Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Weapon ❯ One ( Chapter 1 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.

A/N: Just as a disclaimer, I use New Zealand English when I write (with the exception of when I write accented dialogue, e.g. "Mommy" rather than "Mummy"). As a result, some words may look weird to those who are used to US English. The main one to watch out for in this chapter is 'cheque' (as in "I'll write you a cheque"), which is spelled 'check' in US English.

Also, I'm in love with hinodegiri's fanfic Overflow. In that story Yamcha's nickname for Marron is 'baby girl', and I couldn't help using it in my own fic. :)

One

Day 165 in the Standard Year 762

The marketplace was bustling with beings of all sorts, filling Bra's small head with so many noises and smells that she felt overwhelmed. She clutched her mother's hand tighter as she came close to being trodden on by a six-legged mule, and pressed herself further against her mama's leg.

"I can walk, Mama," she protested as her mother picked her up and out of the way of the dumb beasts that lumbered past in a train. She was five, and to her that meant she was a Big Girl- big enough to walk beside her mother instead of being carried around like a baby. Nevertheless, she didn't resist any further when her mother pressed her covered face close to her ear and whispered "Shh, it's okay sweetie," and instead wrapped her arms around her mother's neck. Secretly, she still preferred to be carried, especially in a confusing place like this.

For Bulma, she felt a lot safer with Bra in her arms. It seemed silly; her daughter, after all, was half Saiyan, and thousands of times stronger than she would ever be. But in a place as busy as Shoka Fair, she felt far less anxious when she had a firm grip on Bra. Her greatest fear was losing her little girl, and it seemed unnervingly likely amidst the throng of smelly, sweaty bodies that crushed between the rows of market stalls.

With speed that came from the experiences of many market run-ins, she stepped to the side in order to let another cart of goods pass. When the dust that sprung from the cart's wheels cleared, she spotted a small, unoccupied alcove between two stalls. Though her progress was hindered by the numerous bodies that bumped rudely into her, she eventually made her way over to the shadowed area, sighing when she finally put her child back down on the ground. She chewed her bottom lip, briefly wondering how she was going to do things as Bra continued to grow. It wouldn't be long before the little girl would be too heavy to carry for more than a few minutes at a time.

"Can we take these things off now? It's sooo hot!" Bra exclaimed, her small gloved hands already pulling at the dark grey cloth that covered her face and neck, leaving only her bright blue eyes visible beneath the hood of her cloak.

"No sweetie," Bulma replied, crouching down and reaching out to still Bra's little hands. "Remember what we talked about?" she whispered quietly, knowing her daughter's sensitive ears would pick up her voice, even with the noise of the crowd all around. "It's safer for us to hide our faces here; we don't want anyone to recognize us. I know it's hot under there, but I promise, we only need to find a few more parts and then we're good to go."

Bulma could only just make out her daughter's sigh over the noise that surrounded them. She bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a laugh at her child's slumped shoulders, and instead pulled her little girl closer, wrapping her arms around Bra's small frame. Underneath the layers of fabric that covered the child's head and body, Bulma could feel her daughter's well-hidden tail. She once again sent a small prayer of thanks to whatever kami seemed to be looking out for them; it was always easier to hide her daughter's Saiyan tail on planets where the locals dressed in baggy robes. The fact that thick cloaks and facial coverings were highly fashionable here- worn also out of practicality due to the numerous dust storms that plagued Shokata- made it even easier to shop. Underneath the robes that hid her face and frame, rendering her both irrelevant and unrecognizable, Bulma felt far safer than she had in years, even amongst the crown of money-hungry merchants and less-than-trustworthy customers.

"I'll tell you what," she said to her small daughter. "Once we find the seller we need and buy everything, we'll go back that way and get some of those dumplings that looked so yummy," she bargained, nodding in the direction of the food stalls in the distance. "We can get the shop lady to wrap them up so we can eat them back on the ship."

As expected, Bra perked up at the mention of food. "Let's hurry!" she said, her small hand reaching for Bulma's much larger one. "I'm hungry, Mama!"

"You're always hungry," Bulma laughed, crouching so that Bra could climb onto her back. "Come on, baby girl; the sooner we get this over and done with, the better."

. . .

"Sixty five," the alien said, his two pairs of black bug eyes blinking all at once from above his long, trunk-like nose. Bulma repressed the urge to shudder, and was glad she didn't have to worry about schooling her expression behind the cloth that covered her face- the alien both looked and smelled disgusting, and seemed to be something of a cross between a pink elephant and a grasshopper. He stood behind the back counter of his shabbily-constructed shack, the surrounding walls covered with display after display of dusty engine parts. Cardboard boxes of scrap metal and spare parts lined the floor, and she could hear Bra behind her, quietly sifting through the contents of one such container.

"Fifty," Bulma shot back, her voice sounding deep, husky, and masculine thanks to the small electronic device she wore loosely over her lips. "And that's my final offer. I won't pay any more for this pile of shit, so take it or leave it."

"No, no, no," the junk trader replied in his heavy accent. "Sixty five gwups. Final offer. You take it or leave it, and see if I care."

"Fifty," she replied, trying to add as much malice as she could into her voice. Thankfully, the auto-tune device did it for her, making her sound far more powerful than she really was.

The bug-elephant man's eyes blinked rapidly; from what Bulma could tell, this meant he was pissed off. "Bah," he spat. "I will give you it all for sixty."

"Fifty."

It was at this moment that she felt a small hand tugging at her grey robe. Bra stood at her hip, still swathed in a mass of grey fabric, carefully clutching her own pile of spare parts. The little girl didn't speak, but with big blue eyes that were perfectly skilled at expressing silent pleas, she didn't have to. Bulma reached down, her gloved hand quickly sifting through the various contents of her daughter's arms. Turning back to the trader, she sighed.

"I'll give you sixty," she growled, "if you include this junk as well."

The trader's eyes flickered to the pile in Bra's arms for only a moment. Seeing no use in what was there, he shrugged. "Deal," he said evenly. "You want that packaged? It's another gwup for plastic cases; environment tax," he added smoothly.

Bulma sighed, knowing that for once, the merchant wasn't bullshitting with her. She had no idea why the Cold Empire had suddenly become wary of the environment on Shokata- most likely it was just another revenue-grabbing exercise- but she was growing impatient, and couldn't be bothered bartering any more. She pulled out sixty one gwups in cash- they couldn't trace her that way- and handed it over silently. The trader grinned in reply, or at least she though he grinned, it was hard to see his mouth with his trunk in the way.

At least Bra was behaving herself. Bulma watched as the little girl placed her things on the counter, drawing her gloved hands away quickly before the trader could touch her. She grinned up at her mother; again, Bulma didn't need to see Bra's hidden mouth to know this, as the little girl's beaming eyes said it all.

"What are you going to make with it?" she gestured to her daughter, using the Earth's sign language. She'd only learnt it on Earth because it was a good PR stunt- the genius Bulma Briefs of Capsule Corporation learning sign in two weeks, so that she could communicate unaided with the newly-appointed deaf member of the board of directors- but the knowledge had proved surprisingly useful in her new life in space. With sign she could communicate with her daughter- for she'd taught Bra the language from day one- in almost any setting without others realising what was going on.

"Our toaster broke again; remember?" Bra signed back. "I'm going to fix it."

"Of course," Bulma replied silently, her eyes flickering over to the trader to check that his back was still turned, before adding "I forgot."

It was at that moment that another alien entered the small shack through the back door. The trader looked up and spoke sharply in an alien language; in return the second alien shrugged and picked up another plastic carton, passing it to the trader. Bulma kept her eyes lowered, not really paying attention to what the two men said, despite the fact that she knew enough Ganshup to get by. However, her head snapped up as a single word caught her attention.

"… Saiyans fucking ripped us off, those monkey bastards. I should have known their money was no good; the cheque fucking bounced this morning - "

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, you don't accept cheques! Cash - good; credit chip - also good, but fucking paper cheques? No way! Idiot!" the trader shot back at his colleague, his mouth turned down in an ugly sneer.

"It ain't my fault those no good filthy monkeys can't be trusted. We should just turn them in. Frieza wants 'em all dead anyways."

"Bah. We would be dead within the week; you think a mere sighting of some low-class Saiyans would really interest Frieza? No, but it'd get us killed for sure. I see now that you're an even bigger idiot than I originally thought."

Bulma forced herself to lower her eyes once more, though her heart raced at the information. And although it wasn't a language Bra understood, Bulma could tell her daughter had picked up on the relevant keyword. "Act normal," Bulma signed discretely. "Do not look at the aliens, okay?"

"But what are they saying?" Bra signed back. "Mama?" she gestured wildly.

"Hush," Bulma replied quickly, despite the fact that Bra wasn't making any noise.

"Do you think they're with the rebels?" the idiot colleague was asking.

"I don't know, and I don't care. Stop asking stupid questions, idiot; you'll get us killed."

"But there's supposed to be only three full-blooded Saiyans left in existence now; you don't think those two are two of those three? 'Cause if they are, and we know, and we don't tell, and Frieza finds out - "

"Shut up! Do you want to die?"

"No - "

"Then be quiet! There were never any Saiyans here," the trader hissed vehemently, "you never served any Saiyans! They don't exist!"

"But I can still smell Saiyans even now; it's lingering in the air - "

"SHUT UP!"

Bulma placed a calming hand on Bra's cloaked head, and was shocked to find her daughter trembling. "It's okay," she signed quickly. "Honey, it's okay."

The trader seemed to suddenly remember their presence; he roughly packaged the rest of their goods, before handing the two plastic boxes over. Bulma tried to take them quickly, but the trader's grip remained on the goods as his four eyes scrutinised her for a moment. "Do you understand?" he asked in his native tongue.

"Look, can we just go?" she growled back. "I don't understand your fucking gibberish, and I'm not in the mood for games, you fuckwit." Inwardly, her chest pained at the thought that she was a bad mother, cursing up a storm in front of her child, but in this case necessity called for such an action.

The alien seemed satisfied with the answer. He let the boxes go, and Bulma turned her back on the small market shop without any further hesitation. Bra trotted beside her, the girl's small gloved hand clutching at her robe once more as they lost themselves within the crush of bodies outside. They moved swiftly through the crowd and down past the food stalls without stopping. Lunch could wait.

Bulma continued to check behind her, ignoring her sore feet, and the weight of the vital equipment in her arms. Not once did she see anyone following them.

Still, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and her spine prickled. If ever she felt the need to watch her back- and more importantly, her daughter's- it was now.