondered if there was actually a real, physical timepiece buried somewhere within her brain. “It is nearly time to meet Bulma and the others.

“I'm here,” Seventeen answered, coming up from the cashier, having added another bag to his also-impressive handful. “We can go.” He led the way out of the store, with Krillin and Eighteen side by side behind him. Bulma and Dende were waiting outside the shop, and Krillin could see Tien making a beeline for them from across the way, with Bulma's mother prancing along on his arm. Good, everyone was safe and sound.

“Um...your bags look heavy,” Krillin stuttered just a little bit as he turned his head to look up at Eighteen's impressive profile. “Would you...I could carry them for you, if you want.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled, trying to look friendly and non-threatening as she turned to meet his gaze. She narrowed her eyes a little, as though she was trying to understand his offer, but then she blinked and shrugged, and handed her bags over.

“That is a kind offer, Krillin,” Seventeen said, and Krillin turned his face forward just in time to stop himself from running over the other android, who'd stopped dead in the street and was holding out his bags too, plainly waiting for the short human to take them.

“Uhhh...” Krillin's eyes darted from Seventeen to Eighteen, to Bulma's snickering form on the bench, and back to Seventeen. “Okay. No problem.” He sagged as he took hold of Seventeen's purchases, and his back drooped lower still as Eighteen moved up to walk beside her brother. His cheeks were burning and he'd bunged up again with Eighteen, but what else was new?

“So I'm thinking we pause for a little lunch,” Bulma smiled as the group convened around her, “and then we hit the parts market. According to Vegeta, it's two levels down.”

“Bulma, sweetie, that's boring,” whined Mrs. Briefs, “don't you think so, Tien?” She batted long eyelashes up at the bald warrior, who simply blushed and muttered something under his breath. “Then it's settled. This sweet young hunk is going to take me to do some more shopping!” She released her hold momentarily to throw jazz hands into the air, before clamping her iron grip back down onto Tien's beefy bicep. Bulma was beginning to understand why her father had elected to stay back at the ship instead of jumping at the opportunity to stretch his legs like most of the crew.

.

Radditz really wished he'd managed a different disguise. The hood he was wearing trapped all of his hair against his neck, and it was starting to itch. His tail was coiled tightly around his waist, hidden beneath the long hem of his sweater; he'd had to promise to keep it there so that Vegeta would let him out. Oh well, at least he hadn't been made to shove it down one pant-leg.

Gohan had submitted to the same rules, while Kakarott was free to wander unencumbered. He had no tail to give him away, nor was his face recognizable by the masses. Vegeta was paranoid about one of the saiyans being recognized and reported to Frieza's forces, and had initially ordered them all to remain on Red Station while the others went out and about. Nappa stayed behind voluntarily, but Bulma had gone to bat for the rest of them, of course, and this compromise had been born. Radditz was really starting to like that girl. Thanks to her, he was out with Puar, truly and actually alone for the first time since the night they'd met. They were holding hands as they walked along, something he'd never done before and didn't quite understand the purpose of, but he was enjoying it nonetheless. Even if he hadn't been, he'd have done it anyway because it made his mate happy, and making his mate happy made his chest tight in a good way.

He had to admit, however, that he was rather jealous of Puar, clad simply in a t-shirt and jeans, tail fully visible and flicking gently from side to side as they walked. With his feline features and exotic colouring, there was no way Puar would ever be mistaken for a saiyan, and his humanoid form was not known to Frieza's intelligence forces. Among this crowd of mongrels, he was simply just another member of a displaced species; nobody would look twice unless it was in simple admiration. In which case, Radditz thought he might just need to bust out his fists.

Puar was having a grand old time, flitting from stall to stall, and while Radditz might have been bored to tears by the shopping, he was thrilled to be sharing the day with the shapeshifter, meandering along under the bright shine of Harbour Station's fake sun. Suns, more accurately, as there was a separate one on each of the richer levels. From what he recalled from his last visit many years ago, the slums in the lowest decks survived on phosphorescent bulbs.

He'd been in a raiding party then, long before Vegeta was handed the leadership of his own unit. Radditz had been kept mostly away from the other saiyans at that point in his life, for while Nappa was deemed a necessary caretaker for the young prince, Radditz was simply that other saiyan. Frieza had still been keeping up a front of civility in those days, keeping Vegeta under his thumb with lies about Vegetasei's destruction. Actually, Radditz supposed, the lies had never really quite stopped. It was only that they'd found out and never confronted Frieza, knowing it would do no good until one of them was strong enough to take revenge.

Radditz and his raiding party had gone to the slums to suss out resistance members, even though they hadn't been operating on any sort of tip. Harbour Colony was a relatively affluent station, and on the edges of Frieza's territory where soldiers were thin on the ground. Places like this were always crawling with rebel sentiments; fear of retribution was low and chance of escape was much higher than in the inner zones.

Radditz looked up at Puar, who was bent low over a table, examining some merchandise, and felt that tug in his chest again. Was this what he would have to look forward to, when Frieza was dead? Could he and Puar find a peaceful planet to live on, carve out a life for themselves spend lazy days visiting markets in the real sunshine? It sounded...boring.

“Radditz,” Puar hissed his name quietly, and cocked his head to the side, gesturing toward something in the distance. “Look at that!”

Together they sidled off toward the alley, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible. This was a high level, with government and order on the surface of things, and respectable citizens most certainly did not stop to look at rebel graffiti on the sides of buildings. Puar snapped a quick photo of Vegeta's stencilled face, the words Prase Be, scrawled hastily and yes, misspelled, beneath it. “Why does he have a goatee and a moustache?” Puar asked.

“Because they got the wrong Vegeta,” Radditz chuckled a little, wondering how the prince would react upon seeing this. “That's King Vegeta, our Vegeta's father.”

“Yikes. They look...eerily similar.” Puar peeked his head out of the alley to see if anyone had been watching them, and they slipped easily back into the crowd.

“All the Vegetas do,” Radditz shrugged, though his eyes darted around as he said it. He didn't relish the idea of being overheard talking about Vegeta, because the man in question would absolutely murder him if their location got back to Frieza.

“What about your family? Do you also look like your dad's twin brother?”

“Me? Not so much, but Kakarott's the spitting image. I think I've got more of our mother in me.” He fluffed his hair and batted his eyes and Puar, who snorted at the idea of a female Radditz walking around. Then he saw something shiny and Radditz was resigned to more shopping.

.

Bulma glanced behind herself for what felt like the thirtieth time that afternoon and gripped Dende's hand a little tighter in her own. None of the nameks but the little sage had wanted to venture off of Red Station and she'd had to promise them up and down that she wouldn't let the boy out of her sight for even a second. Actually, Krillin had also promised and that was probably the deciding factor since the nameks all knew Bulma's fighting power was shit, but either way, she was taking her duties seriously. “I'm never having kids,” she muttered to herself as she looked around for Seventeen and Eighteen; the stealthy bastards kept getting away from her and she didn't want to risk losing them in the crowd. They were as bad as real children. Luckily for her, she could count on the fact that Krillin would probably die a thousand horrible deaths before allowing Eighteen out of his sight; the little guy had it bad.

“I've never been to a space station this big!” Dende marvelled, not at all bothered by Bulma's iron grip. She was his favourite human - Gohan didn't count because he was half-saiyan - and had he the hormones and the biological predisposition for it, he would have been nursing a gigantic crush on the blue-eyed genius. Luckily for him, he wouldn't have to go head-on with Vegeta for her affections any time soon. “Why, to think that this level alone is twice the size of Red!”

Bulma nodded, agreeing with him. Harbour Colony was a goliath of a space station, so big that Red Station looked like a mere transport ship in comparison. It was like a big, self contained city, and while she'd initially been thrilled with all that Harbour had to offer, Bulma was beginning to feel like nothing more than a harried hen mother, clucking after her brood of wayward chicks.

“Hey, there are the twins,” Dende tugged her hand, and pointed with his other, “with Krillin.” Bulma caught a flash of Eighteen's blonde hair and sighed with relief. Good old Krillin; the monk could always be counted on to lend a hand. Though he was maybe a bit too much of a pushover, Bulma reflected, as she watched him stagger under the weight of the twins' purchases while they walked along, unencumbered.

“Good eye, Dende,” Bulma sighed with relief and turned back to the station map that was helpfully tacked to the walls at the entrances to each level. She knew it made her look like a complete tourist, an easy target, but this level was significantly scummier than the beautiful plaza they'd begun with, with its faux open air feel and bright, cheerful stalls. The artificial sun shone here too, they hadn't gone that far down, but there was much more of a mercenary air to this level; it was like a gateway to the slums on the bottom decks, and Vegeta had expressly warned her not to dip much lower. She wished that he'd come out today, but he and Nappa were far too stubborn to enjoy the rare dose of civilization and were busy beating each other's brains out in the still-defunct gravity room. “We need to head this way, I think,” Bulma said, turning to point along the street, “and turn left when we see a pub called The Wandering Hurlagh.”

“What's a hurlagh?” Dende asked, and Bulma shrugged.

“Hell if I know,” she sighed, then covered her mouth briefly with the hand that wasn't holding Dende's. The boy simply laughed and Bulma groaned; she'd always known she'd make a terrible mother. “Hey! Krillin!” she called, trying to catch his attention with little success. His entire focus was, predictably, Eighteen. “KRILLIN!” she shrieked a little louder and a few steps closer, and several people turned to look at her.

“Zat kid for zale?” one bold stranger asked her, rather casually she thought, for a man trying to buy a child. He was easily two feet away but his face was right next to hers, stretched out on a long, sinewy neck.

“No! Of course not!” Bulma spat, defensively shoving Dende behind her calves. “I wasn't talking to you, anyway!”

“Meeeeh,” the stranger replied, his voice an odd, rolling kind of vibration, like blowing wax paper folded over a comb. “Wuz juzt azking.” He shruggled and shuffled on, various lumps and bumps shifting up and down beneath his clothing. She shuddered, hoping that he didn't find anyone with a different answer than herself, and tugged Dende toward Krillin and the twins.

“Geez, what does it take to get your attention?” she demanded, thwapping Krillin on the back of the head with her free hand. “I just got propositioned over there by some creep who wanted to buy Dende! What if he hadn't taken no for an answer?”

“Oh, I'm uh...sorry,” Krillin sputtered, feeling Eighteen's impassive gaze on his back as he spun to face Bulma. He wondered what she was thinking, whether or not she was judging him for his slip up. Why, Bulma could likely have been murdered, two feet to his left, and he'd not have noticed her screams. He'd been asked along to the parts market particularly for protection's sake, and while Bulma wore her ki-gun plainly visible in a thigh holster, there were probably many people in this area of Harbour Colony who wouldn't quite find it a deterrent.

“Oh, it's fine,” Bulma relented, seeing his embarrassment. “You're doing such a good job helping the twins after all.” She winked at this, causing Krillin's cheeks to burn even more than they already were, but behind him Eighteen spoke up.

“Yes,” she said softly, and no one could tell if she was being sincere with that flat voice of hers, but the twins hadn't shown any signs of sarcasm so far. “Krillin is very helpful.”

As if in slow motion, with his heart in his throat, Krillin turned his head to find Eighteen looking directly at him. Her face was as blank as it always was, but he felt like there was something there this time, some sort of acknowledgement of his existence. The breeze from a fan in a nearby stall ruffled her hair, and as she moved to push it back behind her ear, he could swear that time had slowed, just like in a movie. Now if only he could find a field of flowers, he thought sardonically, perhaps they could run toward each other before time resumed its normal pace.

“Anyway,” Bulma said loudly, interrupting his daydream, “we really need to get a move on. If I go back tonight without new parts for the gravity simulator, you-know-who will have my head.”

“What would he want with it?” Seventeen wondered aloud, and Bulma couldn't help but giggle.

“I mean he would kill me, Seventeen,” she explained, “but it's only an expression that means he'd be mad at me. He wouldn't actually.”

“We would not let that happen,” the twins said as one, their oh-so-similar voices blending eerily together and though there was very little inflection, Bulma knew that they were serious. She wished she knew just what Sixteen had told them, that they were so fervently protective of her.

“Well I appreciate that, of course, but like I said, Vegeta would never hurt me. Now,” Bulma said briskly, “let's get going.”

.

Zarbon wisely remained where he was, with his back to the blue haired woman and her companions. He hadn't really been paying attention to their conversation until he'd heard her say Vegeta and at that point, he'd gone into full-alert mode. He looked around him, as unobtrusively as possible, wondering if anyone else had heard the woman blab out that name. As far as stations went, Harbour Colony was pretty safe for resistance members, but one could never be too careful. There was always the chance that someone in the crush might not take so kindly, might not think twice about calling the authorities and collecting the reward.

Cautiously, he pulled up his own hood against the possibility that someone might recognize and report him. There was an enormous bounty on his head - almost as big as the one on Vegeta - and he knew why. Frieza would have been beyond enraged at his escape, and eager to retrieve and punish him for it. And considering the state of his captivity before, he was in no hurry to go back to worse.

Zarbon hunched his shoulders and faced the ground, practiced in the way of hiding his face as so many people here were. He waited a few moments before setting off after the strangers, keeping his gaze fixed on the bright shine of the woman's blue hair. She was either very special or incredibly naive, and he was willing to put money on the latter. No one who knew Vegeta was so confident that he wouldn't hurt them, not even his crew of saiyans.

Halfway down the street, Orly caught up with him. “Zarbon,” the blonde man breathed heavily through his nose. His face was flushed and he was trying to catch his breath; it was obvious he'd been running. “I've been looking all over for you.” He reached out a hand to grasp Zarbon's wrist, as though to stop him in the street.

“Why?” Zarbon asked, though he did not stop, instead forcing Orly to walk beside him as he continued to follow the small group. He did not want to lose them, though he did spare Orly a quick look before turning his eyes forward once more.

“I...I wanted to apologize,” Orly said timidly, misreading Zarbon's distraction for irritation, “for earlier. For our fight.” His fingers crept down from Zarbon's wrist, to mingle hesitantly together with Zarbon's, and the green man was surprised.

“Are you sorry because you think that you upset me?” he asked, “Or because I am upset with you?”

“What?” Orly tugged hard on Zarbon's hand. “For the love of - will you quit walking? Please, can we just stop and talk? I'm sorry for this morning; isn't that enough?”

“It's not really the same thing,” Zarbon replied, and Orly's strength was no match for his, even in his untransformed state. This was a man who'd never engaged in more than petty brawls, and while he could probably handle his own in a minor scuffle, Orly was no seasoned warrior. “And anyway, it doesn't matter. Once I have the money for a ship, I won't have to tag along with you anymore.”

“Zarbon, don't be silly, you don't have to go anywhere.”

“I do, actually,” he wasn't trying to be cold, not really, even though that was how he was coming off. It was just that his mind was made up; the second he'd heard that woman talking about Vegeta, he'd known that he really couldn't wait any longer to be away, to be out and taking action against Frieza. His blood thrummed, ready for a fight, and would not be satisfied by simply spreading words. He'd made the right decision by coming here in search of a ship. “If you're going to come with me now, you'd better hurry up and stop trying to drag me backward,” Zarbon snapped, a little crossly, as Orly tried to halt him once more. “I'm following someone. If you really must speak to me, let it be later.” He squinted forward, having lost sight of the blue haired woman. Her companion's blonde head shone in the dull crowd, however, and Zarbon dragged Orly around the corner after them.

.

Bulma tried to keep her excitement to herself as she plucked a circuit board from a pile of similar units, holding it carefully by the edges lest she do any damage. It wasn't the same as what had been ruined, but it looked near enough that she might be able to alter it to suit her needs. Now all she needed were a few more of the same, and she could head home with her prize. She understood that not being able to train at full difficulty was very frustrating for him, but Vegeta's complaints were really beginning to get on her nerves and his grouchiness was spreading to the rest of the crew. His loud proclamations that they would all die a horrible death by Frieza's hand if he wasn't able to train hard, and soon, were not helping anyone.

“Excuse me,” Bulma said in standard, carrying her precious gem to the dingy little shop's proprietor, “have you got anything else in this configuration? Or even similar?” Dende trailed behind her, staying close like a good child. Krillin waited with the twins outside; they'd taken one look inside the dingy little shop and simultaneously declared that their clothes would be ruined.

“Hrrrrrrmmmmmm,” the little old lady peered at Bulma's proffered board through a pair of inch-thick spectacles. “Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

“Uh...” Bulma looked at the crab-faced creature and then at Dende with a shrug. He hid a giggle behind his hand and from three racks over, where he was hiding, Zarbon's eyes widened. He hadn't seen the little namek boy in the crowded street, short as he was, but he recognized that toothy little smile in a second as Guru's young protégé, the boy he'd sort of saved on Chisal. That meant that the woman with him, she was wherever Guru had fled to, when they all assumed he'd go to Vengeance. “So, the board?” Zarbon heard the woman ask. “I don't need anything super fancy, just this size and general configuration. I can make changes if I need to.”

“Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” ; the old woman hummed, and Bulma leaned forward, planting her hands on the rickety counter in frustration and leaned in close.

“Hrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmm?” she questioned, and Zarbon tried not to laugh behind the shelf. Orly stood beside him, arms crossed, wondering who this pretty girl was that his lover seemed so enamoured of. She was so pale, pasty from lack of sun and not the pleasing ivory of a naturally wan skin tone. Still though, she had good features and a nice figure, and if he hadn't been so irascibly jealous, he might have gone over to flirt.

“I do,” the wizened shopkeep finally answered. She hopped down from her stool, standing no taller than Dende on her feet, and shuffled over to one wall. Bulma watched, wincing in sympathy for the poor, manhandled parts as the woman dug carelessly through a bin of what appeared to be junk. “Here is one,” she tossed a board over her shoulder and Bulma scrambled to catch it, “and another.” This time she turned and handed it over normally, unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on Bulma's poor, thumping heart. “Maybe one more,” she stood and shuffled across the tiny shop, passing right by Zarbon, who hid his face in the shelf, and Orly, who stared openly at Bulma as she went by. Bulma winked and he didn't quite know how to react.

“Thank you so much. You are a real life-saver!” Bulma grinned as she handed her money to the old creature, back at the counter. She was met with another noncommittal hum, but she was simply too pleased at having found what she needed to care. Instead, she responded with an enthusiastic “Hrrrrmmm!” of her own as she took Dende's hand and breezed out the door. Her good mood was soon spoiled as she realized Krillin and the twins had disappeared to parts unknown.

“They can't have gone far,” Dende said hopefully, seeing the look of irritation that was forming on Bulma's face. “We'll find them!” He gave her hand a squeeze, then let out a puff of breath as someone knocked into him from behind.

Dende gaped upward and Zarbon stared down at him in surprise. He'd been too busy hissing at Orly for making eye contact that he hadn't been paying attention, and he really hadn't been expecting the woman to stop right outside the door.

“Oh, hello again,” Orly smiled at Bulma, smoothly breaking the tension and drawing everyone's attention toward himself.

“Oh...OH,” Bulma twiddled her hair awkwardly, the bag containing her boards dangling clunkily from her wrist. “Sorry, sorry. You guys are both pretty cute, but I didn't mean anything in there. I'm attached. To someone.”

“Not a problem,” Orly's voice was silky and Zarbon was suddenly very grateful for the other man's presence. He probably wouldn't be much if it ever came to a fight, but he was certainly a smooth talker. “Though certainly a shame.”

“Hey, wait!” Bulma's eyes widened and she pointed her finger at Orly in surprise. “I know you!”

“No,” Zarbon noticed the first hint of unease creep into Orly's voice, “I'm sure you don't.”

“I do, we listen to all of your broadcasts! You're Orly!” She'd said it quietly enough - deliberately so - that Zarbon figured no one around them would have heard, but the sudden panic on Orly's face made the woman take a step back. He sprang at her, too quickly for her to dodge even had she not been laden with parcels and a child.

“Bulma!” Dende shrieked as Orly whipped her around, covering her mouth with one hand and dragging her backwards against his chest. Dende clung hard, refusing to let go and in seconds Orly had them around the corner of the shabby building and into the alley.

“Idiot!” Zarbon hissed, glancing covertly around before ducking in after them. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Orly swallowed thickly, and Bulma felt the movement slide from his neck down into his chest, pressed tightly against her back. She tried to let go of Dende, willing him to find Krillin and the twins, but he clung stubbornly on and she couldn't get words out from behind her captor's hand. “I...” Orly started, but was unable to finish as a blonde woman dropped down on him from above.

“Eighteen!” Dende cried, just as Seventeen plowed straight into Zarbon's back, leaving Krillin to dart in and snag the two non-fighters.

Zarbon was quicker to react than Orly; he'd turned in time to successfully block Seventeen's next blow and had countered with a weak punch of his own. Orly was having no such luck, and from the corner of his eye, Zarbon watched his blonde companion smack face-first into the side of a wall. Someone was shrieking for them all to stop, either the kid or the woman, maybe both, but the adrenaline was pumping hard and fast through Zarbon's veins. It had been too long since he'd been in a fight, and he was aching to pay the stranger back for the bruise he could feel forming on his back. Grinning, he feinted with his left fist, and plowed his right into Seventeen's cheek. He wasn't expecting the little bald one to return and take him out at the knees.

“We're not enemies!” Krillin panted, jumping back away from Zarbon's falling form. “Seventeen, don't!” he snapped, as the android made ready to strike again. “Eighteen!” he called, and was surprised when she immediately stopped what she was doing and stepped back from Orly's slumped body.

“These men attacked Bulma and Dende,” she said, and Bulma was glad that she'd broken the twins of the `mother' thing. She didn't want her two studly attackers to think the wrong thing about her. She was hot, yes, but not yet ready to be a MILF.

“Pure panic,” Zarbon said from his spot on the ground, and everyone turned their eyes to him. He was breathing heavily and his carefully gelled hair was awfully mussed but he appeared otherwise unharmed. “We meant nothing by it. Hello again,” he nodded at Dende, who hid behind Bulma's leg, “Pleased to see you're alive. Sorry about Guru.” Oh no. He hadn't meant that to sound so trite. He winced and pulled the hood back up, vainly trying to fix his hair beneath it.

“You must be Zarbon,” Bulma said, for she'd both seen pictures of him and knew from Dende how he'd actually helped during the raid on Guru's compound. Her voice was not unkind, and yet Zarbon noticed how she kept the boy close, her hand on his head to keep him behind her. He did not have to wonder if she knew about his role in the destruction of the child's home. He also noticed the gun strapped to her thigh and the fact that she'd yet to draw it, and felt a little hope.

“We need to move,” Krillin interrupted. “I feel some decent power levels coming, and they're not on our side.”

“Ahh, someone must have heard our commotion,” Zarbon hauled himself up and stretched out a hand to Orly. “Oh my, got you in the balls, did she?” He smirked up at Eighteen's impassive face. “Well, under the circumstances, I can't say I'm too distressed. Come on, up with you.”

“I broke his leg,” Eighteen said, and Zarbon swore.

“Well shit, we have no choice, we can't leave him here to get caught,” Bulma leaned into the alleyway, her sharp eyes taking in the crowd. “I can see three of them, but there might be more. Seventeen, you get under Orly's right shoulder and Eighteen under the left. Zarbon, you good? Okay. Krillin, grab the bags. Everybody move!” she ordered, and Krillin thought to himself that she'd been spending way too much time with Vegeta lately. “Dende?” She crouched down in front of the boy, her hands on his small shoulders.

“It's okay,” Dende nodded. He brought his little green hands up to rest on Bulma's and squeezed her fingers. “If he does anything, Vegeta will...” he stopped short. He'd intended to finish the sentence with kill him, and it was probably the truth, but the fact that the sentiment existed within his brain was bothersome. Disturbing. He wasn't supposed to think like that.

“Vegeta will kick his butt,” Bulma finished, leaning forward to touch her forehead briefly to his, as her dad used to do when she was young. Zarbon watched, thoroughly bothered and confused by this utterly domestic scene, all the more because it involved mention of Vegeta.

“Wait, wait, wait! We're taking them with us? Back to Red?” Krillin was incredulous, practically hissing out his last words. “After this one practically assaulted you?”

“Oh Krillin calm down,” Bulma scoffed and stood back up, “haven't you noticed yet? The cute ones are never truly evil.” She reached over and patted his bald head as she winked at Zarbon and Orly.

“No way, no way! He's going to flip out, and of course he's not going to take it out on you!” Krillin was shaking his head so fast it was dizzying. “Or Dende, or the twins because if he breaks them you'll be pissed. He's going to take it out on me on the mat and I really, really hate going in the regeneration tank!”

“Don't be such a worry wart. You're embarrassing yourself.”

“I'm not!”

“We need to go,” Eighteen cut in, from her spot beneath Orly's shoulder. She pointed to the entrance of the alley, where several men had gathered.

“Shit.” Zarbon shrugged further into his hood and reached over to tug Orly's up too.

“Hey, you!” one of the authority officers shouted as he started down the alley toward them. The rest remained in position, ready to draw their weapons or launch into a physical attack.

“No problem here, sir!” Bulma stood straight and puffed her chest out, shooing the others behind her. “Our friend just had a little too much Alkabrew at lunch,” she channelled her mother's charming spirit and batted her eyelashes as the crowd came closer. “We'll just be on our way!”

“Hold it right there!” Damn. Apparently her flirting skills needed work.

“Everybody look away!” Krillin shouted, jumping in between the group and their soon-to-be pursuers. He held up his hands, fingers splayed out toward his face, and Bulma hustled her little group the other way. “Solar Flare!” Krillin shouted, and a blinding flash of light sent the authorities stumbling, all clutching at their eyes.

“Okay guys, hurry it up!” Bulma insisted, dragging Dende along as Krillin scrambled to gather all of their purchases again before catching up with the group. “The effects of a solar flare won't last long. We've really got to get out of here, because when they can see again, they're going to be pissed. Nice move, by the way,” Bulma added, turning her head sideways to address Krillin as she ran.

“No problem,” he lobbed back, grinning. It had been a stroke of brilliance, if his opinion counted, and he was extremely glad that it had worked. Solar Flare was one of Tien's moves and Krillin had yet to really get it down pat, though his approximations were pretty decent.

“It's this way to the docking level,” Zarbon called out, ducking around a corner. “I know a good shortcut, through here.” He heaved open a heavy service door and beckoned them through. Bulma leaned in, wincing at the stark, fluorescent lights and the bare steel walls within. Creepy.

“Okay,” she breathed, plunging through the door with Dende clinging fast. Two steps in Bulma stopped and turned, creating a minor traffic jam in the entrance. “I'm trusting you,” she tapped Zarbon on the nose with one finger, and waggled it in his face, “so this had better not be a trap. I'll sic Eighteen on you again.” She spun on her toes, and the normally agile namekian child was nearly dragged off his feet when she began sprinting down the hall. The others followed a little more slowly, held up as they were by Orly's injuries, but Bulma didn't care, nor did she heed their calls to wait up and slow down. She was suddenly and desperately in need of safety, of comfort and isolation from those who might do her harm. The faster they were all back at Red, the better.