Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 38

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: This chapter takes place chronologically after chapter 36. If you'll recall, Goku is still in the regeneration tank, having possibly made the first step to becoming a super saiyan. Zarbon received an awkward love confession from Burter (this last sentence makes me think they should be in a Japanese schoolyard, featuring Zarbon as the school's “prince”), who is now the leader of the Burter Brigade (formerly Ginyu force). Bulma discovered and later destroyed all of Gero's plans for Cell, and Seventeen and Eighteen show signs of being complete soon. I think that sort of sums it up. Thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter - I was happy to be able to close the door, more or less, on Yamcha's story.

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PRESENT DAY

Zarbon groaned shaking his head in an effort to make the piercing screech of alarms go away. He realized, when it did not cease, that the sudden shrill wail was coming from the hallway and not simply reverberating around his own skull; there'd been a ringing in his ears for the past three days, a result of a good wallop to the side of the head, courtesy of one angry little lizard tyrant, but this sound was louder, more insistent. If Frieza's ranting lips were to be believed, the situation with the resistance had taken a sharp turn for the worse immediately after news of Vegeta's arrest warrant had been made public. There were posters of his face dotting city buildings, graffiti proclaiming his impending victory. In the last week, hundreds of soldiers were known to have defected; not a huge number when one considered the millions still in Frieza's ranks, but disturbing for the little emperor nonetheless. If men were deserting, it meant that they believed they had a chance. The illusion of hope would swell with the resistance's ranks, and while Frieza was not yet concerned that Vegeta might have a chance in hell of defeating him, he was extremely irritated at the inconvenience that would come with having to replace the thousands of personnel that were sure to jump ship. His endeavours would suffer.

Zarbon shuddered, the memory of Frieza's shrieking voice clanging through his skull in time with the sound of the alarm. The blows had fallen hard and fast, lacking the tyrant's usual tendencies toward playfulness in his torture chamber. This beating, Zarbon was sure, had not given his former master any of the pleasure he normally experienced at bending an underling to his will. It had not been an elegant display of Frieza's more sadistic tendencies as usual, but rather an expression of pure, uncontrollable rage.

There was a scuffle and a shout in the hall, followed by a smack and a thud, and Zarbon dimly wondered what might be taking place. Housed as he was in the bowels of Frieza's prisons where only the most dangerous and most hated prisoners were kept, incidents of unrest were common. Of all the cell blocks, this one had the highest guard count and the highest average power level per guard. Death was a regular occurrence down here on both sides of the bars, and the claxon of the block's alarm system was a fairly standard part of routine. The bell had been going for a while now though, and even in Zarbon's rattled brain, he knew that things were normally taken care of more quickly. Something different was happening.

Zarbon strained in his chains, hoping that maybe this might be the time they would give, and knowing it was hopeless. Even if he managed to escape the restraints, it was unlikely that he would get far in his current state. Bruised, bleeding, and with several broken bones, he'd be lucky to even make it to the cell doors without collapsing. Just looking at the spattered blood on the floor and walls was enough to make him queasy with the knowledge of just how much he'd lost. The very thought of even standing up made his head spin. If the revolution was going on out there, well then he'd just have to sit it out and hope that whoever won was interested in letting him go.

Who the fuck did he think he was kidding? There was no way he could just lie there in a pool of his own blood and vomit, hoping naively for the best. He was badly hurt and hanging on to his sanity by a fraying thread, but not quite pathetic enough to roll over and die.

“Hey!” he shouted as loud as he could, even though he was fairly certain his voice would be lost in the din. “Hey! What's going on out there? Let me out!” His throat was raw with dryness and the effort of deep breathing jarred his broken ribs, but he called out nonetheless, hoarse voice cracking with strain. “LET ME OUT!” he screamed, breaking down in coughs as his vocal cords burned in protest. He thrashed in his restraints, frustration and adrenalin making him forgetful of his wounds.

The crash of his cell door being kicked in answered him, and suddenly with boots thudding loudly on the floor behind him, he was once more aware of just how helpless he was. He turned his head, trying vainly to see who stood above him, and willed his body not to tremble.

“Fucking look at you,” a bemused voice said from behind him. “Really did a number on you, didn't he?” Burter cocked his head and stepped into Zarbon's field of view.

“Wh...what's going on out there?” Zarbon gathered his wits and forced himself to speak. Burter had not returned after his awkward, revealing first visit, and Zarbon had oscillated in the meantime between relief at not having to worry about the blue-skinned man's intentions, and disappointment at the lack of somewhat friendly contact. He wasn't sure what to think, now that Burter was here in the midst of all this mess.

“Oh, just a bit of rioting. You know, total chaos.” He crouched down in front of the captive man so that their eyes were level, and simply watched, as though he was waiting for something.

“Wh...what are you doing here?” Zarbon stuttered, discomfort coiling in the pit of his stomach at the invasion of his personal space, the reminder of his helplessness always searing the back of his mind. At this, Burter's face suddenly broke out into a wide, sly grin.

“I may have had a hand in starting it.” He shrugged and stood abruptly in one fluid move. Zarbon reared back, panicked thoughts flooding his brain as he turned his face away from the other man's crotch, now flooding his field of vision. Burter seemed not to notice Zarbon's discomfort, however, as he leaned forward and over the captive's hunched form, to tug at the bolted down end of one chain. Undrugged and uninjured - unlike the prisoners - the restraint came loose with little effort from Burter, and the chain fell from his hand to the floor with a heavy clonk. “Can you stand?” Burter asked, tugging another chain loose.

“I...don't know,” Zarbon answered, his heart thumping in his chest as he turned over to watch Ginyu's successor rip the last chain from the wall, before crouching down by his feet to snap the cuffs from around his ankles leaving hands and neck for last. “I haven't been unchained for...probably months,” he admitted, after a moment of thought, “and I think my left knee might be shattered. My right leg is broken in at least one place, maybe two.” Zarbon swallowed thickly, trying to resist the urge to fall back as Burter's fingers brushed the skin of his neck, trying to break the heavy collar without breaking the wearer's spinal column.

“Well...I guess there's no choice...” the blue man muttered, settling instead on yanking the chain apart about half a foot down. “Can't get the collar off with any speed. You'll have to take care of that later,” he said, tapping the chain. “But at least you won't have to drag this heavy thing with you.” He crouched and wrapped an arm around Zarbon's middle, wedging his shoulder beneath the other man's arm and stood quickly, hoping Zarbon was not so far gone that he would be unable to handle a little pain. “Okay?” he asked, hearing the sharp intake of breath as weight was put on the injured limbs, and a quick, desperate nod of the head was all the response he was given. No, Zarbon was not okay, but there was no way in hell he was staying where he was.

Good enough, Burter thought as he pulled a hood up to hide his face. He didn't want any of the other inmates to pick a fight, or to be able to tattle on him later.

“Why are you doing this?” Zarbon rasped, trying to distract himself as they moved haltingly along, largely ignored by the other rampaging prisoners who were concerned mostly with their own escape, or with simply causing as much damage as they could before they were inevitably shut away again. The main commotion was on the far side of the block, so beyond a few hecklers they moved unimpeded.

“Didn't want to see you die that way,” Burter said simply, shrugging, and Zarbon bit his lip, trying to hold in a moan as the movement jarred his broken ribs.

“If Frieza catches you...” he trailed off, knowing that a better man might have refused the help if it meant putting his saviour at risk of the tyrant's wrath, and knowing that he was not that man.

“He won't.” Burter peeked around a corner, watching for guards who might recognize him, before continuing along. He was half supporting, half dragging Zarbon as they moved and though as a result they were going slower than he might have liked, he figured he had at least ten or fifteen minutes more before the reinforcements would begin to gain control of the situation. “Besides, nobody'll mourn this ugly old corpse when I go.” He paused and Zarbon, out of the corner of his eye, could see his unlikely saviour grinning. “Nobody `cept you, since you're a little obligated to at least remember this. Assuming you survive your trip,” he added, frowning at Zarbon's wheezing breath and hoping that his lungs hadn't been punctured by broken ribs.

The docking bay was deserted when they arrived, aside from one tech who greeted them, but Zarbon could smell blood in the air and knew that there had been others here shortly before. “Everything's ready to go, just like you said, sir.” The tech trembled a little as they hustled toward the ships, and Zarbon caught sight of a dead body in the shadows nearby. He wondered just how much money the little weasel had been paid to participate in such a traitorous deed and shook his head, knowing that there was no way in hell Burter would ever let the man live once help was no longer needed. Ahh well, no need to feel bad, he thought as they passed another body. If not this man, then one of the others; they'd all have ended up dead in the end anyway.

“It's all prepped?” Burter asked, gently lowering Zarbon to sit against the side of some equipment, before moving toward a single-passenger pod. The hatch was open and he climbed in, long fingers tapping away at the keyboard as he checked to make sure all of his demands had been met.

“Everything is good, Sir. All tracking devices have been removed and any connection to this ship's onboard computer has been blocked from the mainframe. I...I did just as you said.”

“Good.” Burter unfolded himself from the tiny ship, raised his palm, and the unnamed tech crumpled to the ground a moment later as a thin beam of ki sizzled its way through his forehead. “I've left the coordinates up to you.” Burter turned to help Zarbon up as though nothing had happened, and settled him gently into the pod. “I'm sure you know where allies are to be found much better than I do. But...do me a favour, Zarbon. Don't come back here. Don't fight anymore...at least not where we might meet. If I see you again soon, I'll probably have to kill you.” He punched the hatch button and stepped back.

“Burter, wait!” Zarbon kicked out with his leg, groaning through the pain that lanced along his broken bones as he forced the hatch to stall and re-open. He hauled himself forward, half standing at the pod's opening, clinging to it for support. “Why stay here? Why don't you come with me?”

“Hah, you think we're both gonna fit in there?” Burter snorted, pointing at the pod. “Nah, Zarbon, you don't want me with you; you just feel guilty. No need. I ain't got no problem with this place, or with Frieza, `cept when I was jealous over you. It's a good life I got here.” He shrugged, as though apologizing for the fact that he did not share Zarbon's convictions. “I go with you, and maybe you feel a bit grateful, a bit guilty and take me to bed a few times, but then you get over it, you move on and then I'm stuck there in the resistance with a bunch of whiny pricks and no chance in hell of ever getting on Frieza's good side again. No thanks,” the barest hint of a smile tugged at his wide mouth, “I'd rather stay.”

“Burter, I,” Zarbon trailed off, frowing. He wanted to say something contrary, something that might convince the other man to leave this place, but there was really no denying the truth.

“Hah, tell you what, pretty boy,” Burter shook his head, stepped up to the pod and put his hand on Zarbon's bruised cheek, “when this is all over, if the both of us ain't dead yet and we ever meet again, you toss ol' Burter a pity fuck. Yeah?”

Zarbon reached up, grabbed Burter by the back of the head, and pulled him down for a brief kiss. “It's a deal,” he breathed, throwing himself back into the pod and smacking the hatch button. He watched Burter though the rose-glass window, his lanky form stepping back and toward the control panel for the launch pad's pressure lock. Zarbon's chest felt tight as the wall came down and the outer hatches opened, and it had nothing to do with the lurch and bump of the pod as it blasted away from Frieza's mothership.

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“For those of you just tuning in, I repeat: Zarbon, former General of the Empire and recently branded a class four traitor, has escaped from high-security captivity. Sources say one to two weeks ago; the exact date is unclear,” the voice crackled over the comm-link, grainy and distorted, but the words were clear enough to the small crowd on Red Station's control deck, who had gathered to hear the latest news. Broadcasts were few and far between these days, what with the high alert level that the Empire's forces were on. It was dangerous work to try and get word out to so many people at once, but there were brave souls who continued on, as there always would be. “Reports are still coming in from our sources in the empire, and it is unknown at this time whether this was a solo escape or whether he had inside help. He is reported to have gotten away in a single occupant pod, destination unknown. Orders given by the tyrant himself are to kill on sight. Comrades, I issue this plea to you: protect this man at all costs.”

Static buzzed over the airwaves and Chichi fiddled with the controls, trying to get a clearer signal. Despite the seriousness of the broadcast, Bulma grinned. The man who spoke now identified himself only as Orly, and he reminded her of an old, pre-television radio play, with his booming voice and sweeping statements. She had never met him herself, but he was a popular man in the resistance for his gift with words and talent for persuasion. Beside her, Radditz snorted.

“Zarbon, huh?”

“Never thought ol' prettyboy would have had it in him,” Nappa said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Hard place to escape from, the lower decks,” he added, in explanation.

“The addition of one of Frieza's most trusted, most powerful men to our cause is reason for celebration, comrades,” Orly's voice continued on, a little clearer now thanks to Chichi, “and yet we must not get ahead of ourselves. Proceed with much caution, and praise be to all the brave souls who are joining us every day, uniting under the banner of the Saiyan Prince Vegeta, known to us for so many years as Vengeance. Praise be.” The voice cut out then, and everyone looked awkwardly at Vegeta, who frowned down at the speaker as though it were Orly himself.

“Praise be to Vengeance?” Bulma snorted, jabbing him in the ribs and breaking his concentration. “You're a regular folk hero.” Vegeta rolled his eyes at her and turned away to leave without a word. Every resistance broadcast lately had concluded in much the same way, praising one or both of his personas and urging those still on the fence to jump into the fray. How could they possibly lose, these modern day preachers asked, when they had such a strong leader? What they failed to notice, failed to mention, was that Vegeta had never promised to be any sort of a leader to anyone aside from his small contingent of Saiyans. He was now faced with a legion of people not of his choosing, all looking to him to fix their universe, to overthrow their tyrant, and despite the fact that he'd dreamed since birth of unparalleled worship, the pressure of responsibility was surprising. Every death now, every failed attempt at revolution, was now on his shoulders. The eyes of the universe were on him and if he did poorly now, it would be that much harder to cow them all when he took his place as Emperor in Frieza's stead.

“Fuck,” he said, succinctly. “It makes it hard to conduct operations in secret when my fucking face is plastered on every building in every slum across a thousand galaxies.”

“We'll be with Tarble soon,” Bulma said, laying a hand on Vegeta's arm. She could feel the tension thrumming through his body, and was unsurprised when he shrugged her off. Undaunted, she continued. “We can lay low for a while, let things die down a little.”

“No,” Vegeta shook his head, “it will take months yet to get to that place, where Frieza's claws have yet to gain purchase. The longer we wait, the more uncertain the masses will become and our cause will lose momentum. We must not halt the flow of deserters from Frieza's forces. Now is the time for something big.”

“We've got no major plans,” Bulma frowned.

“Who needs plans? Why don't we just go massacre the closest base?” Nappa chortled, and beside him Radditz was nodding eagerly, unaware of the uneasy look Puar was casting him. Bulma caught it, however, and her stomach churned in sympathy for the shapeshifter, who'd yet to see much of Radditz in his bloodthirstiest capacity. “Hell, we could just blow the whole thing up from space like Arlia. Wouldn't even take much of a detour.”

“Too simple.” Vegeta was shaking his head, brows furrowed in thought. “Too clean and too easy,” he continued, though he didn't have any better ideas, himself. “We need not act immediately. There is time for thinking and planning, so long as we do not delay too long.”

“We'll keep an ear on the radio reports,” Bulma put in, casting a nervous glance at the Saiyan Prince and hoping she could come up with something better than Nappa's suggestion of random violence. “Maybe we can come up with something a little more proactive.”

In the corner where nobody was paying much attention to them, Gohan and Dende stood side by side, they waypoint between the adults of Red Station and the cluster of Nameks along the far wall. Gohan elbowed Dende in the ribs, and the little sage wheezed sharply, having been caught off guard. He turned to glare at the young Saiyan, a lecture about recalling one's own strength sharp on the tip of his tongue, but the intent set of Gohan's eyes stopped him.

“What?” he mouthed silently, rubbing his side with one hand, though Gohan appeared not to notice, busy as he was wagging his eyebrows in some vain attempt at telepathy.

“Guru,” Gohan mouthed back, and Dende's brow ridges shot up in surprise.

“Guru?” he asked aloud, and everyone turned to look at him. “Um,” Dende looked to Gohan, who was nodding enthusiastically, “Guru...he, uh...” Dende paused, fiddled with his robes, and his eyes widened as he realized what Gohan was trying to say. “The rest of the universe does not know of his passing. Perhaps...an announcement of some form. A tribute.”

“Great idea!” Gohan piped up, and Vegeta narrowed his eyes at the boy's canned enthusiasm. Gohan stopped short of giving Dende a high five and amended his opinion of his own acting skills from decent to needs work.

“Actually, that is a really good idea,” Bulma said, smiling over at the two boys. Dende blushed and looked to his feet as he always did when she praised him. “The people of this universe should know what he did for them.” Also, she thought privately, it was unlikely that the saiyans would feel the need to gut anyone in the late sage's honour.

“A worthwhile suggestion,” Vegeta said dryly, crossing his arms across his chest and cocking his head to the side, eyes resting on the radio console. He furrowed his brows, appearing deep in thought as those around him chattered their ideas.

“A musical tribute! I'll dig out my harmonica,” Dr. Briefs was saying to Krillin, who was certain that he'd never seen hide nor hair of musical talent in Bulma's father during the last three years. The doctor could hardly hum in tune, as far as he could tell.

“Dad, you don't play the harmonica,” Bulma saved him, rolling her eyes. “Building a harmonica simulator is not the same thing.”

“Sounds the same!” the old man retorted, and on his shoulder the black cat yowled its agreement. “See, two to one.”

“Kitty doesn't count.” Krillin edged away as Bulma glowered down at her father, before he was roped into judging whether or not the cat was eligible to vote. It was obviously a conversation they'd had before. Unfortunately, that landed him smack dab between Roshi and Oolong.

“...still say pasties are a waste of time,” the pig was gesturing wildly, “don't you think so, Krillin?”

“Huh?”

“For the tribute, man, don't you listen? Pasties or bare nipple.”

“Errr,” the monk began, puzzled as to how breasts entered into a dead man's tribute, and not entirely sure he wanted to know the answer. Luckily, he was spared further information as Vegeta spoke, interrupting everyone's conversations even though he was speaking to no one in particular.

“Not today,” he said, still frowning down at the radio, almost as though he was speaking to himself. “We must time this carefully, to our best advantage.” He looked at Chichi and Puar, who were the station's main radio monitors. “Take notes, I want to know what everyone is saying and when they are saying it. Draft others to help you, if you need.” He looked around and straightened his posture, preparing to leave and gesturing to the saiyans to follow. “I will let you know when I am ready. For now, there is training to be done.”

“When did he become the boss?” Puar sighed after the last brown tail had disappeared, then sat down and picked up a pair of headphones, fiddling with them before he put them on. Unlike Bulma, his initiation into the mysteries of saiyan culture - or rather, group dynamics among the last remaining saiyans - was only beginning and he'd yet to develop the leader-worship that Vegeta's presence tended to engender.

“When he went all radioactive on us, I guess.” Chichi shrugged and plugged in another set so that they could tune into different stations. Tien sat down beside her, offering his help and she reached into a drawer to hand him a third pair.

“Last I checked,” Krillin grabbed the last pair of headphones and snagged himself a chair, “the appropriate response to a bomb threat is to duck and cover, not to run screaming into the blast zone.”

“Any of you have any better ideas?” Bulma snapped, pausing in the doorway on her way out and causing a traffic jam as the following namek horde became suddenly trapped behind her. “I'd like to hear them.” She tapped her foot for a few seconds, and when no one answered she humphed and strolled out, nose held high in the air.

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“What do you mean, Zarbon is gone?” Frieza asked, tapping one finger ominously against the metal tabletop as he surveyed the empty cell, still spattered with blood, vomit, and clippings of green hair.

“He...um...sir...ah My lord, I mean...” the head of the cell block stammered, his hands clutched tightly into fists as he struggled to get the words out. “In the commotion.”

“And would you like to tell me, soldier, why no one thought it fit to inform me until now?” Frieza's tail whipped back and forth along the floor, the only clear sign of its master's irritation. He'd come down for a nice, relaxing bit of fun with his favourite prisoner, only to find the cell completely devoid of life.

“I have no explanation, my lord,” the commander replied, swallowing thickly. What was he to tell the Icejin? That he'd found Zarbon missing and panicked completely? That he'd searched up and down for three days in the vain hope of finding a body somewhere amongst the dead, or perhaps dragged into one of the more disturbed prisoners' cells? And that, when those hopes died, he simply didn't know what to do and so chose not to do anything? He didn't have much faith that the master would accept those reasons as a legitimate excuse for his lack of a report. “I can only offer my apologies.”

“Oh, how quaint,” Frieza said snidely, turning toward the captain of his guards and trying to remember the man's name. He sneered, failing, and realized that this was the sort of thing he'd depended upon Zarbon to keep track of. “Failure in any form cannot be tolerated,” Frieza tsked and shook his head slowly, turning to face the cowering soldier. “You know that, don't you?”

“Y...yes sir.”

“Well then I'm sure this comes as no surprise to you.” The tiny tyrant lashed out suddenly, straightening his fingers into a blade, which he drove right through the man's stomach and out the other side. He drew his arm back, frowning in distaste at the blood and gore dripping from his skin. He shook his hand, spattering the dead man's face with red, and called out for his aide to bring him a clean towel. “Have a bath drawn in my chambers,” he ordered, when the young man appeared at his side, “with bubbles...and wine,” he added, as the aide was scurrying off to carry out his orders. “I am having a bad day.”

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Zarbon blinked hard in the sunlight, too stupefied by the sight of it to move immediately from his open pod. He hadn't seen sunlight, real, honest to goodness, planet-side sunlight in months, and he'd hardly believed he ever would again. It wasn't like him to get sentimental over something like that, but in that moment, despite the broken bones and bruises, the stiffness from so many weeks confined to a pod, and the absolute, paralyzing fear that he would soon be caught again, he knew that he was free. For the first time in decades, he was his own man.

Loathe to give that all up and get caught, Zarbon gritted his teeth and reached out, grasping the outer edges of the opening with both hands. He hauled himself forward and up, breathing hard through his nostrils as he put weight on his legs for the first time in weeks. He'd done the best he could to set the bones in his leg, but alone and cramped in the tiny pod, it had not been an easy job and besides that, the time he'd spent so far in the pod was hardly enough for a complete heal without the addition of a regeneration tank. His kneecap was thankfully not shattered as he'd initially thought, however it was disturbingly mobile beneath his skin.

Zarbon could not help the yelp that escaped his lips as he tested the tolerance of his right leg - the broken one - and he cursed himself as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. Not only was he making a racket fit to draw every soldier in three planets' distance, he thought, but if he couldn't walk then they'd find him right alongside the stolen pod. Well, he wouldn't go down without a fight, at least. He pressed his lips together and took a halting step, keeping most of his weight on the less injured left leg. It was painful still, but he shook his head to clear the stars from his vision and took another step and another, until he was limping away, determinedly ignoring the shooting agony. He wasn't really sure where he was going; he'd picked this planet only because he knew there to be a sizeable population of resistance sympathizers, even if he didn't know where to find them. All he knew was that he had to go somewhere - the pod's life support systems had seen to his nutrition while in space, but here on the ground he was beginning to realize that he hadn't had anything solid in his belly for weeks. Hunting and foraging, he could do, but he also badly needed medical attention, and for that he needed to find other people. He'd landed in what seemed to be a fairly remote area and didn't have much hope of anyone friendly just happening upon the pod. No, whoever found that would be looking specifically for it and he couldn't wait around simply hoping it would be the resistance and not Frieza's men.

Briefly, Zarbon thought of transforming into his bulky, lizard-like form with the hopes that he might not be so easily recognized, but he quickly realized that the process would drain him of much-needed energy and strength so he remained as he was. He also thought he might have an easier time getting help in his more attractive face, bruised and mottled as it was. He'd watched himself in the red-tinted glass of the pod, breathing easier every morning when he woke to see that the swelling had subsided just that much more, even if the pigmentation remained frightening. It was at least his face again, his own delicate and pretty features, albeit awkwardly coloured.

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Night had long since fallen when Zarbon finally stopped to rest, moreso from necessity than from desire. The shaking had begun within the first hour of walking and he'd managed to ignore the minor tremors, but with each successive step they'd grown steadily worse until he could hardly keep himself from collapsing with the force of the convulsions. He was nauseous with hunger and pain, and so dizzy he couldn't focus. He'd stopped a few times now to vomit, gagging up thin strings of sour, yellow bile from his empty stomach, and the taste clung to his lips and tongue for lack of anything to drink. He'd tried munching on some of the local flora, plucking juicy looking strands of long grass from the ground, but he gained sadly little moisture from them and he'd yet to come across a decent source of water; not even a measly puddle had crossed his path!

So now, shaking and shivering with misery and cold, pain lancing through every limb, Zarbon dropped to the ground and crawled, as best he could, beneath a short stand of bushes with wide, fat leaves that he hoped might provide some semblance of shelter. With any luck it would rain, he thought as he smacked parched lips together, and he would be able to just lie on the ground with his mouth open. And then maybe some kind animal would just walk in there too, and all he'd have to do is chew.

It was during those hopeful thoughts that he heard the first twig snap, and then a crunch of dried leaves a few feet to the left of the twig. He froze, desperately trying not to move even though he'd been partway through rolling over and his half-healed ribs were screaming for relief from this new pressure. He held his breath and listened carefully, counting sounds and trying, through the haze in his brain, to determine how many people had surrounded him and just what exactly he was going to do about it.

They had him by the arms and were hauling him out before he could even move. Lights flickered on and flashed in his face, blinding him, and weak as he was, his thrashing did little to throw them off. He lashed out with his legs, felt his foot connect with something soft and heard an oomph of pain that encouraged him to kick harder, even as lighting shot through his broken bones.

“Pin him down,” someone was hissing, “and shut him up!” And it occurred suddenly to Zarbon that he was grunting and growling, snarling and yowling with no words and no thought to the fact that he was even making any noise at all. Someone heavy sat on his broken leg and his vision went black for a split second as he almost fainted. A hand clamped over his mouth and he bit it, tasting blood, as one by one his other limbs were tamed and tamped down.

“Shut up, man. Calm down!” It was the man whose blood was trickling slowly down the back of his throat, his hand still in place despite what must be considerable pain. “We're not here to hurt you.”

To that, Zarbon let out an angry sounding moan; the desire to form words was there but unfortunately the hand clamped in his jaw prevented that entirely.

“Get a light over here!” the man called, “I want to see his face.” And then, to Zarbon, he said, “If you promise to stop screeching, I'll take my hand away. Promise?”

“Hn,” Zarbon grunted, and it must have been the correct response because he quickly found he could work his jaw again. “Not here to hurt me, huh?” he hissed, venomously, as soon as he was able. “Tell your fat fucking comrades to get off me!”

“Sorry, can't do that quite yet,” the man replied, sounding amused. Whoever was on Zarbon's broken leg shifted a little, obviously in retaliation, and Zarbon held in a scream as the bones were jarred again. Tears clouded his eyes and he blinked them away as light suddenly flooded his face and his captors chattered excitedly to each other. “Well praise be,” said the leader - he of the injured hand - in the same sort of booming voice of the storytellers from Zarbon's youth, “it really is you.”

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Mental picture of the day: Frieza sipping wine in his bubble bath. Maybe with a few scented candles scattered around. You're welcome.

Also OP, I hope this redeems me in your Zarbie-loving eyes. :D

Any comments/criticisms/random thoughts will be appreciated!