Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 51

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: Life kind of threw me a curveball, and things have been very uncertain and up in the air over the past few months. I'm sorry for the delay. We're getting closer and closer to the end of the story, and I swear I am not giving up till it's done. Thanks very much for your patience.

Last time: Goku's heart problems were revealed, Krillin and Eighteen did the nasty (Krillin's got the moves). A wedding is on the horizon, and Vegeta just wants everybody to shut up about it.

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Goku watched from the edge of the hangar as Sixteen walked around one of the smaller transport ships, doing a slow and thorough pre-flight check. Tien was inside the craft, checking on their food and supply stores for the five day trip to Narmis, the nearest planet on a decent trade route. They needed to get medical supplies, stuff that wasn't readily available on Tech Tech.

Goku sighed and sat down on a bench, wincing as the needle in his left arm tugged a little. His forehead broke out in sweat at the thought of it, and he resolutely refused to look down. If he was braver, he might have ripped it out himself, but he was too afraid to touch the damn thing.

He tried to ignore it, but it was hard. Every time he moved, he seemed to jar the tubing that fed into the needle, making it wiggle beneath his skin. Goku could feel even the tiniest motion, and of course there were the bigger, more painful tugs when he forgot to grab hold of his wheeled drip stand and started walking. It followed him, of course, trailing along on his drip tube like a child's toy on a string. It hurt the most when he did that. The stand would tip and wobble, sending a tug and a tremor through the whole line and right into his veins.

“How you feeling, buddy?” Bulma appeared next to him, gently turning his arm with her cool hands so she could check the needle's placement. She peeled back the medical tape that held it in place, took a quick look to make sure the metal was still buried properly in his arm, and smoothed the tape back down. It had taken five of them to get the IV needle in there in the first place - herself, Chichi, and Sixteen had argued with Goku for the better part of an hour, first trying to calm him, reason with him, persuade him into compliance, before giving up and resorting to brute force. Radditz, Gohan, Sixteen, and Chichi had pinned him, while Bulma got stuck with the task of trying to get the needle in. Saiyan skin was tougher than it looked.

Goku swallowed thickly, and wiped beads of sweat from his face with his other hand. Looking at the entry site made him dizzy. “You're about halfway there,” Bulma said, setting his arm down as she stood to check the half-empty IV bag that hung from Goku's stand. “You're probably feeling pretty nauseated today, huh?”

“Nah, I'm fine. Raring to go,” Goku said, but Bulma could see the sheen of sweat on his face and the green cast to his skin. “I still don't know why I'm not allowed to go with the crew to Narmis,” he whined.

“Goku, I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer,” Bulma said. Then, because she was unable to help herself, she did it anyway. “I mean, look at you! You can hardly stand, your hands are shaking. These are not fun drugs.”

“That was an answer,” Goku said, and Bulma was tempted to tweak the needle in his arm in retaliation. “And my hands are not shaking,” he added, even though they were. Whatever they were pumping into him made him feel both jittery and tired at the same time.

“Anyway,” Bulma continued, pointedly, “there's hardly anyone even going to Narmis. None of the saiyans are going, Piccolo is staying behind too.”

“Yeah, and those guys get to train,” Goku retorted, crossing his arms, then yelping as the motion shifted the needle. “Damn it,” he swore. “All I get to do is sit around here like a useless nothing.”

“Stop pouting, Goku. Unbeknownst to you, there's lots to do around here that doesn't involve training. I resent the implication that what I do, what my parents do, what Dende at the other Nameks do, is all useless.”

“It's not.”

“Oh! Really?” Bulma whipped a blood pressure cuff from her bag and put it on his good arm. “So why's it that it's only useless if you do it?”

Goku looked up at Bulma as the the cuff's mechanism began to whir, filling it with air and squeezing his arm. She glared down at him, and he shrank into himself a little, hunching his shoulders in defense.

“I'm sorry, Goku. I have to be honest, I'm getting tired of your moping. I know you're sick, and I know you don't know how to be sick. It's frustrating, it's aggravating, and yeah, you can't train or go on adventures right now like you want to. But you have to deal with it. You're not the first person in the universe who can't do what they want to.” The cuff beeped and began to deflate. Bulma noted the numbers, inputting them into a little tablet she carried, before unwrapping the cuff and stowing it again. “There are a lot of important things to do, Goku. This ship doesn't run itself. People cook and clean, plant and tend the new gardens, listen to the radio reports and keep an ear out for news. I know you can't train, but being truly useless…well, that's a choice.”

“I'm sorry.” Goku let out a big sigh. “I guess I'm kind of acting like a baby, aren't I?”

“The biggest baby,” Bulma said, grinning so that Goku would know she didn't mean it. “It's temporary, Goku. I swear it. Sixteen and I will not let this keep you down forever. You just have to bear it for a while longer.”

“Sure, Bulma. I believe in you.” Goku stood up and carefully took hold of his IV stand. “I need to not be moping around here. What can I do?”

“The garden always needs extra help. I think my mom was hoping to get some of those orange bean things harvested today.”

“The ones that taste like beets?” Goku made a face, and Bulma laughed.

“The very same. But make sure you try to avoid using your left arm if you can. The less you move it, the less that needle will bother you.”

“I know, I know.” Goku snapped his heels together, stood straight up, and gave Bulma a military salute with his good arm. “Are you going to Narmis?”

“Nope. Sixteen has a better idea of what we need to treat you. Plus I am like this close,” she held up her hand, pointer finger and thumb pinched so they were mere millimeters apart, “to finishing my latest ki-absorbing armour prototype. I've also got some…other projects I'm tinkering with, that I've let sit for too long.”

“Really? I thought you'd be going with Eighteen to buy wedding stuff. You know, mother of the bride and all that.” Goku grinned cheekily and Bulma stuck out her tongue.

“Hah! No thanks. I'm letting mom go. She's over the moon about finally getting to plan a wedding.”

“Well Chichi is super excited. I thought all women liked weddings.”

“Goku, you are not exactly an expert on women. Besides, other people's weddings are great. You get to show up and have a big party with all of your friends, get totally bombed, and if you're single, make out with a hot groomsman, without having to do any of the behind the scenes work. If it was just Eighteen, I'd be all in, but Goku, unless direct intervention is requested by the bride herself, I am staying as far away as possible from my mother's wedding schemes.” Bulma reached up and turned Goku's head this way and that, feeling up under his jaw and around his ears for swollen glands.

“Ouch, it's tender on the right side.”

“Yeah, I can feel some swelling there. That's a pretty normal reaction, I think, with these meds.” She made another note on her tablet. “Anyway, I'm thinking of just hiding out until the whole wedding business is done with. My mother gets starry-eyed when she looks at me. I know that mind of hers is dressing me up in pounds of tulle.”

“I don't even know what that is.”

“Consider yourself lucky. Bend down a bit so I can take your temperature,” Bulma said, reaching up to Goku's ear with a little digital thermometer. He obliged, crouching low for the few seconds required for the little device to read him. She input the temperature into her tablet and did a quick comparison with the data she had from the others. “Thirty nine point five degrees Celsius; that'd be a pretty high fever if you were a human. Fun fact, did you know that you guys run about two or three degrees hotter than humans?”

“Um, no. Thanks, good to know, I guess. Need anything else?” Goku asked, watching as Bulma pulled a few items out to re-pack the bag at her hip.

“Nope, that concludes this roving checkup. Going to the gardens?” she asked, and he nodded. “Okay say hi to everyone for me. And remember, take it easy.”

“Will do,” Goku sighed as Bulma turned away and strode off in Sixteen's direction. He watched them pair off, heads bent together over Bulma's tablet, her flipping through screens and gesticulating broadly as Sixteen contributed the occasional nod. Discussing the next round of medications and procedures, the next set of restrictions, no doubt.

Goku shook his head and took hold of his IV stand. He wheeled it carefully across the hangar floor, careful when he hit the strip of inset drainage grates to not let his wheels get stuck. Going up and down between levels on the ship's system of ladders with his IV stand was a real pain in the ass, but he managed well enough to get up to the garden deck. There was a small cargo lift that went up and down between the lower floors, but Goku didn't like using it. As piddly as it was, climbing a ladder was still exercise and he was determined to sneak as much of that in as possible.

“Hey dad!” Gohan's smiling face greeted Goku as he popped up though the floor hatch in the conservatory. “Come to help us harvest?”

“Yeah, I'm making myself useful,” Goku said as he climbed the last few rungs. Gohan reached down to help him with the awkward stand. “Didn't know you'd be here. Figured they'd have you training.”

“I'm due back soon,” Gohan grinned. “Thought I'd use my break to help out a bit and catch up with my friends.” He gestured behind himself to the passel of namekians, all working industriously among the plants.

“Well, where do you need me?” Goku asked, not sure where to start. Throughout the conservatory, people were busy weeding, plucking, pruning, and even making notes. Many of the things growing in Mrs. Briefs' garden were mystery plants, unfamiliar to everyone on board, and they were still in the process of learning how to take care of everything. Seventeen was leading an effort to collect and test samples of everything to determine edibility and other uses.

“I'm working on the orange beans with some of the others. You can help us harvest them.”

“Ahh, hello Goku,” Fife greeted Goku as he followed Gohan to the bushes. Beside him, Dende smiled and waved. “The backup has arrived! These little things are growing so fast, we can hardly keep up with picking them all. Mrs. Briefs tells us we cannot leave them on the plant for too long, or they will begin to rot.” He handed Goku a basket. “Seventeen says they are high in protein, of which I am told both humans and saiyans require in high amounts.”

“Also the leaves are kind of bitter, but they're high in iron. I guess mom and Mrs. Briefs are gonna start using these to help reduce the amount of meat we're consuming,” Gohan added.

“But…I like meat.” Goku plucked a dark, rust coloured pod from the bush and dropped it into his basket. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “These taste like beets. Steak tastes like steak. Big difference.”

“Steak is expensive.” Seventeen's voice startled them all as he appeared around the end of the hedge, carrying a tablet and a tray of specimens for testing. The twins' lack of ki meant that they were constantly startling their energy-sensing crewmates. The only ones immune were Bulma and her parents, who had no ki sense to begin with. “With five saiyans aboard, we spend a phenomenal amount of credit in the procurement of sufficient animal flesh as to fulfill your dietary need for protein.”

“Wha?”

“He means we spend too much on meat, dad,” Gohan said, laughing as he watched his father do the oh-so-familiar Goku-head-scratch. “We're putting the team in the poor house.”

“Is it that expensive? On Earth we just hunted and fished. Oh, and Chichi kept chickens and sometimes we ate those. Maybe we should get some chickens.”

“Don't be silly, dad. Where would we put chickens?”

“It is actually not a terrible idea,” Seventeen said, as he made a note on his tablet. Goku watched, thinking a lot of people seemed to be taking notes on those things about him lately. “Birds of that size require only a few square feet per animal for comfortable living, and feed would be relatively inexpensive. Chickens themselves are now extinct, of course, but if we could find a similar livestock animal, we could potentially supplement our vegetable crops quite nicely.”

“You sure know a lot about chickens,” Goku grinned rubbing his hands together and licking his lips, “but nobody comes close to Chichi when it comes to knowing how to cook `em!”

“All I remember about taking care of chickens is that they're smelly,” Gohan said, and his father laughed.

“Well sure, after a winter of huddling together and hardly going out the coop can get a little ripe.” He turned to the others to explain further. “Gohan used to love helping us feed `em, but the first time he was big enough to help with the real work, it was time to muck the coop out during spring thaw.”

“I hate to interrupt, but what exactly is a chicken?” Dende piped up, drawing grins from Goku and Gohan. “And what does `muck the coop' mean?”

“Bleh, you don't want to know,” Gohan said, with a laugh.

“Some animals care where they go to the bathroom,” Goku said. “Chickens…don't. Things get pretty gross when it's so cold that they don't dare venture outside for weeks on end. And that's putting it nicely.”

“Ick,” Dende said, and the curled-lip look of horror on his face was enough to set father and son howling with laughter.

“With sufficient ventilation and an organized cleaning routine we could eliminate such potential problems,” Seventeen said, but everyone else was too busy giggling to notice. He shrugged and focused on his tablet, scrolling through the fledgling database he'd created. The orange-bean bush (for nobody seemed to know what the plant was actually called) had turned out to be quite a valuable addition to their garden. Besides the nutritional value of the beans and the leaves, he'd found that the woody bark contained high concentrations of salicin, a pain reliever. It might not do for saiyan-sized wounds, but steeped in tea could help with milder aches and day to day pains.

“Do you need anything, Seventeen?” Fife asked, looking over the android's shoulder at the screen.

“I'd like another full sample set from this plant. Roots, bark, soft tissue, and leaves.” Seventeen's pale fingers flew over the onscreen keyboard. “I did a chemical workup on the beans recently but the rest was last tested during the flowering phase and I want to see if the growth cycle makes a difference to the chemical concentrations.”

“Of course, I'll gather those right away.” Fife nodded and turned away to gather some sample containers and labeling supplies. The namekians had not grown food crops for themselves, but had been well versed in using plants for their medical properties. Many of them were enthusiastic participants in the creation of the garden catalogue, but Fife was eager to learn the science behind it all, and Seventeen did not mind his new role as tutor.

A sudden, shrill beeping drew everyone's attention to Gohan, who dug though his pockets, searching for the source. “Sorry, that's my timer,” he said, drawing out a slim disk and hitting the button to stop the noise. “Gotta go. I'm due to meet Radditz back on the training deck.”

“Thank you for your help,” Dende said with a wave, and Goku and a few other namekians nearby also called out goodbyes. “See you later.”

“See ya everybody! Bye dad, bye Dende.” Gohan waved and was gone in a flash. Goku pushed down the wave of longing that engulfed him, and picked another bean. He wanted to go train, too.

“Gohan was telling me stories of the dragonballs on Earth,” Dende said, sidling up to work alongside Goku. Seventeen had wandered away and they were the only two working on their row. “He said you and Miss Bulma used to go on adventures all over the planet to find them.”

“Yeah, we sure did!” Goku smiled fondly as memories of Earth flooded his mind. “Did Gohan tell you he used to wear the four star ball on his hat when he was little?”

“On his hat? But surely even a small saiyan couldn't have balanced a dragonball on his head.” Wide eyed with surprise, Dende gestured a big, round, object with his arms out in front of his chest.

“Huh?” Goku asked, miming a much smaller one with his hands. “They were only about this big.”

“Oh! Dende laughed, his brow ridges coming low over his eyes in puzzlement. “Ours were much bigger! I wonder why.”

“You mean you had them too?” Goku asked. “You had dragonballs on Namek?”

“Sure we did, Guru made them. Didn't you know? It is a special skill only very powerful and strong namekians can learn. Your Kami-Piccolo made them on Earth, didn't he?”

“I had no idea. Well I knew Kami made them, yeah, but I guess I thought it was more of a Kami skill than a namekian one.”

“Honestly, I was surprised to learn that your Kami was able to create them. Typically the skill is passed from Grand Elder to Grand Elder. In fact, one of the first tasks of a new Grand Elder is to create a new set, out of the stones that fell inert when the last elder passed. To create a set from scratch…well, it's quite a feat. Gohan said your balls could only grant one wish.”

“Could only?” Goku popped a bean in his mouth and grimaced at the taste of pickled beets. “Do you mean yours did more?”

“Yes, the dragonballs on Namek could grant three wishes.”

“Wowza! Imagine what a person could do with three whole wishes.” Goku rocked back on his heels and scratched the back of his head. The needle in his arm wiggled and he glared at the IV stand beside him. Goku wondered if Namekian dragonballs could cure illnesses. “Say, you're Grand Elder now, aren't you? Couldn't you make dragonballs?”

Dende flushed and stammered, flustered at the very idea of being able to do such a thing. “I know how to reanimate a set, thanks to Guru's memories. But with our stones destroyed on Namek, I would have to create them from scratch, which Guru never did. I don't think I'm nearly strong enough. And without a planet to tie them to, they'd scatter across the entire universe.”

“Hmm, yeah I guess that's a problem. Couldn't you just tie them here on Tech-Tech?”

“Theoretically yes, but in practice I don't think it's so simple. In order to tie a set of dragonballs to a planet, the creator has to tie himself to that planet as well. It's not just a matter of me choosing, either. The planet also must accept the bond and the toll of housing dragonballs. Dragons don't come from nothing, and have to get their energy from somewhere. Kami was the guardian of Earth, Guru was the Grand Elder of Namek, but I am nothing to this place.”

“That sucks.” Goku pouted, and Dende laughed.

“Yes, well I imagine the chaos that would be created if my people could go creating dragonballs willy nilly, and I am grateful for the difficulties.”

Goku nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess that's true. We had some close calls with some pretty bad people on Earth. Still though, you should think about it. Your dragonballs would be the best protected in the whole universe, I bet. No way Vegeta would let anyone else get their hands on them. Then again, I could see him making some pretty sketchy wishes…” Goku trailed off and Dende laughed again, but it was not wholly a happy sound.

“I don't think any power in our universe could give Vegeta back what he truly wishes for,” Dende said, in that oddly detached way that sometimes overcame him when thoughts of Guru were at the fore of his brain. “And I hesitate to see what he might choose as a consolation prize.”

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“You're clear for liftoff, Sixteen,” Bulma said, scanning the launch pad one last time to make sure no stray tech-techs had wandered accidentally into the blast zone of the small ship's engines.

“Preparing for engine thrust in 10,” Sixteen replied, and Bulma heard the hum of gathering energy.

“Everything looks good out here. Safe travels.” A small crowd of absurdly tiny, adorable tech-tech children had gathered to watch the ship go, and Bulma stood waving with them as it lifted off and zipped off into the sky.

Sixteen, Eighteen, Tien, Krillin, and Mrs. Briefs were bound for Narmis for a few days of shopping and supply gathering. Seventeen, Goku, Dende, and most of the other namekians were heavily occupied with gardening, both on and off the ship. Everyone else was more or less self-sufficient, which meant that Bulma was looking forward to a nice, long, uninterrupted stretch of quality time in her lab.

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“What do you think of this one?” Eighteen asked, spinning in a circle to display the fluffy, white confection of a gown she wore. She actually kind of hated it, but she did like the attention that Mrs. Briefs was showering upon her. Every new dress was met with squeals and hand-clapping, proclamations that this was `the one'. Compliments rained down upon Eighteen, and she was having a very good time.

“It's beautiful,” Mrs. Briefs exclaimed, clasping her hands together and holding them to her heart. She hopped out of the plush chair she'd been sitting in, and came over to fuss with one of the enormous chiffon flowers that dotted the full skirt. “I don't think I've ever seen something so lovely.” She smoothed the fabric petals and fluffed them out. “I think this is the one!”

“Do you?” Eighteen asked, and if Mrs. Briefs didn't understand sarcasm from a normal person, she sure as hell wasn't picking it up from the taciturn android.

“Oh, I do! You're an absolute vision.”

“Hmm,” Eighteen pursed her lips and twiddled the petals of a big flower that sat right on her hip. “I don't like it.”

“Absolutely, we can do better!” Mrs. Briefs chimed in immediately, changing her tune without even a blink. “Only the best for you, Eighteen dear, and this is clearly not it.” She shook her head and brushed her hands together as though clapping off dirt. “Miss,” she signalled for the spindly wisp of a woman that was their salesperson, “miss, we need to see another one. More poof.”

“Sleek,” Eighteen said, miming an hourglass figure. “Nipped in at the waist and flared out at the hips, but natural looking. Make my chest look bigger.”

“We cannnnn do thhhhat,” the salesalien answered in her whispering, windy voice. She lengthened certain consonants bizarrely, as though her lips were reluctant to let them go. She turned in a whirl, gauzy dress floating around her legs as though she was just riding a gust of air.

“She's like a dandelion seed on the breeze.” Mrs. Briefs watched her go, admiringly. “Though she's far too thin. Do you think I should nip out and buy her a sandwich?”

Eighteen cocked her head and said “I'm not sure she can even eat solids. I didn't see any teeth in her mouth.”

“A smoothie, then?”

“Herrrrrre we arrrrrrre, llllllladies. Starrrrrrt with thhhhhhhese.” The wisp reappeared with a few more dresses. She set them in the dressing room for Eighteen, removing a huge pile of rejected dresses, before disappearing to the racks again for more samples.

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Bulma set her soldering gun carefully down in its cradle and pushed her safety googles up onto the top of her head. She swung a mounted magnifier into place, peering through it to inspect the connection she'd just repaired, checking for visible flaws in the neat line of solder. Seeing none, she tapped a panel back into place, heaved a sigh, and sat back in her chair to examine the abomination on her workbench. She was at once terribly proud and deeply uncomfortable with her version of the ki draining circlet.

Bulma reached out and traced her finger along the sleek curve, over the smooth, rounded nodes she'd engineered to replace the vicious temple screws of the original design. It was a thing of beauty, a technological marvel, and it made her sick to her stomach.

She'd tried to make it relatively painless, but it didn't seem possible, not after watching what had happened to Vegeta during his first brushes with the Super Saiyan transformation. Ki wasn't a switch that could be turned on and off - all that energy had to go somewhere. The circlet wouldn't be like supressing ki naturally, especially not on an unwilling wearer. It would be like cramming electricity into a box. With unlimited time at her disposal, she could change that, perfect it.

One day, she promised herself ruefully, she would crack the secret to time travel. Until then, the circlet was a torture device, plain and simple. She'd made something cruel and inhuman, and despite her discomfort, the thought of Frieza wearing her crown gave her a slimy feeling of satisfaction.

“Means to an end, Bulma,” she muttered to herself. Maybe when it was all over, she would “lose” the plans and related research in the furnace, just like Gero's horrible design for the Cell android. That way the technology could never be used against someone she didn't deem worthy.

Shaking her head, Bulma picked up the circlet and set it inside a protective carrying case. It was peak training time, which meant that all of her test subjects were likely to be right where she needed them.

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Yul sauntered down the street, basket on one arm, beau on the other, and a big grin on her face. She was on a date - a real one. The man beside her was young and handsome. His name was Crane and he had been courting her for the past couple of months. He'd brought flowers to her door, made awkward small talk as she cut and arranged them, and now his sweaty palm was entwined with hers. When they finished shopping, he'd bring her home, kiss her, and then go home. She could invite him in, but she wouldn't. No sex, no obligation. Here, Yul wasn't a prostitute, she was a regular woman. She could have suitors, real ones who wanted to get to know her instead of just spread her knees apart.

“Ooh, I love this shop. Can we stop in? I just want to see if they've got anything new.”

Crane looked adoringly at their joined hands, his gaze travelling past their entwined fingers, up her slim arms, over her neck, to stop at her nose. He gulped nervously, and met her eyes. “Of course,” he said, not quite able to believe his luck. All the guys he knew joked about Yul's six breasts, but Crane knew he was falling for what was underneath those breasts. Well, sort of underneath the point between the uppermost left two, probably. Her heart.

“There's…um, a wedding dress in the window,” he said, boldly. His eyes darted away from hers, and his face flamed with nerves. “Are you trying to hint at something?”

“They have regular ones too,” Yul said, grinning, “but you know, maybe.” She winked one big, overly made up eye as Crane opened the door for her. He stumbled in shock, tripping right into a curvy, blonde stranger who was coming out the door at the same time.

“Oh! I'm so sorry,” Crane said, reaching to grab her as she toppled backward into another blonde woman, this one thin, with ice in her eyes.

“Jeepers!” The curvy one yelped and tripped back. She would have fallen flat on her rear but the thin woman's arms shot out, lightning fast, to catch her older friend by the elbows and haul her back to her feathered mules.

“I'm so sorry, are you alright?”

“Oh, of course dear, of course. So kind of you to ask, such a handsome young man. Is this your wife?” Mrs. Briefs turned to Yul, as the red-faced young man sputtered and stammered. Any other time, Yul would have been thrilled by such a comment - she'd never looked classy enough to have been mistaken for someone's wife before. This time, however, she was not paying attention. Yul was fixated on the tall blonde, and on the feeling of unease creeping through her veins.

“I know you,” Yul blurted, locking narrowed eyes with Eighteen. She tilted her head in confusion. “How do I know you?”

“You don't,” Eighteen said stiffly, though she too was sizing up this sudden deja-vu. The search function that was her memory locked on in seconds, providing a gaunt face, far too heavily made up, skinny arms clinging to Oolong's fake muscles. The woman before her looked healthier, with more meat on her bones and more clothing covering her skin. There was less paint on her face, though that wasn't saying much. Yul had not quite learned the art of “less is more” yet. The six breasts didn't hurt Eighteen's recognition, either. This was one of the three women responsible for bringing Frieza's forces down on Harbour Colony.

“We are leaving now,” Eighteen said, quickly propelling Mrs. Briefs out the door. She couldn't take the chance and stick around, they had to get away from this small outpost before the “dancer” made sense of the situation and called the authorities.

“Oh, of course.” The man stepped gallantly out of the doorway, allowing them to pass. “And again, I'm terribly sorry and glad you aren't hurt, ma'am.” Mrs. Briefs smiled and would have simpered her thanks, but barely had time to snatch up a fat carrier bag before being dragged out the door by Eighteen.

“Oh, what a nice young man,” Mrs. Briefs tittered as Eighteen pulled her along. “We should invite them back to the ship for tea. Whatever are you in such a hurry for? You almost forgot your dress!” She lifted the bag in illustration as she tapped desperately along behind Eighteen, trying to keep up.

“We have to get back to the ship,” Eighteen said, not bothering to explain herself. It was her duty to get Mrs. Briefs back to the transport ship, contact the others, and get them the hell away from this planet.

“Oh, but-“

“No buts!” Eighteen interrupted, and a poor, confused Mrs. Briefs tottered along in her wake. “Red Contingent,” Eighteen spoke into the comm unit on her wrist, glancing around to make sure nobody was paying them any special attention, “all members report back to the ship for immediate takeoff. Repeat, all members report back to the ship for immediate takeoff.”

“Eighteen?” Krillin's voice came back through the comm unit, sounding concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“We have a situation, are the others with you?”

“Yeah, Sixteen and Tien are here.”

“Good,” Eighteen said tightly. “Get back to the ship, as fast as you can. We need to get out of here. I think I have been recognized.”

“Jeez, yikes, okay, I got it. Heading back now. Stay safe.”

“You as well,” Eighteen said, and tightened her grip on Mrs. Briefs.

.

“Love you,” Krillin blurted, but he did not get a response. “Crap,” he said, and darted out of the dressing room. “Guys, we have to go! Like, now.”

“You gonna wear that?” Tien asked, gesturing to Krillin's sock feet and pinned pants.

“Shit, no. Crap. Two minutes.” Krillin darted back into the dressing room, ignoring the confused tailor, who'd stood ready with his tape measure. “Ouch, damn it!” he yelped, sticking himself with pins as he shimmied out of the pinned and tucked tuxedo trousers. On Earth he'd have gone for a custom made suit, but time constraints meant that he'd pulled something from the rack with the intent of having it chopped and stitched to fit.

Outside the fitting room, Tien flagged down their salesman. “Sorry, we've got to go. We'll take it as is,” he said. “Sixteen?”

The giant android pulled a credit chip from his armour and handed it over. “Unforeseen circumstances mean we must be on our way. Please complete the transaction as quickly as possible.”

“Oh, no, surely you're joking!” The salesman pouted as he processed Sixteen's credit. He'd already mapped out what he was going to do with the hefty commission from the extensive tailoring work. “He cannot possibly wear it like that, really, it won't take me long to finish pinning.” He held the credit chip and smiled hopefully, reluctant to return it even as the register dinged its approval and a receipt sputtered its way out of a nearby printer. Tien crossed his arms and shook his head.

“We will make other arrangements,” Sixteen replied, and held his hand out. If he was aware of how menacing he looked, he might have tried to smile, but as usual Sixteen was ignorant of the effect of his appearance. The triple combo of his size, stony expression, and his badass orange mohawk had the usually tenacious salesman handing back the card with a gulp. The new shoes he'd planned on could wait for a customer who didn't look like the space mafia.

“I bet Chichi could whip it into shape. I think she used to make all of her and Goku's clothes back ­home.” Krillin emerged from the dressing room with the tuxedo, which he'd replaced carefully on its hangar. “Thanks man,” he said as the salesman slipped a plastic bag over the whole thing to protect it. “Sorry for stealing your pins.”

.

.

Bulma set her toolbox down on the floor and reached for the workout room's control panel. Within seconds of her typed commands, she could hear the gravity room's power down sequence begin, followed by a string of loud, multilingual cursing. The door slammed open and Vegeta stormed out, trailed by a limping Nappa. Gohan and Radditz dropped to the ground from their mid-air spar on the outer mats and ambled over.

Bulma reached into her toolbox and took out a black case. Her audience gathered as she typed her access code into the computerized panel on the top. The locks sprang with a sweet chime, and the saiyans crowded around to get a look at their new secret weapon. Zarbon and Piccolo had also stopped their training and were watching from a little further back.

“It doesn't look like much,” Radditz said. He reached forward to touch it, and gave a surprised yelp when Bulma smacked his hand away.

“Pah, pretty jewellery.” Nappa crossed his arms and sneered his disdain, even as he eyed the device warily.

“Thank you, it IS unimaginably fine craftwork,” Bulma said as she lifted the ki-draining circlet from its padding and presented it to the crowd like a gameshow beauty. “I'll need to code all of your fingerprints in,” she flipped the crown around and pointed to a small rectangle of shiny black glass, “for the failsafe. Nobody can activate or deactivate it whose prints aren't in the system. Right now it only has mine.” She pressed her thumb to the glass, and the circlet hummed to life. She pressed her finger down again, and it cut out.

Gohan swallowed nervously and backed up a few steps, shaking his head ever so slightly. Radditz looked pale, and Nappa's jaw was clamped shut so hard that veins were standing out on his temples. “I know,” Bulma said. “I don't like it either.”

“I wasn't even touching it and I feel queasy,” Gohan admitted.

“Yeah, I think the effect on bystanders will be reduced when it's actually on someone's head. You put it on like this.” She checked the device to be sure it wasn't on, lifted it, and set it carefully atop her head. “These little bumps,” she pointed out by way of feeling, “have to sit at the front, over the temples.”

“What keeps it on?” Vegeta asked. “The plans we stole from Frieza had screws.”

“Yeah, aside from how awful that thing was, do you really think you'll be able to hold Frieza down while you drill screws into his skull?” Bulma took the crown off again and held it vertically, so she could look at the gathered audience through it. She pushed her finger against the sensor again. This time after the mechanism kicked in, everyone could see an inner ring of small, sharp spines spring out and come up from the underside. “They come out a few seconds after the ring powers up, so there is no defense against them piercing the skin.”

“That's more like it,” Nappa said. “Though they're a little puny, don't you think?”

“I figured out the original screws were dual purpose. They held the crown on the victim, but they were only so long because they needed to actually make contact with the brain. These two nodes will send an electric signal into the brain that interferes with the ability to use ki. The hooks dig in from the bottom, but just deep enough so that the wearer can't pull the crown upward.”

“You think Frieza is afraid of a few little hooks?” Vegeta scoffed. “He'll tear it off, no problem.”

“In case you haven't noticed, there's not a lot between your scalp and your skeleton.” Bulma looked queasy, now. “If the crown stays in place they'll just do surface damage, but the hooks are angled so that upward force will cause them to penetrate the bone. If he rips off the circlet, he'll take the top half of his skull off, too. Plus,” she added, “you're going to kill that bastard the second you get this on him. It's durable, but not indestructible. It'll give you a window where he's incapacitated for you to do what needs to be done.” She pushed her thumb to the glass panel again and the circlet shut down, its spikes retracting.

“Hmpf.” Vegeta took the circlet and looked at his team. He raised it above his head, and down over the brilliant sweep of his hair. Bulma grimaced as she watched him test the fit with his fingers, adjusting it so that it sat solidly in place. “Well?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“I don't want to,” Bulma said, hiding her hands behind her back. She was being foolish, she knew.

“It has to be tested, doesn't it? I'm the strongest one here.” Vegeta glared at her, regal in his crown, and her stomach turned. She sneaked a guilty glance at Nappa. He'd been used as a guinea pig for the ki blaster, back in the early days, and she'd sort of expected it to happen again.

“I know.” She turned away as Nappa caught her gaze and guffawed.

“Don't look at me, little girl.” Nappa shook his head and stepped back. “I wouldn't put that thing on for all the credits and all the whores in the galaxy.” The other saiyans stepped back as well, while Piccolo and Zarbon moved closer - not to volunteer themselves, but to see better what was about to happen.

“Well thank you for the vote of confidence, at least,” Bulma said dryly, and stepped toward Vegeta. “I don't know what the ki suppression will feel like, but the spikes will hurt,” she said. “You'll need to test their hold but do not, under any circumstances, try to pull it off of your head with any real force. You've got weird hair, but I prefer it to you scalping yourself.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes, but nodded, and Bulma had a fleeting moment of doubt. The circlet was capable of doing real damage, and she worried that Vegeta wasn't taking it seriously enough.

“What are you waiting for?”

“We need a safeword,” Bulma blurted, and blushed as she heard Radditz snickering in the background. Vegeta's scowl deepened and a faint trace of pink stained his cheekbones, as Bulma scrambled to explain herself. “I mean it, there's a possibility that this could be extremely painful, and you'll be screaming, and I'm going to want to jump in there and turn it off if that happens.”

“Fine, what am I supposed to say?”

“I don't know, something you wouldn't normally blurt out while in pain,” Bulma snapped, stressed by the prospect of potentially damaging her pseudo-husband-boyfriend-whatever-the-hell.

“So `baby, hit me harder' is out of the question then?” Radditz muttered, not quite quietly enough. Though Vegeta didn't react, Bulma caught the narrowing of his eyes that meant Raddtiz would be regretting it later.

“Dragonball,” Bulma said, watching the vein in Vegeta's temple throb. “When things got bad on Earth, we could always count on the dragonballs to make it better. So if you can't stand it any longer, say `dragonball' okay?”

“Dragonball, dragonball, dragonball,” Vegeta huffed, “am I free of this inane conversation yet? Turn on the device, let's get this over with.”

Bulma heaved in a deep breath and blew it out noisily through her nostrils. She reached up, gripping the back of Vegeta's head, and placed the pad of her pointer finger against the glass sensor on the circlet.

Everyone stepped back as it began to hum.