Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein. If I did, Krillin would have been hotter. Maybe then more people would be interested in writing K/18 fics.

Author's notes: Sorry for the delay between chapters. Been uninspired lately and writing something that doesn't suck has been difficult. Thanks for the reviews, guys. It's a big motivator to know that people want to hear the rest of the story.

 

PRESENT DAY

 

Bulma fiddled with the tiny device in her hands as she waited for the computer analysis to finish printing out. The meeting with Guru had left her jumpy and nervous, unable to sit still. He'd given them two gifts before they left, the first of which had been bestowed upon Krillin. Bulma hadn't really been sure what was happening, but she'd watched as the old Namek placed his huge, wrinkled hand on Krillin's head, watched his eyes widen with shock as a strange glow surrounded him. She couldn't sense power levels herself, but Krillin assured her that his had skyrocketed in a matter of moments.

The second gift was for Bulma, though Guru explained that it couldn't really be considered a gift, since she technically owned it in the first place. He'd smiled at her puzzled look and dropped the ghost drive into her outstretched palm.

It was the little device that bothered her so, at that moment. How had Vengeance known that she would be with Guru? She was scared by the idea that he seemed to know so much about her, terrified that she was putting her life, and the lives of her friends, in danger. Did he know about Red Station? If he did, how many others knew as well? She'd been confident that Red would remain completely separate from her activities as Blue - she'd taken great pains to scramble signals so no one could trace the origins of her transmissions. The fact that Vengeance could contact her at will did not bother her, for it had been her tools which allowed him to do so, but the fact that he'd traced her physical location was a major blow to her confidence, and also her sense of security.

The computer chimed and Bulma snatched the piece of paper from the printer, her eyes greedily scanning it for details. She'd checked the ghost drive for fingerprints, DNA, fibres, any kind of clue as to who'd had it. She desperately wanted to turn the tables on Vengeance, that smarmy son of a bitch. She was doomed to be disappointed. No fingerprints, no skin flakes, no nothing. So all she knew was that the clever bastard was smart enough to wear gloves while handling it.

“Bulma! BULMA!” Puar's urgent squeak grabbed her attention, and she looked up to see the little cat soar, madcap, into the room. “Come quickly, come quickly! You have to change our course!”

“Puar, Puar, calm down! What's going on?” She asked, stopping dead as the shapeshifter tugged on her hand, trying to pull her forward.

“We need to change course! It's Chichi, she's on the comlink. She says a slaver near here is advertising a three eyed Earthling for sale!”

*

*

Bulma eyed the regeneration tank, thankful for whatever crazy scheme had caused Dr. Gero to buy it. She checked the little monitor to be sure that all was well with the man floating inside; Tien had been in really bad shape when they'd found him, and Bulma had spent all night trying to assemble and program the machine. She'd been terrified that something would go wrong, unfamiliar as she was with the technology, but she could see that some of the cuts and gashes marring his skin had already begun to close up. The healing process was going more slowly than she figured it could, but she was very worried about overdoing it, and besides, he looked like he could use the extra rest.

Bulma frowned, watching Tien float, unconscious in the blue liquid. He'd been disturbingly out of sorts when they'd picked him up; he hadn't seemed to know them. Granted, they'd never been great friends, but he should've at least known Krillin's face. He'd been in a daze, looking blankly at them as though they were strangers. Bulma frowned, bringing her hand up to her mouth and catching her thumbnail between her teeth as she focused her gaze on his wrists. They were raw from the cuffs he'd been wearing to chain his hands together. Identical bands of angry flesh wrapped around his ankles as well. The whole slave-camp had been barbaric, and Bulma shuddered at the thought of all those poor souls they'd had to leave behind. Not for the first time, she cursed her lack of wealth, even knowing that it wasn't enough to buy freedom for all of the slaves in that one market, let alone the rest of the universe.

She shuddered, remembering the camp; endless rows of wire-mesh cages, bare dirt floors, with not even a sink or toilet. The stench of feces, urine, and unwashed bodies had been overpowering, enough to bring tears to her eyes. Puar had spent the entire time perched on her shoulder with his nose buried in her hair to try and block out the stink. The slaver in charge was a gruff, quiet man with a whip coiled on one hip and a beam gun on the other. He'd seen their physical similarities to Tien and had doubled his price, knowing that they would pay. Bulma had haggled him down a quarter, but he'd refused to go any lower, so Krillin had grudgingly handed over their money, while Bulma mentally calculated how much fuel they'd need to buy to account for the detour, and whether or not they could afford to get home. Puar remained in her hair.

Tien hadn't struggled as the slaver handed Krillin the end of a heavy chain, attached to the cuffs around his wrists. He'd merely shuffled along, steps much smaller than the maximum allowed by his leg irons, following them back to the ship. Once aloft, they'd quickly unlocked and disposed of his chains, but he hadn't seemed to notice the loss of them. He'd become a little more animated when Puar set a plate of food before him, but he'd shown no suspicion or protest when they were finally able to put him into the regeneration tank. Bulma hoped that the bubbling machine would do his mind a little good, as well as his body.

She sighed and took one last look at the machine's monitor before exiting the room. There was work to be done elsewhere on the ship.

*

*

Gohan wrinkled his nose as Nappa passed by. He stank like cheap scent and cheap female, and there was a grin on his face a mile wide. Gohan didn't quite understand what the smell meant, but he knew it wasn't pleasant, despite the satisfaction evident in the adult's swagger.

“Wipe that look off your face, brat.” Radditz said, as soon as Nappa was out of earshot. He moved his game piece and gestured for his nephew to take a turn. “You don't even understand what you're scowling about.”

“Nappa makes women scream and cry.” Gohan said simply, his voice quiet but hard. “I heard them, on the last mission. Then he comes back stinking of them. It's bad. I don't like it.” Radditz's eyebrows rose in surprise at the conviction in the child's voice. He watched as one small hand reached out, grabbed a knight and deftly knocked his king over. “Checkmate.” The boy said and Radditz scowled. He hated this `chess' game that Gohan had taught him. Too many rules, and why was the king such a damn weakling, anyway?

“You've hurt people before, Gohan. You can't fault Nappa for doing the same thing.”

“Do I look that happy afterward?” The child's voice was sharp, his movements jerky as he began scooping the handmade chess pieces into their bag. Radditz watched his nephew, at a loss for words. The kid had an alien outlook on everything and this was one of the rare occasions when Radditz didn't think a good beating would change his mind.

“It's really not as bad as you think it is. The ones in the whores' quarters don't scream or cry.” Radditz pointed out, thinking he may have gained the upper hand.

“Neither does Vegeta,” Gohan said, with eyes as black an intense as the Prince's himself, “when Frieza beats him. Does that make it fine?” He stuffed the last piece into the bag and yanked on the drawstrings so hard that they snapped. The bag flew from his grasp, pieces tumbling out of its slack mouth, clattering to the floor and scattering.

“Kid-”

“My dad never treated my mom like that!” Gohan burst out, interrupting his uncle. “He loved her! He loved her and he was nice to her! And to ME!” Tears streamed down his face and Gohan sniffed, trying to stem the sudden flow of snot. Radditz growled, frustration eating at him, as he grabbed the cub by the back of the neck, hooking one hand under the pint-sized armour plating, and hauled him off his feet.

“Well,” he snarled, Saiyan temper kicking in to high gear, “Your precious dad never had to live through what we do. So shut up and quit your fucking whining, brat. Deal with it.” He let go, shoving the kid a few stumbling steps backward. Then he thought better of it and dragged him forward again. “We're going to train now.” He said, thinking perhaps a beating was in order, after all.

*

*

“So, you see, we had to use it.” Bulma wheedled, trying to talk her way past Dr. Gero's angry looking face. “I know it's yours, but I don't see what harm I could have caused by using it to heal Tien.” She crossed her arms and frowned at Gero, trying out a new tactic. Hadn't anyone ever taught him to share?

“It's no good to me anymore.” Gero howled, throwing his hands up in the air, “Not with his DNA all over it!” He gestured with one flailing arm toward Tien, who stood quietly beside Krillin, still groggy from the anaesthetic. His wrists and ankles were all but healed. Gero sneered, distastefully. “What, he doesn't even talk? Can he even understand what we're saying? Pathetic specimen, I tell you!” He eyed the two untouched crates, suspiciously. “You didn't do anything untoward to the others, did you?” His startling blue eyes glared into hers, and she felt like sticking her tongue out at him, like she would have back when he used to catch her playing with his experiments as a child.

“No, Dr. Gero.” She crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, aware and uncaring that it made her seem like a haughty teenager. “We did not regenerate anyone else in your regeneration tanks.” Yeesh, she thought, what the hell were the tanks for, anyway? What harm could possibly come from using them for their intended purpose?

“Well at least you didn't ruin everything.” Gero sneered, turning his back as he gestured for Sixteen. The big android lumbered toward the first crate, bent, and lifted it as though it weighed nothing. He straightened, adjusting his hold on the massive box before following Dr. Gero into his lab. Bulma narrowed her eyes, frowning at the keypad that afforded entry into the off-limits space. She wished she had the codes, just so she could see what was going on in there. The older man's secrecy put her on edge and piqued her curiosity.

“Krillin,” she sighed, when they were out of the room, “You'd better take Tien and get him to lie down somewhere.”

“Don't worry, Bulma, you did the right thing.” Chichi patted her arm and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I'm sure Sixteen won't mind taking a look at him to make sure he's okay, once Gero settles down.” She stopped talking as Sixteen reappeared to grab the other machine.

“Dr. Gero has instructed me to tell you that you may have the third tank, since you have ruined it anyway.” He intoned, his massive shoulders shrugging apologetically. “Those are his words, not mine.” He turned without another word and hefted up the second crate, carefully manoeuvring to fit its bulk through the door to the lab.

“Well,” Bulma said, after the door swooshed shut behind Sixteen, “that settles that. Let's get this thing hooked up and jam your broken ass in there!”

“Oh, thank Kami!” Chichi sighed, sagging theatrically on her crutches. “I cannot wait to get this damn cast off!” Together they goaded Krillin into moving the device into the medical wing for them- not truly a hard task for someone of his strength, merely awkward for someone of his small stature- and Bulma began setting it up while Chichi went to put on a bathing suit. No way was she getting in there, ass naked and unconscious, with perverts like Roshi and Oolong roaming the space station!

Sixteen, who acted as the station's medic, returned to cut off Chichi's cast. Together, he and Bulma helped her into the regeneration tank and hooked up all the sensors and her breathing apparatus. They stayed to watch over her as the blue fluid began to fill the tank, trying their best to calm her through the glass as she was submerged in the cold jelly-like substance, leaving only after the anaesthetics being pumped into her oxygen finally took effect and she drifted off to sleep.

Bulma did not miss the way that Sixteen lingered by the glass, tentatively touching the smooth surface with large fingers as Chichi floated there, long black hair swirling around her neck and shoulders, free of its usual bun.

*

Radditz sat, staring glumly at his computer screen. He'd been there for an hour, and all he'd managed was to type “Puar” in the To line of his message program. Well, that wasn't completely true. He'd begun the letter at least three times before re-reading it and scrapping the whole thing in his frustration. He didn't know what to say; he wasn't used to this sort of thing. When he'd implied to Puar that he was a master of seduction, he hadn't really been thinking beyond getting him into bed, and truthfully, Radditz was a bit of a putz when it came to matters not involving fighting or sex. Of course, if he got this letter right, it might lead to more sex, which was naturally the desired outcome of the whole embarrassing business. But he didn't know what to say. He'd never had to pursue anyone without the direct and immediate use of his rather impressive body before.

“Dear Puar,” he typed, then grimaced and backspaced a few times to get rid of the first word. That was better; less prissy. “Puar,” his message read, and he thought for a moment before putting his fingers to the keypad, “I want to fuck your hot body again.” No, that was all wrong, too. He highlighted the sentence and hit delete. “Puar,” he tried again, “I can't stop thinking about you.” Fuck. Delete. Too mushy.

Radditz threw back his head and groaned. When he'd asked Puar for his contact info, he'd never imagined it would be so hard to type a single message. Christ, all he wanted was to meet up again for a little roll between the sheets; why was it so hard to ask for? He wished he hadn't had such a good time that night. He wished the intoxicating man had been a shitty lay; then he wouldn't be in this stupid situation, sitting in the dark at three-o-fucking clock in the morning, trying to feel out an intergalactic booty call from a guy who'd ditched his poor, unsatisfied self at a seedy hotel in the middle of the night.

It all seemed a bit pathetic, he thought with a sigh. It was like he was twelve again, suffering from his first lust for a female. Gods, what had her name been? He couldn't remember, nor her face, but he clearly remembered the way her mouth had looked, full lips pursed oh so enticingly as she told him to go fuck himself, then walked off, laughing, with an older boy. Fuck her, he thought, they were both dead now anyway. Gods, though, he'd masturbated to the mental image of that puckered mouth for weeks, afterward.

“Puar,” he typed again, steeling himself. He was a Saiyan warrior. He would not be defeated by such petty concerns as embarrassment!

*

“I take it you got my gift.” Vengeance said, by way of greeting. Bulma had finally gotten up the nerve to ask him how he'd figured out where they would be in order to deliver the ghost drive, and after trying to contact him for nearly a week, he'd finally accepted a com link invitation.

“Where the hell have you been?” She demanded, irritated by his casual voice. She'd been hailing him for days. What if it had been an emergency?

“Tsk, tsk, where are your manners, Blue? Not even a thank you.” He drawled, sounding amused by her temper. He always sounded amused by her temper, and it drove her crazy. “As if I have nothing better to do than sit back and wait for you to contact me? You forget who I am.”

“How could I forget who you are when I have no fucking clue in the first place?” Bulma ground out, trying to keep her cool in the face of his arrogance. “But you don't have that problem, do you? Seeing as you seem to know everything about me!”

“Oh, I don't know everything.” He said, and she felt a shiver run, completely unexpected, down her spine, straight between her legs.

“Can it, asshole.” She said, forcefully ignoring the way her legs had gone a bit wobbly. She sat down in her chair, took a deep breath, and reminded herself who she was talking to. Vengeance. The same Vengeance that had watched Yamcha die, and had nearly blown her up on Benthal Six, and who'd been able to track her, physically, in space. Vengeance was a dangerous, volatile man who could not be trusted to remain on her side, despite his current direction. “How did you know I was going to be on Chisal, meeting Guru?”

“Because I make it my business to know.” The laughter was back in his voice, and she could just imagine him, some shadowy figure seated in some dark room, fingers steepled before him like some evil mastermind.

“I asked how, not why. Quit dancing around the subject.”

“Full of fire today, are we?” He asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “If you must know, Guru told me. He informs me often of his plans.”

“What?!” Bulma shrieked, “Why? That's not fair! I never agreed to this!”

“Ah, well, lesson learned, Blue.” Vengeance said. “Be careful who you trust. Even Guru is not without faults.” There was a click, and Vengeance was gone, just like that. No goodbyes, no explanation, nothing. Son of a bitch. She needed a drink.

*

Sixteen frowned as he watched Krillin deliver a roundhouse kick to Chichi's side, sending the woman flying into the wall with a cringe-inducing thud. She'd spent a few days in the regeneration tank and her leg was all healed, but he found that he was worried anyway. It was irrational, he knew, to expect her to stop training, but he couldn't help feeling the way he did. He did not like to see her getting hurt, coming to dinner every night with a split lip or a black eye or knuckles so bruised and swollen that she could barely hold her own fork.

“Sixteen,” a voice said, and he jumped, startled. All of his sensors had been focused on the sparring match before him, so he hadn't noticed Bulma until her hand was on his arm. “You and I, I think we need to talk.” She said, and if he'd been capable of blushing, he would have been beet red at that point.

“About what?” He tried to play it cool, and knew he had failed miserably when Bulma turned a knowing eye on the black haired woman, who was currently punching Krillin in the face.

“I think you know what.” She took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen, where she pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit. He did as she bade, the chair squeaking only slightly in protest of his bulk, and watched as she disappeared into the pantry. While he waited for her return, he thought about his predicament and tried to sort out how he felt. He couldn't recall ever having been embarrassed in his life, and could not figure out why this situation, of all that he had lived through, would be the one to cause the strange mixture of shame and humiliation. There was no cause for it. Chichi, according to his data banks, could easily be classified as an attractive female of the human species. She possessed many of the physical markers. It was perfectly rational that he should find her thus.

“Aha!” Bulma crowed in triumph, from the depths of the pantry. She reappeared moments later with a bottle of SiHo, a popular alcohol that tasted like scotch, burned like vodka, and punched you in the gut like tequila. She'd picked the bottle up cheaply in a trade market a while back, and had hidden it away, saving it for just such an occasion. “You and I are going to get hammered.” She said, wiggling the bottle at Sixteen, and grinning as the contents sloshed about inside.

“Hammered?” Sixteen questioned, as he watched her dig out two glasses.

“Drunk.” Bulma clarified, as she plunked the cups down on the table and cracked the seal on the bottle. “Sloshed, sotted, gobsmacked, wrecked, sauced, smashed, hooped, you get the picture.” She sat and poured them both a glass. “Bottoms up!” She said, and tossed it back. Sixteen followed suit, and she poured them both another glass.

“Why are we doing this?” Sixteen asked, just as Bulma was about to lift her glass.

“Because we deserve it.” She replied, “You're in love with Chichi and I don't know what to do about Vengeance. I say we both deserve to forget that for a little bit.” She downed her drink and again, Sixteen followed suit, but his mind had gone elsewhere. In love with Chichi? Love? He couldn't be, could he? He frowned as he held out his glass for a third drink.

*

Bulma leaned heavily on the counter, head supported by one hand, and glared at Sixteen. She was practically a puddle, and he sat there, happy as a clam. She was willing to bet that the world wasn't spinning upside-down through his eyes at the moment. “How the hell are you still sitting straight up.” She whined, poking the near-empty bottle with one finger. Sixteen had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I did think to tell you...” he began, slowly, “but you were so intent.”

“Tell me what.” Her blue eyes narrowed and she tried to look menacing, but her elbow slipped in a puddle of SiHo and her chin nearly went crashing down into the table. With a shake of her head, she righted herself and waited for his answer.

“Well,” he refused to meet her gimlet stare, “alcohol does not affect me. I am a machine, Bulma. My body simply burns the alcohol into useable fuel as it does everything else I ingest.”

“Son of a-“ she hissed, glaring at her nearly empty bottle. “You mean I wasted half a bottle of SiHo on you?”

*

Because everyone knows that the best ideas in the world are conceived when geniuses are drunk, Bulma did not hesitate to act on her impulses that night. Her first order of business was to eat half of a tub of ice cream, which she put back in the freezer with the spoon still stuck inside. After she was finished with that, she stumbled into her bedroom, came across a pair of shoes that reminded her of Yamcha, and spent the next half hour sobbing drunkenly, wallowing in self-pity and the miserable conviction that she had sent her friend to his death.

“Vengeance,” she muttered, taking a swig straight from the bottle, “this is your fault, you son of a bitch.” She'd made her way to her computer. “You could have let him live...could have let him escape. But instead you let him kill himself. Fucking coward.” She spat, then covered her mouth with a gasp. “No, he wasn't, was he? Yamcha could have lived, but he didn't. What does that make him?” She hiccupped as she threw herself, bodily, into her computer chair. “Fucking Vengeance. Torments me. Tells me my boyfriend's dead with that raspy, sexy voice.”

“Bulma, are you okay in here?” It was her mother, blonde bouffant peering around the doorway as she watched her daughter fumble with the keyboard. “Let me get you a glass of water or something.” She stepped in, gingerly removing the bottle from Bulma's hand while her daughter glared. There were only a few drops of SiHo left, anyway. By the time she returned with water, Bulma seemed to have composed herself a little, but was still obviously under the influence. “What are you doing, honey?” She asked.

“Calling Vengeance. Dumb jerk thinks he knows everything. I'm going to find out something about him, to even the odds!” Bulma squinted at the keyboard, trying to make it stay still while she typed in Vengeance's contact codes.

“Do you think that's such a good idea?” Bulma's mother had heard all about Vengeance - they all had - even if she had no part in their operations.

“Yes.” Bulma said petulantly, shooing her mother out of the room as the com-link attempted to make a connection. Mrs. Briefs sighed, but she knew what they said about drunk geniuses - her husband and daughter always telling her so - so she left Bulma to whatever machinations her mind wished.

“Tell me something about yourself.” Bulma blurted, as soon as the connection was made. So much for being sneaky. Vengeance hadn't even had enough time to say hello...not that he would have, anyway.

A pause, and then a confused sounding “What?” Shit, Bulma thought, had she woken him up?

“You know so much about us, and I don't know a damn thing about you. So open up, asshole, and start talking.”

“Since when do I take orders from you?” He sounded furious, but awake, at least.

“Since now!”

“Fuck, woman, are you drunk or something?” The hiss that came through the com-link was heavy with irritation. “You wake me up in the middle of the night in order to demand a sharing session? What next? Are we going to pinky-swear to be best friends forever?”

“You guys have pinky-swearing out here in space?” Bulma asked, irreverently.

“Oh, for Fuck's SAKE!” There was an incomprehensible snarling on the other end that sounded to Bulma like it might be another language.

“What's your favourite food?” Bulma pressed. “I like pancakes.”

“That's what you wanted to know? I wish I'd killed you in that blast, you stupid bitch.”

“What's your favourite food.” Bulma repeated. “I'm not going to leave me alone until you tell me something about yourself. I don't even care what it is. What's your shoe size?”

“What if I hang up?”

“I thought of that already. I'll call back. Again and again until you answer me. I'm trying to make this easy on you. Just tell me your favourite food.” She leaned back and took a sip from her glass, frowning when she remembered it was water and not booze.

“Edible matter.” He snarled. “Satisfied?”

“Fffuck no.” Bulma held her `f' a little too long, and cringed. He'd know she'd been drinking for sure. “What colour are your eyes?” No answer. “Okay, what do you do in your spare time?”

“I kill annoying pests who disrupt my SLEEP!”

“What colour is your hair, Vengeance?” Bulma spun herself around in her chair and gagged a little at the dizziness that resulted. Oooh, bad idea. Her stomach rolled and she suddenly felt very nauseous.

“Seventeen shades of orange.” Vengeance shot back, then without missing a beat, “My turn. What colour are your nipples?”

“Funny,” Bulma choked out as her stomach lurched again. “Same answer.” She hung up and promptly puked in her garbage can.

*

Vegeta jumped at the scuffling noise behind him. He'd been so intent upon what he was doing that he hadn't even heard the door panel slide open. Gohan stood, open mouthed and stunned in the doorway. Vegeta wondered how much the boy had heard.

“What are you doing in here, boy?” The prince snarled, flipping the switch that disengaged his radio communicator. He stood and took a menacing step toward the child. Gohan backed away, frightened. He didn't know what to say. He knew he wasn't supposed to have heard all that, but how could he pretend he hadn't? That had been Bulma's voice on the other end, he was sure of it.

“Umm, I” Gohan was interrupted as he bumped backwards into a wall of solid flesh.

“Oooh, what's going on in here, Vegeta?” Radditz said eagerly, placing his hands on the boy's shaking shoulders as he stepped into the room. “I heard a girl's voice. You got a girl in here?” His eyes scanned the room, seeing only the radio box on the table. “Oh, I get it,” he said slyly, waggling his eyebrows at the prince. “You're on one of those sex chats, aren't you?” He ignored the steadily growing growl of his monarch, and went on. “Those are fun. I like it when they have real deep voices, you know, like they sound all throaty and they're probably built like a brick shithouse. Like you know they're solid and they could probably have you on your back if they wanted to, ya know? Yeah, that's the way I like `em.” His tail wagged behind him and he wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his grin with the back of his hand.

Radditz didn't have time to dodge, or to pull the boy out of harm's way before they both crashed against the wall, Vegeta's door quivering on its hinges as it was slammed shut in their faces.

“Uncle Radditz,” Gohan began, swallowing as though his stomach had climbed into his throat. “I heard-“ He was cut off as Radditz's hand closed over his mouth, smooshing his cheeks together so that his lips stuck out like a fish's. His uncle's face was suddenly dead serious, and he shrunk back from the black gaze that captured his own.

“I know what you heard.” Radditz rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. “Don't you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, you hear me? Not even Nappa. You don't fucking dare let Vegeta know what you heard.” He shook Gohan's head a little, in emphasis. “You just pretend this never happened, you know? You and me, we don't even talk about this, beyond this conversation. Because if I hear any rumours, have any inkling that you let this spill to anyone, I swear on the pile of space dust that was Vegetasei, that I'll kill you my Goddamn self. Kin or not. Understand?” He asked the wide-eyed boy, gave him another shake just to make his point.

“But, I know -“

“Whatever fucking thing you know, you forget it right now.” Radditz said.

“Y…Yessir.” Gohan peeped.

 

 

 

 

Dun Dun Dunnnnn....except you probably already figured that out. Please let me know what you think!