Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 42

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: Sorry for the wait! It's been an odd month, and I had some wonky plot points coming up that I to work out before I could figure out some things in this chapter. Apologies if things come across a bit stilted.

APOLOGIES FOR THE FORMATTING...AGAIN. Mediaminer got its upload system fixed, and then it wonked out again. For a properly formatted, pretty version of the chapter, please read at fanfiction dot net.

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PRESENT DAY

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Nappa stalked into the kitchen, irritation seeming to come off him in waves that would have sent any normal person running for cover. Dr. Briefs, however, was not only abnormal but also completely and totally oblivious to standard social cues. He puttered about at the counter, fiddling with the coffee machine and trying to remember which cupboard it was that Chichi insisted on hiding the filters in. His wife normally did this sort of thing for him, but with her out and about in the colony, he was forced to fend for himself.

“Fancy a cup?” Dr. Briefs asked, triumphantly grasping the box of coffee filters and holding them out in illustration. Nappa simply turned and glared for a few seconds, then went back to rummaging in the fridge. Vegeta was in a fine state, bouncing off the walls in the inoperative gravity room and after kicking his ass, he'd cussed Nappa out for being too weak, and sent him packing. He might have trained alone, he supposed, but he was far too irritated and had no hint of the patience that would have required. He'd briefly sought out Piccolo, only to realize that the Earth namek had gone away too, out to enjoy the beautiful day. Pah. Every day was beautiful, Nappa thought, when you were on a rich, climate controlled space station.

Dr. Briefs waited patiently for the coffee to brew, all the while watching Nappa carry his finds over to the table. The saiyan ate indiscriminately, tucking into leftover roast, slices of uncooked brillig bacon, raw eggs all mixed up with sprigot powder, and a torte that Dr. Briefs knew was supposed to be tonight's dessert. He wondered if he could maybe snatch a few bites before it was gone.

“How do you take your coffee?” Briefs asked, plunking the full pot, two mugs, and all the fixings on a tray before carrying it over to the table. He poured and placed a mug in front of Nappa before taking some for himself. “A cup of Joe will cure what ails you!” he said, dumping in several spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream.

“Joe?” Nappa sniffed and took a cautious sip, grimacing at the bitter taste of the strong, black coffee. “It doesn't taste like meat. Bulma says this is made from beans.” He accepted the older man's offer of cream and sugar, topping his cup up with plenty of each in imitation. He took another sip and decided it was much better this way. Could maybe use some meat broth though, or even some hot blood, he thought.

“I'm surprised to see you up here,” Dr. Briefs said, and Nappa snapped to attention, realizing that the diminutive doctor had actually been talking this whole time, lips barely visible beneath his twitching moustache. Human women were very odd, Nappa decided, if a hot piece like Mrs. Briefs had, without the impetus of some sort of bond, chosen to spend her days with this piddling, purple-haired, runt of a man. He squinted across the table, trying to see what a female might find attractive there, though to Dr. Briefs it looked as though Nappa was paying very close attention, indeed.

“You see,” the doctor continued, unaware that the brute across the table was sizing him up and debating the pros and cons of murdering him and stealing his wife, “I thought you would be down below with that Vegeta fellow. Unfriendly lad, but decent. Suits Bulma. Yamcha was a good boy too, but never serious enough. The wife's thrilled, you know. Grandkids this, grandkids that.” He took a sip and paused to wipe his moustache on his sleeve, leaving a light brown stain on the white fabric. “Do you suppose they'll have tails? Awkward business, diapering a baby with a tail.” He looked up from his coffee cup to find the big saiyan staring perplexedly over at him. “You know, a diaper.” He gestured toward his lower body with both hands, making a sort of band-like motion and hoping it might come across.

“I know what a diaper is, you old coot.” Nappa snapped, even though he might actually have been older than the human across the table. Of course he knew what a diaper was! He'd raised cubs, hadn't he? What Dr. Briefs had mistaken for confusion over semantics was in fact confusion over why the hell he was jabbering on about them in the first place.

“Oh, good. Well maybe you can help if those two ever get around to babies.” Dr. Briefs reached for the pot of coffee and topped up his mug, unaware of the euphoria he'd created inside the bulky saiyan, who was just then imagining the honour of being asked to train Vegeta's offspring. Little mini-princes, who in Nappa's dreaming inherited none of Bulma's inherent human-ness and un-saiyan features. Gods of Vegetasei, he thought, eyeing up the doctor's lavender mop of hair, imagine if the cubs inherited her colouring! The mere thought was laughable, however, as Nappa was certain that Vegeta's far superior saiyan genetics would win out.

Nappa's daydreams were cut short as a warning trill sounded throughout the ship, closely followed by the staid, computerized voice of the ship's security system. “Unidentified ki signatures entering docking bay,” it said, and Nappa shot out of his chair, spilling coffee all across the table in his haste. Dr. Briefs mopped ineffectually at it for a moment, his attention clearly on the trail of the bolting saiyan, before he too shuffled out of the room and toward the bay. “Number: two,” the ship's computer continued, “accompanied by known ki signatures: Bulma, Dende, Krillin. Android Seventeen, identified by homing signal. Android Eighteen, identified by homing signal. Threat status: Medium.”

Dr. Briefs breathed a sigh of relief and reached up to scratch Kitty, who purred and pushed back against his hand. A threat status of medium meant that of the two reported foreign power levels, at least one of them was high, but it also meant that the known power levels appeared normal and healthy to the computer's diagnostic sensors. Damage levels were a little more tricky to detect in the androids, who had no ki that could be felt or measured in the traditional way. Bulma was working on that and she'd so far managed to identify the subtle electrical signals given off by their cells, which were themselves nanotechnology, but she'd yet to get beyond mere presence into measuring strength and health. Even that accomplishment, once reached, would do little good for the other fighters, who would still be unable to sense the androids without the use of some as-yet-to-be-invented, modified scouter. Or maybe a brain chip, like the ones used for language, implanted only in their allies so that the technology couldn't possibly be used against them. That came with more problems, however, as they'd then need to figure out just where to implant the chip. The Briefs were geniuses, scientific masterminds, but unfortunately their strengths did not lie with biology. The language centers of the brain had long since been mapped, but neither of them knew just which portions might be involved in sensing ki.

By the time Dr. Briefs made it to the cargo bay, the alarm had stopped ringing, but that didn't seem to ease the clustered Nameks, who were all whispering to each other, pointing through the doorway into the bay at whoever was there. It was not a very good sign, but then again the Nameks hardly ever seemed pleased about anything. There were a good few among them, determined to be pleasant, but the group of them had been through quite a rough time so the crew had been trying not to take it all too personally.

Bulma was just typing some commands into the computer as her father entered, and before he could even say hello she'd already shot him a look that said it all; everything's okay. She'd already locked out all the ship's computers to foreign users and the diagnostic systems had not picked up any radio signals that might have indicated tracking devices.

“Your scouters, please,” Bulma walked over to the two strange men she'd brought in, holding out her hands. “I'm sorry, but for the safety of my crew, I can't have you contacting anyone while you're aboard.”

“And just why are they aboard?” Nappa snarled, glaring across the bay at Zarbon, who stood warily near the door, watching as the little namek daubed blood from Orly's face.

“Get Vegeta,” Bulma snapped, glaring at the big saiyan in response.

“That is not necessary,” said the man himself, as he shouldered through the crowd of nameks in the doorway. He was shiny with sweat, though not as dripping as he would have been had the gravity room been functioning properly. He stopped in the middle of the room, frowning at their guests, and then at Bulma. “Tracking devices? Communication pieces?”

“None,” Bulma said, holding up the scouters that she had confiscated. “These are ordinary issue and the computer is not picking up any additional radio signals.”

“Good,” Vegeta returned stiffly, and Zarbon's gaze slid from one to the other, curiously. Zarbon had never known the prince to be anything but distant when it came to those not of his race.

“I don't know why you'd ever doubt me.” Bulma winked and tossed her hair prettily, and all Vegeta did was roll his eyes. Zarbon got the sense that, had the pair been alone, she might actually have garnered a response from the surly saiyan. “I am a genius, after all.”

“Call the others back here,” Vegeta said, instead of the playful reply on the tip of his tongue, and Bulma sulkily obeyed. “Brat, away from there,” he snapped his fingers and after a moment's hesitation, Dende scurried away from the injured stranger to Bulma's side, where Seventeen and Eighteen had earlier moved after depositing their burden on the floor. Krillin guarded the door, though he was surrounded by a small wall of bags and parcels that he'd hastily dropped upon entering.

“Oh relax, little prince,” Zarbon said airily, waving his hand about in an elegant fashion far unsuited to his bedraggled appearance. “It was your little team of miscreants that practically kidnapped us, not the other way around, so don't go getting any ideas.” He put his hand on his hip, a practiced pose that hid his uncertainty and nervousness. Going with Bulma had seemed like a decent idea at the time. She was so much the opposite of threatening that it hadn't ever really sunk in that he was headed right for the monster's lair. Vegeta, however, was a different story. He'd changed, that much was visible. Something in the cut of his jaw, or the streamlined bulk of his muscles, Zarbon wasn't sure, but it was there. He'd seen it in the video recordings that circulated throughout the universe and now, in person, it was so much stronger.

A sense of purpose.

Zarbon's skin prickled with awareness, the realization that the Vegeta before him was as much a stranger as though they had just met for the first time. It was disconcerting, but if there was one thing he was used to, it was that feeling of being ever so slightly off balance with those around him, never sure what they were thinking or about to do. Frieza had made it his mission in life, to keep Zarbon on his toes.

“Nappa,” Vegeta barked, and watching the big saiyan spring to attention, Zarbon felt comforted that at least that would never change, “secure our guests in the gravity chamber for now. You two,” he turned his attention back to Zarbon and Orly, “if you mean no harm in your presence here, surely you will not object. Nappa, if they give you so much as a peep of protest, kill them.”

“Vegeta!” Bulma gasped, “Orly needs medical attention!”

“Orly, hmm?” The saiyan prince cocked his head, looking severely unimpressed with what he saw. “He is not dying. His wounds can wait until Sixteen returns.” He snapped his fingers and Nappa was behind Zarbon in an instant, grasping his wrists and twisting his arms painfully back.

“C'mon short stuff,” Nappa jerked his head toward Orly, “gimme a hand.”

“M...me?” Krillin stammered, pointing at himself. Bulma shot him a pleading look, as though he might actually have been able to refuse Nappa in the first place, and he sighed in acquiescence. He knew Bulma hoped that his presence might have meant the two captives were treated a little more gently and for his part he'd do what he could, but if Nappa was in the mood to give someone a beating....well, he knew it was cowardly, but that Zarbon guy looked like he could handle his own, and Krillin wasn't exactly relishing the idea of dragging along yet another paragon of masculine good looks. He was hard up enough as it was without introducing another option for Eighteen.

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“You know, Gohan, you don't have to wear that hood if it's too hot for you,” Goku said reaching out to ruffle the fabric covering his son's head. Gohan yelped and reached for the hood with both hands, violently tugging it down against his scalp and away from his father's hand.

“I do actually,” he said stiffly, gripping the fabric so tight that his knuckles were going white with the strain.

“Because Vegeta told you to?” Goku asked, surprising even himself with the sharpness in his tone. He hadn't meant to come across so harshly, but watching Vegeta order everyone around before they'd been allowed to leave that morning had kind of irritated him. And besides that, everyone was feeling a little bit surly, with the gravity machine being broken and all. Goku was especially frustrated because it happened just as he'd finally been given the OK to begin training properly again after his illness. He was feeling restless and antsy, and shamefully, not above picking a fight with his eight year old son.

“Here we are, boys!” Chichi sat down at the table, all smiles and completely unaware of the potential scene she'd just interrupted. She passed out the iced treats she'd just bought and unwrapped her own, pleased as punch to be out with her family in the sunshine, even if it was fake. It didn't take long, however, for her to discover that something unhappy had transpired in the few minutes she'd taken at the vendor's cart. Gohan was hunched down into his hood, which in itself was not unusual, as Vegeta had promised death and destruction should any of the saiyans be recognized, but he was working hard to keep a frown from his face, and not succeeding. Goku, beside him was stiff and the fact that three seconds after receiving it, his popsicle was still in his hand rather than his belly, was a definite sign that something was off.

Chichi narrowed her eyes, trying to work it out. She knew that tensions had been running high since the gravity machine console's untimely demise, but for the past few hours her boys had been happy, cheery, like old times. The three of them were a regular get along gang, and food, of all things, should normally have increased the good spirits. “Goku, sweetie,” Chichi turned a mega-watt smile on her husband, though even the most casual listener could hear the steel backbone in her voice that meant this is not a request, “why don't you go grab us some drinks?” She dug some credits from her purse and pointed to the longest line in the square. Goku shrugged and did as he was told, and the minute he was out of earshot Chichi turned to her son, ready to give him the gears. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Gohan said, a little too insistently as he hunched further into his hood. She felt bad for him, knowing how nice a day it was and how hot he must be in there, but for once she'd actually agreed with Vegeta about something. The desire for a semi-normal day out with her family had been terribly strong, but she was well aware of the likelihood that the saiyans might be recognized and everyone put into danger because of it.

“Don't lie to your mother,” she said, which at least earned her a few seconds of eye contact before he retreated once more into the hood, resting his chin on crossed arms on the table. “Well?”

“It really wasn't anything...” Gohan muttered into his forearm. “Dad just...doesn't get it. About Vegeta, or about being a saiyan...he just wants me to be the same kid from Earth.”

“Oh, Gohan,” Chichi let out an airy sigh and scooted her chair closer to his, draping an arm around his shoulders and hugging him closer to her side, “your dad loves you, know he does. Goku's just never been one to follow orders; he's not accustomed to sitting on the sidelines.”

“You know...” Gohan said slowly, pausing as he tried to think of the right words to describe just how he felt, “Nappa and Radditz, they never acted like it was the sidelines. Of course Vegeta's stronger than us, of course he's the leader but...” he cut himself short with a frustrated noise. “I'm just sick of the tug of war. I don't know what he wants me to do.”

“Where have I seen this before?” Chichi smiled, a rare self-effacing moment for her, and Gohan couldn't help the hint of a grin that tugged on one side of his mouth. “Excuse yourself when he gets back and I'll talk to him, okay?”

Goku returned shortly, smiling as he plunked three cans on the table, ice cold and dripping with condensation. He handed the change back to his wife, and as she was tucking it back securely into the pouch at her waist, Gohan scuttled off with a hasty, “Gotta pee.”

“He'd follow Vegeta to the ends of the Universe, wouldn't he?” Goku said, no prodding necessary, as he watched his son's cloaked back disappear into the crowd. Chichi heaved a deep sigh and took his hand in hers; it wasn't as though she particularly liked it either, only that she'd already fought and accepted defeat in the matter.

“Yes,” she said, giving Goku's fingers a squeeze.

“I never thought that you, of all people, would be okay with that.” Goku turned his hand over, catching Chichi's within his grip instead of the other way around.

“I'm not,” she shrugged, “not really. Nappa, of all people, told me one day that Gohan was as much theirs as he was mine though, and it galls me to admit it, but it's true. They didn't do so bad a job with him though, and if nothing else I'm happy just to see that he lived.” Chichi saw Gohan slip back through the crowd, pause, and she nodded just the tiniest bit to let him know it was okay to come back. “You've got to give it time,” she said to Goku. “I know you're a bit jealous of Vegeta, but the antagonism is only forcing Gohan to choose sides, and right now, I'm not so sure that you'd win.”

“Jealous?” Goku looked at his wife with wide eyes. Jealous? He was not! Was he? But Gohan was back, two feet away now and he couldn't demand that Chichi explain that comment, even though he really, really wanted to.

Just as Gohan was sitting and reaching for his drink, however, all three of their radio communicators went off in unison, and Bulma's voice came crackling through. “All units back to the ship,” she said, sounding very official, “we have a situation folks.”

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“How dare they just toss us in here!” Orly seethed, pounding a fist on the floor, “Treating us like enemies...like prisoners!” He winced as the movement jarred his injuries, and sat frowning at the wall instead.

“Calm down, Orly,” Zarbon sighed and delicately pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. All of Orly's complaining was beginning to get on his nerves, made more annoying by the fact that it had only begun after their captors appeared to be out of ear shot. “What did you think was going to happen?” he asked, and Orly winced at the sharp tone in his voice, “that they were going to welcome you with open arms and praise your greatness like all these poor fools in the colonies? You've been too long away from the fight, if you were ever in it in the first place.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you're a spoiled brat who thinks he's big stuff because he's been in a few minor scuffles,” Zarbon snapped back, “and dare I say it, your ego is rival to Vegeta's, to Frieza's. You've got this hero complex and why? Because a bunch of know-nothing, outer-circle bumpkins hang on your every word? Words that aren't even your own!” He was on a roll, and though a tiny part in the back of his brain was telling him it was enough, his lips just kept on moving. “You talk so big, but the things I've seen, the stories I could tell you...you have no idea,” he hissed, “what it's really like out there.”

“Oh boy,” Bulma said to Dende as she peeked through the door of the gravity room, unable to hear what was being said but reading the tension in both men's bodies, “we either came at an awful time, or the best one possible.” She straightened her shoulders and winked at Dende, who swallowed back his fear and did the same. “Break it up, boys!” Bulma shouted as she threw open the door with one hand, carefully balancing a tray of food on the other. “We brought dinner, so no funny business,” she added, setting down her heavy tray with a grunt, and hurrying to help Dende, who was staggering in under his own load. “Okay! Sorry about the lack of a table and chairs,” she slipped out for a few seconds, grabbing some pillows for the captives to sit on, “but we at least have plates and cutlery, like proper, civilized people.” She turned, and noticed both men staring, open mouthed, at the gargantuan heaps of steaming food, and felt herself blush. “Too much? We're sort of used to saiyan appetites around here.”

“We are most certainly not saiyans,” Zarbon sneered, not really sure how to proceed in this situation. All his years of knowing Vegeta and the others had been tempered by the fact that they were all bound in Frieza's service, and when he'd initially found out Vengeance's true identity, he'd entertained thoughts of joining up with Vegeta, aiding him, together being strong enough to take out the monster. Seeing the prince again, however, brought back all the old and bad memories of being in Frieza's service together. They'd been pitted against each other for so long, always at each other's throats, that he wasn't entirely certain that civility was an option for him. Even with Orly, he'd reverted to his old, snappish ways, and Vegeta's was a much more grating personality, or so he thought. The prince, too, was not exactly known for his diplomatic skills.

“You're right,” Bulma responded to his snipe with a tone so flat and mechanical that he wasn't sure whether she was simply stating fact, or if he should feel insulted, “you're not.” She laid a protective hand on Dende's bald head and he looked up at her, adoration in itself, and Zarbon knew he was in trouble. He'd been the officer in charge of the raid on Guru's compound, directly responsible for the deaths of several of Guru's followers. He'd been genuine in his desire not to kill the boy before, but he hadn't been so discerning when it had come to the adults beyond Guru. Some of them had had to die to make the raid seem real, but Zarbon had no idea whether the child's father or brothers had been among the dead that day.

“You should be so lucky,” Dende mumbled, just loud enough for Zarbon to hear him, and then quickly resumed hiding his face against Bulma's thigh. He wasn't quite sure why he'd come down here with her, knowing that he would have to face Zarbon again. He was trying to be brave about it, trying to be an adult and to do the right thing, but it was terribly hard. Zarbon had spared his life, yes, but he'd also led the attack that had chased them out and cut their numbers, and now he was supposed to be a good guy? Then again, hadn't he felt the same sense of intense mistrust toward Vegeta, who carried his own past of nightmare deeds along with him?

Zarbon sighed and dug in, wisely keeping his mouth shut after that last comment. He could hear Vegeta and Nappa training out in the facility beyond the reinforced room that he and Orly had been contained in, but without his scouter he really couldn't tell what was going on beyond the occasional flash of motion visible through the porthole in the door.

“Vegeta wants to talk to you, once you're done eating,” Bulma said, leaning her butt against the console and watching the men. She could feel the tension in Dende's frame and wondered if it would be best for him to leave. She could see that he was trying to be brave in the face of a man who must have occupied some of his worst nightmares and she applauded him for his courage, yet there was really no need for Dende to put himself through such unpleasantness. In fact, judging by the looks on all the other nameks' faces, Dende was likely only making things much worse for himself.

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“Are you getting tired?” Radditz asked, poking Puar roughly in the back. It was harder than he'd meant to, as usual, but it did have the useful side effect of keying the saiyan in to the state of his mate's transformation. His jabbing digit had actually distorted Puar's shape beyond the usual way; the cat's normally firm back had given way too easily, like poking a pillow. “You're all spongy and pale.”

“I'm okay,” Puar insisted, even though he was plainly not. He hadn't slept much the night before, thanks to a combo of one amorous partner and excitement over their imminent docking with Harbour Colony, and he had been holding his secondary form for quite some time at that point. It was beginning to wear him down.

“Transform,” Radditz offered, “I'll carry your stuff and you can ride around on my shoulder.” He patted said bodypart invitingly, like someone trying to entice a reluctant cat into his lap.

“I...” Puar shook his head and Radditz grunted in irritation. He really didn't understand the other man's reluctance to wear his original form in public. “Isn't it awkward for you?”

“What, to carry you around on my shoulder? Feh,” Radditz snorted, “don't be dumb.” He cocked his head to the side and looked down at Puar, and even though he was only trying to be helpful, he got the feeling that maybe he'd done something wrong. He was missing something for sure, if the squint-eyed look Puar was giving him was any indication.

“I mean,” the shapeshifter hissed, “it's it awkward for you to be with me...when I'm like that.”

“This again?” Radditz asked incredulously, “You're impossible! What do I care what any of these people think?” He grabbed Puar by the wrist and dragged him in behind a market stall where they were relatively hidden from the crowd. “Cat shape. Right now.”

“Radditz,”

“Now.” The big saiyan leaned down, baring his fangs and narrowing his eyes. It was a mean tactic, but it tended to help him get his way, when Puar was reminded of his relative size and strength. Hissing back and hackles raised, Puar nevertheless obeyed and perched on Radditz's shoulder once his discarded clothes had been gathered up and put into the shopping bags with the day's purchases. “See?” Radditz asked, all smiles since he'd gotten what he wanted, “Isn't that better?” He reached up with one hand, intending to rub Puar's furry little head, and instead got bitten for his troubles.

It was just as well that their day was already ruined, for just as Radditz was preparing to cuss out his little cat mate, their communicators went off and Bulma's voice came through, ordering everyone back to the ship.

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Piccolo missed the sun. Harbour Colony's artificial one was bright and warm, and much nicer than the harsh, phosphorescent lights that served on Red Station, but there was still something missing. Earth's sun had not been unique, of course, but there was something about the real energy and heat of an honest-to-goodness ball of burning gas that set one's soul at peace. Perhaps it was because the birthplace of Kami and Piccolo Daimyo had been blessed with three of them, perhaps it was just that he'd spent his entire life so far living in the wilderness, but real sunlight was something he missed dearly. Idly, he wondered if the other nameks felt that way too and if so, he could kind of see why they hadn't come out of the ship today. As nice as the approximation was, the longing it engendered in him for real sunlight would probably be worse, in the long run, than if he'd just stayed away.

Bulma's communiqué had come through easily ten minutes ago but he was reluctant to go back to the ship. He'd found a peaceful spot in a man made park in which to meditate and was not really ready to go back to the dank hull of Red Station, so crammed with tension and noise. For the second time in as many minutes, he understood the gathered nameks and why they seemed so constantly miserable. Well, not all of them, he amended. There was that kid, and a handful of others who seemed to enjoy the mixed company of Red's crew. Still though, if it weren't for the side of him that was Kami, Piccolo thought he might have stolen a small ship and blasted out of that place a long time ago to set up his own little corner of terror in the universe.

Heaving in one last deep, deep breath, Piccolo uncrossed his legs and stood up, startling some nearby picknickers who hadn't seen him move even an inch in the past few hours. He looked longingly at the fake sun and shook his head to clear it of wishful thoughts. Soon they'd be on Tarble's planet, wherever that was, and he'd once again feel the sun on his skin, the crunch of dirt beneath his boots...or so he hoped. For the love of all that was good in the universe, if Tarble's home turned out to be an ice planet, Vegeta was going to get a good punch in the face.

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“What do you want?” Nappa asked, arms crossed and feet planted shoulder width apart in his typical stone wall fashion. A few feet to the left and back, Vegeta leaned against the wall in a deceptively casual pose. It was a classic tactic of his, to act like he was just too damn important to bother speaking, and one that worked well on those uninitiated in saiyan power dynamics. Orly was shaking in his boots, but beside him Zarbon remained calm. They'd moved out of the cordoned off chamber and into the training facility at large, a move that suggested Vegeta felt no threat from him. The woman and the child sat quietly on a bench off to the side and if Vegeta valued her even a fraction of what she claimed he did, there would be no violence. The interrogation was all for show.

“I want to join you.” It was Zarbon who answered, boldly, and both saiyans snorted. Beside him, Orly looked wounded, though the only person to notice was Bulma.

“Hear that, V'geta? Prissypants here wants to join us.” Nappa threw his head back and bellowed with laughter, but Zarbon did not rise to the bait.

“Cut the crap, will you?” Zarbon drawled, “And tell me what you want to know. I presume that by this point you've looked into every file there is on me and on Orly; you know we want Frieza dead as much as you do.”

“How do we know it's not a trick?” Nappa asked, just as Radditz walked in. His eyes widened as he saw what was going on, but remained silent as he executed a quick salute to Vegeta and took his place beside the prince. A tiny blue mammal hopped from his shoulder and scampered through the air toward Bulma and Dende, and Zarbon was once again struck by the strange dichotomy of this place, this crew. The saiyans had long been considered some of Frieza's most dangerous, vicious warriors and yet here they were, peaceably sharing quarters with women, children, and cute little animals.

“A pretty elaborate trick,” Zarbon shrugged, “and one in which I've suffered more than any sane man would volunteer for.”

“You've been Frieza's right hand man for a long time,” Radditz put in, stepping forward while Vegeta remained as silent as ever, “I think maybe you've done worse for him in your time.” His voice was smooth yet gritty, implying something that made the audience on the bench squirm. Again, Bulma wondered if she should make Dende leave. Violence was one thing, but whatever unseemly things Radditz was hinting at was far beyond appropriate for the tender namekian child.

“Dende,” she ventured, but he shook his head, having already discerned her intent.

“I'm staying,” he insisted, and from Bulma's shoulder, Puar shivered and ducked a little closer into the crook of her neck.

“Why didn't I stay upstairs?” he asked, “Why didn't Radditz tell me to? I should have known this would be serious when I saw Seventeen and Eighteen on guard duty.”

Whatever it was that Radditz meant, it certainly had struck a chord. Zarbon had gone very pale and still, except for two patches of vivid colour on his cheeks, and even Orly, who up to that point had been cowering behind him, moved away. “It's not a trick,” Zarbon ground out, fighting the urge to lash out as his guts writhed and his belly boiled. He was saved from further interrogation by the entry of several more people. “What is this, a fucking zoo? Everyone come to gawk?” he hissed, as Gohan formally saluted and took his place with the other saiyans. Two other men, one namek and one vaguely saiyan-looking, walked in behind him but did not salute or take up a formal stance. They stood instead by the far wall while a doe-eyed, black haired woman hung nervously about in the doorway.

Zarbon shook his head, trying to clear it and wondering why he wasn't more prepared for this. “Look, Vegeta,” he said, pinning the prince with his gaze, trying to suppress his irritation as Vegeta looked impassively back. “You and I, we wasted so much time at each other's throats. Each trying to out do the other and for what? For Frieza? We can work together, you and I!”

“What makes you think,” Vegeta said quietly, stepping forward, “that I need your help?” He moved slowly, purposefully, the tip of his tail flicking the air behind his calves, and he reminded Bulma of a big, predatory cat; a mountain lion stalking its prey. “And furthermore, that I might want it? Frieza's death is mine,” he said, and his words were so low, almost sensual, that Bulma felt a trill of excitement run up her spine. “I will not share that victory with anyone.”

“I don't want your glory!” Zarbon's voice cracked, and from the corner of her eye, Bulma watched Chichi's silhouette disappear from the door as she fled the uncomfortable scene. “I just want him dead! I want him torn limb from limb, and I don't care who does it!” There was a moment of heavy silence in the wake of his confession, and Zarbon stood panting, trying to hold himself together as he waited for Vegeta's answer.

“I have a question.” Dende had slid off the bench, and crept up beside Gohan. He looked nervously up at Vegeta, as though asking permission, and the saiyan prince simply raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Dende assumed this meant it was okay, and he turned toward Zarbon, his shoulders back and head held high. His fingers knotted together in front of his belly, however, betraying his nervousness. “Why did you do it?”

“Save you, you mean?” Zarbon's voice was shaky and tired after his outburst, and up close Dende could see sweat beading on his skin. His eyes were glazed with moisture, though not quite to the point of tears. “It was simple. I did not want to kill you.”

“And yet you killed others. Most of our compound was slaughtered. Why me? Why did you choose me to live?” Dende was shaking with emotion and those who could read ki could feel they boy's skyrocketing from its usual meagre levels. Dende was no fighter, but in his current state he'd probably have been able to give Tien or Krillin a decent workout.

“I would have left the others alive if I could have, but doing so would have put me at risk.”

“That is not an answer to my question.”

“I don't know!” Zarbon cried out, frustration eating at his core. Everything was all wrong, flushing further down the tubes with each passing second. His only desire, the only thing keeping him from slitting his own throat, was the burning need to help usher Frieza to his grave, and even that was slipping through his fingers. Dende was plainly unsatisfied with the answer, but to Zarbon's surprise, Vegeta was.

“Fine, you'll stay.” He turned his gaze to Orly, “And what about you? Your power level is pathetic, I can tell right now, so don't even bother pretending you'll be useful in a fight.”

“Just like that?” Dende spluttered, and Vegeta ignored him. He turned to Bulma, who shrugged, torn between supporting these two males who were so important to her. Vegeta was being entirely too glib about the whole thing; she was sure that his easy acceptance was just a front for something else. She peeked over at Zarbon, who stood and simply blinked in obvious surprise. He wasn't catching on, but he seemed smart, if a little unstable, and Bulma thought with time he might come to see what she did: Vegeta had meant to accept him into their crew from the beginning.

“I will allow you to live because of what you have done for the cause,” Vegeta was circling now, like a shark, “but you will never speak of this. And,” he added as an afterthought, “you're going to stop with that praise be bullshit. Do we have a deal?”

“Y...yeah.”

“Good. Now get out of here,” he snapped. “You're wasting my time.” He turned to Bulma and she froze like a rabbit, cornered by a fox. “Did you get the parts?”

“Sort of,” she answered, a little bewildered by the quick change of pace. “They need some alterations.”

“Good. Get to work.” He turned away, ignoring her narrowed eyes and suddenly stiff spine.

“Oh of course,” she stood up, sarcasm dripping from every word as she sketched an elaborate bow, “your highness. I am at your beck and call.” She straightened up and caught Zarbon watching her. “What are you looking at, Greenie?” she snapped, then turned to Dende. “No offense. To you either, Piccolo,” she added, feeling silly and wishing she'd never said it in the first place. “Augh, whatever. I've got some work to do, apparently.” She turned and flounced out of the room with her nose in the air and Dende and Puar scuttling behind her.

Zarbon was watching the saiyans this time, and he could have sworn he saw Vegeta crack the barest hint of a smile.

.

.

Mrs. Briefs, Tien thought, had the most varied taste of any woman he had ever met. It wasn't as though he was an expert or anything, his experience with women being fairly limited, but he figured anyone would be completely flabbergasted to watch the petite blonde sniff over diamonds and jewels one moment, while the next digging in the dirt for the perfect bedding plants.

“I am looking for something tomato-esque,” she was telling the merchant at the little plant stall, who of course had no clue what a tomato might be. All morning, in between educating Tien about gem qualities and how hard it was to find something resembling vanilla out in space, she'd been telling him all about her garden back home, and how she planned to create one on Red Station. Dr. Briefs, she assured him, had already rigged up a lighting system in Bulma's old lab space, and with a few parts that Bulma was to pick up today she'd have a fancy schmancy watering system that she did not understand but was thrilled about.

Tien shifted the mixed tray of floral and green plants in his arms, trying at the same time to ease the handles of the shopping bags that were beginning to cut into his skin. Bulma's mother was a marathon shopper, an absolute pro, and he was really just the muscle along for the ride. Watching her shrewdly sort through the offering of fruit and vegetable plants, varieties which she had naturally never seen before in her life, he wondered how he'd ever thought her to be a ditz. She breezed through the displays, quickly spotting bugs and signs of disease that Tien would have assumed to be normal features of the alien plants.

Finally settling on something with vibrant green leaves and long, plum coloured fruits, Mrs. Briefs paid the vendor and flounced along to the next stall, where she and a six-eyed, orange-fanged bear had a surprisingly in-depth conversation about manure. Tien stood by, paying attention only insofar as to be warned if it looked like he might be soon required to carry some of this miracle fertilizer, and allowed his mind to wander.

Harbour Colony was a relatively peaceful place, but he still felt a little antsy, a little on edge. Bulma and the others had paid for him properly from the slaver camp where they'd found him, he wasn't a known fugitive from the law so theoretically there was no danger posed by walking freely about, outside the safe confines of the ship. In fact, it was probably actually a hell of a lot safer for him to be out and about, rather than in clustered up in Red Station with several of the universe's most wanted criminals.

Earlier in the day, he'd entertained the notion of simply remaining on Harbour Colony, of finding a job and a place to live out his remaining days in peace. He figured that the others probably wouldn't miss him too much - he wasn't very social and they didn't trust him with much of anything important in terms of their rebel activities anyway - but the thought of remaining here alone was actually a little bit terrifying. There was safety in numbers, and security in being cocooned away in Red Station, isolated from the depravities of the universe. Out in civilization, there was no telling who was friend and who was enemy until it was potentially too late.

Tien had seen the rough sides of this universe, and he had no desire to do so again. He wanted to live in a place where he could sleep peacefully at night, knowing for sure that the reality of the next morning would be better than whatever nightmares he might have. So far, sticking with Bulma and her saiyans seemed the best option.

“Tien, honey, your thingy is going off,” Mrs. Briefs was poking him in the arm, and he was startled back into the real world with a gasp. As he checked his communications unit, he wondered just how long he'd been standing there, staring off into space while horror visions danced before his eyes.

“It's Bulma,” he told his flighty companion, “we have to go back to the ship.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” she pouted, but didn't make a fuss as she finished another transaction, thankfully just a few packets of seeds and not a wheelbarrow full of excrement.

“Wait a minute, why didn't you get that message?” Tien asked, belatedly realizing that Bulma's mother should have gotten the same call. “Where's your comm unit?”

“Oh, that thing?” Mrs. Briefs waved her hand breezily through the air in a dismissive motion. “It wouldn't stop beeping at me, so I turned it off,” she shrugged and picked up her latest purchase, turning to smile sweetly at the exasperated warrior. He was once again amending his opinion of her, and it was not a change for the better. “Now which way is home?”

.

.

“Oh my, who on Earth is this handsome devil?” Mrs. Briefs dropped the one bag she carried, right in Tien's way, and tottered into the kitchen on her heels, nearly falling into Orly's lap she came so close. “And your friend,” she pinched Zarbon's cheek, “such a nice surprise! Shall I make you boys a snack?”

“You can make me a snack, Mrs. B!” Radditz wrapped an arm around her slim little waist and planted a kiss on her cheek. “These two just ate.”

“Oh, Radditz stop it!” Mrs. Briefs giggled like a woman half her age and slapped his arm away. “I am a married woman, and you a blushing bride yourself!”

“Bride?” Radditz sputtered.

“Well Puar can't be,” Mrs. Briefs danced neatly away toward the fridge and patted a stranger on the head; a blue haired, blue tailed man whom Zarbon hadn't been introduced to. “He hasn't got enough hair for an updo!”

“Not like you,” the stranger grinned and shook his head and Zarbon guessed, correctly, that this must be Puar.

“That can change,” Radditz's tail was whipping back and forth, dangerously close to slicing right through the butter dish.

“Ohhh, it can, but not without taking mass from...other things.”

“Oh, shame on me!” Mrs. Briefs gasped, halfway through cracking an enormous pile of equally enormous eggs into a bowl. She spun around and stuck out one well manicured hand to each of the new comers. “Mrs. Briefs,” she introduced herself and waited with expectant, unblinking eyes for the boys to respond in kind.

“Um...Orly. I'm not staying,” the blonde offered, awkwardly. He was actually sort of itching to get back to the base but no one was letting him leave until it was dark out, lest he be seen. In the absence of this “Sixteen” person that people kept mentioning, the blue-haired Bulma had put him in the regeneration tank for a few hours to take the edge of the worst wounds, so he was not in danger of dying any time soon. She'd bandaged the rest and done a not-half-bad job of it. It still hurt like hell, but it would do for a while.

“Oh, that's a shame pumpkin!” Mrs. Briefs made a moue of distaste and batted her eyelashes at Orly. “And you dear?”

“Zarbon.”

“Oh, what a lovely name!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Briefs,” Zarbon said smoothly, pasting a winning smile on his face and charming her utterly. “That's so terribly formal though. May I call you by your first name, perhaps?”

“My first name?” she smiled, blinking, and cocked her head to the side, looking for all the world as though she had no idea what he was asking.

“Er...yes.”

“Oh Zarbon, sweetie! You can just call me Mom!” She squealed and clapped her hands, clasping them together as she looked around the room, eyes shining. “You can ALL call me Mom!”

.

.

Sixteen hunched a little deeper into his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible, which considering his general build, was still not very small at all. Unfortunately for him, Sabriya thought his coy demeanour was cute and charming, and his polite speech was oh so different from the clientele that usually came wandering through her place of business. She plucked a small, sweet, grapelike fruit from the bowl on the table and held it up to his lips. Because he did not want to be rude, Sixteen accepted this behaviour and ate the proffered treat, even though he found it very strange and unnecessary. He at least had an idea of why she was sitting on his lap and, recalling the awkwardness with Chichi, wondered if he should inform her that he would regrettably not be able to perform sex acts with her.

From across the smoky bar, Sixteen watched Oolong weave his way back from the washroom, his muscular body twitching and rippling with what appeared to be strength, but was actually extreme fatigue. They'd been in this particular establishment for about half of the day now, and Oolong, who was sadly out of practice in terms of shapeshifting, had just made his third trip to the bathroom in the past hour. He claimed, to the gracious ladies that shared their table, that he'd merely broken the seal, but Sixteen knew that Oolong was sneaking into the stalls so that he could snatch a moment's rest from keeping up his transformation. Sixteen wondered if the constant flipping back and forth might have been more tiring than just trying to hold on for longer. He'd earlier suggested that they simply leave the bar altogether so that Oolong could transform back to his normal self, but the pig had become absolutely enchanted by a six-breasted dancer named Yul, who thought he was a rich tycoon and world-class martial artist. He'd really laid it on thick.

On stage, Roshi's old bones got the work out of a lifetime, as he struggled to keep up with Yul and Sabriya's good friend and coworker Mink, a woman of Amazonian proportions whose breasts were average in number but far from it in size. Sixteen winced as he watched the old man's vulgar moves around the pole, fearful of a sudden hernia or slipped disk due to excessive enthusiasm. He did not want to have to explain this to the rest of the crew.

“Shall I get you another Alkabrew?” Sabriya's purring voice distracted him from Roshi's jerky gyrations, and for that he was actually a little grateful. He nodded and she slipped off his lap, making sure to grind her nicely rounded bottom into him as she did so, and sauntered off toward the bartender. Sixteen heaved a heavy sigh, wishing for the millionth time that the other two had taken his pleas to leave seriously. Sabriya seemed like a kind woman, but he did not want to be there, in that bar, with Roshi and Oolong. He'd really wanted to go with Bulma and the twins but these two troublemakers had guilted him into coming with them, claiming that they would have no fun if forced to tag along with the others. Everyone had agreed that every group needed at least one high level fighter and despite his history, nobody considered Roshi among that category. Either that, or they just thought he'd still make too much trouble without a chaperone to reign him in.

In a stroke of timing quite possibly fit for miracle status, all three of their communicators went off at once. Roshi nearly fell of the stage in his moment of surprise, but Mink was strong and quick, so she caught and hauled him back up to the stage with ease. “Trying to get away from me, old man?” she laughed, bending down to straighten his rumpled shirt. In her heels, she was a full three feet taller than he was and when he looked up, all he could see was the glory of underboob. He was in heaven.

“We have to go,” Sixteen was suddenly beside him, heads level even though the android was still standing on the floor and Roshi on the stage.

“You shouldn't joke with an old man,” Roshi waved the big android aside and cha-cha-cha'd his way back to Mink. He pointedly plucked his own still-beeping comm-unit from his pocket and lobbed it underhand toward Sixteen. “You deal with that,” he said, reaching out with knobby fingers for Mink's swaying hips. Oolong too, had ignored the communiqué in favour of slamming back another shot with Yul, and Sabriya was nearly back at the table, a tall, frosty alkabrew in each hand. Sixteen wasn't sure that he had ever actually told a lie before, but then again, he'd also never experienced this kind of desperation before either.

“Ladies,” he said, and his deep voice commanded all of their attention, “do you know where there is even more...um...booze and uh, music?” He paused, trying to think of everything these women had so far seemed to enjoy. “And money. We have lots of money. At our ship.” He was lucky that his voice was so wooden in the first place, because the ladies couldn't tell how especially, unusually awkward and stilted he was acting.

“Back to your ship?” Sabriya handed him his glass and clung to his arm, looking up hopefully at him. She'd never in her life met such a nice man and her head was suddenly filled with visions of flying away with him.

“Money?” said Mink, at the same time as Yul said “Booze?” and none of Oolong or Roshi's protestations could stop them; they were on their way.

“This is never going to work!” Oolong hissed at Roshi, squeaking a little in alarm as a ripple ran through his form. He was sweating hard, trying to hold himself together and if he didn't get a chance to rest soon, his whole illusion was going to fall apart. “Bulma and Chichi are gonna kibosh this thing so fast!”

“No no no no, it'll be fine!” Roshi hissed back, pausing to flash Mink a huge smile. “We just need a plan, a story!”

“Okay, okay...story.” Oolong nodded, warming to the idea. “So maybe we should try and stall a bit while we think of one.”

“Ladies!” Roshi pasted on a big grin, and Sixteen felt his stomach drop, “before we get back to the ship, how about a little shopping?”

.

“...So you see, these three ladies are intergalactic freedom fighters too!” Roshi exhaled and waited, expectantly, while Bulma and Chichi stood side by side, and impenetrable wall of crossed arms and tapping feet. Eighteen stood beside Bulma, going through the motions even though she wasn't one hundred percent sure why. Seventeen stood a few feet back beside Krillin, whose jaw had pretty much dropped to the floor.

“Chichi,” Bulma said loudly, “do you sense any power level from these ladies?”

“Why no, Bulma, I don't.” Chichi squinted at the gathered group and even her sympathy for poor Sixteen was not enough to cool her irritation with Roshi and Oolong. It was past dark already, and the call to return to the ship had gone out several hours before. Their stalling tactics had been effective, though expensive, but their storytelling still needed work.

“I do,” Nappa insisted, earning a glare from the ladies of Red Station. “What?” he asked, not fooling anyone with his false innocence. Radditz elbowed him in the gut, even though he'd probably have been staring just as hard if Puar hadn't been there.

“Well who's that?” Oolong demanded, grunting in surprise as a ripple of unsteady matter ran through his body. He was pointing at Zarbon and Orly, who had just been about to leave when the stragglers had shown up. “How come you guys get to keep strays, huh? We don't need any more meat on this boat!”

“We only have one stray,” Bulma pointed out, and Zarbon wasn't sure if he should be offended, “and he's not a hooker!” She turned around, and he was struck by the absolute absurdity of what she said next. “Are you?”

“Most assuredly not.” Zarbon said.

“Okay, you're so pretty I thought I'd make sure,” Bulma blew him a kiss and winked, leaving Zarbon to wonder again just what her relationship with Vegeta was. The saiyan in question was not there to provide clues; he'd washed his hands of the issue, leaving Nappa and Radditz to oversee Orly's departure, and had gone back to training himself.

“These are not hookers,” Roshi said, and he wasn't completely lying because though they might have engaged in the occasional romp for money, it wasn't technically in their job description, “these ladies are dancers.”

“Look,” Chichi cut in, having had enough of the idiocy, “I'm sure you three are lovely ladies, but I'm afraid you've probably been deceived. This is not some kind of party boat, and these bums have no money. This one,” she stomped forward and jabbed Oolong in his falsely muscled chest, “doesn't even look like this? Do you?” she smiled and poked him again, hard, with her pointer finger. Oolong let out a gasp and his whole body shivered like jello on a dryer before he shifted back to his original form with a violent pop that caused Yul and Mink to shriek out loud and jump backwards.

“Oolong?” Yul cried, pointing in horror at the sweaty, panting pig that sat where her musclebound hog had been only a few moments before. “You cad!”

“And what are you?” Mink poked Roshi, cautiously. “Even older? Because I'm telling you, money can only account for so many missing teeth! Sabriya, come on! We're out of here!”

“But...” the pretty little brunette clutched at Sixteen's arm and he stood there, obviously uncomfortable and with no idea what to do. “I want to go with Sixteen.”

“Oh, for the love of...” Chichi rolled her eyes and tromped over to the strange woman, leaned over, and whispered something in her ear.

“It...it doesn't matter!” Sabriya clutched Sixteen tighter. “I'm coming with you!”

“Um, perhaps I could help here,” Orly swallowed and walked down the ramp out of the docking bay. He was leaving anyway, and Sabriya was the only one of the three who did not terrify him on some base level. “Let me take you home, madam,” he smiled openly at her and she turned, tentatively allowing herself to be handed over. He really should have been heading straight back to the resistance base to get patched up properly, but if he was losing Zarbon, he thought this pretty lady might make a nice consolation prize. Besides that, the painkillers that Bulma had given him were doing their job quite well; he was feeling lighter than air.

“Oh my, you have a very nice voice.” She sniffled, slowly disentangling herself from Sixteen. She looked at Chichi with one raised brow and asked, quietly, “Does he have the equipment for the job?”

“No idea,” Chichi snatched Sixteen's arm and dragged him quickly away, before the scantily clad lady could get her claws in again. “Do I want to know?” she demanded, and Sixteen sighed sadly.

“Probably not.” He hesitated then, and wondered whether or not he should actually say what was on his mind. “Please do not leave me alone, off ship, with them again.”

“They'll be lucky if they're ever allowed off of Red again.” She rolled her eyes and locked her arm in his, and together they strolled up the ramp past the others, including Goku, who tried not to growl as they went by, and only failed a little bit.

“So I'll be seeing you, I guess,” Orly called back to Zarbon, who was watching Bulma drag the last two members of her crew in by the ears, and seriously second guessing his decision to remain on Red Station. All the women who lived here were scary, and it looked like the only two gay boys were taken by each other.

“Yeah, take care of yourself,” Zarbon smiled a little, unable to part with anything but good feelings, despite the mess they shared between them. He wasn't sure that he even particularly liked Orly, or that Orly even really liked him, but they'd made a difference in each other's lives, he thought, and that was something unusual for him.

“This is Zarbon, say hello,” Bulma ground out as she dragged the old man and the pig past, and they both grumbled a greeting. “Roshi,” she tugged the old man's ear and he yelped, “and Oolong.”

“Nice to, ah, meet you.” The pig grunted, then a string of curses as Bulma yanked him along. Zarbon stared, so absorbed in the spectacle that he didn't notice Radditz come up behind him.

“Wacky, huh?” Radditz clapped a big hand on Zarbon's shoulder, startling him. “I don't know how it happened either, but one minute your life is normal, and the next you're here, with all that.” He gestured to Bulma, who was trying to fit Oolong and Roshi through the door at the same time, and not doing well. “Don't worry, you'll get used to it.”