Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 52

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: Guys, every time I mention Chiaotzu I have to go back and reference what spelling of his name I'm using…and it turns out I've spelled it about 5 different ways.

Last time: Goku picked beans with the nameks, while Krillin, Eighteen, and some of the other Red Ship crewmembers went on a short trip to a nearby planet, Narmis, for supplies and wedding stuff. Eighteen ran into someone from the past and their location might soon become public knowledge. Back on Tech-Tech, Bulma finished her latest ki-draining circlet prototype, and brought it down to the boys for testing.

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Bulma inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with air, and blew it out noisily. Behind Vegeta, the saiyans were tense and silent. Piccolo watched, quiet and unreadable as ever, and Zarbon leaned forward over Gohan, as though he could force the device to work through sheer force of will. He, more than anyone else in the room, was truly desperate to see Frieza dead.

Steeling herself, Bulma reached up to grip the back of Vegeta's head. She placed the pad of her pointer finger against the glass sensor on the ki-draining circlet and pressed down firmly, allowing it to scan her fingerprint.

Everyone stepped back as it began to hum to life. A second later they heard a faint clicking sound as the hooks engaged, puncturing the skin. A bead of blood slipped out from beneath the circlet and rolled down over Vegeta's forehead, disappearing in the thicket of his right eyebrow. One followed on the left shortly after, curving down over his cheekbone, and Bulma knew it must be dribbling through the hair at the sides and back of his head as well. The hooks were not all that deep, but head wounds were always bloody.

“What. The. Fuck.” Radditz said, squinting hard at Vegeta. He tapped his own temples, as though trying to jolt his senses back to life. “I can hardly feel your ki.” He looked wildly around and the rest of the group, who were all staring in astonishment. “I can always feel it, it's like it just disappeared.”

“Still there,” Gohan clarified, “but so low. Like it's not enough to even fly or form blasts.” His face was pale and he didn't seem to realize that he'd backed up so far he was pressed into Zarbon's legs.

“Scouter? Does anyone have a scouter?” Zarbon asked, looking around frantically. He'd started training to sense ki but didn't really trust his own abilities yet.

“Vegeta?” Bulma asked, stepping closer. He hadn't said anything yet, but she could see the tension in him, jaw muscles clenched and fists tight at his sides. Beads of sweat had sprung up across his forehead and upper lip, and there was an unhealthy, grayish pallor to his skin.

Vegeta raised an arm, palm flat and outward facing, as though to gather his energy there. Nothing. He narrowed his eyes and stood still, breathing heavily through his nose as he concentrated, and still nothing. Pink-tinged sweat rolled down his forehead, and he gritted his teeth against pain that lanced through his temples every time he tried to power up.

“It's working!” Bulma breathed a sigh of relief and clapped her hands together.

Vegeta turned and walked into the center of the training mats. He bent his knees and launched himself upward, easily tapping the ceiling with his hand. He managed to hover there a moment before landing with a thump on the mat, though they could all see the strain it caused.

“It doesn't completely eliminate ki, only dampens it. It also doesn't have any effect on physical strength. The ki-drain will make you feel a bit sick and sluggish, I'm sure, but if you went hand to hand with one of these guys,” Bulma gestured at the crowd, “it'd be very similar to any other time you spar without powering up.”

“Hn,” Vegeta grunted, nodding. He phased out, moving so quickly that he was barely a blur, and reappeared to drive one booted foot right into Radditz's left kidney. The bigger saiyan fell to his knees with a yelp, back arching as pain rocketed through him. “So Frieza will not be helpless.”

“Right,” Bulma answered, wondering whether she should attempt to help Radditz to his feet. “You'll still have to be on guard. I'm sure that even with the crown on, Frieza won't go down without a fight.”

“Good,” Vegeta said, darkly. “I've waited too long for this battle, and I intend to get some satisfaction out of killing that worm.”

“Okay, well c'mere and let me turn the circlet off. I still need to code everyone else's prints in.” Bulma decided to ignore Radditz; everyone else was, and she didn't think she could haul him up on her own. Besides that, he seemed to prefer where he was for the moment.

“Not yet.” Vegeta wiped at the sweat on his forehead, staining the back of his glove. Close up, Bulma could smell the metallic tang of blood; it had begun to crust in his hair, but the neck of his battlesuit was dark and sticky looking. “I intend to put this thing through its paces.”

Vegeta walked back to the centre of the mat, ignoring the sick, bottomless feeling in his stomach. Even though he knew it was a temporary result of the thing on his head, the feeling of not being able to reach his power was unnerving. It was more than just the physical sensation created by the crown - an empty sort of nausea - but the way his mind could not seem to come to terms with it.

He tried to power up again and when the energy did not come, Vegeta felt the tiniest flutterings of panic deep in his stomach. He'd seen men go into shock with the loss of limbs, and he felt like he must be experiencing something similar. His power had been with him all his life, how could he suddenly not access it?

Vegeta forced his breath to slow and told himself to calm down. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck from side to side, feeling the additional weight, however slight, of the crown on his head. Its presence helped his confused animal brain to make sense of it all.

This was Bulma's parlour trick and nothing more. If he kept that in mind, he'd be just fine.

That reassuring thought did nothing to stop the sudden dampness of his palms, or the sweat that trickled down his back.

“Is he doing what I think he's doing?” Gohan asked, as they watched Vegeta plant his feet in the center of the mat.

“Looks like it,” Nappa said, shrugging. Next to him, Bulma groaned. “Well he's gotta test it,” Nappa said, crossing his arms in defense of the prince. “You think Frieza's going to let that thing just sit on his head and zap all his strength? Pah!”

“I know, I know.” Bulma peered anxiously at Vegeta as he bent at the knees, really sinking into his stance.

“Anyway, he'll have that hunk of crap in pieces the second he goes Super Saiyan.”

“That's what I'm afraid of, idiot,” Bulma muttered. She firmly ignored Nappa's growl and glare, and shot the gaping Zarbon a smile and a wink. He just shook his head in astonishment, before refocusing on the struggling saiyan. Crown or no crown, Nappa would never dare lay a finger on her for fear of Vegeta. “And it's not a hunk of crap, it's an amazing piece of technology created by a brilliant and beautiful woman.”

She turned her nose up at Nappa's snort. “A mouthy old crone,” he countered, “who builds pieces of garbage.”

“Yeah, like my crappy spaceships, my dumb ghost drive, and my super shitty gravity simulator. That thing is the worst.” Bulma rolled her eyes and Nappa simply growled in response. “Yeah, thought so,” she added, smugly.

“Must you squabble like children at every turn?” Piccolo grumbled, turning his sharp eyes away from the saiyan prince to glare at the feuding pair. Bulma gaped openly, her mouth working as she struggled for a response that wasn't “he started it” and Nappa snarled, looking ready to attack. A sudden frisson of energy startled them all, refocusing their attention and halting the impending brawl.

Vegeta was on his hands and knees in the middle of the mat, slick with sweat and crackling with ki.

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Krillin breathed a sigh of relief to see the ship intact and undisturbed, the docking bay bustling as usual with no sign of upheaval. He'd been fighting down panic since Eighteen's call for everyone to return. Tien and Sixteen were right behind him as they made their way to the ship, trying to move quickly without drawing undue attention.

“We must leave as soon as possible,” Eighteen said, meeting the boys at the ship's ramp. “I have already finished half of the pre-flight checklist. Sixteen, are there any necessary supplies that have not been purchased yet?”

“What's going on?” Krillin barged in, dropping his suit bag carelessly on the ground as he raced up the ramp. He grabbed Eighteen's hands, looked her up and down, let go to pat her down in his search for injuries.

“I procured them all yesterday. It was my most important task, and therefore my first,” Sixteen said, ignoring the outburst.

“Good, everyone inside.” Eighteen spun, stepping quickly out of Krillin's grasp, and returned up the ramp. Krillin followed helplessly along, leaving Tien to scoop up the forgotten suit.

“Where's Mrs. Briefs? Is she okay? Is anyone hurt?” Krillin asked frantically, looking around for Bulma's mother.

“Mrs. Briefs is fine, she is securing items in the bedrooms. No one is hurt.” She did not meet his eyes, but stared over his head, looking around the cabin as she organized plans in her head. “Sixteen, please go and settle our docking fees. I am going to check the engines,” Eighteen continued. “Tien, Krillin, please secure the cargo. We do not have time to waste in discussion, I will explain later.” Eighteen's voice was mechanical, and Krillin flinched back, stung by her distance.

“Yeah um, sure.” Krillin deflated like a popped balloon, slinking off to the hull while Tien followed. In the cargo hold, Krillin attacked the job, shifting and organizing crates with manic energy. “Good thing we restocked food and medical stores first, I guess,” he said loudly, with false cheer.

“I'll put your suit here,” Tien said, hanging the garment bag carefully on a bolted in wire rack. Inside the clear, heavy duty plastic, they could see that the jacket hung crookedly and the pants had slipped off of the hanger. They sat in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the bag, pins sticking haphazardly out in all directions.

“Yep,” Krillin's smile was tight as he tore his eyes from the suit, “good thing we left the unimportant things for last.”

Tien set down the other parcels he was still carrying. He picked up a pile of thick straps and began sorting one out from the tangle. Krillin opened up one of the medical supply crates and busied himself making sure that everything inside was packed properly, and that all the fragile items were well padded. He wrapped glass medicine bottles and syringes in soft towels, and taped a box of microscope slides securely shut before closing the crate.

“Eighteen seems worried,” Tien said, handing Krillin the first freed strap. “It's been a while since she's been such a robot about anything.”

Krillin took the strap silently, and began loading smaller crates onto the rack. He kept his eyes resolutely away from the suitbag, embarrassed by how blissfully happy he'd been just an hour ago at the store. He was so desperately, heartbreakingly in love, and Eighteen was…Eighteen. She'd decided to marry him, half ordered him to do it, if he was being honest, but he wondered what was really going on in her head. He'd bounded in full of worry, pawing and whimpering at her like a devoted puppy, while she'd hardly spared him a glance.

Tien's words were meant to dull the sting of her chilly reception, but they were like a slap to the face. Eighteen WAS sort of a robot, wasn't she? No matter how much she resembled a human, she wasn't. And that didn't matter to Krillin, it never had. He loved her, deeply. He just wasn't sure she felt the same.

He wasn't sure she was even capable of feeling the same.

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“Is everything okay?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Yul looked across the table, snapped from her thoughts by her date. Poor, darling Crane watched her with worry from his own seat. She could feel the anxiety rolling off of him, his sense that maybe he'd done something wrong. “I was just thinking about that woman from the shop. I'm certain I know her from somewhere, and I just can't figure it out.” She smiled and twirled a lock of hair around her finger, reaching out as though to place her other hand over his and laying it instead just near, within reaching distance.

Her practiced coyness was not lost on Crane, who blushed and stretched his own fingers to brush across hers. Yul was charmed by his sweetness, and wished her own was even a little bit real.

If she kept her mouth shut, maybe one day it could be.

“Yul, you can tell me anything. I hope you know that.” Crane was holding her hand in earnest, half stretched across the table in the effort. He was like a pet, so innocent and eager to please.

“I know, darling, I know.” Yul fluttered her eyelashes, and wondered whether she should tell him what she knew. If she kept it all to herself, life could go on as it was, she could live in bliss on this backwater planet with Crane.

Knowledge of the reward on offer itched like parasites beneath her skin. The money gained from selling her dead friends' treasures would not last forever, and while Crane worked a respectable job, his pay was modest. They could live on it, but certainly not in luxury.

The money would come, but so would Frieza's soldiers, if she contacted them with information on one of Vegeta's accomplices. The Empire would trample this little planet and wreck everything she'd built for herself. Country-quiet peace didn't last very long once soldiers came through. They spread fear and corruption like a sickness.

Fuck that blonde bitch! Yul ground her teeth, half wishing she'd never realized where that hit of recognition had come from. If she hadn't figured it out, she would be enjoying her day in ignorance. Crane squeezed her hand, and she looked up at him, thinking of how much she'd like to talk to someone about it. Someone who wouldn't fly impulsively off the handle, who'd think it over seriously, even if he was naive as all hell.

“Sweetie,” Yul said, looking around the table to ensure that none of the other diners were close enough to hear them. “If I tell you a secret, will you keep it?”

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The ship broke through Narmis' atmosphere with one final jolt, and a second or two of weightlessness set in before the artificial gravity kicked in. Eighteen allowed herself a moment of calm, and then the ship's computer let out three cheerful blips, indicating that it was safe to unstrap. A cursory glance at the dash told her that Sixteen had everything under control.

“So,” Tien said above the clink and clatter of unbuckling, “something go belly-up down there, or what?”

“Oh, we just had a lovely day,” Mrs. Briefs gushed. “Such a shame we had to cut it short.” She freed herself from her restraints and smoothed the wrinkles from her clothing. “Well, I think I should make us all a snack. Who's hungry?” She tottered from the room on her feathered mules, without waiting for an answer.

“I apologize for my rushed instructions,” Eighteen said as unclasped her own buckles and stood, “but as I mentioned, our location may have been compromised.” She frowned at the group, feeling agitation creeping up again. It was a foreign feeling for her, and she didn't like it one bit.

“How bad is it?” Tien leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced on his knees.

“I am uncertain if we were actually recognized or not. On Harbour Colony, there were three women that tried to come aboard with you, Roshi, and Oolong, do you recall?” Eighteen asked her elder brother.

“I recall.” Sixteen nodded his big head once, and Krillin had to stop himself from laughing at the memory of Roshi and Oolong trying to convince the rest of the crew that the three “dancers” were also warriors capable of helping in their quest to defeat Frieza.

“The one with six breasts is on Narmis,” Eighteen continued. “She insisted that she knew me from somewhere but I do not believe she realized it immediately. It is possible she will not realize it, but I could not be certain of the probability.”

“Yul,” Sixteen said.

“How'd she get all the way here?” Krillin asked.

“She probably got a big pile of credits for ratting us out last time,” Tien snorted. “How else do you think word got out that we'd been on Harbour Colony?”

“Good point.” Krillin agreed. “Though according to the radio chatter it got pretty rough there as a result. Maybe she'll stay quiet this time?”

“I think you're giving more credit than is due. Despite the Goku factor, not everyone comes over to the good side.” Tien smirked and crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat.

“What is the Goku factor?” Sixteen asked, curious. Despite their close quarters and his heavy involvement in the Earth-sayian's medical treatment, Sixteen did not really know Goku all that well. He suspected that his affections for Chichi had made things awkward.

“The uncanny ability of that idiot to get enemies on his side.” Tien rolled his eyes and jabbed his thumb into his own chest. “Me, for one.”

“Oolong and Puar. Yamcha and Chiaotzu, rest their souls,” Krillin ticked them off on his fingers, laughing with the memories of their adventures on Earth. “Piccolo, anyone else?”

“Father,” Sixteen said, intending to join in on the fun, but his tone had a rather dampening effect. “In a way.”

“Yeah, that's right. By all accounts he was pretty pissed when Goku did in the Red Ribbon Army, but Gero still let us come stay here.” Tien shook his head.

“Does that one count? We didn't have Goku when we showed up,” Krillin pointed out. And then, grinning, he said “I like to think it was my charisma that won him over.”

“It was Bulma,” Sixteen said bluntly, not getting the joke. “He knew how smart she was, and he wanted her and Dr. Briefs to help him with his research and projects.”

“I'm going to send a message to Red.” Eighteen turned to the console. “The others need to be warned as quickly as possible so they can start making preparations.”

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Vegeta's teeth were clenched so tightly he feared his jaw might break. Every muscle in his body was taut, trembling, rock hard to the point of pain. Black stars swam in his vision and he felt his arms and legs shaking with the effort of staying up. Do not pass out. Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut and the sound of his own breath pounded through his ears, a wheezing rasp that burned his lungs even as it kept him alive.

With each second that passed, each tiny bit of power he managed to draw, the sick feeling in his stomach intensified and spread. Even down on all fours, he swayed with dizziness, fighting to remain upright, and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat.

Energy cracked and coiled around his body, blood trickled down his forehead in a slow drip to the mat. Vegeta was soaked in sweat, could feel it pooling in the small of his back, could smell it steaming off of his clothing with the heat of ki that surrounded him. He dug his fingers into the training mat and forced more energy up and out. His body felt on fire, and he screamed aloud in pain as a wave of energy fizzed up from his stomach, shocking like lava through his veins. The stink of burning rubber was hot in his nostrils and he knew his palms had seared right through his gloves and through the mat, lit from within just like the two times he'd nearly killed himself trying to ascend to Super Saiyan.

The pit of his power felt sore and raw, with ragged edges like a torn wound and still he pushed, pulled, grabbed and yanked more from it. His throat was hoarse with screaming, vocal cords swollen and bruised and wound tight, ready to snap like every other tendon in his body.

The ki was there. Vegeta could feel it, roiling and bubbing inside him, but he couldn't seem to reach it. He couldn't do anything with it.

He had a vague sense of the others in the room, but he could not hear or see them over the roaring in his brain. Vegeta could not see the pale, frightened faces of his followers, nor the tears streaming down Gohan's cheeks. He could not hear Bulma shrieking at him to stop as she struggled against Radditz, who held her back from the crackling danger in the center of the mat. He did not see Zarbon sink to the floor with disbelief when the flickers of gold came on and died again.

Vegeta did not feel it when his own power gave out. He did not feel the wretched cramping in his stomach as it heaved up its contents, nor did he feel the crack of his own nose against the floor as his body gave out and crumpled beneath him. He was blissfully unaware while Nappa and Radditz pried his burned hands from the floor, peeling melted rubber from the wounds, though he let loose a low moan when Bulma was finally allowed by the others to get near enough to deactivate the crown.

Life seemed to rush back into the room the second the device quieted. There was a final squelch and snikt of the spikes as they pulled from Vegeta's scalp and returned to their housings within the circlet.

Bulma wrinkled her nose as she eased the blood-slick crown from Vegeta's head. She was careful not to drop it as she wiped the worst of the smears from it and set it back in its padded case. Vegeta's puncture wounds were still oozing red, opened anew by the withdrawal mechanism, and she grabbed a clean rag to blot some of the blood away.

“Fuck'n…thing...” Vegeta muttered, followed by something unintelligible. Possibly Saiyan, possibly Standard, it was too slurred to tell.

“You pushed it too hard,” Bulma said, even though she wasn't sure how conscious he actually was. He'd passed out and was showing some signs of surfacing, but he still seemed pretty out of it. She smoothed a red-slicked spike of hair back from his forehead and blotted again at the line of punctures that disappeared into the hair at his temples. “You need time to recover.”

“Fsh...coddling…'nnoying woman.” He replied, opening his eyes with great effort so she could see them roll in annoyance. “You…'mfine.” He stared at her in a fuzzy, unfocused way and she raised one eyebrow in inquiry.

“Oh, fine, are you? Alright, get on up.” Bulma stood in one fluid motion and gestured for him to do the same. When he failed to follow suit she balled up the bloodstained rag and dropped it right on his chest. He hissed in annoyance but did not move beyond some halfhearted squirming. “I need some alcohol swabs to clean this thing properly,” she said, bending to pick up the circlet case. “So if one or two of you can haul his sorry butt to the med bay, I'll prep a regen tank for you. The head and palm wounds are superficial, but I want to make sure there's no lasting internal damage from the experience. He was suffering pretty badly last time he was unable to get all that energy out. Plus I think his nose is broken.”

“When my nose was broken, you said it was a waste of resources,” Zarbon groused.

“Well if you'd like to test the crown, I'd be happy to put you in a tank afterward. I would love to test on another species of ki-user.” Bulma fluttered her lashes and Zarbon looked uneasily at the case in her hands. “We can have one of the boys here mash your face in, so it'll heal better this time.”

Zarbon stepped back and reached up to touch the bump in the bridge of his nose, almost unconsciously. “You know, I've recently decided that this gives my face character,” he said, and Bulma laughed. She turned to follow Nappa, who'd thrown Vegeta over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Bulma was about to mention that “haul” was meant to be a figure of speech, but then decided she didn't have the time or energy to be the keeper of Vegeta's dignity.

In the med bay, she programmed the tank while Nappa stripped Vegeta of his battlesuit. The prince was still slipping in and out of consciousness, and Bulma took the opportunity to make a few notes on his health. His internal temperature was high but his skin felt cold to touch, like a fire was burning inside but was being insulated somehow. “Huh,” she muttered, lifting his lids to shine a penlight in his eyes, “his pupils aren't shrinking in the light like they should. Like a concussion, but I don't think he really hit his head so much. The nose broke the fall.” She turned the light off and palmed it, then leaned in to take a closer look at the body part in question. The bridge was swollen and she could see the beginnings of bruising around his inner eyes.

“If that contraption gave him brain damage, I'm holding you responsible,” Nappa warned. “You done yet?” He clearly wanted to get Vegeta in the tank as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Bulma put the flashlight down and held her empty hands up. “He's all yours, big guy. The tank will give me the rest of the vital signs and internal reports I need.” She opened another cupboard and pulled out a box of alcohol wipes and a jar of sterile swabs, then flipped the catches on her case and lifted out the circlet.

“Want it to be nice and clean for Frieza?” Nappa curled a lip and glared as she began to wipe the crusted blood from her device, taking special care with swabs around the joints and seams.

“It's not for Frieza, dummy. I need to open this up again to check the components inside and see how it all held up. You know, make sure Vegeta didn't blow any fuses, so to speak.” Bulma frowned as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn bit of crust. “I'm not going to take any chances of some nasty, dried up old blood getting all over my circuitboards. “Wouldn't that be great, if it goes into battle and shorts out because Vegeta's blood has fouled a critical connection?”

“You know one thing I miss about being in the Empire?” Nappa asked, and of course continued without giving Bulma the opportunity to answer. “The fucking techs kept their mouths shut.”

“Why are you still here?” Bulma shot back, and ignored his returning growl. “As much as I love your company, Nappa, I'm sure you have so many super-critical things you must be doing.”

“You're right, I have an important appointment with your mom's pussy.” Nappa towered over her, a nasty grin splitting his ugly face. Bulma rolled her eyes; she'd seen his posturing a million times before.

“If by `my mom' you mean `your own hand with some lipstick on it' then have at `er.” Bulma set the circlet down on the table, tossed her swab in the garbage can, and turned to face him. She crossed her arms and stood tall.

“Fucking bitch, if you weren't Vegeta's…”

“Speaking of Vegeta I thought you were going to get him in the tank. I won't keep you, I'd hate to disrupt your busy schedule of eating, farting, and mastur-”

“Will both of you shut the fuck up?” Vegeta snarled. Conscious again, he'd managed to sit up on the exam table without them noticing. He was blinking owlishly, slumped over and clearly disoriented, but at least moving under his own power. “Like…children.” Vegeta pitched dangerously forward, and Nappa abandoned his spat with Bulma to catch his prince.

“The tank is prepped,” Nappa said, stepping back to assist Vegeta to the floor.

“Don't need it.” Vegeta shoved Nappa's hands away and slid from the table, though Nappa had to catch him again when he swayed sideways faster than his legs could balance him.

“Just an hour or two, Vegeta, to rest up.” Bulma crossed the room and arranged the various tubes and monitors in the tank for quick attachment. “You're exhausted, and you might be suffering some internal damage from the trapped ki.”

Vegeta looked like he was about to protest, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped for just a second before regaining himself. He felt heavy and weak, woozy in the way he often got after taking a severe beating.

“Fine,” he snapped, though the sting was considerably dampened by the tired slur of his mouth. He allowed Nappa to hover over him as he shuffled slowly to the waiting tank, and sneered at Bulma as she watched him submit to the breathing mask.

“Thanks,” Bulma said, extending the olive branch after the tank began to fill. “I couldn't have gotten him up here on my own.”

“I have been taking care of the prince since he was a cub. It's not your place to thank me.” Nappa glowered at her, huffing as though utterly insulted. Which, Bulma supposed, he was.

“Okay, okay, truce. Jeez, you're so fucking sensitive. Other people care about Vegeta too, get over yourself.”

“Gods, I would love to punch you through a wall,” Nappa muttered, shaking his head. He stared at Vegeta, floating peacefully in the tank. “I pray for the day he wakes up from whatever madness has endeared you to him,” he said, even though they were both pretty sure that Vegeta wasn't going to get sick of her any time soon.

“I get it, first in line to punch me through a wall.” Bulma pasted on a big, fake smile as Nappa grumbled his way from the room. As soon as he was gone, she groaned and put her head in her hands. “How the hell is this normal?” she asked aloud.

The tank bubbled and Bulma looked up, glaring, to make sure Vegeta wasn't actually laughing at her from in there. His eyes were still closed. “This is all your fault, you know,” she said to him, narrowing her eyes as the tank bubbled again. If he was awake, he was doing a damn good job of disguising it. Shaking her head, she turned back to the circlet on the counter and reached for a fresh swab. “Goddamn saiyans.”

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I desperately want to see Nappa resurrected somehow in Dragonball Super, just so I can watch him try to pull shit with Bulma.