Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 13

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: Thanks go out to everyone who has reviewed since last time! To those of you who leave signed reviews, sorry the replies were so late! Life has been hectic. :D

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PRESENT DAY

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“Nappa expressly told you not to give me painkillers. You disregarded his warnings. These are the consequences that you must live with.” Vegeta said, as he calmly dabbed away some blood, allowing him to see the next shard of glass.

“C...consequences?” She watched him, waiting for the flinch that never came, the hitch of breath that signalled he was in pain, and was amazed at his nonchalance. He was pulling hunks of glass the size of her fingernail out of his foot, and not even wincing. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Do to you?” Vegeta sighed, irritated at having to dig for a sliver that had broken off a larger piece. “Nothing, for the moment. As much as it grates on my nerves to speak to you, you are my ally and you are in unfortunate possession of some very important information that puts me in danger. As much as I would like to kill you for that,” he glared at her to emphasize his point, “I still have use for you.”

“Oh, I'm so glad.” She snapped, sarcastically.

“If you valued your life, you would be. Now,” he was remarkably businesslike for a naked man in a blanket, picking glass out of his flesh, “I believe we have some important things to discuss.”

“Such as you freaking out and destroying my regeneration tank?”

“Such as the fact that every pathetic soul on this station now knows the identity of the universe's biggest threat to Frieza's empire,” Vegeta said, neatly dodging her question, “and to my knowledge, you have yet to find the information leak.”

“Shit.” Bulma said, her eyes popping out of her head. “SHIT.” She said, a bit louder this time, as she spun on her heel and raced from the room, the rubber bottoms of her slippers slap, slap, slapping on the floor as she went. In her haste, she kicked them off, gaining speed in her bare feet as she huffed along down corridors, blazing a desperate path to her lab and the access point to the ship's computer security systems. “I'll be back!” She called over her shoulder to the bewildered prince who sat, mouth half open, eyebrows raised in surprise, as she sprinted around a corner.

What a stupid, scatterbrained, ridiculous woman she was. He had a hard time believing that the same brain that had managed to re-create the ki-weapon technology would have forgotten such an important fact. Vegeta sneered, remembering the gun against his head, recalling the sight and smell of her shaking, nervous body as she threatened to blow him apart. She was ballsy, he'd give her that one, but foolish. She'd proven that already, the night that she and her companion had snuck onto Frieza's base in that ill-fated attempt to `rescue' Gohan.

Gohan. Fucking brat. Vegeta scowled to himself as he examined his legs and feet, concluding that they were free enough of glass that he could bandage them. Anything left behind would work its own way out eventually. How had the boy known? He recalled a time he thought of as a `close call' and realized that he'd been a complete fool to believe that Radditz and Gohan hadn't heard him talking. He sighed and reached for the roll of gauze laid out for him, wondering if he'd have killed them, had he known beforehand that they were aware of his clandestine activities. The answer was almost certainly yes, but there was a niggling little part in the back of his brain that said he'd have kept them around - maybe beat them so badly they'd never be able to speak of it to anyone, but left them alive.

The longer Blue - Bulma, he amended - was gone, the more agitated he became. The idea that his identity had leaked and Frieza's forces were on their way at that moment stuck in his gut like a knife. He consoled himself momentarily with the thought that his pod's tracking chip was far away at the moment, off on a leisurely tour of the galaxy, but then realized that the leak was undoubtedly aware of Red Station's coordinates, and perfectly able to give them up.

He tried not to think about his years of hard work and sacrifice going down the drain, to end his traitorous life in misery and pain, dead by a sadistic tyrant's hands. He thought it unlikely that Frieza would give him a good death, quick and clean. He supposed he could spend months, even years in the Icejin's torture chambers, a slow death brought on by countless indignities to his person, to his pride. He shuddered, suddenly feeling cold and wet and very vulnerable beneath his flimsy blanket.

*

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“I feel like something is changing, don't you Piccolo?” Goku wheezed, as he strained to lift a boulder onto the massive pile that was being gathered. The rock only weighed a few hundred pounds - six or seven at most - but he'd been caught sneaking Piccolo's portion of last night's dinner, and had been denied breakfast and lunch as a result. His stomach howled in protest and he begged it to shut up; if the guards heard, he would be in trouble again.

“What do you mean, Goku?” The green man heaved against his own boulder, having a much easier time with it than his comrade.

“I don't know.” Goku smiled, an odd little grin that was appearing on his face more and more, as of late. Piccolo frowned, worried. His one-time enemy was beginning to lose it, he was certain. His brain was going as wild as his hair, which had nearly reached his shoulders. Every once in a while, he would gain access to a sharp tool needed for work, and hack it down to more manageable levels, but they'd been quarrying rocks for quite some time now and aside from their own muscles, the only tools they ever saw were picks and wheelbarrows.

“Is it a good change, or a bad change?”

“A good one, I think.” Goku finally managed to heft his boulder up, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as he did so. Piccolo watched the other man's muscles shake with strain. Back on Earth, this kind of task would have been nothing to the childlike strongman - the only difficulty would have been getting a grip on the man-sized boulders. Three years of back breaking labour later, one would think that the Earthling would have grown stronger, but he appeared to have hit a plateau, and perhaps even slid downhill a little bit. It confused Piccolo to see, for the other man had always seemed to grow stronger with every fight, coming back more powerful after every injury, and he had suffered injury enough to make him the universe's strongest man, by those rules. But, he reminded himself as he reached for another boulder, the other man existed in a constant state of exhaustion and suffering from severe malnourishment, it seemed his body was struggling just to keep itself alive. Surely the conditions they were living in would have killed a normal human by now.

Piccolo growled. He really didn't want to have to care about someone else's welfare; he was having a hard enough time dragging himself along from day to day without having to worry about Goku. Frustrated, he recalled the joining with Kami, and knew that as Piccolo Daimyo, he'd have just left his companion for dead, or better yet, killed the Earthling himself. Unfortunately for him, the part of his soul that had belonged to Kami also made it impossible for him to truly wish he'd remained the Demon King. Old bastard.

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Bulma meandered her way back into the medical bay, a thoughtful frown on her face. Someone had brought the prince a pair of pants - whose, she didn't know - and he was busy trying to beat the dirt out of his boots. “I don't understand it.” She said, softly, one hand cupping her chin while the other crossed her breasts to support a bent elbow.

“I'm sure that's not uncommon.” Vegeta quipped, not bothering to look up as he slipped bandaged feet into his battered footwear. Bulma rolled her eyes and chose to ignore his snarky comment.

“I locked down the ship's communication systems.” She said pausing to inspect his shirtless state. Someone had obviously come in to bring him clothes and to tend to him further. He was bandaged around the ribs, plainly still suffering despite his brief stay in the regeneration tank. Most of his superficial wounds had healed, or at least begun to, so that his skin no longer looked like a child's finger painting - mottled tones of black, blue and yellow blending together over bronze skin. Bulma noticed, as he shrugged into a shirt and began buttoning it, that the nasty burns on his hands had healed over, though the centers of his palms still bore the raw pinkness of new skin. She recognized the Cc logo on the breast pocket of the shirt and smiled to herself - Vegeta was wearing her dad's clothes.

Well, he sure made them look a lot better than her father ever had.

“Anway,” she continued, “Everything that goes in or out will have to go through my personal account, on my lab computer. It's under video surveillance and my account is, of course, heavily protected. The odd thing is that there haven't been any outgoing transmissions since you arrived. You'd think the leak would have been running to the computers to send out that kind of information.”

Vegeta nodded, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he thought. “Perhaps the culprit did not have the chance to escape and compose the message?” He mused to himself. “Or more likely, he is smarter that we give him credit for. Telling Frieza would bring the army down on our asses right away, regardless of whether our little mole has managed to escape. He'd likely be caught up and killed with the rest of us in the onslaught. If that's the case, he'll wait until he's safely away from this place.”

“Frieza would have his own man killed?” Bulma asked, not necessarily surprised, but shocked to hear it put so bluntly. Vegeta arched one eyebrow and looked at her as though she'd just come to the conclusion that two plus two equals five. “Well that's just cold.” She huffed, nearly drawing a smirk out of the prince. “I hope you know,” she adopted her bossiest tone, “that we operate differently around here.”

“Oh? Am I to fall in line behind you, great commander?” Vegeta snapped, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“I'm in charge here.” Bulma insisted, crossing her arms and throwing him her `board of directors' look. It had always worked on the suits back home. She should have known it would fail utterly on Vegeta. He cocked his head and stared her down, and damn her if she didn't blink first.

“Silly little girl,” he purred, and despite the insulting tone of his words, a rush of heat soared down her spine. “You seem to forget that I could snap your neck like a twig.” It was absurd, the things he could say in that voice - Vengeance's voice - that made her want to jump him. Death threats had never gotten her motor running before.

“You forget, I have the ki gun.”

“Oh, this?” Vegeta laughed, running his fingers over the prototype, which she'd stupidly forgotten to take with her when she'd bolted to check the computer systems. “Yes, you must be glad you have it.” He snorted in amusement when Bulma held her hand out, silently fuming. Instead of handing it to her, he asked how powerful it was.

Bulma desperately wanted to bluff. She wanted to tell him it was powerful enough to knock him into next week, or that it would knock him and his ancestors on their asses, or some other ridiculous and clichéd hyperbole, but she knew that if she did that, then he'd never give it back. And there was no question that if she tried to snatch it away, he'd be up and across the room with it before she could blink.

“Actually, I haven't tested it yet.” She clamped down on her pride and her sense of self-preservation, and told the truth.

“Really?” A slow smile spread across Vegeta's face. “And why not?”

“Who would I test it on? I didn't want to hurt anyone...” Bulma trailed off, the widening smirk on the prince's face unnerving her to the point of distraction. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.” He said, all innocence as he studied the gun in his hands. “But I'm going to keep this for a while.”

*

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“Is there something wrong, Master?” Dende asked, placing a concerned hand on his teacher's massive arm.

“What makes you think that, child?” Guru smiled weakly down at his young charge. The boy's intuitive abilities never failed to please and amaze him. The old sage had been nowhere near as perceptive at Dende's age.

“There is something...off,” Dende struggled to find the right word, “about your energies. You seem subdued.”

“I am merely concerned, my young friend. We have not heard from our dear ally Vengeance for a long time. It is unusual for him.” From his spot in the corner, Nail snorted.

“Vengeance,” he scoffed. “Your concern for him never fails to astonish me, Guru.”

“Oh? You have a problem with him?” Guru asked calmly, though from the corner of his eye, he noted the way that Dende shrank back from the older Namek. It puzzled him, and he wondered if he'd been wrong to dismiss the boy's concerns over the state of Nail's moods. Perhaps the man was more tightly wound than Guru had realized.

“I have a problem with not knowing who he is.” Nail spat, uncrossing his arms and pushing away from the wall to stand properly erect. “Won't you tell me?”

“You know I've been sworn to secrecy, Nail. I shall not betray anyone's confidences. You must trust in me to judge him correctly.” This was a conversation that they had had before. Many times, in fact, since Vengeance first made contact. Nail huffed and stalked away, and Guru heaved a heavy sigh. It was a cumbersome burden that he placed upon his sons, the last of their kind, so far as he knew. So many brothers and sons dead with father Namek, so few to share the yoke of their mission. It was heavy around all of their necks and caused their shoulders to sag with the weight of it.

“I feel sometimes as though I share his sentiments.” Dende said quietly, once the older Namek had gone. “About Vengeance, I mean.” He looked up into the sage's thoughtful face, and said earnestly, “When he speaks, sometimes shivers run down my spine. Sometimes his voice terrifies me so...as if ice is forming in my veins, Master, and yet I do not understand because I trust him still. It is as though a profound evil lives in his soul, and I only feel safe because I know that all of that rage is directed at my enemies and not myself.”

“You are perceptive, my young son, but you are inexperienced still.” Guru said, patiently. “What lives in Vengeance's soul is not evil, but sickness. A sickness of the heart, you might say, which causes men to do terrible things.”

“So he is not to blame?”

“No...he is to blame, young Dende, and you musn't ever forget that. But this is not to say that he cannot change. Hatred pierces through him, curls and twists in his belly, fuelling the fires of his rage and his cruelty. But if you can feel safe in knowing that his hatred burns hottest toward others, I think that you must understand that something good lies beneath. Even if it is small and pitiful, it must be there.”

“You...you are very confident in him.”

“Yes, as I wish you and Nail would be.”

“I will try, Master.” Dende said, his gaze cast toward the floor. “And I may fail.”

“Trying is the most I can ask of you, young son.” Guru smiled and gestured to the cushion on the floor. “But for now, we have lessons.”

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Nappa, Radditz and Gohan stood nervously on the training mat, lined up in rigid formation from tallest to shortest. Or strongest to weakest, oldest to youngest, highest to lowest rank; they were conveniently all the same. Each one wore an expression of apprehension tinged with fear; it was time for punishment.

Before them, Vegeta paced slowly back and forth, a thoughtful frown of concentration on his face. They could all see the slight increase of bulk in his frame, added by the padding and bandages beneath his shirt, and they hoped that he wouldn't exert himself too much in his efforts to bloody them. Despite his attitude and bravado, Vegeta was still an injured man. They needn't have worried so much, though, for in his hands, Vegeta carried Bulma's ki-imitating rifle.

“So,” he said at last, stopping before them, “I suppose my secret was not so well kept as I intended. You two,” he gestured at Radditz and Gohan with the gun, “I suspected that you had heard something that night I caught you eavesdropping, but I suppose it was foolish of me to believe that you wouldn't make sense of it.” They both gulped; Vegeta hated feeling like a fool. “But you,” Vegeta pointed the gun at Nappa, “you are still a mystery.”

“I was not aware, exactly, sir.” Nappa said, haltingly. “I did not know that you were Vengeance, my lord, but I suspected you were up to something.”

“You suspected something?” Vegeta spat, disgusted. Was he really so transparent as to be figured out by a dullard like Nappa?

“You forget, my prince, that I have had the raising of you since you were a small cub.” Nappa almost smiled at this, wistfully, like a father recalling his grown son's earliest years. Then he smartened up and said, more seriously, “I do not doubt that I know you better than anyone else in this universe, and I am not surprised to see you take your revenge against Frieza in this way.”

“You may know me well, Nappa, but your sense of duty must be lacking, for you to fall asleep while on guard duty.” Vegeta spat out, and the biggest saiyan stiffened. He'd known this was coming, certain that the prince would be furious and embarrassed by what had happened. Neither of the other saiyans understood Vegeta's aversion to anaesthetics; it was not something the prince discussed willingly. It was a testament to the dire nature of their situation that everyone who'd been in the room was still alive.

“I will take my punishment as you see fit.” Nappa replied, stiffly.

“Of course you will. As if there was any doubt.” Vegeta glanced at the clock high on the wall and frowned. It was 7:02; Bulma was two minutes late. He resumed his pacing while the other three stood stoically, waiting for their punishment.

At five after, Bulma strolled in. “Alright, I'm here. Whaddya want?” She asked brashly, hands on hips, but her face betrayed her nervousness. Vegeta had told her, in no uncertain terms, to be in the training room at seven o'clock. She'd showed up five minutes late on purpose, just to piss him off, but seeing the three subordinate saiyans standing so rigidly, she wondered if that had been the best idea. Vegeta looked mad, they looked resigned, and she feared that she'd just made something worse for them.

Vegeta held up her gun, and she swallowed thickly. He wouldn't, would he? “This is a ki-imitating rifle, built from the schematics stolen from Frieza's destroyed weapons base. Despite this woman's performance upon our landing, it has not been tested.” He informed his men, who looked at the gun with dawning horror. “For lack of subjects, I am informed.” He handed the gun to Bulma, and gestured toward the three guinea pigs. “Problem solved.” He said to her, in that low voice that made her skin shiver and tingle.

“Hell no, Vegeta,” she said, trying to shove the rifle back at him. “If this is some sort of sick punishment, you do it yourself.”

“Oh, but it is not only their punishment.” He grasped her hands, squeezing them tightly around the gun, forcing her arms into firing position. “It is yours as well.”

“You don't get to punish me,” she snapped, indignantly. “I'm not one of your dogs!”

“I will be a thousand times harder on them,” he whispered, tauntingly. He'd circled around her, his hands now grasping her upper arms from behind. “Doesn't your soft, human heart want to save them some pain?” Gohan stiffened, hearing Vegeta's words; he'd been victim to this tactic before.

“You're a sick fuck.” Bulma hissed, trying to ignore the fire that followed his hands, as they trailed up her arms to squeeze her shoulders. “This isn't fair punishment, this is...ugh!! Couldn't you just spank me or something, instead?” She whined, blushing to the roots of her hair as soon as the words left her mouth.

Vegeta's breath tickled her ear. “Maybe later,” he said. “Now shoot them, or I will.”

“You're a bastard, and I'm never, ever letting you spank me.” Bulma growled, her fingers quickly adjusting the rifle's settings.

“What's that?” Vegeta asked, as she deftly turned a dial. “I don't recall seeing it on the original.”

“It's a power inhibitor.” Bulma said, as flipped the safety off. “You can fire with different strengths, just like a real ki-blast. I figure the gun has a certain charge, there's no need to go wasting energy by firing powerful blasts at week enemies.”

“Genius.” He smirked, and for once she thought that maybe he wasn't being sarcastic.

“Thanks,” she said, before quickly swivelling to but the muzzle of the gun into his chest. “Leader goes first, right?” She smiled and pulled the trigger, knocking the unprepared prince a few feet away. A loud snarl erupted from Nappa as the largest saiyan threw himself at her, murder in his eyes. She shrieked but was quick enough to turn and blast him, too. The weak setting delayed him only a second, shielded as he was, so she upped the power to half total capacity and let loose another blast to knock him onto his back. The recoil was stronger than she would have thought, however, and it sent her stumbling backward to land solidly on her rump.

Vegeta watched, altogether too calmly, as Nappa hauled himself up and launched himself forward again. He deflected one blast, only to be knocked sideways by another. Vegeta laughed; the woman sure was something. She'd stopped shrieking now, and was concentrating solely on not being killed by Nappa. Vegeta had to admit that she was doing a pretty good job of it. She'd managed several good hits to his chest, knocking him back every time he came at her, but he could tell that she was reluctant to up the voltage and do some real damage.

“Oh, just blast him already, for fuck's sake.” Vegeta snorted, watching sweat run down the woman's forehead as she deflected another near-hit. Resolutely, she shook her head, trying not to pay attention to the awful little troll beside her. She couldn't believe that he wasn't stopping this!

“You said you needed me alive!” She shrieked at him. “Why aren't you stopping him?”

“Fine,” Vegeta rolled his eyes and with a movement too quick to see, snatched the gun from her trembling hands, cranked the dial, and let fly. A massive blast shot forth from the muzzle of the gun to hit Nappa square in the chest, sending the big brute crashing through the wall. The kick-back, a strong gust of electrified air, knocked Bulma flat on her ass and left her hair a ball of frizz, as though she'd just stuck her finger into an electrical outlet. Vegeta, who hadn't moved an inch, was smirking, admiring the gun in his hands. “Nice work.” He commented, offhand, and Bulma glared at him, murder in her eyes, “But the charge is all gone, and he's not even dead.”

“You beastly little prick!” She shouted, hauling herself up off the ground and snatching her precious weapon back. “Look at what you've done!” She gestured wildly at the crumbled wall, Nappa's bloody figure sprawled out atop a bed of rubble and bent metal. “And my gun! You could have wrecked it!” She shrieked, examining the prototype in her hands, seeing that the energy gauge was indeed sitting at empty. If it hadn't been, she might have shot him again right there, smug little bastard. Belatedly, she realized that a proper, caring soul might have been more concerned for the fact that Nappa could easily have been killed, but she'd never been all that forgiving of ugly men who tried to kill her. Now cute ones on the other hand, she thought, darting a sly glance at Vegeta from under her lowered lashes. He had crossed the room and was stepping gingerly over the blocks of dislodged concrete, chin in hand, examining the massive body of his subordinate.

“Radditz, Gohan!” He called them over, and they were by his side in an instant. Bulma scoffed to herself, irritated that no one was paying attention to her anymore. “Take him to the medical bay and see that he is treated.”

Radditz nodded once and stepped over to heft up the bigger man's shoulders, while Gohan grasped him by the ankles. None too gently, they lifted his body and began to carry the half-conscious Nappa away, swinging like a hammock strung between two trees.

“Waitaminnit.” Nappa slurred, his eyes cracked open like little black slits. “Why'm I the only one punished?”

“Oh, you're not.” Vegeta grinned evilly at his other two subordinates who'd stopped mid stride, backs ramrod straight despite the weight of their burden. “With no regeneration tank, someone will have to nurse poor Nappa back to health. The two of you will be at his beck and call until I deem him once more fit for service.”

Bulma almost laughed at the identical looks of horror on Radditz and Gohan's faces, as they grimaced down at the wounded man. “Can't we just kill him, and be done with it?” Radditz moaned, but dutifully began walking backward, craning his neck around every few seconds to make sure that he wasn't about to run into something. Gohan trudged along, surprisingly nimble with the added bulk of Nappa's legs in his little hands.

“Now,” Vegeta spun on his heel, turning back toward Bulma, “I believe you must have other toys to show me.”

“No way, mister!” Bulma took a step back, clutching the drained weapon to her chest with both hands. Of course he'd know what other sick little treasures she'd been working on, spurred hard enough by the genius of the ideas to ignore the moral depravity that had been their inspiration. She thought mostly of the ki-draining headband, with its vicious screws, designed to bore through a man's skull into his brain, and shuddered. No doubt he'd want to test that, too.

“I'll be good, I promise.” The prince smiled wickedly, the tone of his voice telling her that he intended to be nothing but the opposite. Bulma shuddered, that slow slide of sound through her ears reminding her of all the naughty things she'd ever thought about him, and there were a lot. Absurdly, she recalled the night that Vengeance had asked her what colour her nipples were, and she wondered if he was just teasing her, or if he'd actually wanted to know.

“Forgive me for doubting you,” she said dryly, forcing the memory down, “but I do believe you are full of shit.” She pushed her shoulders back, striving to appear as nonchalant as he, and did quite an admirable impression.

“Maybe so, but wouldn't you rather show me yourself, than have me break in?” Vegeta asked, not for the first time impressed by her bravado. Most creatures he knew would have given in to his demands with barely a peep, and here he was, trying to convince her to show him something he could easily go look at himself. He didn't know why he cared...well, he did, actually, but it was something he was a little embarrassed to admit.

It was her mouth, spitting sass and sarcasm at every turn. She was afraid of him, no doubt about it, but she seemed unwilling to let him know that. Ordinarily, such foolishness would have angered him, but her quick wit, delivered by those tauntingly plump, pink lips had him at somewhat of a disadvantage. Really, it made him want to fuck her brains out, to pound into her until those sweet lips screamed his name, cried for more, over and over again. It was always at the back of his brain, the desire especially vocal when she was near. The thought of her, spread on her back before him, begging him to take her, was almost too much to take, and he wondered when he'd become so absorbed in the fantasy.

Truthfully, he hardly knew anything about her. He'd seen her only a handful of times, but he'd been fantasizing about her since that first moment, when she'd lain panting on top of him, tits in his face, warm legs wrapped around him. He couldn't recall ever having been so aroused in his life, to think that the voice he knew as Blue, snarky, witty, enchanting bitch that she was, was so damned attractive. He hadn't even known for sure, at first, but some part of his being had become invested in the idea that the genius voice that he was quickly becoming enamoured of, was equally physically attractive. He'd begun to fantasize about her even before meeting her, and didn't like to think he'd one day be obligated to bone an ugly chick. Because really, he had to. Regardless of what she looked like, there was something there that had attracted him, and he simply had to have it.

Lucky for him, he found her quite pretty.

Even luckier for him, she seemed to return the sentiment.

*

*

Chichi sat down beside her son, noting the way that his small body stiffened at her close proximity, his black eyes darting nervously away from her own gaze. He curled into himself like a little caterpillar, suddenly bereft of his cocoon. Her heart ached for the little boy she remembered, lost to this tiny warrior.

“It's very good to see you again, Gohan.” She said gently, folding her hands in her lap. They were alone in the room he shared with Radditz, the erstwhile uncle off tending to the big, rude one. She'd ambushed the child, truth be told, waiting patiently in her room down the hall until she heard the longhaired one go. Gohan had looked like a deer in headlights when he'd seen his mother appear in his doorway and she'd almost lost her nerve right there, but she'd gathered herself together and boldly crossed the threshold. Chichi had been called many things in her life, but cowardly was not one of them. She'd faced down wild animals, dinosaurs, and saved her father from a friggin' burning mountain, for Kami's sake! She was not backing down from an eight year old.

Eight. She'd lost three precious years with her baby, and could see it plainly before her. His face had lost much of its roundness, his cheeks no longer chubby enough to pinch. And his hair! As a young woman, she'd always thought she wouldn't have to contend with wild hair until he was at least a teenager. Covertly she looked him over, and sighed. Oh well. At least no tattoos or piercings...yet.

“Is it?” He asked, quietly picking at the bedcover, still refusing to meet her eyes. She gasped, and it was her turn to stiffen with shock.

“Was I such a bad mother then?” She forced herself to ask, her eyes pricking with the beginnings of tears. She was gratified to see his head pop up, finally meeting her damp eyes with his surprised ones. She shut her eyes against the wetness. “You've avoided me since you arrived.” Chichi choked out, pained at the admission.

“I...” Gohan paused, thinking carefully about what to say next. “I wasn't sure you would want to talk to me.”

“Not want to...” Chichi started, uncomprehendingly. Then explosively, “Gohan, how could you ever think such a thing? You're my son!” She'd turned so she faced him, her hands gripping small, surprisingly muscled shoulders, head bent low so she could look into his face.

“Am I?” He asked, locking eyes with her. “Am I the son you remember? I...I don't think so.” He shifted, breaking her hold on him, and resumed his picking at the blanket, and the simple action was like a rock in her belly. He was right, to a degree, Chichi realized. Her five year old would never have turned from her, but this eight year old stranger had done it without thought. In another life, she would have scolded him for ruining the bedclothes, but she felt she had no place to discipline this strong, scary little boy.

“Your blood is my blood.” Chichi said suddenly, fiercely. “You grew in my belly, fed from my body, and that makes you mine.” She went on, determinedly. “Regardless of who you are now.” When he didn't say anything in reply, she let out a small sob, placing her hand on his head, feeling the thick, unruly hair slide between her fingers. He had Goku's hair. “Please,” she begged, “talk to me. I don't care what's happened, Gohan, I only want to know my son again!” Her hand slid down the side of his head to cup his cheek in her hand, turning his head gently toward her. “Please.”

Gohan breathed deeply and looked into his mother's eyes, so full of sadness, and nodded. After the story, even if she never wanted to see him again, she would at least know what had become of her son.

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Oooh, touching family moment! We'll be jumping back in time again for chapter 14, so tune in next time!!