Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 16

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: Back on track with the normal one-and-a-half-weeks-or-so update schedule, with a chapter that's slightly longer than the last one! Welcome to the several people whose reviews began with some variation of “I just found this and read the whole thing...” ! Glad to have you, hope you continue to enjoy! As for you long-time hangers on, I just wanted to say thanks for all of the reviews and the kind encouragement! Between fanfiction.net and mediaminer.org, we've hit over 200 comments! Thank you all so much!

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PRESENT DAY

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Vegeta laid on his bed, alone, in the darkness. “Well, this is a familiar situation,” he muttered, and wondered immediately where the bitter thought had come from. He closed his eyes, forcibly removing the thought from his brain by sheer force of will. It was three am, according to the glaring red clock on the bedside table, and he was still painfully awake. He performed a quick mental calculation, figuring that his body must still be running in a different time zone, but that shouldn't have mattered. A lifetime of service in Frieza's ranks had left him with the ability to drop in and out of sleep states at will with little to no trouble.

Unless something was bothering him, which there, of course, was.

Vegeta took a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand, pushing out, out, out, before releasing it with a deep sigh. Eyes still closed, he began to take stock of his body; consciously flexing each muscle and joint, sensing the rightness of healthy flesh and the wrongness of his wounds. It was a ritual he'd been engaging in since childhood and one that helped to relax him, bringing an odd sense of calm with the assurance that he was, at least, physically intact. He began with his toes as he always did, curling the little digits into his feet, holding it, releasing slowly before moving on to the awkward, almost painful tightening of his arches. A little roll of the ankles felt nice before a flex of the calf muscles, both legs simultaneously. He was not patient enough tonight to do them one-by-one.

Slowly, as he ran his fingers over tight, ridged abdominal muscles, his mind began to relax. He took control of each and every muscle, losing himself in the physical, soothing the raging beast that lived in his head. Eyes still tightly shut, he concentrated hard on his belly, in that small place where torso joined hips, below the stomach and the intestines and, perhaps near the bladder? Right there, a spot tender to the touch, was where he'd felt the power originate, before almost killing himself with its release. He could feel it there right now, settled and unthreatening, almost unrecognizable as the terrifying force that had nearly ripped him apart. There was something to it though, something like a hum, a very faint vibration, that he knew he'd felt before.

He'd been so close - so close! - he knew, to turning Super Saiyan, to fulfilling the prophecy that had been settled upon him at birth. He clenched his fists, trying to maintain the tranquil state of his body with little success.

So. Fucking. Close.

The thought galled him, and he had to fight the rising sense of anger that swelled through him at this denial of his birthright. The strength, the power, it was all inside him, just waiting to be released! But how? It shamed him to think that he was lacking the ability to control his own body, like a brat who still pissed the bed. He had to figure it out. Was he lacking in discipline, or in form? Was some part of his mind shying away from the thought of such baffling potential? `Or are you just weak?' He asked himself, this last idea finally breaking the tenuous control he'd obtained over his raging mind.

Body exercises forgotten, he sat up in bed, the covers falling to his waist. His room had no windows, the only light coming from the clock, which now read three-twenty-two. It was enough for him to see by as his pupils dilated to their full size; not that anyone could tell, surrounded as they were by irises so dark as to appear black. He looked down at himself, hands spread out in the darkness before him, palms facing upward, strong fingers curling ever so slightly inward. He tried to remember the last time he'd really thought about the things he'd wrought with those hands and gave up, not in the mood to war with himself on good versus evil, or the morality of survival as he knew it.

He squinted in the dark, trying to make out the faint pink edges of new skin in the centers of his palms where the power had forced its way out, tearing through his skin with a heat that had melted the fabric of his gloves right into his flesh. Errantly, he wondered if he could get new gloves made out of something that wouldn't melt. Non-synthetic fabrics were hard to come by and he went through a lot of gloves, but he had the money and the connections; something plant-based would be good. Perhaps he'd see to ordering something in the morning.

Vegeta rolled his eyes at this last thought. It WAS the morning. Three-twenty-seven in the morning, to be precise, and he was sitting in the dark, thinking about fabric. He groaned, recognizing that despite his best efforts, his brain had returned to a full state of wakefulness that he didn't think would be receding any time soon. So much for rest.

Grumbling, he heaved his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, resigned to his fate. Hunting around in the dark, he came up with a pair of shorts and quickly slipped them on. He decided not to bother with his boots, tattered as they were. No one on the base wore the same shoe size; he'd have to go elsewhere for replacement footwear. Barefoot and shirtless, but with a spare tee hanging from his fist, he stalked out of his room and down the hall toward the recreation room that he and his kin so often commandeered for training, much to the irritation of the permanent residents on board the station. The small bald one had joined them once or twice and had been not bad, as far as weaklings go. The others mostly watched and grumbled, especially the tall bald one - the triclops with the massive stick up his ass. Each of the saiyans, with the exception of perhaps Gohan, looked forward to the day that the pompous earthling might step into the training ring with them. His constant sneering and bad attitude were irritating and had begun to grate without the normal release of being able to beat the bastard to a pulp, having promised to play nice.

Vegeta was glad to have the room to himself though, for once. He meant to work on his control and his reflexes and was not interested in an overblown shoving match at the moment. That could wait until after breakfast.

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Puar felt his heart racing, the poor little organ beating so hard beneath his ribs that he thought it might break out at any moment, slap him in the face and say “What the FUCK were you thinking?” He wasn't certain that he had a good answer, to be honest. He'd just wanted to see Radditz so badly, though the sentiment had nearly gotten him discovered. He shuddered to think of what might have happened in that case and tried not to think about it, but the ghastly thoughts kept bouncing around in his brain, careening off the inside of his skull like so many rubber balls. He shook his head violently, as though the action could send them flying out his ears and far away.

Needless to say it didn't work, and to add insult to injury, it left him a bit dizzy.

He didn't know what to think, wasn't sure how to feel about the whole mess; he only knew that seeing the Saiyan made him weak in his furry little knees and he didn't want to go back to never feeling that way again. He'd lived a lifetime of loneliness and he wasn't in any hurry to return to it. Sure, he was surrounded by friends whom he loved deeply, but there was always that craving for something more, for a hand to hold and a warm body to snuggle up to at night. Of course, there was no guarantee that Radditz would be willing to give him those things, or that he even wanted them from the big brute, but walking away before he figured it out didn't seem to be a viable option. It also didn't hurt that the sex had been fucking fantastic.

Would it really go so badly if he told Radditz his secret? Maybe he'd be cool with it. Maybe they'd laugh together about how foolishly nervous he'd been. Or maybe, and perhaps more likely, Radditz would take one look at his furry hide and tear him apart. The saiyan was a born predator, with sharp teeth and a strong jaw; Puar was certain he wouldn't last long if it came down to a fight for his life. Ugh. Now he was thinking macabre thoughts, imagining what it would be like to be torn apart, wondering if Radditz would indeed feed on his corpse. Eww; the last image made him queasy. Being eaten was high on Puar's list of deeply disturbing things.

And yet still...

Maybe...

Nope. Still gross.

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There had been a time in his life, Krillin reflected, that he had cared very much about what other people thought. He was very glad to be past that age, because were he still the stammering, self-conscious wallflower he'd been, he was sure he'd be dying of embarrassment. He was getting his ass handed to him by an eight year old kid, while two of the strongest beings he'd ever come into contact with watched from the sidelines. Radditz and Vegeta stood side by side, the bigger man shouting insults and encouragements, while the diminutive prince watched quietly, tapping one finger against his crossed arm, as though mentally ticking off points on a list. Reasons why Krillin is a Jackass? The bald man wondered, grunting as Gohan's elbow caught him in the sternum. He doubled over, coughing, while Gohan floated nearby, looking as though he wanted to apologize.

Friggin' Tien, Krillin thought, as he dropped to the ground and limped off to the side, allowing Radditz to take his place in the sparring ring. The three-eyed assassin had scarcely set foot in the training rooms since the Saiyans had taken over, leaving Krillin to beg for some time against the fearsome aliens, lest he fall out of shape during their stay. Vegeta and Radditz had given him a hard time about it at first, but had welcomed him easily enough the next several sessions, even though he rarely lasted even ten minutes against them. The mere fact that he returned, day after day to take his beating, raised him several notches in their estimation.

Saiyan respect or not, Krillin grimaced as he eased himself down on a bench to watch, he was sure looking forward to the regeneration tank that Vegeta was supposed to be buying them.

“Where are the rest of the pathetic weaklings that call themselves warriors?” Vegeta's gravelly voice shocked Krillin out of his thoughts, and he turned to face the Saiyan, surprised that the prince had actually moved closer of his own volition. He cocked his head, regarding Krillin with the same bored expression he always wore. “Blue used to speak of her team, her little battle force.”

“Well...uh...” Krillin stuttered stupidly, shocked that Vegeta was actually talking to him, the words more than just simple commands to get out of the way or to pass the salt. “There's really not many of us who fight, now that Yamcha...err, Sable, is dead. There's me, Chichi, Sixteen, and Tien, though he's a fairly recent addition to the station. We knew him on Earth, see?” Vegeta grunted, and Krillin, interpreting this as a sign, continued to babble. “Most of the dangerous missions are me and Bulma and Puar, but Chichi and Sixteen switch in sometimes. Even Roshi and Oolong have helped out, though they're usually just picking something up. Trustworthy in here,” he tapped his heart, “but not always in here.” He tapped his head and smiled lopsidedly at Vegeta, who did not return the gesture. “Tien hasn't been out yet, because we haven't had anything innocuous to send him on. Just danger and intrigue since we picked him up from the slaver colony.”

“You trust him?” Vegeta asked, and Krillin nodded.

“He's from Earth. We knew him back then, and he was honourable. These things that have happened to him, they've messed him up pretty badly, made him scared, made him angry, but I don't think you can change a man's basic nature so easily.”

“Hmph,” Vegeta snorted, “you think so, do you? The things I could tell you, little man, of the deeds of good men. They would make your skin crawl.” The prince sounded almost amused, though he certainly did not look it. Krillin shivered.

“Well maybe those men were never good in the first place.” Krillin retorted, and Vegeta looked at him with disdain, as if to say What makes you so sure, then, about your Tien? Quickly, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the bald man alone with his thoughts while the other two continued to spar. If they noticed Vegeta's departure, they certainly didn't think much of it. They were obviously quite used to his frequent mood changes and not bothered by his often unpredictable behaviour.

Briefly, Krillin wondered where the prince was going, but then realized he was probably headed toward the lab to pester Bulma. That seemed to be his favourite thing, aside from training and eating, and the idea made Krillin a little uneasy. What were the man's intentions, he wondered, remembering the night they'd tried to kidnap Gohan, particularly the shameful moment that he'd cowered in the shadows while Vegeta talked flippantly of raping his friend. He hadn't followed through, of course, and Krillin was pretty sure the prince hadn't intended to do anything but scare Gohan, but what a way to do it. Bulma had no doubt been terrified, and Krillin wondered what she thought when she looked at Vegeta, or when she was trapped all alone in her lab with him. She was a genius, but not always a smart girl. Would she think of the vicious killer with the grabby hands, or the smooth-voiced banter she'd shared with Vengeance?

“It's really none of my business.” Krillin muttered to himself, but continued to worry nonetheless. Bulma was really too trusting sometimes, and while Vegeta might not be the type to force himself on her physically, Krillin didn't think the prince would have too many qualms about fucking her over along with the rest of the crew of Red Station. Then again, he hadn't really let them down yet. Maybe there was hope, after all.

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“Yo.” Bulma tipped her wrench in greeting and shot Vegeta a quick smile, like she always did, even though she knew he wouldn't return it. As usual, he grunted and sneered at her, as though her simple pleasantries were a grave insult.

“Tien.” Vegeta said, perching in his usual spot across the table from her. He'd been coming in all week, at least once a day, to pester her about the gravity machine, or to snoop through her blueprints and files, or simply to insult her in any way he could. She was beginning to wonder if he was lonely.

“Ooh, are we playing a game?” She tilted her head and feigned stupidity. “Ummm...Sixteen. Do I win?” She twirled a strand of hair round her finger, realizing too late that her hands were covered in grease from the engine parts she had been tinkering with. “Aww, hell.” She muttered, quickly grabbing a rag to try and wipe the black smear from her hair.

“The bald one says that he has not been here long.” Vegeta rolled his eyes, ignoring her antics. She'd played this game before.

“No, he hasn't.” Bulma replied carefully, wondering what force in the universe had possessed Vegeta to climb off his high horse and actually have a conversation with Krillin. “But I trust him, and you can look through the files yourself. He hasn't sent or received any suspicious messages.”

“Code.” Vegeta shrugged, plainly agitated. “And any spy worth his salt would not send directly to Frieza's control room. That would be suicide. He probably has a network of highly un-suspicious people to pass his messages though.”

“Un-suspicious?” Bulma smiled. “Is that a word? And for your information, Tien hasn't sent any messages through our computer systems since he arrived here, Vegeta. So unless he's sending smoke signals...” She trailed off, suggestively.

“Is it possible that he is sending through another account? A hidden one?”

“I highly doubt it. Tien hardly ever sets foot near the computers, and when he does, all I ever see him doing is playing games. The man spent three years in a slaver camp, Vegeta. Who the hell do you think he networked with?”

“Ugh, fool woman.” Vegeta snarled, throwing his hands to the air. He came back down, planting them on the desk so that he leaned over, his face above hers as she sat, looking up. “Must you be so fucking optimistic? Everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise.”

“Hmm,” she shrugged, her pose nonchalant but her eyes like steel as she glared back at him, “where I come from, we say innocent until proven guilty.” She heard the rumble emanating from his throat, saw his tail lashing behind him, and was reminded of an angry dog, backed into a corner and snapping at any hand that came near. She sighed. “You know,” Bulma stood up, reached over, and ran her fingers over one temple, up into his coarse hair, “you lied to me. You said it was seventeen shades of orange.”

“What? By the Gods, woman!” Vegeta snorted at the sudden change of subject, stepping quickly out of her reach. Who the hell did she think she was, touching him like that!? She was so damn disconcerting! “I'm amazed you even remember that conversation, given how stinking drunk you were. I could smell you through the com-link!”

“I like your real hair much better.” Bulma smiled at him, surprised and pleased at his reaction. Was the proud prince embarrassed? Shy, even? She would swear that he was actually blushing a little. “It's much more regal.” He was sputtering, totally caught off guard by her insolence and her absolute inanity, so much so that he didn't even know how to respond. She leaned over the table, appearing to casually rest her weight on her arms, but in reality practicing one of the deadliest moves in a woman's arsenal. She shifted, the neckline of her top sliding lower, breasts pushing up and together as they rested against the crook of her elbows. She caught the quick downward dart of his eyes, the slight widening of them before he forced his attention back up to her face, his features an iron mask of disdain and irritation. He was strong, she thought; no man had ever stood so admirably against The Cleave.

“Like I give a shit.” He snorted, berating himself for that glance, unaware that there was worse to come.

“Vegeta,” she said, gently biting her bottom lip before allowing it to plump back outward, wet with moisture from her teeth. Oh Gods, the lips. He couldn't take his eyes off her sweet, inviting mouth. “Don't you want to find out if I was lying, too?” One finger hooked around her neckline, running up and down the fabric, toying with his sanity. “About the colour of my ni-“

“Don't you fucking say it!” Vegeta snarled, cutting her off. He didn't think he could handle it. He was ready to throw her to the floor. He took a step forward, and she straightened, not sure that she'd made the best decisions in the last few moments. She'd thought it would be funny, but the hard note in his voice reminded her of the night she'd tried to rescue Gohan, and memories of his arms like steel bands preventing her escape suddenly made her cold. “Don't think you can toy with me, bitch.” He rumbled, stalking past her and quickly out the door. Bulma was left standing by her desk, finger still hooked at her neckline, pulling the fabric down just enough to see the barest hint of lace beneath.

Quickly, she pulled her hand away from her chest, not really sure where to put it afterward, awkwardly placing it first on the table, then her hip, then finally bringing a finger to her lips in puzzlement. She was disappointed, in all honesty. She supposed she should be relieved or angry or something, but all there was, was the deep, disappointing ache of an orgasm denied. She hadn't thought about it consciously, but analyzing it now, she'd really wanted him to say “Fuck yes, I am curious about the colour of your nipples!” before tearing off her shirt and finding out for himself. Then, masterful succubus that she was, she'd have seduced him into fucking her right there on the desk, blueprints be damned!

“Ugh, what am I thinking?” She groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I must be crazy! He's an egotistical maniac with a mean streak a mile wide, and he's not even very nice to me!” She said aloud, fully aware that talking to oneself was another hallmark of craziness. “Okay,” Bulma shook her hands out, cracked her knuckles, and plopped her butt down into her chair, “work. I am working on this! I am not slacking off or thinking about alien booty. No sir. I am working!”

“Well I do wish you would consider doing it the other way around!” Mrs. Briefs' shrill voice rang from the doorway as she tottered in on her usual high-heels, a heavily laden tray of snacks in her hands. “I would love some grandchildren, young lady, and that Vegeta looks like husband material to me!”

“Mo-ther!” Bulma moaned, abandoning her table to help her mother with the cumbersome tray. “You've only known him for a week.”

“So? I have eyes, Bulma!” She tittered, parking her rear in the stool that Vegeta had just vacated. Bulma sighed, resigned to the interruption, and selected a tiny sandwich from the tray. To be honest, she was starved. “Besides, you've known him for quite a while now!”

“As Vengeance. Geez mom, I didn't even know his name until a week ago!”

“So, what's his name matter? If your dad woke up tomorrow and told me his real name was Franzibald Eunice Thuringood and that he'd been keeping it a secret all these years, I wouldn't care one whit!” Mrs. Briefs nibbled daintily at her own morsel and watched disdainfully while Bulma gobbled hers down in two bites, more so out of spite than bad table manners. Mrs. Briefs had been counselling her daughter to be more ladylike for her whole life, and the young genius had most certainly not fallen in line.

“That's not exactly the same thing. What if this Franzi-whatever person had a really bad reputation?” Bulma plucked another sandwich from the tray.

“Well then I'd know the truth, wouldn't I?”

“Okay, so what if most of his reputation was the absolute truth?” Bulma put forth, looking smug as her mother pondered the situation, blonde head tilted to the side as she thought.

“You're making excuses for yourself, Bulma. You did it with Yamcha and with every other suitor you had, and it won't get you anywhere.” Mrs. Briefs said succinctly, and hopped off her stool. “Do enjoy the snacks dear.” She poked her daughter in the ribs before teetering out of the lab. “You're nothing but skin and bones! Men like a woman with a little meat on her!”

“He's not going to EAT me, mom!” Bulma yelled at her mother's retreating back, and immediately regretted her choice of words as the petite blonde turned and winked, posing like a beauty queen.

“Not with THAT attitude, he won't!”

*

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“Augh, damn it, brat! You're doing it wrong!” Nappa growled, swatting at Gohan's hands, which were currently trying to tie off the bandage around Nappa's thigh.

“If you'd hold still, I could do it properly!” Gohan grumbled, his fingers slipping again as Nappa jerked, the bandage once more falling into disarray. “URGH! This was a whole lot easier when you were unconscious!”

“Can I...help?” Chichi poked her head shyly around the corner, not sure if it was a good idea or not to have offered her assistance. “I'm um...” she stepped into the doorway but did not enter further into the room, a little intimidated by the largest saiyan's presence. “I have quite a bit of experience in this sort of thing.” She gestured toward the bandages, and Gohan nodded vigorously.

“Please!” He sighed exaggeratedly, throwing his hands up. Chichi smiled, aware that she was showing in her son, despite the fact that she'd had nothing to do with him for three entire years, since he was five. He'd not turned completely saiyan after all!

“Well hurry the fuck up, then!” Nappa groused from his position on the bed. He'd had enough of rest and relaxation, and was itching to be pronounced fit enough to return to the training ring, if not the actual battlefield. Gohan shot him a quelling look, which he stoutly ignored. “C'mon, c'mon! I'm dyin' of old age over here!”

Chichi frowned, immediately regretting her decision to help the big brute. “You'll watch your language, mister!” She bustled over, morphing into her no-nonsense wife and mother persona as she went. Nappa's eyes went wide with surprise and he grumbled something under his breath in that guttural language of theirs. “And you!” She pointed a finger at Gohan as she poised herself above the big man's leg. “If I ever hear you talking like that, I'll wash your mouth out with soap!” Nappa watched with amusement as the boy seemed to shrink a little, red faced with embarrassment. He started to laugh, but his guffaws quickly turned into a grunt of pain as the human woman unexpectedly grabbed the ends of the bandage and yanked hard, putting sudden pressure on his wound. He roared with anger but she ignored his outrage, instead smiling at him with a mock sweetness that curdled his stomach. “The trick is to apply lots of pressure, you see?” She was quick to tie the ends off, the pressure relenting somewhat as she clipped the fabric and tucked it under, and Nappa had to admit that she'd done a good job, though he stopped short of saying it aloud.

“Finally!” Nappa spat, bracing his arms on either side of himself and swinging his body round so that his enormous legs hung off the bed, bare feet planted firmly on the cold floor. He made a move to get up, but the woman's surprised cry and the unexpected presence of her weak hands pushing him back shocked him into staying his momentum.

“You can't get up!” She scolded, taking in his appearance. There were still thick bandages wrapped around his broken ribs and his thigh, and though the bruising and burns that had covered him had begun to heal, his body was still dotted with angry, mottled purples and the bright furious reds of blistered skin. Any human in his condition would be unquestionably bedridden.

“I'm fine.” He pushed past her, sufficiently recovered from his surprise, and stood stretching his muscles, trying to rid them of the lazy feeling that so much bed rest had bred. “You up for a spar, kid?”

“You know, you really should lie back down.” Gohan insisted. “Vegeta hasn't given you the all-clear yet, you know.”

“Pfft.” Nappa snorted, “That's because Vegeta's been too busy sniffing after that blue haired bitch to -” he stopped himself hurriedly, wishing he hadn't said it aloud. The brat's mother was staring at him, wide eyed and alarmed, while Gohan stood red-faced and fidgety. So he'd noticed it then, too, and him just a cub. Nappa wished he hadn't been ordered to bed for the past week; for the brat to have noticed it, it must have been getting bad.

“What?” Chichi forced out through a suddenly dry mouth.

“I mean...nothing.” Nappa coughed and scratched his head, looking away.

“Nappa you're a terrible liar.” Gohan shook his head and turned toward his mother. “Look,” he said awkwardly, unable to really meet her eyes. Wasn't the birds and the bees talk supposed to be the other way around? “You probably shouldn't worry about this.”

“Shouldn't worry about it?” Chichi hissed at her son. “Bulma is my best friend, and you guys are telling me that some dangerous, murderous, angry saiyan wants to...is...” she trailed off, not wanting to say the words she was thinking in front of her eight year old son, even though he was obviously familiar with the ideas she was trying to get across.

“Dad was a saiyan.” Gohan said, stubbornly.

“A broken one.” Nappa put in, grudgingly.

“This is different!” Chichi snapped. “Vegeta is scary, and your father was anything but! Not to mention that Vegeta is much stronger than your father ever was! He could kill her, and every one of us, with a snap of his fingers and I don't trust him not to!”

“Pussy.” Nappa muttered, and Gohan wisely chose to remain silent. Vegeta and the other saiyans had lots of good qualities, but they were a different kind of good than his father's had been, and he doubted that his mother would ever be able to appreciate the grace of a clean kill, or the strength of mind required to stay sane in Frieza's ranks.

“Wait,” Gohan held up a hand to silence the fury that was threatening to explode out of Chichi's mouth. “How do you know Vegeta is stronger than dad was?” He spoke slowly, reverently, as though a light bulb was just beginning to glow inside his head. “You can feel power levels, can't you?”

“Well, not really as well as the others could.” Chichi admitted, still glaring at the foul-mouthed saiyan. “Krillin's been teaching me, but I remember how the energy felt around your father, Gohan.”

“Do you think he would teach us?” Gohan asked, and the excitement in his voice was enough to make Nappa curious. He raised an eyebrow at Gohan, and the child blurted it out without a second thought. “I can sort of sense familiar ki signatures; dad taught me,” he said shyly, for his mother had never been told that little secret. “But I can't read power levels. There's a way to do it though!” Chichi frowned uneasily. Sensing power levels was a highly guarded secret among the Earth's remaining fighters and she didn't know if she wanted the trio of brutes to learn how. “My dad could sense power levels and ki without using a scouter or anything like that! Think of how valuable it would be if Krillin would teach us all to do the same.”

“Really,” Nappa rubbed his chin between two fingers. “Wouldn't that give that sick lizard a bit of a surprise...” He grinned at Chichi. “Well at least something good will come of you useless weaklings.”

“Err, let's go, Mom.” Gohan took his mother's hand and quickly dragged her from the room, aiming to get her away from Nappa as quickly as possible. The bald saiyan was on his best behaviour under orders from Vegeta, but Nappa's best was still pretty rude, and his temper was short. If Chichi said the wrong thing at the wrong time, Gohan didn't doubt that she might end up dead before she had a chance to defend herself.

“I don't know if this is such a good idea, teaching those monsters to sense ki.” Chichi voiced her concerns once they were out in the hallway and she'd had a chance to straighten herself up once more. “I don't know if we should really be giving them all these advantages over us.”

“We aren't enemies, mother.” Gohan said pointedly, and she sighed.

“You aren't, but them, I'm not so sure.”

“When are you going to learn that there's no me and them?” Gohan demanded, frustrated with her attitude. “I know you don't like it, but they and I are we.” He stressed. “If you're going to hate them, you'll have to hate me too.

“I don't hate them, Gohan.” Chichi swiped a harried hand over a wrinkle in her dress. “I just don't trust them.” How could she tell her son that the men who raised him were monsters, and that she lived in fear of him turning out just like them?

“Well you'd better not tell me any of your secrets then.” Gohan snapped and stalked off, leaving Chichi standing there in the hallway, alone and bewildered. She stared after him, her mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water as she tried to think of something to say.

“You know,” Nappa had poked his head out of the doorway and he stood towering over her. Oddly enough, she didn't get the sense that he was trying to intimidate or threaten her, but she straightened to her full height anyway. “You should probably just get used to it. He's ours just as much as he's yours, and we saiyans tend to stick together. Just saying.” He shrugged off her glare and ambled back over to the bed. “Besides that,” he lay down and pulled the sheet up over himself, “if he turns traitor on us, we'll kill him, and I'm pretty sure you don't want that.” He smiled at her, not really maliciously, just saying that's the way it is, before closing his eyes. “Shut the door again, will you? I need my beauty rest.”

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And then Nappa slept for a thousand years, because that's how much rest he would need to be beautiful. He's kind of a bastard, but I think he's trying to help in his own way...sometimes. Also, how many of you would run screaming from a Puar(humanoid form, of course)/Radditz lemon, and how many of you (cool people) would cheer it on? This really isn't a poll and when it comes down to it, the answers likely won't affect what I decide to write (don't take offense; if it's right, then it gets written regardless), but I'm curious. :D