Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 37

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: Let's do the time warp again! It's been a while since we jumped around in time. We go now to a period roughly 6 months-ish after Bulma and Co. Arrive at Red station.

Also, I GOT FANART!!! Look `em up at Deviantart and heap praise upon the artists! “Kush” by Debaleena (This was actually drawn a while ago, and because I'm a turd I forgot to mention it.) And also “Vengeance Fan Art 01” by fazkataz. (warning: contains boobies!)

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ROUGHLY TWO AND A HALF YEARS AGO

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Yamcha winced as Bulma brushed past him, hardly even sparing a glance for her beau. He'd been wondering if she was still pissed about the argument they'd had earlier, and apparently the answer was yes. Which wasn't really fair, considering that she'd started it, and been the one to finish it, too. He'd been left smarting from her vicious barbs, while she flounced away like she was floating on clouds.

“Aww, c'mon babe, can't you even look me in the eye? I'm leaving soon and who knows when I'll back back. If I'll be back,” he added, trying to play on her sense of guilt. He had a feeling that she was walking around with her `off' switch flipped, and he'd kind of been hoping for some goodbye sex. It was a dangerous gamble, as trying to get some was what had sparked the argument in the first place, but he was willing to risk it. Makeup sex with Bulma was always better than any he'd had with any other girl; maybe that was why they had such an on-off relationship.

“Don't you `babe' me, Yamcha,” Bulma snapped, eyes flashing and hair swinging as she spun round on her heel and advanced on him like a furious wildcat. “And don't you try and pull that guilt trip on me! Imagine!” she huffed, sticking out her finger to poke him in the chest. “Trying to guilt me into bed! Is that all I am to you, Yamcha? A walking orifice?”

“Foul, Bulma, don't talk like that,” Yamcha wrinkled his nose and shoved her jabbing hand away. “And quit poking me.”

“Oh what, am I hurting you, strong man?” she snapped back. “Not ladylike enough for you? Maybe I should bat my eyes and swoon more, be a little less self-sufficient.”

“Ugh, I don't know why I bother,” Yamcha shot back, throwing his hands up in the air and stepping out of arms' reach. “You know what, if you feel that way, then don't even bother saying bye tomorrow.” He rolled his eyes and stalked off, leaving her fuming.

“Oh go martyr yourself somewhere else!” she called at his retreating back, shaking her fist and wishing she had something to throw as he disappeared around the corner.

“Fight with the old lady?” Roshi grinned, falling into step beside Yamcha as he went off to lick his wounds in private. Bulma always knew just which buttons to push to embarrass him, and she wasn't shy about making a scene. The more public the fight, the louder she got, as though everyone in the entire universe needed to know how big a jerk she thought he was.

“Bugger off, Roshi,” Yamcha sighed, “And don't call her that. She'd kill you if she heard.” He smirked despite himself, and patted the old man on the shoulder. “Ahh, what the hell. Want to come get drunk with me? I know where Bulma hides the SiHo, and at the moment, I couldn't care less if I leave her stash a few bottles lighter.” He looked at his watch; eighteen hours till he was scheduled to blast off. Surely that was enough time to sober up, so long as he didn't overdo it too much.

“Did I hear someone say SiHo?” Oolong appeared at his other side, seemingly out of the woodwork. “A man needs his pals when he's down in the dumps.”

“You just want to know where the horde is.” Yamcha snorted. “Well I ain't telling either of you, just so you know. I'm feeling reckless, alright, but I don't have a death wish.” He shook his head firmly in illustration. Bulma was pissed already, and she'd be damn well past furious when she found her stockpile raided. If she had to find a new hiding spot on top of that, she'd murder him. Keeping everyone from going insane while all cooped up together on Red Station was challenge enough without throwing the potential threat of alcoholism into the mix. The stuff was normally rationed carefully by Bulma and Chichi, though every once in a while someone like Roshi would discover the hiding spot and things would go to pot for a day or two. Yamcha was one of the lucky ones, able to relieve his pent up aggressions and frustrations out in service of the resistance movement, but Roshi and Oolong hit the jackpot if they were allowed to make so much as a supply run. Suffice to say, it was not exactly the best time in any of their lives.

“What's up her butt this time, anyway?” Master Roshi asked, daring a glance back at the blue-haired banshee. Lucky for him, she'd calmed herself down enough to return to her checklist and was no longer cursing a streak at them from down the hall.

“Not Yamcha, that's for sure!” Oolong snorted a piggy laugh, and Roshi cackled with delight, while the poor man in mention made a face at his two companions. “Or maybe that's what the fight was about. You know, a lot of guys have problems getting their girls to do anal.”

“Oh what would you know about it, porkface?” Yamcha snapped. “Only chicks you ever had, you had to kidnap. And no nasty talk about my girl.” He shoved Oolong against the wall and held the little oinker by the front of his stained wife-beater tank. “Keep your damn pervert thoughts to yourself. You can both forget about the SiHo, by the way,” he added, releasing Oolong's shirt and running his hand through his mussed up hair. “I'm going to go work out instead.” He whirled away from them, wondering why on dear, departed Earth he'd ever thought them good companions to commiserate with about women, and especially Bulma, arguably the most contrary female in the universe. Roshi and Oolong's particular brand of porn-mag advice would do him no good.

“Fine, be like that!” Oolong taunted, but only after Yamcha had stomped out of range. He pulled his shirt straight, indignantly brushing at the spot where Yamcha's clenched fingers had wrinkled it all up. “What's the world coming to, when even the bandits are pussy whipped?” he muttered to Roshi, who sighed and nodded. The old master liked Yamcha, he really did, but he wondered where the fire had gone. Odd that taming his fear of girls had also apparently tamed a bit of his reckless spirit. One would think that the opposite might have happened.

“Cabin fever, old chum.” Roshi patted the pig on the head twice, his hand darting away before Oolong could slap it off. “These young folks don't know how lucky they are.” He shrugged, watching until Yamcha turned the corner and disappeared. “Well, come on then. I was going to save this for your birthday, but,” he waggled bushy eyebrows and winked behind the cover of the garish sunglasses he still wore sometimes, “I managed to sneak a little something back with me, last time I went on a supply run with Chichi. A hundred and ten glossy pages, my porcine pal.”

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“Man, breaking up the day you leave. That's rough,” Krillin said, easily dodging a half-hearted kick from Yamcha, who did not pursue with a second.

“I know, right!” Yamcha sighed and wiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

“What'd you do, anyway?” Krillin took the opportunity for a break too, crossing the training mat to take a swig from his water bottle. Not that he really needed it, but it was something to do; training with Yamcha was never very strenuous after a bout with Bulma. She left him slow and mopey.

“Tcha!” Yamcha glared at his friend. “What makes you think I did something?” He sneered sulkily back at Krillin's raised eyebrow and the look in his friend's eye that said oh? Do explain. “Okay, so I did do something. She says I forgot our anniversary.”

“Ooh, bad move.”

“How the hell am I supposed to remember it when it keeps changing?” Yamcha sputtered, ruthlessly yanking the elastic from his hair and gathering it all up once more at the base of his neck. “I mean, seriously. Every time we break up and get back together, she says it changes because why would we celebrate the one from when we went out before? She's crazy, man!”

“Meh, at least you have an anniversary to forget.” Krillin shrugged, trying not to be bitter about the fact that the only other available female on the ship was his best friend's widow. Talk about rough. “If you don't want her, I'll take her off your hands for a while,” He laughed, trying to make himself forget how long it had been since he'd even taken a girl on a date, much less had one in his bed.

“No offense, K man, but I don't think you could handle Bulma.” Yamcha tightened his ponytail and cracked his neck like he was getting ready to jump in this time with full force, even though Krillin suspected the spar would be twice as pathetic as it had started out.

“And you think you can?” Krillin cocked his eyebrow again and laughed at Yamcha's shocked face. “Oh please Yamcha, how many times have you two broken up and gotten back together? I'm not saying you guys aren't going to live happily ever after, but your definition of `happily' better involve a lot of yelling because I don't think there's a man in this entire universe who could ever handle that woman.”

“Man, Krillin, it ain't that easy. I love Bulma, you know? I can't just break it off.”

“I never said you should, Yamcha.” Krillin sighed, watching as Yamcha's posture slumped, and knew he wasn't going to get the work out he'd hoped for. Maybe Chichi'd be up for a spar after dinner. “I'm just saying that you've gotta understand she's always going to be volatile like that. Bulma is no shrinking violet. How can you not see that after all these years?”

“I see it,” The tall man muttered, crossing his arms and looking away like a sulky child. “I just...I dunno.” He scuffed at the floor with the toe of one sneaker, feeling like an idiot.

“You just wish she wouldn't pick so many fights, I get it,” Krillin laughed, “Boy, do I get it. I can't count the number of times she gave me an earful back in the good days.”

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Bulma tapped her pencil irritatedly against her desk, scowling down at the schematics before her with all the malice in the world. In the top right corner, she'd doodled a picture of Yamcha picking his nose, complete in all its immature glory with a word bubble that read “I'm a jerk.” Then she'd regretted it of course because one, it was beyond childish, and two, she'd ruined her pristine blueprints and would have to draw up a second copy. Paper of this quality was expensive and she hadn't yet gotten used to the fact that she wasn't rich anymore.

“Frugality is not in my nature,” She sighed aloud, reaching for another sheet after debating whether to just try and scratch the stupid picture out. She'd tried erasing it, but in her irritation, she'd pressed down pretty hard and her artistry was still evident. She rolled the papers in one hand before shoving off the desk hard, her wheelie chair carrying her gracefully across the floor toward her lightboard, where she clipped the sheets and began the tedious job of tracing a new copy for herself. The big printer had run out of ink two weeks prior, and the old coot Gero had refused to finance a trip until more supplies were needed, so she'd been forced to do everything by hand.

“Ugh, so primitive,” she muttered, rubbing out a cramp in her hand. Sure, she was used to drawing up schematics with a pencil and paper, but it was much more convenient to just scan the finished product into a computer and then print off a new one when you messed it up. “Next he'll be insisting that I write on the walls in charcoal smudges, because pencils have become too pricey.”

“Pfft, charcoal? Too expensive. You've got blood, don't you?” Krillin's loud, laughing voice startled her and she whipped her head around to glare at him for a moment before bending back over the table to erase the squiggled line she'd drawn by mistake. Thankfully, this one came out. “Oops, sorry. Haha.” He rubbed the back of his bald head in embarrassment. “Didn't come here to piss you off, though my actions so far might seem to the contrary.”

“Ahh, sorry Krillin,” Bulma sighed and put her eraser down, turning off the light for a moment to make sure that all traces of the blip were gone. She switched it back on and waved him over, turning back to the board as he dragged a chair up beside her. “I've been pretty cranky today, I guess. You probably talked to Yamcha, huh?”

“Yeah, he's in knots.”

“Feh, as usual,” Bulma snorted, leaning in close and squinting at a particular detail. She slid the original sheet out, and carried it over to her computer to check a detail, tutting in annoyance when she confirmed that there was a mistake. “Gah, no wonder I've been having so much trouble with this stupid thing!” she exclaimed, making a quick fix on the paper. “Copied this out wrong. Stupid printer, what a pain!” She stomped back over to Krillin and set the blueprint back underneath her half-finished copy. “Anyway,” she continued as though the interruption had never happened, “he's always in knots and nothing ever changes. Sometimes I don't even know why I bother.”

“Cause even though he's a nose picking jerk,” Krillin grinned, tapping the corner of the paper where the doodle showed through, “you love him.” He withdrew his hand at her responding glare, thinking that maybe even though he hadn't been with anyone in over a year, maybe he didn't want to go around wishing Bulma might fall into his bed. He hadn't been joking when he'd told Yamcha she was volatile.

“You know, just because I'm not little miss domestic,” she spun her chair to face him, waving her pencil in his face as she spoke, “does not mean I wouldn't appreciate some romance beyond hey babe, I'll rub your back if you rub my front.”

“Your Yamcha impression needs work. If he actually said that, you maybe just need to scale back his Roshi and Oolong time.” Krillin raised an eyebrow in disbelief and Bulma whirled back to her work, red faced.

“Okay fine, so he didn't say it, but it's what happens. Back on Earth there were flowers and candy, and dinner dates. Just because those things are gone, it doesn't mean he doesn't have to try. Earth blowing up is not a free pass, Krillin,” She insisted. “I mean really, I sometimes wonder if we just keep getting back together because there's no one else out here.”

“One, ouch.” Krillin feigned a wounded heart. “And two, you kept getting back together when we were on Earth, and there were plenty of other choices there.”

“I know...but...”

“But?” Krillin prodded, even though he suddenly felt very uncomfortable, as though privy to information he didn't really want to know. He and Yamcha had become very close on the ship, and though Bulma had been a good friend for much longer, he didn't like to think he might be blamed for getting in between the two of them. If this was a tell me what to do type confession, he wasn't so sure he wanted to hear it.

“It's different,” She said, sounding a little sad. Distant. “Since we came out here, it's not the same. On Earth I had everything. Time, money, beauty. I could afford to fool around. Out here, doing what we're doing, death could be right around the corner.” She looked over at him, imploringly. “I don't want to wake up in heaven or whatever one day, cursing myself because I wasted my life away down here.”

“Yeah, I guess I know what you mean,” Krillin replied carefully, and Bulma winced, as though just realizing how bad that sounded.

“I don't mean that Yamcha is a waste of time, you know,” she pleaded for understanding.

“He's one of my best friends, Bulma,” Krillin said. “I'm not sure what to say.”

“You boys,” Bulma looked back to her table, though she put her pencil back down and simply stared at the muted square of light, “always forgetting that I'm supposed to be your friend too. Always going off and leaving me behind. Do you know how long I waited for that jerk, while he was off living in the woods like a wild man? Always training or whatever.” She turned her nose up, trying to sound indignant even though Krillin could hear the shake in her usually confident voice.

“Aww, Bulma...” he tried, putting a hand on her shoulder, and she slapped it off immediately. “C'mon, don't be like that.”

“Just go away Krillin. Go back to the boys' club. Do whatever, I don't care.” She shook her head as though to clear it, and picked her pencil back up, leaning forward with new determination as Krillin slid off his chair and slunk from the room, not really sure how the situation had managed to get twisted so that he became the bad guy. Damn, Bulma was good, Krillin thought, shaking his bald head as he went off to find Yamcha and make sure the guy had a place to sleep for the night.

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“Bulma Briefs, you have got to be kidding me,” Chichi stood in the door, arms crossed and foot tapping so hard Bulma thought she might just put a dent in the metal. She tapped her wristwatch. “Do you have any idea what time it is? You're not even to come out and say goodbye?”

“Wasn't planning on it.” Buma shrugged and turned her back to the door. She'd been watching the clock all morning; she knew what time it was right down to the second.

“What were your last words to him?” Chichi demanded, uncrossing her arms and planting them on her hips.

“Oh, geez, Chichi. Just leave me alone.”

“What were your last words, Bulma? Do you remember them?” she snapped. “Because I sure as hell remember mine to Goku. They were not nice. And I was screaming them.” She advanced into the room, working every angle of maternal guilt she knew how. “And let me tell you Bulma, there is nothing in my life I regret more. So I don't care how angry you are, because this is just childish. Get your butt out of that chair, and go be civil and say goodbye.”

“You're being ridiculous.” Bulma finally dropped her pencil and rolled her eyes at her friend.

“And you never know,” Chichi retorted, leaning pointedly on the work table, fingers tapping a drumbeat of shame.

“Ok, fine.” Bulma slammed her fist on the table and shot out of her chair, scowling at Chichi's knowing smirk. “Fine, I'm up. You happy? You want me to go kiss and make up with Yamcha? Because you know, I'm the crazy one, I'm obviously wrong.”

“Oh cut it out, Bulma. That will not work on me; I am a mother.” Chichi shook her head and grabbed Bulma by the wrist, yanking her forward and dragging her quickly from the room before she could change her mind.

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Yamcha sat back in the captain's chair and sighed, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. Beside him, he could hear Puar unbuckling from his own seat and the familiar pop of smoke as the cat shifted back into his natural form. He opened his eyes just in time to see Puar dip down to the floor and grasp the pair of pants from where they'd fallen. “That's different,” he said, looking over at his oldest friend, who'd begun to fold up the jeans. Yamcha looked for the shirt and, not seeing one, realized it must have been part of Puar all along. “The pants, I mean. Normally you just fabricate all of the clothes.”

“Yeah...uhh...” Puar trailed off, spinning around quickly as though that would erase his embarrassment. “It's a new form I'm trying to perfect. Didn't have the mass for pants.” He put the folded garment down on the console panel, fussing with the folds as Yamcha watched. He suddenly felt ridiculous, wishing that he'd just gone with the tried and true Yamcha imitation. Or that he'd gotten one of the Briefs to install the kitty harness into the mini ship.

“Ok, cool.” Yamcha shrugged and unfastened his own buckle. He stretched out as he stood, standing on his tip toes and reaching his arms toward the ceiling. “I didn't sleep a wink last night,” he yawned as he settled back on his heels. “You mind watching the autopilot for a bit? I'm going to try and catch some z's.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Puar shrugged and settled himself on top of the console. “So you and Bulma...”

“Ha...” Yamcha snorted. “Yeah, that didn't fix itself.”

“Maybe you should buy her a present.” The cat curled up, wiggling and shifting until he'd found the perfect spot in between all the buttons and dials. “Bulma always did like presents. Something nice, to show her you're serious.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Yamcha sighed and scratched his chin, letting out another jaw-cracking yawn as he ambled off toward the bunks. Puar narrowed his eyes at his friend's retreating back, having been waiting for a scritch that never came. Mumbling a kitty grumble, he scratched behind his ear with his own paw, but it just wasn't the same.

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“Crap,” Yamcha hissed as he ran down the alley, desperately tapping at the fritzing out earpiece with one finger. “Crap, crap crap! Puar, can you hear me?” he asked, wincing as a garbled reply came through. “Can't understand you, man!” He tucked the box under his arm and ducking around a corner, briefly glancing back to see whether or not he'd lost his pursuers. No such luck. The two brutes were still trailing behind, and one caught the movement of his head, ducking back quickly behind the wall.

“E's over there!” the soldier called, pointing his pistol and firing wide. “Shit, e's quick!”

Yamcha took off again as he heard their steps pounding along the concrete, wishing he'd had a chance to encapsulate the stupid box before the two heavies had caught sight of him. Puar's muddled voice cracked through the speaker in his ear again, totally unintelligible, and he cursed Bulma even though he knew it probably wasn't her fault. She was a vindictive woman at times, that was true, but he knew that she'd never do anything that might endanger his life, no matter how angry she might've been. “Yikes! Watch it!” Yamcha yelped as a blast hit the wall above his head. The two behind him were catching up, and he was having trouble navigating the maze of alleys, too afraid to fly lest he draw the attention of more of Frieza's men. “Of course,” he snarled, stopping in his tracks as he hit a dead end. “Shit.” He whipped around, looking for an exit, a door he could bust through, anything. Nowhere to go. Cursing, he stashed the box under a pile of trash and prepared for a fight. Much to his surprise, however, his two pursuers did not follow him around the corner. Instead, a single figure in a cloak came striding into view, footsteps echoing menacingly off the tall buildings that surrounded them. The stranger stopped fifteen feet away and Yamcha squinted, trying to make out features beneath the fabric.

“Hey...uh...what happened to those guys? Are you with them?” Yamcha stammered, sinking his heels into the ground and preparing to fly for his life.

“I took care of them,” said the stranger, and Yamcha felt a chill run down his spine at the man's voice. He could not place it as anyone he'd heard before, but he knew it wasn't friendly.

“Uhh, thanks.” Yamcha took a step back, and the stranger took a step forward.

“Not so fast, Sable.” He said, and Yamcha felt his heart jump into his throat.

“How do you know that name? Who are you?” he snapped, gasping in shock as the stranger seemed to phase out, moving so fast that even Yamcha could hardly see him, only to appear again only two feet away. He was much shorter than the Earth fighter, and yet that didn't seem to diminish the fear that Yamcha felt in the slightest. Goku'd kicked his ass at the age of twelve, and Krillin, half his height, could take him down at least seven times out of ten. No, Yamcha held no height-based prejudices.

“I make it my business to know things. Such as what you've got in that box, where your ship is, and who your co-conspiritors are. Blue, I believe? An enchanting codename,” The stranger sneered.

“You don't know shit!” Yamcha barked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck raise the way Puar's did when he was feeling threatened. What did this man want? “Who the fuck are you?”

“Tsk, tsk. No need to yell, Sable.” The stranger wagged a white-gloved finger in his direction, and though Yamcha couldn't see his face, he would have sworn the stranger was smirking beneath his hood. “You'll only draw unwanted attention. You may call me Vengeance.”

“V...Vengeance?” Yamcha stammered, stumbling back a few surprised steps until his back hit the wall with a thud. He'd heard the name before, murmured like an incantation over the resistance channels, muttered in dark venues by those both terrified and desperate to invoke this rancorous spirit. No one had heard anything of him in years, even since before Earth was destroyed. “Vegeance is gone. Dead.”

“I don't believe in ghosts, Sable, and am most certainly not one myself,” The stranger scoffed. “Though if you choose not to believe me, I will not argue. One less person who knows I am active again.” The man shrugged beneath his cloak, and Yamcha caught a glimpse of white boots beneath; standard issue in Frieza's forces.

“You're wearing Empire boots. How do I know this isn't a trick?”

“What purpose in tricking you? If I wanted what you've got, you would be dead with the two buffoons around the corner.” Vengeance crossed his arms, appeared to cock his head beneath the cloak. “Granted, I did think about taking it from you, but it is better in her hands.”

“Who are you talking about?” It was as though the man, Vengeance, had reached out and grabbed his heart, squeezing with icy fingers that chilled him to the bone and stopped the blood in his veins.

“Why Blue, of course,” Vengeance said lightly, as though they were discussing who to invite to Sunday brunch. He sauntered toward the heap of junk that Yamcha had hidden his cargo beneath, and pulled out the box. “You see, Sable,” he turned back toward Yamcha, tossing the box lightly from hand to hand, “despite whether or not you believe I am who I say I am, it is really in your best interests to do as I say. I could snap your neck in a second, though I am choosing not to. And do not think my reach is so short that your precious comrades would be safe.”

“You're bluffing,” Yamcha spat, though he was close to shaking. He could feel the power emanating off the cloaked man and knew without a doubt that he would be dead if Vengeance wished it so.

“Believe what you will, Sable.” A shrug again, a shifting beneath the cloak. “All that matters to me is what you do.”

“And what is it that you want, exactly?” Yamcha's hands clenched against the rough wall at his back and he felt a sudden, feverish desire to scrabble against it, to dig through to the other side with nothing but his fingernails as tools. He could feel sweat pooling beneath his arms and in the small of his back; it was a long time since he'd been so nervous.

“Cooperation.” Vengeance spun the parcel in his grasp. “Information.” He tapped a four-fingered tattoo on the sides with both hands, while holding on with his thumbs. “And silence. You will tell no one of our acquaintance, not even your closest allies. This is not a request.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then you'll die. Right here and now,” Vengeance chuckled beneath his hood, and Yamcha swallowed hard, too frozen to respond. “Hnn, that's what I thought. Catch.” Vengeance tossed the box and Yamcha reached out instinctively, fumbling to catch it and nearly dropping it, his hands were shaking so badly. “I'll be in touch,” Vengeance said, whirling around and walking out of the dead end as easy as he had come in. Yamcha stood for a moment, not really sure what to do, before he bolted from the wall, following the stranger, not sure if he was trying to catch up or if he was simply trying to get away. The man was gone, having left no trace of his presence but two bodies lying on the concrete, both of their skulls caved in as though they'd been smacked together, hard.

Yamcha felt his stomach swell and quickly hurried past before he lost his breakfast. He popped a storage capsule and stuffed the box inside before shrinking it back down and stuffing it into a secure pocket inside his waistband. Then he ran like hell, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching him all along.

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Puar was pacing back and forth in a human body when Yamcha returned to the ship several hours later. “There you are!” he shouted, running up to the door as his oldest friend stepped in. “Where the hell have you been? What happened? I was worried sick, ready to go out after you!” Puar grabbed him in relief, putting clumsy human hands on his shoulders, his face. There was a pop and a puff of smoke and the familiar little cat was clinging to the side of his head, yowling questions and proclamations of worry.

“I'm okay, I'm okay,” Yamcha was repeating, louder and louder to try and be heard over Puar's blubbering, and half muffled by belly fur. “I'm okay!” he practically shouted, prying the little cat from his face and holding him at arm's length. “Puar,” he said firmly, “calm down. I'm okay. I just got a little...sidetracked, that's all.” Sidetracked, Yamcha thought bitterly, was a little bit of an understatement. After parting ways with Vengeance he'd wandered, more or less aimlessly, through the streets for hours, trying to rid himself of the phantom stalker he felt before going back to the ship. He'd been to three pubs, ordered seven Alkabrews between them and drank only about half of a glass in total. Even now, his nerves still rattled and shook, though he was fairly sure he'd lost whoever was tailing him, if there was ever anyone at all.

“Hey, what's this?” Puar asked, dutifully changing the subject as he squirmed free of Yamcha's grip and flitted over toward the ship's exit hatch, where Yamcha had dropped a cloth-wrapped parcel on the table prior to Puar's assault. “Is it a present for Bulma? You must have done a lot of searching, to take so long.”

“No!” Yamcha yelped, striding quickly past his friend to snatch the bundle up and cradle it protectively against his chest. “It's n-nothing.”

“O...kay.” Puar retreated a few feet, watching his friend with worried eyes. He'd thought it simply exhaustion at first, but Yamcha looked wretched; there were bags beneath his eyes, sweat stains beneath his arms and on his back, and he was terribly pale despite having spent the day outside n the sun. “Are you alright? You look sick.”

“Yeah...um...yeah.” Yamcha closed his eyes and exhaled heavily through his nostrils, and when he opened them again, he looked a little less wild. “Sick. Probably. I'm going to go and lie down.”

“Sure, yeah.” Puar watched, puzzled, as Yamcha ambled out of the room, still clutching whatever it was he had wrapped up in that cloth. “Strap yourself down, if you don't mind. I'm going to get us moving.”

By the time Yamcha reached his bunk and sat down, he was trembling. His fingers shook violently as he unwrapped the gun on his lap, feeling all at once safer and stupid to have bought it. He hadn't gone looking, not really, but once he'd seen it lying there in a pile of other Earth rubbish, with the threat of some mysterious spectre watching him, all thoughts of Bulma's gift had vanished. There were three bullets left inside a chamber meant for six and when Yamcha had picked it up he'd been surprised to see that the safety was off, a sure-fire sign that whoever had owned this gun had probably died whilst using it to try and defend themselves. He'd left the bullets in, but flipped the safety on and checked it obsessively as he headed back to the ship, lest he end up committing accidental suicide.

Knick-knacks from Earth were quite rare, but then again so were the people who might care about owning them, so the gun had come fairly cheap. Still though, he'd spent more than half of what he and Puar carried, and the dumbest part of it was that he knew that there was no way that a rusty old pistol would do him much good if it ever got into it with even a mildly strong member of Frieza's forces. Why, Bulma had once told him how, upon first meeting Goku, she'd fired several rounds at him which were, to the saiyan child, no more harmful than if she'd been chucking pebbles. They'd simply bounced off. Yamcha knew he could do more damage with his ki than he ever could with the weapon in his lap, and yet there was something about holding it in his hand and feeling his finger on the trigger that was powerful. He felt like a cowboy or a supercop, like in the movies he and Krillin used to watch, sprawled out on the couch at Master Roshi's house.

Yamcha looked up as the ship began to rumble, vaguely recalling Puar's words as he'd left the control room. Had that conversation really happened only minutes before? His memory was fuzzy and he wondered what else he'd missed since returning to the ship. Feeling suddenly guilty, not just for ignoring Puar, but for the whole business of the day, he checked the safety and wrapped the gun up again, stuffing it beneath his mattress so that Puar would not find it later. He dashed out to the control room to find Puar, wearing his imitation-Yamcha form, strapped into the captain's chair. Yamcha took the other, securing his own belts with fumbling fingers made worse by the rumbling and juddering of the ship as it began to lift off.

“I hate these smaller ships,” Yamcha complained as they bounced their way up and out of the planet's atmosphere and into space. “Such a bumpy ride.”

“I thought you were going to sleep through it.” Puar leaned over the console and tapped some adjustments into the computer.

“Nah, changed my mind.” Yamcha shrugged and didn't say anything more, feeling queasy as the ship finally broke out into space. They would be back at Red in under a week. Things would be okay.

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.

Two years went by, and to Yamcha's surprise, working under Vengeance's thumb was not so bad. The exchange of information did him no harm, and the mysterious figure never seemed to ask for much beyond the collective knowledge of the group. Of course, Yamcha had no idea where Vengeance's intelligence was coming from, nor to whom his own was going, but so long as Red Station remained untouched and Blue was never, ever contacted directly, he didn't care. Bulma's inquisitive nature was often problematic - she tended to ask him for the details, over and over again as though she was trying to work out a puzzle in that powerful brain of hers, and it was sometimes difficult for him to recall exactly what he told her, which story went with which bit of information, but Vengeance was good about that too. He supplied endless lies, all tied up in a neat bow, never a thread hanging loose for her to actually grasp. Vengeance, Yamcha often thought, had a brain much more frightening than Bulma's.

Nothing really changed in the wake of meeting the cloaked man. Yamcha had envisioned himself a secret agent, constantly called away on dangerous missions, having to invent excuses for why he'd disappeared so suddenly from this bar or that party, just like in the movies. In reality, it was his own friends sending him out to risk his life, and often theirs alongside him. Months would pass with no word, and yet the second Vengeance made contact, Yamcha would break out in the same cold sweat that had possessed him upon their first meeting, regardless of how innocuous the communiqué might be.

Oddly enough, bouts of communication tended to coincide with breakups with Bulma, and while Yamcha had thought he was doing a good job of hiding his second, secret life, he did wonder sometimes if the strain of it showed so much in his personality that he became unbearable to her. Then again, he and Bulma had been breaking up and getting back together for as long as he could recall, so perhaps it really was just coincidence. One day, if he was ever free of Vengeance's yoke, perhaps he could ask her.

The broken up times were getting longer, though, as both began to wonder what they were doing. Weeks instead of days. Months instead of weeks, and a reunion usually caused by one of them being half-naked in the vicinity of the other. Another break up, prefaced by Bulma's musings as to whether they were together simply because of sex drive and lack of available partners. She seemed to be doing that more and more; wondering aloud why they were still going through the old routine. Did he love her? Did she love him? Was it convenience or true commitment that drew them toward each other? The tone of her voice implied the former, while in his heart he felt it was maybe the latter.

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“Be safe, Yamcha.” Bulma leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, while he resisted the urge to turn and lay one on her mouth. They'd been broken up for about three months now, and Yamcha could feel the stirrings between them that usually indicated a reunion was imminent. This time, he promised himself, he'd do better and hold onto her longer. No more fighting, no more stalking out of her bedroom to train in the wee hours of the morning, leaving her fuming, punching pillows in her bed. He'd be what she wanted from now on. He'd do right by her.

Yamcha smiled and waved at everyone through the window of his one-man space pod. Bulma had scored it second hand at some parts market and fixed it up for missions like this, which was handy because it meant landing wherever he wanted to, and not having to high tail it back to a docking station to escape. The pods could also start up and blast off in a matter of minutes, as opposed to a regular ship's engine which took a little longer to get going. The downside, he thought as he programmed the sleep cycle in the onboard computer, was the cramped space. One pretty much had to go to sleep when travelling by pod, else go mad from the lack of wiggle room. As it was, pod travel left him incredibly sore and crampy, especially in his legs and butt as he could neither stand nor stretch out for the duration of the trip. Last time he'd gone by pod, he'd complained a blue streak about it, to which Bulma had tartly replied that some of Frieza's men were known to go for months at a time inside the cramped little balls and get out in good fighting condition. And Yamcha had replied that sorry, he wasn't in top planet-purging condition, and whatever good feelings his safe return had engendered in her were immediately and thoroughly crushed.

This time, he'd remember not to complain. In fact, he'd compliment her on the improvements she'd made to the on-board computer system, and he'd toss a smooth one to her mom as well, about the fine job she'd done reupholstering the interior. So what if it was a bit frilly? It was much more comfortable than the hard, brown leather that had been there last time. Even if it hadn't been, he'd be nice about it anyway because second to Bulma, Mrs. Briefs was his favourite lady. She'd been beyond sweet to him from the moment they met, always treating him like one of the family even when he and Bulma were not on speaking terms. Yamcha knew that if they were still on Earth, even if Bulma never talked to him again, there would always be an invite to dinner every holiday and a handmade sweater underneath their tree for him every Christmas. She was just that kind of lady.

Yamcha smiled sleepily as the gas began to filter in through the little space pod's air system. He'd grown used to living without a family, depending on Puar and only Puar for company and comfort out in their little desert hide out. Back in those times, he'd never have guessed that he'd ever feel so welcome anywhere else.

.

.

“Shit, Blue, they're coming. Shit, what do I do?” Yamcha panted aloud, trusting the scouter on the side of his head to pick up his words and relay them back to Bulma. After the debacle two years ago, Bulma had begun experimenting with new communications devices, and right now her method of choice was the refurbished scouter. It wasn't perfect; having to talk aloud could be dangerous , but it was a damn sight better than what they'd been working with before, and Bulma was studying the design of it in hopes of using it's stellar long distance capabilities in something of her own making.

“Calm down, don't panic.” Her voice came through, crystal clear, and he closed his eyes briefly, trying to do as she said. A thump in the corridor drew his attention, and suddenly his heart was racing again. She spoke to him, said something that was probably important but his whole being was focused on the sounds from the hall and trying to figure out if they were real or merely imagined. “SABLE!” She shrieked, startling him into attention, “Do you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Thought I heard someone.” Yamcha mumbled in reply, swiping a hand across his eyes and willing himself to look at the computer screen. If it hadn't been so dangerous to come here, it would be Bulma in this seat herself, fingers flying across the keyboard twice as quickly as his clumsy typing skills. Ahh, there it was; the file he was looking for. “Okay Blue, I'm into file 36 BAC but it's asking me for a code.” Bulma was prepared, as always, and he typed out the numbers as quickly he could while she rattled them off.

“Now I need you to copy the files onto the ghost drive and secure it.” Bulma instructed him, and he muttered his assent as he did so.

“Shit, it's going so slow.” Yamcha complained, his eyes alternating from the progress bar to the door, and back again. It was so nerve wracking, knowing that there was nothing at all he could do to speed up the process, and that he could not, under any circumstances, bolt and let the ghost drive fall into enemy hands. While extremely difficult to crack, it was not impossible, and the innocuous looking little device contained details on how to contact and find Red Station. If death was a possibility, the destruction of the drive took priority over everything else.

The device pinged its completion and Yamcha cheered to himself, reaching to grab the drive. A scuff of boots against the floor stopped him in his tracks, fingers hovering above the protruding end of the device. He turned, slowly, to see none other than Vegeta, one of Frieza's deadliest warriors, standing in the doorway. “Oh God.” Yamcha breathed, feeling every muscle in his body tense with fear, “It's you.”

“It is indeed.” Vegeta said, low and throaty as Vengeance spoke, and a bolt of shock ran down Yamcha's spine. That voice was one he knew intimately. Vegeta stepped inside, closing the door ever so gently behind him, and Yamcha dug the pistol from his waistband with fumbling hands, cocked it and pointed it straight at Vegeta's heart. Bulma was shrieking in the background, though neither man paid her any mind, so focused as they were on each other. “My comrades will arrive soon,” Vegeta said in that cold, level voice. “I'm sure you know what will happen if they find you here alive.”

“You sneaky fucking son of a bitch.” Yamcha breathed, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Yes, he knew exactly what would happen. Imprisonment, torture, betrayal of his friends as the ultimate shame. He took a deep breath, and knew that his choice was already made. “Gotta tell you, man, I never saw this coming.” He admitted, looking the saiyan prince up and down. He'd suspected that Vengeance was fairly high up in Frieza's forces, but never would he have imagined that one of the universe's greatest terrors was also its most celebrated rebel.

“Is that not the point?” Vegeta asked, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head toward the door, listening for his three subordinates.

“Well done, I guess.” Yamcha shrugged and sketched a salute, before turning back to the computer and disengaging the ghost drive. “Take this,” Yamcha said as the computer blipped, “and get it back to Blue for me, will you?” He tossed it to Vegeta, who caught it deftly and tucked it into a pocket within his armour. “Well Blue,” Yamcha said, feeling guilty that he could not use her real name in this last farewell. He'd keep her safe, even in his last moments he'd know he'd done all he could for her. “I guess this is goodbye.”

“Sable, NO!” she shrieked, and Yamcha didn't have the heart to respond. He didn't want to cry now, not in front of Vengeance. “Don't you dare! SABLE!”

“I love you, Blue,” He said, tears streaming down his face as he carefully removed the scouter and set it atop the computer desk before putting the gun to his temple. Always have, and always will, he thought, pulling the trigger.

Vegeta stepped back in time to avoid the splatter, watching with bored eyes as the life drained from this one-time comrade. Through the scouter he could hear the muffled sounds of female sobbing, of voices gathering round, questioning, crying. Sable had been his link to this group but he was no more, and this Blue, despite her dithering, she was valuable. Vegeta picked up the scouter and clipped it onto his head. “Codename Sable is dead,” he said, loud and clear. “I will be your new contact. More information will follow in three days' time.”

“Wait!” Shouted a male voice on the other end, just as he was about to remove the scouter. “Who...who are you?”

“You will call me Vengeance,” Vegeta said, after a short pause. There would be no time to develop a secret relationship with the woman as he had Sable; he needed her now, and if the rest of them knew he was active again, then so be it. Vegeta reached up and clicked the big button on the side of the scouter, cutting off the line of communication before he took the contraption from his face and crushed it in his fist. He replaced his own scouter as he ground the pieces of Yamcha's beneath his heel to ensure that no one would be able to get anything out of it.

“There you are, Prince Vegeta!” Nappa exclaimed as he burst into the room, tapping frustratedly at his scouter. “This damn thing is broken or something. It took more than five minutes to lock onto your ki signature after you took off.” He huffed his irritation, coming to stand beside Vegeta, who was looking down at a blood soaked body.

“Little shit offed himself before we got here.” Vegeta shrugged, uncaring of the mess at his feet as he nudged the body with the toe of one boot. “Network's been hacked but there's nothing on him, and no clues as to what they were after. He must've had an accomplice; someone who's already escaped with whatever information they managed to pull.”

“Then why'd this guy stay behind?” Radditz asked, and Vegeta stayed silent, trying to avoid having to try and answer that question as he wiped a bit of brain matter from his boot on Sable's shirt. Luckily, Radditz's attention span was hampered by the child clinging to his leg.

“Whatsa matter, cub?” Nappa jeered, “Never seen a dead body before?” Gohan shook his head no, glaring at Nappa but unwilling to say whatever it was that was on his mind.

“I think it's all the blood,” Radditz said, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately. The three adults nodded approvingly at the resulting show of courage; the boy was really coming along. Nappa crouched down, emptying pockets mostly full of junk, as Radditz poked around the room.

“Ha! Look at this relic!” he laughed, picking up the pistol from where it had fallen while his nephew did his absolute best to avoid looking queasy and heartbroken.

“Not many valuables on him,” Nappa reported, shaking out Yamcha's boot in case there was something hiding inside. He placed a handful of garbage on the table; a gum wrapper, two useless coins, a hair elastic, and a little box.

“Ooh, what's in here?” Radditz snatched the box up, dropping the gun carelessly into a puddle of blood. “Decent sized rock,” He said, cracking it open and examining the contents before showing the ring to the other three.

“A trinket for some female, no doubt.” Nappa shrugged, standing back up after having determined that there was nothing else valuable to be taken from the corpse. “What should we do with it? Looks reasonably valuable.”

“What do I care?” Vegeta snapped, shrugging his shoulders as he strode from the room. “Sell it.”

“Sure thing, boss man.” Radditz grinned and followed Vegeta as Nappa pocketed the ring and did the same. Gohan brought up the lead but before he left, he turned and executed a quick bow, muttering a prayer under his breath for the soul of a friend.

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Writing the last part of this chapter was a huge pain in the butt, because I had to keep going back to reference both the dialogue (it is EXACT, baby!) and the descriptions from chapter 1. Next time we will be back into present day material.