Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, there would have been more shirtlessness. All shirtless, all the time.

Author's notes: Thanks to all those who've reviewed. You really have no idea how much it means to have people read something I've written, and tell me they like it. Thanks so much for the kind words. Hugs for everybody!!

And to answer a question that came up: The Standard chip is not a universal translation device. It only teaches you “Standard” which is the common language of the universe, and exists only because it's quicker than having to teach everyone to speak Standard the normal way. Additional languages still have to be learned the hard way, as the chip cannot help you understand languages other than Standard. Hope that banishes any confusion that might have come up. :D

Also, jumping around in time again. This chapter follows chapter 4, chronologically. If you'll remember, the scenes immediately leading up to this one include Puar and Radditz's encounter, as well as Bulma/Krillin's conversation with Vengeance, and Bulma's naughty dream.

 

PRESENT DAY

 

Bulma sighed in relief when she heard the ship's hatch close, followed by the quiet squeak that meant Puar had floated into something, not quite used to the sudden darkness. She'd expected him back hours ago and had begun to worry. Benthal Six was an ugly, sad, angry planet with a population to match. Most were transient workers, slaves really, who were there to work the mines. Then there were the prostitutes, of course, there to work the miners. There was little pleasure to be had on a rock like this, that didn't involve drink or drugs or violence. Most involved all three.

She smiled, seeing his tiny shadow float by her open door, illuminated only by the weak track lighting that lined every hallway. “Rough night?” She called out, quietly, so as not to wake Krillin. Of course, she couldn't know that he lay awake as well. Puar let out a surprised squeak, obviously not expecting to be caught.

“Sorry Bulma,” he said, floating into her doorway. “Did I wake you?”

“No, couldn't sleep. Too much excitement today, I guess.” She lied. “You okay?”

“Oh, I'm fine.” Puar said, but she could hear the tightness in his little voice, even higher in pitch than usual. “Just...tired.” He swallowed hard, desperately hoping she wouldn't press him for details of his evening out. “It took a long time to find a cab back to port. Busy night out there.”

“I'm glad you're back Puar.” Bulma said, snuggling into her pillow. “Get some sleep, okay? And close my door on your way out, will ya?”

“Night, Bulma.” He said, grateful that there was to be no interrogation. He hit the door-close button embedded in the frame and the panel slid out and shut with a soft whoosh.

*

Gohan twiddled his pencil between two fingers as he struggled to translate a paragraph from Standard into Saiyan. He'd been studying all morning, curled up with his books in the corner of the training room so that Nappa could keep an eye on him. The big Saiyan had found that young Gohan could not be trusted to study by himself. The boy had a certain flair for becoming distracted, not unlike his uncle Radditz.

“Why do I even have to learn this?” Gohan whined, allowing his head to slump back so that he looked straight up at the ceiling. He blinked against the bright lights but did not turn away.

“It is a part of your heritage.” Nappa said patiently, not even panting despite the fact that he was in the middle of what most people would have considered a strenuous workout.

“Isn't there a chip or something that will teach me this?” He snapped his head back forward, just in time to watch Vegeta stroll into the training room, clad in his workout gear. Gohan sat up straighter, trying to recall if he'd done anything bad lately. Misbehaviour meant he'd be the Prince's punching bag, but good behaviour meant he'd get to watch Nappa be beaten to a pulp. He hoped his tutor wouldn't let on that he'd been complaining.

“There is no such chip.” Vegeta answered the question curtly, dashing Gohan's hopes as he took a stance opposite his former tutor and bodyguard. A lecture was forthcoming, as it always was when the prince caught him doing something disappointing. “Frieza has no need for dead languages, boy.” Nappa crouched low, preparing for the onslaught that he knew was coming. Vegeta made his move, lightning fast, and knocked Nappa into the wall without the slightest hint of effort. “Frieza has no need for anything of intellectual value, cultural significance,” Vegeta continued emotionlessly as he watched Nappa pull himself up, “because you see, cub, he is as foolish as he is arrogant.” The prince jumped back, easily dodging a fist the size of his head, crouched low and struck out with his own foot, striking Nappa behind the left knee. “You're not trying very hard today, Nappa.” He said, frowning, as the other Saiyan's leg buckled. Nappa grinned, suddenly surging from the ground with a tremendous roar, hoping to catch the prince off guard.

His tactic worked, momentarily surprising Vegeta so that Nappa was able to land a punch to the younger man's jaw. Vegeta staggered but regained his footing quickly enough to block Nappa's next move. “Frieza knows nothing of us.” Vegeta snarled, unexpectedly resuming his lecture as he smashed a fist into Nappa's stomach, knocking the wind right out of him. “He does not care to know. And one day it will be his downfall.” Vegeta took a step toward Nappa, who was bent low, arms clasped around his midsection, wheezing, and grabbed his head, forcing it down as he brought his knee upward to collide, breaking an already crooked nose. Gohan winced to hear the crack, to see the blood pour down Nappa's face, but the big man only grinned as his prince stalked away without another word, presumably to attend to other matters. He was like that, Gohan had learned; completely unfazed by violence. It was normal for Vegeta to show up, beat the living hell out of whoever happened to be unlucky enough to make eye contact, and stroll away without even a backwards glance, off to dinner or a nap or a meeting with Frieza, whatever he had on the list for that day.

Nappa spat a gob of pinkish slime and laughed at the colour of it. Vegeta must have knocked a few of his teeth loose, too. Gohan grimaced, not at the idea of injury, but at the action. His mother would have had a fit if anyone spat on her floor. She didn't even like it when people spit outside on the ground. But then again, as he watched the bald giant wipe his bloody nose on his bare arm, Gohan had the idea that his mother would probably have problems with about ninety percent of what Nappa did. The only thing they'd agree on, he was sure, was their unexplainable compulsion to cram his head as full of knowledge as they could.

“Ahh, that hurts like a bitch.” Nappa wore a self-satisfied smile, though it was lopsided with swelling. It wouldn't even take an hour in the regeneration tank to fix that nastiness, and Nappa would emerge stronger than he'd gone in. Not much for such a minor injury, but his power level would still climb. It was a trick of theirs, one of the many Saiyan secrets that Frieza had never bothered to learn. They'd beat the living shit out of each other, push harder and harder, nearly killing each other in simple sparring matches. So long as one of them remained functional enough to drag himself and the others to the regeneration tanks, all was well. Vegeta always went in the worst, of course. Nappa and Radditz always saw to it, so that he'd gain even more from his injuries. He was their hope, after all, and it was their duty to help him become the prophesized warrior, the Super Saiyan, that he was born to be.

The Super Saiyan was another little secret they kept, but a clever secret, hidden in plain sight. Frieza knew the legend, of course, and regularly used it to mock them, but the Saiyans knew he didn't really believe in it like they did. He treated it like a silly, primitive belief, a tribal religion held by a stupid race of under-evolved monkeys. They allowed him to believe that, for when Vegeta ascended, Frieza wouldn't be prepared to face him. They all wanted to see the look on that lizard's face when a God made flesh appeared before him. They all wanted to see him squirm and cry and beg for mercy, and none more than Vegeta, the prophesized one himself, who clung to his destiny the way only the most fanatic of believers can.

Gohan, too, had come to believe in the Super Saiyan, even though he'd only learned of it a few years ago, after being found by the last of his father's true people. Watching Vegeta, seeing the single minded obsession that lurked in his soul, Gohan knew that if anyone could do it, it would be his prince. Even his father's strength paled in comparison to the furious power that lay inside Vegeta.

*

Bulma checked, for probably the billionth time that morning, that her gun was still safely strapped to her thigh. It had been about a week since the research facility debacle, and they'd just landed on Virda, a relatively affluent planet with a cutthroat underground. Who but the rich could afford the black market pleasures of the universe, after all?

“Bulma, don't look so nervous.” Krillin ordered.

“What, they can smell fear?” She quipped, sarcastically, but forced her fidgeting hands to be still. They were waiting for someone to show up, a friend of Gero's who had a package for him. Bulma swallowed her distaste. She hated running pickups for Dr. Gero, but it was the least they could do, considering that they were pretty much intergalactic couch-hoppers. He'd pressed them to stay on Red Station, of course, but beyond running his errands, the lot of them hadn't really contributed much. They were too busy being intergalactic rebels to hold down steady jobs.

“No, but they'll see you fidgeting and peg you a newbie for sure.” He glared at her, cranky from the heat and stink of Virda, and also secretly uneasy at the prospect of meeting one of Dr. Gero's contacts. For all they knew, they were meeting to buy a human head in a jar.

“Gero's crew, I presume?” Said an odd voice to the right. Bulma turned, and nearly shrieked. It was a cockroach. A giant cockroach. A giant,many-legged cockroach. And it was talking to her. “He told me to look out for you, specifically.” It said, and Bulma squirmed in her chair. She couldn't say for sure, given that cockroaches don't have much in the way of facial expressions, but she was pretty certain that it was leering at her.

“We're them.” Krillin said, seeing as Bulma was too busy holding in her lunch to speak.

“Follow me then.” The bug said, clacking it's topmost legs...err...hands? together, as though contemplating something. It led them through an alley into a dingy looking warehouse where more man-roaches stacked boxes. One was driving a fork-lift. If Bulma hadn't been so grossed out, she would have laughed. As it was, she was afraid that if she laughed, she might barf a little, and laughter-barf was not ladylike.

Krillin signed for three huge crates, already loaded onto an open-air transport skiff, and they climbed on, the roach at the helm. During the half hour or so it took to get to the ship, Krillin made awkward conversation with the bug, whose name turned out to be Bug. Short for Stanislau Askritya Buglovich. Knowing the long form made it less funny to the three tired Earthlings.

“So, what's in here, anyway?” Krillin shouted, over the hum of the engine and the whoosh of air streaming by. The thing was basically a hovering platform with a safety bar around the edges, so the ride was none too comfortable.

“You mean you don't know? Well then I probably shouldn't tell ya.” Bug said, wringing his topmost appendages together as lower ones took over the steering wheel.

“Aww, c'mon.” Krillin shrugged. “Really, how secret could it be? For all the Doc knows, we're gonna pop these open as soon as you drop `em off anyway.”

“Well, I guess they can't be too big of a secret. They're just regeneration tanks, after all.”

“Regeneration tanks?” Bulma sounded incredulous, “What would Dr. Gero want with three regeneration tanks?” Bug looked at them, puzzled by their surprise. Regeneration tanks weren't exactly the most surprising of contraband items. Why, they weren't even illegal - just damn expensive to purchase through more legitimate channels.

“Well, they're handy to have, I guess.” Krillin supplied, but Bulma had already become lost in the maze of thoughts that was her own mind. Puar and Krillin shared a knowing glance; she'd probably have it figured out by the time they got home.

*

“This Vengeance character is causing me quite a bit of trouble, Zarbon.” Frieza said icily, his typically calm exterior beginning to crack. “The loss of the ki-band prototype and all related data is somewhat of a setback for us.” Zarbon squirmed. It was a monumental setback, and they both knew it. With all the data gone, Frieza couldn't even have another research centre continue the task of the destroyed one. They had to start fresh, with no idea where to begin, since the original documents had been so heavily guarded. None of the researchers had been left alive. Their secrets and their knowledge had died with them.

“How do you know it was Vengeance, sir?” Zarbon dared to ask.

“Because he practically PISSED his name on the WALL,” Frieza screeched, “that's how!” The little emperor's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, tried to reign in the anger of his sudden outburst. Zarbon was alarmed by his ever-cool master's uncharacteristic tantrum. A strange sense of elation washed through him at the idea that someone could disturb Frieza this much, even as he was unnerved by it. “He's taunting me, that pompous little shit.” Frieza hissed, furiously tapping at his keypad to bring a stream of data to the room's display monitors. “Look at this. That bastard is connected to over fifteen known renegade groups, and who knows how many that have thus far eluded us!”

“If he is so well connected, then it should be easy to discover his identity, sire.” Zarbon scanned the list, frowning. He had not been aware that Frieza's men had managed to worm themselves into so many resistance groups. He wondered what other knowledge his master was keeping hidden.

“Not so.” The lizard king's voice was bitter, like that of a pouting child. “I have spies in every one of these groups. I have operatives infiltrating still more. And yet, nothing! This Vengeance is a clever bastard, Zarbon. Not even his contacts know who he is, so they couldn't tell us, even if they wanted to!”

“My Lord, if I may be so bold,” Zarbon suggested, “I feel we need a man on the inside. Not one of these spying lackeys, sire, but a real higher up.”

“It would take years for one of mine to work his way to the top, and by that time Vengeance will have united them all against me.” Frieza hissed, affronted at the very idea that someone would dare to defy him so grandly.

“No, sire. It would not take years. It would take Ginyu.”

*

Two weeks later, Bulma still wasn't sure what the regeneration tanks were for. Aside from the obvious, of course, but why Gero would think there was need at their little base for multiple tanks was beyond her. Then again, considering that most of Gero's research interests made her slightly uncomfortable, she hadn't done a lot of in-depth thinking on them. The old man had been shutting himself in his lab for longer and longer periods of time, obviously excited about something. Both she and her father had been on the receiving end of raving, impromptu lectures about artificial life, and something that Dr. Gero had dubbed “the organic machine”. Whatever he was trying to accomplish, he'd either had a major breakthrough, or he'd gone wildly insane.

When she thought about the cloak and dagger nature of all his experiments, she wasn't sure which outcome she preferred.

“Yo, Bulma,” Krillin stepped into the cargo hold, where Bulma had taken up residence. She though that if she stared at the crates long enough, the answer might come to her. “We're almost planetside.”

“Ugh, I could use a break from thinking, anyway.” Bulma groaned as she stood up, feeling the muscles in her back pop and protest. “I don't know why I care so much about these stupid tanks, anyway. I mean, really, they're regeneration tanks. What could they be used for, besides healing you guys, after you beat on each other too much?” She squinted reprovingly at Krillin, remembering the last time he and Chichi had gone at each other on the training floor. She had gotten a lot stronger in the past three years, thanks to sparring with Krillin and Yamcha, but after Yamcha's death, the two of them had pushed their training to dangerous limits that had landed them both in the medical ward with concussions. Beyond that, Krillin had gotten away with some bruises, but Chichi's leg was broken in three places, which was why she hadn't accompanied them on this mission.

“Well, I hope they're just for regeneration. I think Chichi will go insane if she actually has to spend four months in a cast.”

“I don't know, I think she'd finding those crutches pretty handy. She walloped Oolong a good one when she caught him trying to draw a dick on her thigh, after he offered to sign her cast.”

“Oh man, I hadn't heard that one.” Krillin rolled his eyes, easily able to imagine that exact moment. “How far did he get?”

“Shaft and head,” Bulma grinned, “But no balls. I think Chichi tried to turn it into a drawing of a duck, but it still looks like a dick to me.”

“Ahh, the elusive cock-billed mallard.” Krillin cracked, as Bulma tried to stifle snorts of laughter. “A majestic bird, prized by hunters for its unusual beak.”

“I hate to interrupt the nature program,” Puar squeaked, floating around the corner into the hold, “but we're hitting the atmosphere soon and the computer's telling me that manual control of the ship may become necessary.”

“Okay, okay,” Bulma laughed, linking her hands together above her head, to stretch her arms. “I'm on it.” It was their last stop before heading home to Red Station, and they were all eager to be on their way.

“Also,” Puar said, as Bulma was halfway up the rungs to the control deck, Krillin close behind, “it looks more like a loon than a mallard.” Bulma laughed so hard she nearly fell off the ladder.

*

Gohan twitched in his sleep, twisting the already tangled blanket around his legs. Nappa shook his head, leaning over the bed to fix the blanket, gently, so as not to wake the boy from his sleep. Some might have considered it a kindness to wake him from his nightmare, but Nappa knew that it was the only way for the child's mind to work through his fears. He'd seen it before, after all.

Poor Gohan was so like the young Prince Vegeta, torn from his home and everything he knew, desperately trying to uphold a brave front, when his world was crumbling around him. Nappa and Radditz had been unable to protect Vegeta from the ravages of life in Frieza's army, or from the cruelties of the beast himself. The prince had done admirably, however, strong in the conviction that he would be the one to topple the tyrant that had taken his throne. Gohan had no such destiny to live up to, and perhaps because of that, his uncle and his tutor were uncommonly protective of him. Vegeta scoffed at their behaviour, accused them of coddling the boy and making him weak, and in fact would probably beat Nappa silly, if he knew the older man was here, playing blanket-guard like some old nanny, but he too was eager to shelter the boy, in his own way.

Nappa knew that Vegeta, too, looked at Gohan and saw a reflection of himself; a child who, despite similar circumstances, did not have to live the hell that he had endured as a child. It was why they'd been back at Frieza's stronghold only once since acquiring the boy, some two-odd years ago. Frieza had demanded to see the child, the demi-saiyan that he had heard about, and they had reluctantly obeyed, cautioning the boy to be on his best behaviour, to follow their lead, and most importantly, not to let Frieza see any of the fear or hatred that he inspired in his subjects. Emotions were a weakness to be exploited, another method of control Frieza used in his sick games. They'd cautioned the boy that any wrongdoing on his part would be taken out on Vegeta, as Frieza was so fond of doing. It was their agreement, that as royalty, Vegeta be given the governance of his own men. It was a matter of pride, he'd said, and the lizard had acquiesced. Vegeta had bought the lives of his men with his body, with his pride. He alone suffered for the mistakes of the group, a fact whose enormity the young half-saiyan did not quite grasp.

Gohan had not been able to contain his anger, and perhaps it had been unfair of them to ask it of him, Nappa thought. He'd screamed at the diminutive emperor, throwing himself toward the throne in a spectacular and wholly unexpected display of rage. Frieza had simply laughed at the child's attempts, before putting him down with a mere flick of his finger. Vegeta had stepped in at that point, of course demanding his right to discipline the boy himself, and Frieza had simply smiled and taken his vengeance on the prince instead, while the three remaining Saiyans watched. Gohan would receive his punishment later. Nappa and Radditz, sure as they were of the brutalities Gohan must have witnessed in the slave camps, knew the child had probably never been party to the methodical cruelty that Frieza so fondly doled out. They watched in silence, forcing the child's eyes open, even as he fought to keep them closed, as blood was shed and bones were broken, as every effort was made to render body and mind useless. They made Gohan watch so that he would see the strength of their prince; a man whose mind remained impenetrable, whose pride remained intact even as his body was smashed to pieces.

Of course Nappa and Radditz had beaten Gohan later, an unpleasant ordeal involving much blood and tears. It was the latter that unnerved the two adult Saiyans so much; neither of them could recall ever having seen one of their number cry. Not even Vegeta, who'd suffered every torture that Frieza's twisted mind could fabricate, had ever shed a tear in his pain or misery. Gohan's sobs had frustrated them, and so they'd beat him harder than they intended, leaving him in a regeneration tank alongside his prince, broken bodily and in mind. They'd congratulated themselves on a job well done, confident that the boy would never forget what the prince suffered for them, but the experience had left them both slightly unnerved, each secretly fearful that they'd done some lasting damage to the boy, that they'd become for him what Frieza was for Vegeta.

No doubt, the boy was dreaming of that day, watching visions of a man he barely knew, a man who claimed to be his prince, being broken and humiliated in his place. Taking that pain and suffering upon himself, simply because they were of the same people.

The boy had been unfailingly loyal ever since.

 

*

“Thank you, Sixteen,” Chichi said, as the big man lifted her from the tub and set her gently on the floor. He waited a moment for her to gain her balance - a delicate feat on one foot - before releasing her. Mrs. Briefs was there, quickly wrapping a towel around the younger woman, to cover her naked, dripping body. Sixteen seemed unfazed by the sight of such things, which was the only reason that Chichi had allowed him to help out. Roshi and Oolong, needless to say, had been disappointed.

“You are welcome.” He said, his cool blue eyes never straying below her shoulders. Chichi sighed gratefully as he left. Sixteen's presence was a bit of a lifesaver. She and Mrs. Briefs were currently the only women on board Red Station, Bulma not expected back for at least another two weeks, and there was no way the older woman would have been able to haul anyone out of the tub like that.

“Damn this cast.” Chichi cursed, frowning at the thing that covered her leg from hip to toes. Her mobility was more than severely hampered, and it was beginning to drive her crazy. She bent and began peeling the waterproof coating - an odd, almost jelly-like putty, from her the cast on her thigh, as Mrs. Briefs knelt to start at her foot. “Why can't we just leave this goo on all the time?” She moaned, knowing full well that when allowed to dry out, the putty would flake and fall apart.

“Oh, dear, try not to worry too much about it.” Bulma's famously chipper mother said, as she pulled a chunk of jiggly, wiggly gunk from Chichi's ankle. It wobbled like jello in her hand as she reached out to dump it in the garbage can. “After all, you only have to wear your cast for another three and a half months.” The putty made a sickening splat as it hit the bottom of the can.

“At best.” Chichi groaned, knowing she could very well be stuck for up to six months, if her femur was as badly cracked as Dr. Gero thought it was.

*

Bulma, Krillin and Puar, who had once again morphed into as intimidating a form as he could think of, were met at the landing docks of Boona, an average sized city of the planet Chisal. Their guide was cloaked from head to toe in breezy, white fabric, his face hidden from view. Bulma shuddered, remembering Bug, and wondered what hideousness this one could possibly be hiding.

“Come this way,” he said, in a surprisingly childlike voice, and as he reached out to assist Bulma down an awkward step, she noted a surprisingly humanoid hand. Four green fingers and one green thumb were each graced with pointed fingernails, but the size and shape of it were remarkably similar to that of a human child of ten or so. She grasped the hand, pleased and comforted by the warmth of it. His skin was smooth and slightly tough to touch, but she was not bothered his grip. Krillin hopped down on his own and Puar, awkward in his bulky new form, nearly toppled them all.

“Sorry,” Puar muttered, righting himself. He wished he'd chosen something with longer legs, but it was too late to shift now.

“Tell your friend he needn't worry,” the diminutive little guide said to Bulma, though he spoke loud enough that his next words stopped them all in their tracks. “He may revert to his natural form if he so chooses.” Bulma let her hand slide from his grasp and took a step backward.

“H...How did you know?” She asked, shakily. The cloaked form stood there for a moment, merely observing them from under the cover of his veil.

“I am simply aware, that is all.” He said, sounding like a remorseful child who has said something upsetting, but is unaware of why it should not have been said.

“Puar, go ahead.” Krillin said, watching the shrouded figure. He noted the slight swivel of the head, and suddenly had the feeling that the figure beneath the fabric was smiling at him. He grinned back. “I think it will be alright.” Puar looked to Bulma, who nodded after a quick perusal of the area. They were in a fairly sheltered spot, and there was no one around that any of them could see. Puar changed back with a soft `pop' and came to rest on Bulma's shoulder. The guide turned and resumed walking, the three uneasy Earthlings trailing him. He did not make a move to grasp Bulma's hand again as they walked, though he stayed as close to her as a child might his mother.

Ten minutes of walking found them in a transport hangar, where they climbed into the closest thing to cars that they'd seen since leaving Earth, and Bulma felt a particular pang of homesickness. She was oddly comforted by the warmth of the little guide in the seat next to her. “The vehicle will drive itself.” He said. “I have programmed our destination in already. I would advise that if any of you suffer from sickness of motion, looking out the windows would not be wise.” He spoke with the confidence of one who knew firsthand. “The vehicle moves incredibly fast and the landscape rushes by at dizzying speeds.”

The transport vehicle was indeed faster than Bulma had expected it to be, for in about ten minutes, they were so far from the city that she could no longer see its towering skyline over the flat plains of Chisal's countryside. Another ten minutes and they'd arrived at their destination - a sprawling little homestead with a little white dome for a house.

“Come, you will meet Guru now.” Said the guide, as the vehicle's door opened with a mechanic hiss of air. Bulma gasped in shock as they stepped into the sunlight, and beside her, Krillin dropped into a fighting stance.

“Piccolo!” They both cried out at the same time, much to the dismay of their guide.

“What is going on?” He asked, sounding distressed, as he pushed his hood back. “Do not be alarmed!” Bulma shrieked and jumped back as the smooth green head and curved antennae were revealed.

“I believe you are mistaken.” Said the other, as he stepped closer and dropped into his own fighting stance. He smirked, showing off an impressive set of fangs. “But if it is a battle you desire, I am more than happy to comply. Get back, Dende.”

“Nail, stop it!” The little Piccolo cried out, jumping in between the two warriors with his arms outstretched. “This is not our purpose!” He turned toward Krillin, grateful that Nail seemed to be obeying. “Who is this Piccolo you speak of?” Krillin's eyes darted toward the guide, who it seemed really was just a child, and his eyes widened with surprise. He relaxed his stance a little, looking toward the adult figure, noticing now the subtle differences in looks.

“What,” he said weakly, as he moved out of his fighting stance altogether, “is going on?”

“My name is Dende.” The child said, smiling in earnest as Nail relaxed his stance as well. “This is Nail. We are servants of Guru, the man you have come to meet. Please, come. He will be waiting.” Shrugging, Krillin followed the boy into the little domed house, forcing Bulma and Puar to follow, lest they be left outside with that Piccolo lookalike. The inside of the house was cool and shady, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust, but when they did, none of them quite believed what they were seeing. Sitting before them, resplendent in robes, was the fattest, oldest looking creature they'd ever seen. They'd seen a lot of fat, and they'd seen a lot of old, but none of them could recall a creature so endowed of both. Dende and Nail both bowed, bent at the waist, and Dende said something in a language that the Earthlings did not understand, before stepping aside to wave the trio forward.

“Honourable guests,” the humongous old man said as he gestured them forward, “my name is Guru. Welcome to my home. Sit, please. May I offer you any food or drink? We Nameks consume only water, so we do not have much, but we tend the trees here and in return they give us fruits so our guests might have some refreshment.”

“Water would be wonderful, thank you. My name is Bulma. This is Krillin and Puar.” Bulma said, though she got the distinct impression that they already knew, somehow. Beside him, Dende grinned widely.

“You do us honour, to trust us with your real names.” Guru smiled, and they could see his pointed fangs, surprisingly white for one so old. Bulma wondered, briefly, why a creature who consumed only water would need such sharp teeth, or any teeth, for that matter, but dismissed it as inconsequential.

“You do us honour with your recognition.” Bulma replied, and she meant it. Guru was known widely in the underground resistance as a level headed and compassionate man. His teams worked primarily to bring aid to those suffering under Frieza's rule. They freed slaves and brought medicine and food to besieged peoples. Guru's men never set bombs while their allies were still around to get blown up, Bulma thought sourly.

“I have heard of your great technical prowess, Codename Blue, is it?” He asked Bulma. “I did wonder about your name, but now I see. But that is beside the point. I understand that you have developed a device that stores incredible things in a tiny little container. Is this true?”

“Well, sort of.” Bulma accepted a gourd filled with water from Dende, and sipped gratefully from it. The day had grown very hot, and even in the nice, cool hut, she was sweating. “My father developed it, really, back on Earth. I worked there too, helping him. We call it encapsulation. I have one here, if you'd like to see it.” At Guru's nod, she pulled a capsule from her bag, clicked the top down and tossed it into the center of the room. Moments later, a pop sounded and in its place was a sturdy looking case, roughly the size of a coffee table. “It's not much,” she said, opening the lid to display rows of bandages and wads of cotton. She lifted out the tray to reveal more neatly organized compartments, full of medical equipment and supplies. “Just a first aid kit, but we can go bigger. On Earth, we encapsulated cars, jets, and even small houses. We're still working out the kinks though; we had to start from the ground up, since our facilities on Earth were destroyed.”

“Wonderful, amazing!” Guru's squinty eyes lit up with delight. “Imagine all the food we could transport, if we had access to such things! Name your price, Bulma, Krillin and Puar.” Bulma was a little taken aback for a moment. She was used to hemming and hawing, even with other resistance bands, but here he was, offering anything that was in his power to give. Nail seemed to share Bulma's sentiments, for his eyes had popped halfway out of his head and he began to sputter something about how Guru was too trusting.

“Aren't you even going to try lowballing me?” She blurted out, surprised. She blushed when the three green men looked confused. “I mean...um...ah...”

“Your technology is invaluable to us.” Guru said firmly, and again, Bulma got the impression that regardless of what she said, he already knew what was going to happen, more or less.

“Tell us what you are.”

“Pardon me?” It was Nail's turn to be caught off guard.

“That's my price.” Bulma said. “We knew someone on Earth named Piccolo and he looked exactly like you.” She pointed at Nail. “So what's the deal? Tell us, and we'll keep you in capsule boxes.”

“I do believe I know this Piccolo you speak of.” Guru smiled dreamily, appearing lost in memory. “I was but a young man, but I remember. Such a troubled soul, the likes of which the Elders had never seen on Namek, for that is the name of our planet, rest her soul.” He touched two fingers briefly to his heart in a sort of salute, before continuing. “The elders did not know what to do with Piccolo, so full of pride and passion. He was fire, when all we Nameks knew was water and earth.”

“Actually,” Krillin piped up, a little bit hesitant to interrupt the old sage, “that Piccolo, Piccolo Daimyo as we called him, was killed. He was the terror of Earth. The Piccolo that we had mistaken Nail for is his son, though he's probably...well...when Earth was destroyed...I guess they're both dead.” He finished, awkwardly trailing off.

“Hmmm,” Guru seemed a little saddened by Krillin's statement. “I would have thought he would do greater things. The Piccolo that I remember was volatile, yes, but tempered by such goodness.” Bulma and Krillin shared a look; they didn't remember any kind of goodness in either Piccolo, unaware as they were that Piccolo Daimyo was born of the evil that had been cast off by Guru's Piccolo, in order to become Kami.

“So Piccolo was an alien then?” Bulma asked, “A Namek? What happened to your planet?”

“Ahh, she suffered the same fate as Earth, I am afraid. Frieza's forces came. They took many of our strong and our wise into their ships to become slaves, and they destroyed the rest along with Mother Namek. Nail, Dende and I, along with a few others that live here too, were lucky enough to escape. Nail stole one of their ships, you see.” Guru grinned like a mischievous child at Nail, who seemed a little embarrassed by the attention. “It was a rather wild adventure for us.”

“Wait, they took people?” Krillin interrupted, sitting forward in his seat.

“Why, yes, did they not take Earthlings too?” Guru sounded surprised. “Is that not how you escaped Earth?”

“We...we don't know. We were in space when the planet was destroyed...but they did send ships down before they blew it up!” Krillin turned triumphantly to Bulma and Puar, “This means that some Earthlings might be alive still! Goku and Tien and Chiaotzu! They're strong, they were probably taken by Frieza's men!” Puar squeaked something unintelligible and grasped Bulma's shirt so hard, she thought he was going to tear it. She was too excited to care, even though it was one of her favourite shirts.

“To be slaves.” Nail's hard voice cut in, effectively putting a damper on their sudden enthusiasm. “If they were taken, they've become slaves or soldiers. If they've become slaves or soldiers, they're either dead, or wishing they were.”

“And if they're alright?” Krillin asked belligerently, a little miffed at Nail for his quick destruction of their happiness.

“I don't want to meet the man who is `alright' under Frieza's rule.” Nail shot back, full of venom.

“Now, now,” Guru cut in, “no need for this bickering. We are all friends here, all working together against Frieza.” He turned his head to focus on Nail, “Let them have their hope, child. It will do them no harm.”

 

 

Why does Bug's full name sound vaguely Eastern European? I don't know, but it does. I got stuck on “Buglovich” and I had to roll with it from there.

Anyway, that's all for chapter 6. Please consider leaving a review! I would love to know what you think!!