Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 44

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.

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PRESENT DAY

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Burter had never realized just how trying it was being the leader of a squad. Ordering the others around was well and good fun, but in moments like these he found himself regretting Ginyu's death and his own subsequent rise to power. He'd always known that dealing with Frieza's fits was no picnic, but he'd always had the buffer of a superior officer to deal with the brunt of the lordling's irritation. Now that he actually had to stand there and listen to what was being shrieked at him, he was beginning to wonder how Ginyu had remained so loyal and chipper.

Frieza was boring. There was no way around it! He'd made his point about five hundred times already, and there was really nothing to be gained, to matter how much the tyrant might wish it, by repeating it over and over and over again. Burter's neck was beginning to hurt from all the nodding, the endless agreeing. Covertly, he reached up to give it a little rub while Frieza's back was turned, all the while hoping all the activity wouldn't lead to gargantuan muscles. His slender build was one of his few good points, and he didn't think that his already poor looks would be helped by having a neck as thick as his head.

Damn it. He'd never really had all that much cause to worry about his looks; sheer strength and power had always gotten him what he wanted in the past, but all this talk of Zarbon had him recalling their last meeting and the kiss that had left him reeling. And if he were to judge by Frieza's raw voiced, spittle-launching tirade, finding the object of his attractions would be Burter's very next task.

According to some snitch or another on the edge of the galaxy, Zarbon had gone and teamed himself up with Vegeta, a fact that Burter was not thrilled about. Vegeta himself was straight as an arrow by all accounts, but that long haired grunt of his had been known to swing every which way available to him, and beside that fact, Burter had specifically asked Zarbon not to go off and get himself into a situation where they might have to face each other. He thought the rebel owed him at least that much, considering how he'd saved his life and all.

“Ingrate,” he muttered to himself, though apparently not quietly enough, for Frieza whipped sharply around to stare him down. Burter's hand dropped from his sore neck and he straightened his spine. “Zarbon, sire,” he said smoothly, “I still cannot believe he has turned his back on you, after everything you gave him.” Frieza's black lips curled back and a snarl escaped his throat as he resumed his pacing. The hover chair he normally occupied sat dormant on the floor.

“Vegeta!” Frieza shouted, incredulously. “Vegeta! Of all the rotten, shit-faced little...” he broke off, muttering to himself as he glared out the porthole, willing his two enemies to come into view. “I want you to find them, Ginyu,”

“Burter, sire,” a nervous looking aide corrected, drawing the master's ire.

“Ginyu, Burter, whatever!” the tyrant shrieked, rounding first on his aide and then on Burter himself. “I don't care! You,” he jabbed Burter in the chest with one sharp fingernail, scratching the black patina of the captain's armour plating, “will track them down. You will beat them to within an inch of their pathetic little lives, and then you will bring them back to me so that I may tear them limb from limb!”

“Of course, sir,” Burter saluted, all the while wondering how on Earth he was going to weasel out of this. Like he'd told Zarbon when they parted, he wasn't going to go all out of his way to avoid killing the other man if that was what his orders were, but he didn't exactly relish the idea of handing the lust of his life back over to Frieza. If it came down to it, he supposed he'd have to kill Zarbon himself, at least give the rebel a clean death, and then deal with the consequences afterward. The hard part would be convincing the other members of the Burter Brigade that the death was necessary or at least accidental. Funnily enough, he didn't once question whether Zarbon would be amenable to the plan; he was fairly confident that anyone given the choice would prefer death to the torture chambers.

Burter didn't really stop to consider the idea that Zarbon might get the better of him and that he might be the one to meet his end, even though Ginyu had so recently been killed by Vegeta. It wasn't natural for members of Frieza's elite forces to entertain the thought that they might die in battle, because who the hell enough would even be strong enough to dent them, much less kill them? Their supreme confidence in their own abilities was at once a necessary strength and a great weak point. Each and every one of them was cocky as hell.

Half an hour of ranting later, Frieza finally dismissed them, at which point Burter realized he really had very little idea of what had actually been said in the latter part of the meeting. He'd no idea where the information had come from, when it had come, or even where he was supposed to be going. Some colony somewhere on the edges of the empire, he was pretty sure. Oh well, he shrugged to himself as he led his men from the control deck, someone would brief him later. What did it matter if he knew now, or five minutes before he climbed into his pod? If they were smart, Vegeta's crew would be long gone already; it wasn't as though Burter expected to climb out of his ship and come face to face with his quarry.

“Where to now, boss man?” Jeice asked, coming up beside Burter as soon as they were free of the doorway and out of the master's view. Reccoome followed closely behind and Guldo trailed several feet in the rear, shouting and begging for the rest of them to wait up. A split second later, he was in front of the group, red faced and panting. Burter sneered; he hated that little time-stopping trick, and he'd never particularly liked Guldo either. Maybe while he was figuring out a way to save Zarbon's tail, he could devote some time to figuring out how to do away with the little toad.

“We aren't launching till tomorrow, Jeice,” Guldo puffed out his chest in that self-important way of his, the one that made all of his teammates want to punch him, “so it's my suggestion that we get in a little bit of training.” Behind them, Reccoome laughed.

“You, train?” the big lug grinned down at Guldo's fat little face, “All you do is sit on the sidelines and watch us fight! At best, you do a few jumping jacks before giving up.”

“Not true!” Guldo insisted, spinning around to face his teammates, who were forced to stop and clog the hallway. “I...I train! I stop time and train so you don't even notice! I do it for hours!”

“Ohhhh,” Jeice grinned hugely, his teeth bright white against the ruddy pallor of his skin, “he stops time, guys. No wonder we never, ever see him on the mat!”

Guldo shot his longhaired comrade a glare and whipped back around to stalk away as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him. He sucked in a huge breath and held it so that he could put some quick distance between himself and the others, even though what he really wanted to do was go back and kick Jeice right in the nuts; he knew he'd never connect in the normal flow of time.

Guldo was well aware of the fact that he was both slower and weaker than all of his other teammates. He might have suffered from massive and all-consuming delusions of grandeur, but he was under no illusions concerning his shortcomings as a fighter and perhaps because of that, he was all the more intent to prove himself as a useful member of the squad. His time stopping technique was eminently valuable, and Ginyu had hand-picked him, damn it, so why the others refused to give him even an ounce of respect was still a complete mystery to him.

“So anyway, I'm thinking...hookers?” Jeice jabbed his two taller teammates in the ribs with outstretched fingers, and they both shrugged.

“Yeah, okay,” Reccoome nodded, and Burter followed along. He really needed the distraction.

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Orly watched Harbour Colony grow gradually smaller and smaller on the ship's display screen. He'd done his best to warn the members of the resistance faction there and had succeeded in convincing many of them to flee before Frieza sent men in to seek Vegeta and Zarbon, but there were always those stubborn ones who insisted upon staying behind. He worried for their fates, and at the same time, he could not help but to respect them. Those were the kind of men and women who would die to keep the cause alive. If even one of the regular citizenry might be converted by their presence, they said, then they must stay behind.

It was like a punch in the gut, to cut and run when the whole debacle was more or less his fault. If he'd only manned up done in the girls while he'd had the chance, the entire resistance population on this side of the universe might not have been in such immediate danger. Yul had certainly alerted the authorities by now, and if Mink was well and truly dead like he hoped, her statement had probably been all the more full of vitriol. Orly thought of the third, of poor, half crazed Sabriya, and sent up a small prayer for her soul. He hoped that she wasn't looking upon him from wherever her people went in death, regretting the fact that she'd helped him.

He consoled himself with the fact that his escape meant at least the majority of the rebels on Harbour Colony would also be safe, even though the effect was not nearly balm enough to soothe his shame over the whole ordeal. Orly turned away from the window, hoping that Frieza would not go overboard and destroy the whole colony, though it would certainly be within the tyrant's power and temperament to do so. There were many friends still there, and the citizenry, while unwilling to stand up against their oppressor, had at least been more or less tolerant of the resistance population among them.

Feeling his guts churn, Orly stood and made his way toward the command center of the ship. Harbour Colony was not the only rebel stronghold in this corner of the universe and the others would need to be warned, both of the incoming refugees and the potential threat that would soon be arriving upon their doorsteps. For once he had no speech prepared, no pretty words rehearsed down to the intonation of each and every syllable. He was among friends here, surrounded by those who would gladly help him, but Zarbon's derision had stung him deeply. Orly found himself wanting the other man's respect, wanting to see the look on Zarbon's face next time they met, when he would learn that Orly was no longer reading out the words of others but speaking his own.

Orly turned on the broadcast equipment and selected a wide range channel. While he was waiting for the computer to run the security protocols that would prevent their location from being traced, he set another program to record, so that they could re-broadcast the warning if necessary. The computer beeped and a small message popped up, indicating that the security measures were complete and the broadcast would begin in ten seconds.

Orly's hands were clammy as he reached for the microphone; he was awfully nervous, afraid he would embarrass himself. He watched the numbers count down to go-time, silently mouthing each one as it popped up on the screen. All too quickly it was time and Orly realized that he had no idea what to say. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

“H...hello,” he began, and around him his comrades shot each other puzzled looks, for they'd never heard him sound so unsure of himself. Orly swallowed thickly, and flushed in embarrassment as the heavy sound reverberated across the galaxy. The sudden weight of a heavy hand on his shoulder startled him, and he turned his head slightly to the side to see Runey, nodding for him to continue. “F...For those of you who do not know me, my name is Orly, and I have long been a voice of hope for you. Today I bear bad news. A sighting of several important rebels was reported on Harbour Colony,” he said, recalling Vegeta's demands, “and I fear that Frieza's forces will soon be moving in. Most of Harbour's rebel faction has successfully evacuated, but to those who remain, you are not safe on Harbour Colony, or anywhere nearby. When they do not find who they are looking for, the tyrant's forces will fan out. If you must remain where you are, I must beg you to cease all suspicious and dangerous activities for the time being, for your own safety. It will be hard, I know, but do not think of it as cowardice to lay low. Survival in such times in anything but. When Frieza falls, the universe will need you there to rebuild. Keep safe, and Pr...” Orly paused, remembering Vegeta's vitriolic condemnation of his signature phrase. “Keep safe,” he repeated instead, and it sat much better with him. He felt he had lost the right to tell these people what to think, what to do, if he'd ever had it in the first place.

“Tell me,” Orly winced, meeting Runey's eyes as he switched off the equipment and put the microphone down. If he could save at least one person from the impending inquisition, he would consider himself a success. “How bad did I do?”

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Krillin watched Eighteen toss her hair to the side, and fumed silently. She was on the mat with Zarbon, he of the pretty face and super-sexy accent. Krillin himself had been hoping to take her on today, but he'd arrived at the training facilities too late and he was too shy to interrupt and ask if he could join in, especially since Radditz and Gohan were also sitting on the sidelines, waiting for a turn. Goku and Piccolo fought on the other side of the room, and Krillin could sense Vegeta and Nappa going hard within the confines of the gravity room. He shivered, feeling Vegeta's power level as he powered up an attack; the prince hadn't even crossed the threshold into super saiyan, and he was already causing the reinforced struts and beams around them to quiver.

“How long have they been going at it?” Krillin asked Radditz, and then immediately regretted his particular choice of words. He scuffed his shoe against the floor and rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved head. There was no hoping that anyone with a saiyan sense of smell wouldn't notice the dollop of cologne he'd splashed on after his shower that morning.

“Bout twenty minutes,” Radditz answered, glancing down at the dejected looking man beside him. He knew a lot about Krillin, even though they did not speak often. Puar was chatty sometimes and liked to tell stories of the old days on Earth; the diminutive former monk had featured heavily in many of those tales, so the saiyan felt like he knew the former monk fairly well. Simply put, Radditz rather liked Krillin. He was the only human who'd come day after day to train with them back in the early days on Red Station, and for a weakling, he was pretty damn strong. Sure, he was no match for any of the saiyans, but the fact that he'd kept coming back purely for the opportunity to train had been impressive.

“Hm,” Krillin grunted in reply, and resumed his usual practice of staring at Eighteen. She'd broken no more than a light sweat and her skin was shiny with it so that she appeared to glow. Her cheeks were pink and she was panting lightly, lips parted just a tiny bit as she breathed. He watched her whole body move, so graceful, as she dodged one of Zarbon's attacks, only to be caught up in his arms as he pinned her against his chest.

“He wouldn't at least have the courtesy to be gay, would he?” Krillin wondered aloud, and it wasn't until Radditz answered him that he even realized he'd spoken.

“Nah, greenie's bisexual,” the big saiyan shrugged. “Sorry man,” he added as Krillin's face turned a characteristic shade of pink. “If it helps any, it doesn't look like she's too pleased to be where she is.” They watched Eighteen struggle in Zarbon's grip, finally snapping her head forward, cracking him in the face with her skull. She jumped away, not looking the least bit pained, while Zarbon cupped his nose and tried to blink away the reflexive tears that had begun to stream from his eyes. He was swearing a blue streak at her and Krillin felt a bit better about the whole thing, even if he didn't quite like the words coming out of Zarbon's mouth.

“Hey, hey, no need to be nasty,” he said, hopping off the bench and heading toward the fallen newcomer. Eighteen stood a few feet away, passively taking the barrage of insults. “C'mon, let me see,” he insisted, gently pulling one of Zarbon's hands away. Blood was running down the bridge of Zarbon's nose and over his lips, and Krillin could see the beginnings of some swelling. He had the decency to at least feel guilty about the sense of satisfaction running through him. “Looks like it's probably not broken, though the skin did split here,” he reached up and poked the spot in question, drawing a groan from Zarbon, “and you'll probably have some bad bruising and swelling.”

“My fucking face!” Zarbon shrieked, covering up his nose again and glaring at the woman who'd caused it.

“Aww geez, Zarbie, it's not gonna mess up your looks permanently,” Radditz drawled, sauntering over onto the mat. “Nice hit, by the way,” he winked at Eighteen as he grabbed Zarbon's elbow and hauled him to his feet. “Come on, come on, I'll take you to see Sixteen and he'll make you all better. Krillin,” he turned a wolfish grin on the flustered human, “maybe you should take a look at Eighteen's forehead.” He waggled his eyebrows and Krillin could only glare back in irritation, figuring that the beautiful android would at any second declare that she was fine and assistance was unnecessary. To his surprise, she walked over and stood patiently next to him.

“Am I damaged?” she asked, bending down so that he could clearly see her face, every flawless inch of it.

“N...no,” Krillin stuttered, gently touching her unmarred forehead with one finger and then because he thought it might be the only chance he would ever get, he brushed his hand against her temple and tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear. His fingers burned with the sensation of it and he snatched them back in embarrassment. An apology sat on the tip of his tongue but before he could voice it, she'd stood up straight again and paced back to the other side of the mat.

“Good,” Eighteen said simply, and dropped down into a ready stance. “Now will you fight me?”

“Oh,” Krillin took a surprised step back, looking as though he wished he could simply turn tail and run. This was exactly what he had wanted, but now that she was standing there, looking ready to pounce, he suddenly didn't feel so confident. “I...I don't think I'm anywhere near your level.”

“I have watched you fight,” she said, cocking her head to the side, and his whole body burned with heat, “and your technique is different from the others. I would like to spar with you.”

“Krillin,” Gohan shouted from the sidelines, enjoying the play by play. He might only have been a child but he knew what was going on and could hardly contain the grin that spread across his features. It might have been his uncle's influence, but he was getting a little too much satisfaction out of this. “My mother says you should always indulge a lady's whims.”

“Chichi is very knowledgeable,” Eighteen put in, and with a sigh of resignation, Krillin dropped into his own stance and when she came at him, he tried very hard not to accidentally touch any of her lady bits.

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Krillin was very different from the other men about Red Station, Eighteen reflected later on as she stood beneath the spray of the locker room shower. As usual she was the only one in the room, as Chichi rarely came to train when there were saiyans about, and the Briefs women usually only came into the training deck to watch. It was nice to have the place to herself but at the same time she wished that there was someone to talk to today. She lathered her hair with flowery smelling shampoo and wondered if she might be able to borrow a moment of Bulma's time. The mother, for that was what Eighteen still privately thought of her as, had been very busy for the last several days with her experiments, and it seemed that there was always someone seeking her out for some reason or another. Bulma's time was a valuable commodity aboard Red Station; all of the women were, in fact. While the warriors trained away, Bulma, Chichi and Mrs. Briefs kept the whole ship going. For three beings who possessed very little in the way of physical power, they certainly didn't seem to have any problems keeping the horde of fighters in line. Without them, the entire operation would simply fall apart.

Eighteen watched those three women closely, Bulma more so than the other two, and tried very hard to emulate their behaviours. It was difficult though, because she often did not comprehend the reasoning behind their various actions. In addition, they all reacted so differently to the same circumstances that she often did not know who to mimic. Bulma, more or less her parent, was the obvious choice, though Eighteen was aware that besides sharing a physical gender, they were not very similar. Bulma was boisterous and garrulous, while Eighteen was quiet and reserved. She did not often feel the need to speak out or call attention to herself. She was content to observe as life went by around her.

At first, Eighteen thought it might have been part of her programming to act as such - how was she to learn how to behave without at first observing others? - but it was soon apparent that this was her `personality.' Sixteen and Seventeen were of similar temperaments, and she was given to understand that such things normally ran in families. She wondered if Dr. Gero had been the same, because Bulma certainly was not. Sixteen spoke of their late father sometimes, but none of the other crew seemed eager to discuss him and on that matter her elder brother's lips were sealed.

Eighteen rinsed the shampoo from her hair and followed it up with a large glob of conditioner, which Bulma insisted would keep her hair healthy and shiny. Humans seemed to be very concerned with appearances, which actually suited her just fine. She could recognize physical attractiveness in her own features and in those around her, and though she was not exactly conceited, it would not have been wrong to call her a little vain.

On that note, she wondered if she should go and apologize to Zarbon. Since leaving Harbour Colony, Sixteen had restricted the use of the regeneration tanks to serious injuries only in order to conserve their limited supply of medical fluid. No one knew when they might next be able to stop for supplies, and he did not want to chance running out at some critical moment. Zarbon would certainly not be happy about having to allow his nose to heal at a natural pace.

Eighteen soaped up quickly, rinsing the conditioner from her hair as she rinsed the lather from her body, and stepped out of her shower stall. Unconcerned by her own nudity, she walked slowly to where she'd left her change of clothes and towel. She dried off and dressed at a leisurely pace, not really having anywhere else important to be, and took her time combing out her hair in front of the mirror. She twirled a strand of it tightly around one finger, wondering how she would look with big, full curls like Bulma's, but when she released it, it fell instantly straight. She frowned into the mirror; not even a little bit of a wave. Obviously her father had had very strict ideas concerning her appearance. Oh well, she thought as she reached for the wall-mounted hair dryer, it wasn't as though he'd done a poor job. Obviously his tastes had changed in the years between Sixteen's creation and her own birth, but neither she nor her brothers were in any way ugly.

Thinking of brothers, Eighteen wondered where Seventeen had gotten off to. He'd shown up for training that morning as agreed, but he'd ducked out early, saying something about having to assist Mrs. Briefs, and leaving her to partner with Zarbon.

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Seventeen wasn't sure exactly why he'd agreed to help Mrs. Briefs out, but he'd been glad to leave the training rooms behind. He liked to fight, sure, but not with the single minded determination that his sister seemed to display. Briefly, Seventeen wondered if it was the company or the activity she preferred, but he hadn't really seen any overt signs of a romantic entanglement. The twins had not been programmed with much knowledge about sexual relations, but unlike Sixteen they possessed both working parts and a higher capacity for learning from the behaviours of those around them. They were learning the difference between romantic love and platonic love in a way that their elder brother would never quite grasp.

In a way, Seventeen thought that his brother was lucky for that. There was a distinct lack of available female partners about Red Station and while he understood that some men preferred other men, he'd yet to feel any stirrings in that direction. Actually, come to that, he hadn't really had thoughts about any of the women on board either, aside from a clinical notation of their relative levels of attractiveness. With one his sister, one his mother, another his grandmother for all intents and purposes, that only left Chichi, who was certainly an attractive woman, and yet not the sort to inspire fantasy. Nor, it seemed, were the women in Roshi and Oolongs magazines and videos. Again unlike Sixteen he understood the purpose of such things; unfortunately, they just held no interest for him.

“Helooooo?” A bright voice chirped, “Earth to Seventeen? Oh, I guess that doesn't work anymore, does it?” Mrs. Briefs cocked her head to the side and thought hard for a few moments before giving up. “Oh well! Come in, come in!” She wrapped dainty fingers around his wrist and tugged him into the doorway to what would eventually be her indoor garden. The groundwork had all been laid and Dr. Briefs had finished installing the new lighting and water systems only the day before, so the place was ready for planting. “My poor babies have just been waiting and waiting to get into their new homes, haven't you darlings?” Mrs. Briefs cooed, prancing over to one corner of the room where all of her various planting trays and seedlings waited. She fluffed up the leaves of one or two and blew them all a kiss before turning back to Seventeen and leading him over to a surprisingly detailed floor plan, all done up in coloured pencils, complete with little pictures of each kind of plant and where it was supposed to go. He leaned in for a closer look, accustomed to seeing Bulma's kind of blueprints, and was surprised to see that Mrs. Briefs had taken the time to sprinkle all the water surfaces with glitter glue.

“What do you require me to do?” he asked, and she smiled, pleased for such a handsome helper. He didn't look as strong as Tien, whose muscles she'd enjoyed watching while he laid out dirt and manure for her, but Seventeen appeared as though he'd have a gentle touch with her little green darlings.

“You're just going to help me plant all my sweeties. Don't worry, it's not hard!” Mrs. Briefs bustled in a closet and surfaced a moment later with an armful of fabric. “It would just take forever if I had to do it all myself! Here,” she handed him a brownish old smock and a pair of thick, orange gloves, “put these on! Don't want to get all dirty, do you?”

Seventeen grimaced, holding the awful things out at arms' length. It wasn't that they were unclean or smelly...just ugly. “Must I?” he asked quietly and she looked up halfway through buttoning her own smock.

“Oh dear, I hadn't even thought,” she looked down at herself and frowned. “They are pretty awful, aren't they?” She drummed her fingers against her thigh for about a minute, before her face lit up like the sun. “Wait here!” she shouted, throwing off her smock and prancing out the door as fast as her feathered mules would carry her. She returned a few minutes later, cheeks pink with exertion, triumphantly holding a storage capsule in the air. She popped it and when the smoke cleared, a small purple contraption sat on the table.

“What is that thing?” Seventeen asked as he watched Mrs. Briefs set one of his gloves beneath the machine arm and press down.

“It's called a BeDazzler,” she said, and he saw that a shining rhinestone had somehow become affixed to his glove, “and I never leave home without it!”

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“Miss Eighteen,” Dende called, a little bashfully. He quite liked Eighteen but she was so difficult for him to read and he worried overmuch about getting on her nerves. Bulma told him not to, said taciturnity was more or less the standard state for Gero's androids, and so he'd been trying more and more to engage her. “Are you going to the new garden as well?” he asked, and when she nodded, he suggested that perhaps they could walk together. She nodded again and he scurried down the hall to catch up with her. “Mrs. Briefs told me not to come until later this afternoon, but I'm too excited to see the progress. She was going to start planting things today. All of the nameks are really looking forward to it,” Dende went on, smiling despite Eighteen's stone-faced silence.

“I am simply going to see Seventeen,” Eighteen answered. “I do not understand the appeal of this garden that Mrs. Briefs speaks of, beyond its capacity as a food source. And yet she plans to devote a full half of the space to non-edible flora. Is this correct?”

“Err...yes,” Dende looked up at the blonde android, his eyebrow ridges drawn down in a frown of consternation. It had never occurred to him that Eighteen had never had the pleasure of simply sitting in a field or a forest, feeling the grass beneath her feet. “I'm sure you'll see, once it's all done. Bulma said that her mother kept a beautiful conservatory on Earth.”

“Beautiful...so it is simply there to look nice?” Eighteen asked, and Dende couldn't help but to giggle.

“Well, in a way it is. And yet at the same time it's so much more. I can't explain it,” he said apologetically. “The feeling of being in touch with nature, to know that even when you are not surrounded by people, the forces of life are still strong around you...” Dende trailed off. He was watching Eighteen closely and was gratified that she seemed to be thinking deeply about what he'd said. “I understand that on many planets, the gods watch over from above. We namekians believe that the planet itself is a god. The soul of the planet, I mean. Not precisely the rocks and dirt, but including them at the same time.”

“So yours is dead then?”

“Yes,” Dende nodded sadly, “but Namek was not the only god in the universe. There are others, all with power and strength.”

“The saiyans refer to Vegeta as a god sometimes. Do you think he will become a planet one day?” Eighteen asked, not because she thought so herself, but because she was trying to understand what Dende believed.

“No,” the little namek smiled widely at this notion, for even as he admired the prince so much, he knew Vegeta was not god material. “I think the saiyans do not use the word in exactly the same way.”

“Oh,” Eighteen said, and the conversation dropped then because they had arrived at the door to Mrs. Briefs' brand new conservatory. It was not the door itself that stopped the discussion flat, nor even the process of opening it. It was what lay behind it that took their words away and caused them to stand still upon the threshold, mouths gaping in awe.

“What are you wearing?” Eighteen choked, and it was the most shocked that Dende had ever heard any of the androids sound. Seventeen stood halfway across the room, a bag of dirt upended over a stone trough. His smock glinted in the reflected light from the specialty lamps, nearly every inch encrusted with plastic jewels and rhinestones. He finished emptying the soil and tossed the bag aside before clapping the dust from his hands. Eighteen saw that his orange gloves had been studded with blue and white gems.

“We made them!” Mrs. Briefs gushed as she did a little twirl to show off her own smock, a veritable rainbow of rhinestones. She trotted over to the stunned pair to show off her own gloves, done end to end in tiny plastic gems. “Aren't they just super snazzy?”

“Yes,” Dende answered when Eighteen failed to, “they're lovely.” Mrs. Briefs patted his head with her bejewelled fingers and that was when the namekian child noticed that aside from a very fine sheen of dust over Seventeen's hands and arms, neither of them looked as though they'd been doing a lot of gardening. “We came to see what progress you've made,” he said hopefully, looking around at all the empty planters, the piled bags of soil in one corner, and the cluster of seedlings in the other, all still in their greenhouse trays and pots.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Briefs cocked her head to the side and blinked, “I'm afraid we've only just started the real work. We spent most of the morning getting ready.” She wiggled her fingers and the light glared off her fake jewels into everyone's eyes.

“This is our progress,” Seventeen pointed at the trough he'd just finished filling and Dende tried not to laugh at his so-serious face sticking out of the bedazzled nightmare.

“We will be going then,” Eighteen said, just as Mrs. Briefs asked, “Would you like to stay and help?”

“We have somewhere to be,” the android put her hand on Dende's little shoulder and began to back out of the room. She wasn't sure why she was dragging the boy with her, but whether out of politeness to her or a real desire to escape, he didn't object. And she certainly did not want to stay and play around in the dirt, wearing one of those hideous things. She dared a glance at Seventeen, just as they were leaving, saw him shrug and go to pick up another bag of soil, apparently unbothered by his extreme fashion faux-pas. She shuddered and hustled Dende along faster, wondering if something had gone wrong within her brother's programming.

“Where are we going?” Dende panted, trotting along as he tried to keep up with Eighteen's long stride. He felt a little guilty for not contradicting her earlier; he really had nowhere else he was supposed to be and could easily have stayed to help. Thinking on it, he realized he probably would actually have enjoyed the activity and resolved to go back later with a crew of whichever nameks were agreeable.

“The infirmary,” Eighteen answered him immediately. “I may have broken Zarbon's nose earlier, and my programming is telling me that an apology is the socially appropriate action at this time.”

“Wasn't that over an hour ago? Won't he be gone by now?”

“No, he is there. I can feel him.” Eighteen did not stop walking, though she noticed Dende was no longer keeping up. Since she was getting better at reading social cues, she decided to take a chance and trust her gut, as Bulma would say. “Is something wrong?”

“I...no.” Dende hesitated before shaking his head and skittering forward to once again walk by Eighteen's side. It wasn't that he particularly didn't want to see Zarbon - that had gotten much easier since their awkward conversation in the bathroom - but more like he felt odd to be going deliberately to somewhere he knew the man to be. There seemed to be a large difference in intentionally going to speak to Zarbon versus simply running into him somewhere and making polite conversation thereafter. “Everything's fine,” Dende added, and if it wasn't precisely true, he thought, what did that matter? He might never forgive Zarbon, this he knew, but there was something to be said about Vegeta's approach to things. He could carry this grudge in one hand, and some measure of affection in the other; the two were not mutually exclusive.

.

“Ahh, Eighteen,” Zarbon smiled as they entered the infirmary, but the expression was unpleasant and his voice was laced with sarcasm. “Perhaps you'd be so kind as to break a few more of my bones so that your lunkhead brother here will let me use the regeneration tank.”He probed the swollen bridge of his nose with one hand, experimentally, and winced as he felt its size. The pain, he could deal with. It was looking like an escapee from a cosmic freak show that bothered him.

“He refuses to leave until I allow him the use of a tank,” Sixteen said, “and I will not allow our supply of regeneration fluid to be wasted for such a minor injury.”

“And so we are at a standstill,” Zarbon finished, sounding a trifle amused despite his annoyance with the eldest of the androids.

“I will not do such a thing,” Eighteen said to Zarbon, for she didn't quite understand sarcasm yet, “if it would be wasteful.”

“I...I could help,” Dende spoke up from his place in the door frame. Zarbon hadn't actually noticed the child's presence and was somewhat surprised to see him there. Despite having made some sort of peace between them, avoidance had still been high on the little namekian's priority list. “The injury is minor; I can heal it easily.”

“You can?” Sixteen asked, and the surprise was evident in his normally staid voice. Dende nodded and without waiting for Zarbon's consent, he moved across the room and hopped up onto a chair so that he was more or less level with the injured man.

“May I?” he asked, reaching out with small hands and Zarbon nodded, wincing only a little as Dende's fingers moved gently over his face. A moment later and they settled in the air an inch from his nose, splayed wide and glowing. Zarbon's eyes widened briefly but he shut them against the bright light at the center of each of Dende's palms. He could feel warmth radiating outward from that spot, and memories sprang up, unbidden, of sunbathing in his youth.

Dende frowned to himself as Zarbon's eyelids slid shut. He was breathing much more easily than he normally did while healing, and he'd yet to feel the familiar fatigue that usually overtook him within the first few moments of the process. It was why he typically only dealt with minor wounds; he did not have the strength of spirit or ki levels required for the massive energy output that large scale healing involved. He could do it, but it required intense concentration and will. Increasing his stamina and honing his ability was why he'd gone to study with Guru in the first place, with the rest only coming after the sage had sensed his potential.

Dende's breath hitched and the glow in his hands subsided momentarily, before flaring back up again even brighter. The warmth in his palms leached up his arms and through his chest, as though surrounding him with a hug. Guru had done this, hadn't he? In the last moments of his life, he'd not only shared his knowledge and his memories, but he'd also unlocked something in Dende, the same as he had done for Vegeta.

Dende flexed his fingers and looked at Zarbon's nose, now returned to its normal size, the split skin slowly knitting itself back together. There was power running through his veins, enough that he could bring a man back from death's door without himself collapsing from exhaustion as he might have done before. He had not expected this, not having healed anyone since arriving at Red Station, and the implication of this newfound potential to heal mortal wounds was startling.

With a cry of anguish, Dende hurled himself off the chair and away from the very-nearly-healed Zarbon, who opened his eyes and jumped back in shock at the sound. “What happened?” he asked, “Are you okay?”

“I could have healed him...” Dende turned wide, scared eyes up at Zarbon, before skimming over Eighteen and falling to rest on Sixteen. “Guru...he gave me this power before he released Vegeta's. I could...” he bit back a sob and held out shaking hands, “I could have saved him with this.”

Sixteen knelt down on one knee, even in this state towering over the small boy, and laid one huge hand on the small sage's shoulder. “You could not have. I was there, I saw what happened. Guru chose to take in the power that Vegeta's transformation was feeding out. If he'd not have done that, the likely outcome would have been the destruction of Red Station and everyone aboard.”

“What transformation?” Zarbon asked, watching with confused emotions as the big android gathered the tiny child in his arms and stood up. Sixteen towered over everyone on the ship and Dende looked impossibly small in his grip.

“Vegeta's transformation to super saiyan,” Sixteen replied and Zarbon gaped in surprise. His stomach flipped suddenly over and he slumped down into the chair that Dende had been standing on only moments before. Was that what he was sensing from the saiyan prince? He had not seen any overt physical changes, but his hair stood on end when Vegeta was near and his heart raced as it had never done before, as though he'd just run a mile even if he was sitting at leisure.

“Super saiyan?” he asked weakly, and Eighteen nodded, stepping closer as she moved out of Sixteen's way. They both watched the giant android carry his precious cargo away, presumably to his bedroom or to council with Bulma.

“Haven't you seen it?” Eighteen asked, turning back to Zarbon after her brother's departure. “The blue eyes are nice,” she said, glibly showing Bulma's influence, for the transformation had never been a surprise for her. Having occurred before her birth, she viewed the ascended state simply as another facet of Vegeta, rather than with the awe that the others still showed. “But I think the black hair suits him better.”

“Super saiyan...” Zarbon said again, turning the implications over in his mind even as Eighteen looked at him as though he might be simple. “Super saiyan? It's real?” he asked, running one hand through his chin-length hair. His fingers twitched, itching to wrap around the handle of the favourite brush he'd left in his old room on Frieza's ship. He wondered briefly what had happened to it before more important thoughts began to crowd his brain. “I thought it was all a myth, some hokey relic of their primitive, god-king religion.”

“It is real,” Eighteen tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, trying to understand Zarbon's odd reaction. It did not occur to her that Zarbon did not know about Vegeta's transformation, indeed that no one outside of Red Station knew about it, nor did she really grasp the importance of it beyond a basic understanding that it made Vegeta a very, very powerful man.

“Excuse me,” he said, one hand clutching for the imaginary braid that had once hung over his shoulder, “I...I have to go.” He bolted from his chair and all but ran from the room while Eighteen, with nothing better to do and curiosity sparking somewhere around her left temple, followed him right back down to the training levels. They made it just as Vegeta and Nappa were walking out of the gravity chamber to meet Bulma and Puar, who between them carried the pieces of a full suit of armour. Eighteen recognized it as Bulma's prototype, based on the plans for the ki-absorbing armour stolen from Frieza's research base. Thanks to Sixteen's need to teach and Bulma's need to chat, Eighteen knew a great deal of Red Station's history and she'd heard tales of most of their exploits.

“Show me!” Zarbon roared, bursting through the door with a bang and startling everyone inside. Bulma dropped a boot from her pile while Puar clutched a breastplate tight to his chest, and all of those still training stopped to watch the spectacle. “Right now!” the newcomer demanded, striding across the mat to stand about ten feet from Vegeta, who'd halted halfway through the door to the gravity chamber, with Nappa behind him, plainly eager to get out and pound some respect into Zarbon. “Super saiyan,” he added, when Vegeta simply stared without saying anything, “why didn't anyone tell me?”

“Calm down, you crazy old hag,” Vegeta rolled his eyes and finally stepped from the threshold with a single, unintelligible syllable to Nappa, who grumbled but remained obediently in the doorway instead of rushing out to deliver a lesson in manners. “Is that the prototype?” Vegeta asked, walking toward Bulma, turning his back toward Zarbon in the process, and plucking a pair of heavy, padded pants from her grasp. “It's bulky,” he said, grimacing at the thickness of the material and the flexible, ki-absorbing plates within. “You expect us to fight Frieza's forces in this?” He raised an eyebrow and Bulma snatched them back.

“It's a prototype, Vegeta,” she snapped. “You understand the word, right? I just need you guys to do some targeted testing of the plates,” she shifted the leggings in her grasp and pointed to one of the thickest points, strategically sewn in to protect the quadricep muscles in the front of the thigh. There were similar plates designed to cover the other major muscle groups as well, giving the garment the look and feel of something earth sportsmen might have worn in a rough contact game. “Anyway, when you have time...” she trailed off, darting a look at the seething Zarbon from the corner of her eye. She'd hoped to get some test data right away, but there was a large vein throbbing at the green man's temple and he was reminding her of Vegeta more and more with every second.

“Put it all over there,” Vegeta shrugged and pointed toward the door to the gravity room. “Is it big enough to fit Nappa?”

“Do not,” Zarbon hissed, crouching down, “IGNORE ME!” He launched himself forward on the last syllable, loud and furious, and in the split second before he was to have made contact with the saiyan prince, a blinding light burned his eyes and he was thrown back with surprising force to crash against the wall. Dimly, he heard Bulma and Puar shrieking, and when he could see again after much pained blinking, he found Radditz and Gohan crouched over him. Snarling, he hopped to his feet and shoved them both away, though he lost his nerve a little bit when he saw Vegeta, standing still in the same place he had been the whole time, bathed in a golden glow and not even breathing hard from the exertion of the attack. He shifted his shoulders and turned his blonde head so that Zarbon could see just one half of his face, piercing blue eye glaring out from beneath the arch of a raised brow.

“What the fuck was that?” Vegeta asked, a little too quietly, a little too calmly, and though every instinct was screaming at him to stay away, Zarbon stepped forward and crouched into a battle stance. Even without the ability to sense ki, he could feel a heaviness in the air, a spark that caused all the hair on his body to stand on end.

“Get me a scouter,” he choked out, to no one in particular, and it was Bulma who answered him.

“No good, we've tried,” she said, and he noticed that she still stood particularly close to the golden saiyan, unafraid of the pulsing energy that radiated from him. Was she unable to feel it, or was she just stupid, he wondered. “They can't read levels this high. It shorts them out.”

“Fight me, then,” Zarbon insisted, looking Vegeta in the eye, “and let me figure it out for myself. You've never seen Frieza in his second form, never gone against him in a fair fight. I need to see how strong you are.”

“Fine,” Vegeta sighed, and then turning back to Bulma he said, “stick around with that, will you? This won't take long.”

Zarbon ignored the jab and waited while the others cleared the mat. Piccolo and Goku looked put out, having been training there themselves, but at the same time they were both curious to see how this would play out. Zarbon was beginning to wish he'd not done this so publicly, as he had complete confidence that Vegeta was going to kick his ass, but he wasn't one to sit around and analyze his rash decisions overmuch. He'd done what he'd done, and now he was left to deal with it. Simple.

Vegeta took his sweet time stepping up and taking a fighting stance, this and his breezy nonchalance all carefully designed to make Zarbon nervous and hesitant. Living for so long at Frieza's side, however, he knew all the tricks and besides that, the power wafting off of the prince spoke for itself - there was no need to play games on top of it.

“All of your pointless posturing will have no effect on Frieza. You know that, right?” Zarbon sneered, and when Vegeta simply laughed he launched his first attack. He didn't even make it within hitting range before he was blown back again with a pulse of Vegeta's aura. Again and again he tried, and failed, to land a hit.

“Are we done yet?” Vegeta snarled, lashing out to knock Zarbon back into the wall again. “I fail to see the point in this. You can't even get close to me, what do you expect to learn?” He crossed his arms and stood still while those watching cringed at the impact of Zarbon's body, the clang of it echoing around the room. Bulma and Puar looked away uncomfortably as Zarbon surged clumsily to his feet, head shaking to try and clear away the disorienting tilt and whirl of the room around him.

“Here it comes,” Radditz whispered into Puar's ear as Zarbon steadied himself and began to gather power. “Reason number one why you don't want to date him instead of me.”

“What are you talking about?” Puar hissed back, momentarily taking his eyes from the grunting, hunched form in the center of the mat. “Why in the world do you think I want to date him?”

“Well, you're always staring at him...I know he's prettier `n me, and all,” Radditz's cheeks were red and he refused to meet his mate's eyes, instead staring intensely at the fight.

“Radditz, you're an idiot,” Puar punched the saiyan in the arm as hard as he could, which didn't really have any effect pain-wise, but served to at least force the man's attention in his direction. “I'm not staring at him, I'm glaring at him, and it only happens when you get all cozy and flirty.”

“I don't!”

“You do!” Puar insisted, but their imminent spat was interrupted by a scream from the center of the mat, where Zarbon appeared to be spasming with pain as his body bulged and shifted from its usual svelte proportions. “Holy crap,” Puar breathed as Zarbon's handsome face widened and pushed out to form a lizard-like snout lined with fat, elongated teeth. Beside him, Bulma yelped with shock at the drastic transformation and Eighteen, it seemed, was the only one who appeared unbothered by it.

“You think that's going to help you?” Vegeta sneered, bounding forward to attack Zarbon in earnest, instead of just reacting to the other's moves. He slammed into the lizard man who this time, surprisingly enough, was at least able to take the brunt of the attack and slip away to the side with minimal damage.

“If that's all you've got,” Zarbon huffed, still trying to regain his breath from the exertion of transforming, “then we're all fucked.”

“Ha!” Vegeta threw back his head and barked with laughter, “I'm just getting started, you poor, pathetic salamander! I'll squash you beneath my boot and then we'll see what's what!” He whipped out and caught Zarbon by the back of his shirt, hauling back and putting Zarbon's right kidney in perfect line with his other fist. Krillin entered the training rooms just in time to see Vegeta shove Zarbon forward, stumbling a few steps to trip to the ground. He'd left after his morning bout with Eighteen and had been relaxing elsewhere, but feeling the spike in both Vegeta's and Zarbon's kis, he'd come rushing to see what all the commotion was.

“Is that...Zarbon?” he asked, edging in beside the crowd of spectators. “What's going on?”

“Zarbon didn't know Vegeta was a super saiyan,” Eighteen said, blandly. “He had a rather odd reaction when I told him. He came down here and insisted to be shown.”

“He wanted to compare Vegeta to what he's seen of Frieza,” Radditz added, but Krillin found himself stuck on what Eighteen had said.

“Why were you talking to Zarbon?” he asked, quite boldly, though he was embarrassed by the indignation in his voice. Even if Eighteen did not hear it, he was sure the others would.

“I thought I might have broken his nose. I went to apologize. Dende came with me and healed it.”

“You took Dende to see Zarbon?” Bulma stuck her head out so she could look at Eighteen down the row of spectators. “Oh man...”

“He...volunteered,” Eighteen said, and she felt something unpleasant in the pit of her stomach, though she wasn't quite sure why. Was she not supposed to have done that? It was not as though she'd forced the boy; he'd tagged along of his own volition.

“Where is he now?” Bulma asked, glancing over at the fight as though she couldn't decide whether to stay or to go find the little namek.

“With Sixteen, last I saw him.”

“Oh, that's okay then,” Bulma sighed with relief but Eighteen did not feel altogether better. The boy had been quite upset at the time of their parting and she debated with herself whether or not to tell Bulma. She did not want the Mother to blame her, and she wondered whether she should have followed Sixteen and made sure that Dende was alright, rather than trailing down here after Zarbon. The uncomfortable feeling intensified. Guilt was not something she had ever experienced before.

Naturally, the fight continued as they spoke and when they finally turned back to it, Zarbon was considerably worse for wear. He'd managed to land a few hits on Vegeta, but he was swaying on his feet, obviously outclassed. A punch from Vegeta sent him skidding across the floor, nearly bowling over the small group of watchers, and Bulma decided to step in.

“I think that's enough,” she said, motioning for Radditz and Goku to come and help Zarbon to his feet while Vegeta stood watching, triumphant. “He'll have to go into a tank, there's no sense in beating him further.”

“Sixteen won't like that,” Eighteen said, and offered a quick explanation that had Bulma rolling her eyes at the injured man.

“Ugh, I should let you suffer, just for being a jerk earlier,” she sighed, but shook her head and turned to the others. “Just put him in for a deep healing cycle. The superficial wounds and mild bruises can be left to heal on their own.” She turned to Vegeta, “This is a real waste of regen fluid, you know,” she snapped, and he shrugged, uncaring.

“Quit yammering,” he said, and pointed to the pile of forgotten armour on the floor. “I thought you wanted to collect some data on this junk heap.”

“It is not junk,” Bulma glared, hands on hips as Goku and Radditz slung Zarbon's arms over their shoulders and helped him limp out. From his spot in the doorway to the gravity room, Nappa rolled his eyes at Bulma's tirade, wondering how long she was going to stand there shouting about her genius, all the while wasting precious training time. Piccolo had already wandered off into the corner to meditate and Krillin turned to leave, seeing as Eighteen seemed focused on Bulma. To his surprise, she caught up to him halfway down the hall.

“I have a question,” she said, without preamble and he was startled, as always, by her directness. She had not yet mastered social niceties and while it was on one hand quite startling to be so suddenly put on the spot, it was at times quite refreshing. Unlike many of the women he had been involved with over the years, he could trust that Eighteen was never likely to play games. She simply did not know how, and he dearly hoped she would never learn.

“Go ahead,” he said, nervous as she came up beside him, shortening her stride to match his own.

“I took Dende with me when I went to see Zarbon. Was that bad?”

“Not...in itself.”

“He got upset and Sixteen took him away. I didn't make sure he was okay; I followed Zarbon instead. Was that bad?”

“Well,” Krllin paused, looked up at Eighteen and then away, guiltily, “maybe just a little.”

“I did not think of it at the time,” she said, “but I feel...unpleasant somehow...when I think of it.”

“Guilt,” Krillin said. “It's called guilt, when you feel bad about something you've done. D...don't worry though. If Sixteen was with him, I'm sure that he'll be alright. You...know what happened between them?” he asked, and Eighteen nodded once. “It's not your fault that Dende went with you, or that he got upset. He could have chosen to go elsewhere. But, well,” and he tried not to sound too condescending, “it would have been nice of you to make sure he was okay.”

“Oh,” she seemed to deflate a little “should I go apologize?”

“I don't think you need to apologize, per se,” Krillin reached out and took Eighteen's hand in a bold move, and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze before letting her go, “but why don't you and I head to his room and see if he's alright.”

“Okay,” Eighteen said, and to Krillin's absolute surprise, she reached out and took his hand again. He flushed from the soles of his feet to the top of his head but said nothing. He had no idea if she even understood the significance of the gesture, but he was happy to walk hand in hand with her until they hit the ladder to the next deck, forcing them to part and go up single file.

When they reached Dende's room, they were shocked to find it packed full of nameks, each and every one with a wary look on his face.

“Oh dear,” Eighteen said, and it was obvious to Krillin that she'd picked this particular mannerism up from Mrs. Briefs, “did we come at a bad time?”

.

.

So I figure that if Frieza et al. can call the saiyans `monkeys' all the time, salamanders might also be known in the universe beyond Earth. Also, yes, Mrs. Briefs has been carrying that BeDazzler around