Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 39

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: If you'll recall, Orly is the voice of the radio broadcast that the Red Station crew was listening to last chapter. Don't wrack your brains trying to remember him from canon; I made him up.

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PRESENT DAY

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Orly was much younger than most people expected him to be, with close cropped blonde hair and a nose that had obviously been broken a few times before. He looked about twenty-two, if his species aged like most, which actually didn't surprise Zarbon very much; it was always the young ones who were the boldest. Those who had nothing to lose, those who had not yet lost the feeling of immortality that comes with youth. Zarbon himself had been that way once, young and stupid and power-drunk, and as a result he'd turned his back on everything dear and ended up in Frieza's bed.

“Sorry again for roughin' you up, man,” Orly was saying, as he sat down on the bench, two steaming mugs in his hands. Zarbon winced as he saw the bandage wrapped around the young man's palm. He felt as though he should apologize for the bite, but how was he to know he was being attacked by friends? Besides, they'd hurt him first. What had they been thinking, tracking an injured, newly escaped man in the dark, without first announcing their intentions?

“Didn't hurt me much more than I already was,” Zarbon said, deciding to settle himself in the middle.

“Here,” Orly handed one of his mugs to Zarbon, “careful though, it's hot.” He blew on over the surface of his own drink and took a sip, before sighing beatifically. “Ahh, that's the stuff.” He stretched out long legs and shifted, groaning. It had started to rain on the way back to their transport and the whole group was soaked to the bone. Orly had given up his blanket to Zarbon, who'd begun shivering so violently that they feared he might actually do himself harm from it. “If we'd known about the broken bones...” he trailed off apologetically, and reached out to steady Zarbon's jittering hand as he tried to bring the cup to his lips. “Well anyway, busted up or not, you sure gave us a run for our money.” Orly grinned and pointed to a tough looking brute of a man, wrapped in his own blanket and nursing his own mug. “You knocked the wind right out of Runey over there, with that kick you gave him.”

“Oh, is that who I hit?” Zarbon didn't quite know whether he should apologize for the thrashing, or give them all a good tongue lashing for the damage he'd incurred. “Thought I'd sent the bone through my flesh, it hurt so much.”

“Eesh,” was Orly's only reply, as he squirmed uncomfortably on the bench. “I still can't believe you walked that far...injured as you are.” Zarbon nearly laughed aloud. He'd seen worse, known men who'd fought one handed while the other held their innards in. Walking on a few broken bones was no major feat but he decided not to say so, to this idealistic young man. Honestly, he wondered if Orly had yet to see the rough side of a battle.

“What else was I to do?” Zarbon shrugged his shoulders beneath the piled blankets and took a sip, grateful for Orly's steadying hand on the mug. “I couldn't very well stay there and,” he paused awkwardly, well aware that while he wasn't part of the empire any more, he wasn't exactly certain he'd be welcomed here with open arms.

“And let Frieza's men find you?” Orly finished for him, and Zarbon was jealous of the ease with which the man spoke, and the obvious comfort he felt in his own skin. “No, you couldn't do that. Man, you're one tough son of a bitch, though. Glad you're on our side. I almost didn't believe it when I heard you'd been arrested as a traitor. Oh, we had a team pick up your ship, by the way,” he said offhandedly, and then continued talking as though the statement was perfectly in place, “But then I saw the pictures and I was convinced.”

“Pictures?” Zarbon felt his stomach drop, and he set his mug down the bench beside him, afraid he might drop it too.

“Yes, Frieza had them broadcast...from you time in captivity so that people would recognize you.” Orly stood, crossed the room in three strides, stooping to dig in a file cabinet before coming back with a small stack of computer printouts. On each one was a different photo of Zarbon, with his shaggy, chopped and cropped hair and a bruised, puffy face that hardly looked a thing like what he was used to seeing in the mirror.

“I'm sorry, oh man.” Orly caught the pictures just as they slid from Zarbon's trembling fingers, jumping up to stow them away again. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...I shouldn't have...” He thrust his hands through his hair and stood, helplessly sputtering half-formed apologies. “You look pale, I should call Tamson. He's our medic.”

“Please don't,” Zarbon whispered, hugging the blanket a little tighter around himself. “It's...I...a shock. To see that. Come sit down again. I'm alright. Really, I am,” he insisted.

“I'm really sorry,” Orly repeated, as he sat gingerly down beside Zarbon once more, as though afraid to shake the bench for fear of jarring its occupant. “If there's anything I can do...”

“Have you anyone who gives a decent haircut, where we're going?” Zarbon asked, hiking the blanket a little higher around his ears. “It's only that it's kind of embarrassing, to be walking around like this.”

“Sure, I guess,” Orly stuttered in surprise and watched Zarbon hunch with curious eyes, “but maybe we'll see to your leg and all that, first.”

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Bulma clamped the ragged edge of her thumbnail between her teeth, her eyes darting from the screen image to the man before the camera, and back again. Beside her, her father fiddled with the controls, minutely adjusting the colour so that Vegeta did not appear so pale in the harsh lighting of the gravity room. He tried not to tinker too much or too fast; the feed was going out live, despite Bulma's protestations that they should edit and perfect it before transmitting it across the universe. Vegeta had insisted upon a live broadcast, claiming it would be more authentic that way. Seeing him now, she supposed that this was his way of effectively taking control of the message so that it came from him and him alone. He had already denied her the chance to script his words and now she cringed in fear, wondering if the full Vegeta impact would have the opposite effect of what he'd intended. The man on camera now was intense and frightening. He had flat out refused her suggestion to show sentimentality and kindness, and she worried that his cold, businesslike demeanour might scare potential allies away from the cause. Then again, even with his awful reputation and history, people were flocking to them at a rate that none of them had expected. Chichi had spent a lot of time on the radios in the past week, and reports of defections and climbing resistance numbers were rampant. Several cells had already made appeals to their fellows for help in feeding and outfitting their suddenly swollen ranks.

“That is all,” Vegeta was saying into the camera. “The choice is yours.” He looked away from the lens and nodded at Bulma; it was her cue to shut the system down and begin the post-broadcast security measures that would ensure their safety.

“Okay,” she called over, and he slid with obvious relief from the stool, “we're done.” Behind her, Nappa, Radditz and Gohan shuffled nervously, not sure if they were allowed to act normally again - their good behaviour during the recording had been extracted only with death threats from the prince. Puar, standing beside Radditz, elbowed the big saiyan as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, like a child who badly needs the washroom.

“You may resume your idiocy now,” Vegeta said as he walked past the gathered group without stopping. They could feel the tension positively rolling off of him, and wisely stayed still and quiet. “I will be training alone for the next hour,” he continued, and the air crackled with electricity as a sudden golden glow surrounded him. “The three of you will join me after that.”

“Urgh, I hate it when you do that!” Bulma yelled at his retreating form as she tried to smooth the static from her hair with little success. He didn't apologize, of course, and nor did he look back; she hadn't really expected him to.

“Sooo...what do we do now?” Puar asked, looking around at the gathered group, though his question was really directed at Bulma. “Now that it's out there, I mean.”

“We keep going, I guess,” Bulma said, shrugging as her hands gave up on her flyaway locks. “We keep our course to Tarble's planet and we listen to the radio channels to see what effect Vegeta's announcement had. I think we should probably set up a round the clock listening schedule.”

“Dibs out on the next few overnights.” Chichi put her hand up and added, blushing, “Goku comes out of the regen tank tomorrow.”

“Yes, yes, little brother will need twenty four hour...ahhh, nursing.” Radditz leered at his sister in law, waggling bushy eyebrows, and Puar elbowed him again.

“I'll take the first midnight shift,” the shapeshifter volunteered, cocking an eyebrow up at Radditz's pouting face as though to say take that. He was quickly learning the best ways in which to influence his saiyan mate, and he didn't feel the slightest bit bad about it. Radditz was a bully, and Puar was just evening out the playing field.

“I wouldn't mind a late night or two either,” Tien put in, and beside him Piccolo shrugged and offered himself as well, though adding that someone would need to teach him how to use the communications console.

“Okay, okay,” Bulma waved her hands in front of herself, “everybody shut up before I lose track of all this.” She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and sketched a quick table, writing the hours of the day on one side, with blank squares for names on the other. “This one's for today. I'll do a few more days after, but go ahead and put yourself down for whatever times and however many hours you think you can handle. I don't want to see any of you skimping out.” She eyed Roshi and Oolong, then turned her glare on Radditz and Nappa. “But don't be a hero either, guys. If you can't handle midnight to three,” she said to Tien, who was pencilling himself down for just that, “then don't sign up.”

“Okay, okay Bulma,” Krillin took the pen from Tien and put himself down for two hours early in the morning. “Time to drop the Army General shtick.”

“Ha ha, Krillin,” Bulma intoned sarcastically and rolled her eyes. “I know what happens when nobody gives instructions to this bunch. Chaos.”

“Miss Bulma,” there was a tug on her sweater from behind, and she turned to see Dende stepping shyly back, dropping his eyes to the floor, “I would like to add my name as well.”

“Master Dende,” one of the oldest looking Nameks said, censoriously, before he stopped himself. Bulma watched Dende's shoulders slump, his entire body radiating disappointment.

“Sure!” she said brightly, snatching the pen from Krillin before the nameks could protest further, and placing it in Dende's small green hand with exaggerated care. He looked up at her in surprise, as though to ask if it was really, truly okay, and she nodded encouragingly. Dende steeled his shoulders, resolutely not looking at the small group of gathered nameks, so patently disapproving, and put himself down for an hour. It wasn't much, he knew, but it was a stand.

“It is our duty to help these people in any way possible, as they have helped us,” Dende said, pointedly. He straightened his back, trying to channel as much of Vegeta's prideful pose as he could muster. That was a man whose body language demanded respect. Now if only the others hadn't moved in the way of the door, he might have been able to stride out without looking at them in classic Vegeta style.

“Good on you, little Guru!” Radditz slapped Dende on the back encouragingly, knocking the breath out of the little guy and sending him stumbling a few steps into Gohan, who caught him easily and set him on his feet.

“Radditz!” Bulma and Puar shouted at the same time, as the nameks all gasped in horror.

“Oh...haha. Sorry `bout that, little guy.” Radditz winced and scratched the back of his head in embarrassment, the way his brother always did. He reached down and patted Dende awkwardly on the head, as gently as one might a newborn.

“N..no harm done,” Dende said, meekly, as he straightened his robes. So much for dignified leadership. A purple blush stained his cheeks and he scuttled from the room, still clutching Bulma's pen in his little fist. The nameks filed soberly out behind him, though the last two to leave stopped and waited while Bulma fished out another pen, hesitantly signing their names for an hour each.

“Thank you,” Bulma said sincerely, and they both ducked their heads shyly.

“Whatever has happened,” said the bolder of the two, “Dende is our leader now, imbued with the spirit of our beloved Guru. This whole business,” he gestured to Bulma and the gathered others, as well as the ship around them, “is new for us. Dangerous.”

“Frightening,” the second namek put in, when his companion paused.

“A far cry from what we were doing with Guru” the first continued, nodding along with his friend. “But I believe, as does Dende, that this is what he would have wanted. For us to work alongside you.” He paused, frowning, as the quiet one tugged at his sleeve. “We should go now. The others are stiff, set in their ways. Our young lord will need someone in his corner.” With that, they turned and left. Bulma looked at the sign-up sheet, which read, in neatly written standard, Bassoon and Fife. She wondered who was who.

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Bassoon, as it turned out, was right. He and Fife followed quickly after the others, but little Dende was already backed into a corner by the time they arrived at Oboe and Tambourine's bedroom, which was where they most often convened when privacy was desired. Traditionally their meetings should have been held in Dende's lodgings, but some of the elder members balked at the idea of holding council in a space shared by a saiyan. Dende had acquiesced without comment, which Bassoon felt was the child's first mistake. He'd given in too early, too easily, and now the older nameks were trampling all over the boy as though they were running the show. Oboe, especially, was the worst. He was the oldest of the remaining nameks and the shock on his face when Dende had been named Guru's successor had been obvious. That wasn't to say that he was bitter, exactly, or out to undermine the boy. Like his fellows he trusted Guru and would have done anything within his power to see the old sage's wishes carried out, even if that included entrusting his future to a boy several centuries younger than himself. Oboe's problem was that he didn't exactly feel Dende was capable of making the important decisions on his own; he saw his own obstinacy and bull-headedness as helpful guidance.

“That,” Oboe was saying, just as Bassoon and Fife walked in, “was an absolute travesty!” He put his hand to his chest in a heartfelt gesture. “An insult to Guru's memory. The fact that you allowed it to go on...that you suggested it, in the first place!” He threw his hands up in the air, and around him the others muttered in low voices. Dende stood with his shoulders hunched, appearing to sink into himself more and more with each word from Oboe's mouth.

“I...” he began timidly, and then said nothing more, simply shut his mouth tight.

“I saw no problem with it,” Bassoon spoke up, threading through the small crowd to stand beside Dende. Fife, ever the quiet one, took up position on Dende's other side, nodding along as Bassoon spoke.

“You mean to tell me,” Oboe began, “that you have no problem with the way in which our beloved Guru's demise was used by that murderous, violent, despicable saiyan as a...a publicity stunt?” His voice rose with each word, but Bassoon was used to Oboe's flights of self-importance, and stood tall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Do you forget, Oboe,” he began in the same, condescending tone of voice that the older namek had just used, “that Guru willingly gave his life, his very essence, to that same saiyan? He died to help Vegeta achieve the level of power that can topple Frieza, and now you would accuse him of using Guru's death as a benefit? Oboe, you are truly foolish,” Bassoon shook his head, “for if you cannot see that that was the point all along, what purpose do your eyes serve?”

“I know why Guru gave his life,” Oboe snapped, “I may be old, but I am not blind Bassoon, and Guru did not die to become some martyr in service of that man!”

“Yes,” Dende said quietly, and he almost went unheard, chin buried in his chest as it was, “he did.” When the muttering ceased and the nameks grew quiet, Dende looked up and around the room at the band of old men who were supposed to follow him, trust him. Not one of them had lived less than a century and here he was, on the underside of a decade, telling them what was what. A shiver of embarrassment curled in his stomach, and he might have shut his mouth right then and there, had Fife not crouched down on his haunches and looked him straight in the eye.

“Guru looks out from behind your eyes, little Dende. You might not know it, but he does. Never be afraid to speak his words.”

“Guru walked this path.” Dende paused, swallowed back his discomfort, and swept the room with his gaze, meeting each man's eyes for a few seconds before continuing. Vegeta always looked people in the eyes; it was a good trick. “He knew what would come to be, and he chose it anyway.” He blinked back tears, and his little hands fisted at his sides. “How dare you presume to know what he might have been thinking when he did it!” Dende shrieked, surprising even himself with the strength of his voice and the sheer volume of emotion pouring through it. “He died to save us, all of us, not just the nameks, and anything I can to do speed Frieza's end....” Dende shook, and so did his voice, “the end to this madness...” He choked back a sob and wiped furiously at his face with his sleeves, as tears poured unbidden from his eyes. The saiyan prince never would have cried like this, but Dende found he could not help it. “Guru would have supported Vegeta,” he said with a sniffle, “and so will I. I hereby release all of you from whatever commitment you have made to me. I will hope for your continued support, but I will not demand it. I have no claim on you.”

“D...Dende...” Bassoon was speechless, but Fife smiled quietly beside the little sage as shocked chatter sprang up among the others.

“For those of you that would follow me, know that I am not Guru reborn,” Dende continued, “but rather his pupil and chosen successor. Rest assured that I will live out his will, as best as I can.”

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A little under an hour later, Gohan found a pale, shaky Dende curled up on his bed, clutching his stomach. The garbage can was pulled up beside the bed, and from it wafted the reek of namekian vomit, which really wasn't the worst Gohan had ever smelled, seeing as it was mostly just water with a bit of greenish-yellow bile mixed in. “You okay?” the saiyan asked, coming over to crouch on the floor by Dende's head.

“Think so,” Dende nodded, and winced as his stomach cramped again. “I just got so nervous...” he trailed off, smacking his dry lips and wincing at the sour taste on his tongue.

“Wait here, I'll get you some water,” Gohan offered, bouncing out of the room. He couldn't tarry too long or else he'd be late for training, but he could certainly spare some time for his friend. By the time he got back from the kitchen, Dende was sitting up with his pillow in his lap, and the colour seemed to be returning to his cheeks. He thanked Gohan for the water and sat there uncertainly, taking little sips as Gohan changed into his training gear.

“Did I do the right thing?” Dende asked suddenly, and his face flushed hotly when Gohan turned to look at him. “Some of the other nameks...the older ones,” he explained, “they think it was disrespectful to allow Vegeta to make that announcement...to use Guru's death as a call to arms. They said he would not have approved of his name being used as a warcry.”

“What do you think?” Gohan asked, fishing his boots from the closet floor.

“I think he would have regretted the necessity, but he trusted Vegeta...some of the others say more than he should have.” Dende couldn't quite meet Gohan's eyes when he added that part, knowing as he did the young saiyan's devotion to his prince. It was a tough line to walk when those he felt most comfortable with were so divided and biased on the issue. Gohan stiffened a little, as Dende had expected, but the saiyan boy kept calm when he asked if all of the nameks were in agreement. “Bassoon and Fife are behind me...and I think there are others who are not sure what to think. Swayable. Oboe makes a good case though, and he is the eldest among us.”

“I wonder what Mr. Piccolo might say,” Gohan wondered aloud, “and if his opinion would matter.”

“Not likely,” Dende sighed. “He is a namek, yes, but he is unknown to us.”

“Well, maybe you could talk to him anyway. You know, half of Mr. Piccolo used to be a god; the guardian of Earth. He was over a thousand years old, my dad told me.” Gohan pulled on his boots. “Most of the time he acts like Piccolo, but sometimes Kami slips through. He might have some good advice. Why don't you come down to the training rooms with me?” Gohan suggested, with a shrug. “Sometimes Mr. Piccolo comes to train with us saiyans. Maybe you'll get to talk to him.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dende nodded and hopped off the bed, feeling just a little bit better. He might not have the opportunity or the courage to talk to Piccolo, but anything was better than sitting here on his bed, feeling sick to his stomach at the things that had been said in the namekian conference. Guru had told him to lead them, and he'd gone and told them, in fancier words, to either fall in line or get lost. It was exactly the sort of thing Vegeta would have done - except for the fancy words part - but he worried whether Guru would have disapproved. The old sage had been famed for his patience and kindness, and Dende was getting off to a less than saintly start as new elder of the remaining nameks. It was funny though - he'd felt more confidence in himself and his abilities in that half-minute of being Vegeta than he had in weeks of trying to live up to Guru.

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Zarbon rubbed forlornly at his shorn scalp, still not used to the feel of it even though it had been a full week since his haircut. Frieza's handiwork had left his mane completely unsalvageable, long in some spots, near bald in others, he'd had no choice but to have it all buzzed to the same length and he'd never felt more naked in his life. As humiliating as it was to admit, he'd nearly broken into tears in the barber's chair, watching the last straggles and snippets of his hair fall to the floor. The only thing that had kept the waterworks at bay was Orly's presence and Zarbon's intense desire not to shame himself in front of the young resistance leader. Here was a man who, for whatever misguided reason, looked up to him, called him a hero and celebrated his safe delivery into the resistance's ranks. Zarbon lived in fear of destroying this image of himself; the only positive thing in his life at the moment.

“Quit rubbing it or it'll never grow back,” Orly laughed, coming up behind Zarbon's chair. He leaned over, letting the backrest take the weight of his chest, and ran a single finger from the crown of Zarbon's skull down to the base of his hairline. “Ahh, sorry,” Orly stepped back and raised his hands as Zarbon winced and ducked forward, “didn't mean to startle you.”

“It's...okay.” Zarbon craned his neck around to see the young man looking at him with concern, though it was several minutes before he could convince his back to uncurl itself and straighten up once more. The touch had done more than to startle him; it had surprised and alarmed him. Disconcerted him. His heart was racing and his palms were sweating; it was as though Frieza was behind him, and not Orly, friend and comrade. “I'm okay,” he said, almost as much to reassure himself as to set Orly at ease. He reached up with searching fingers, automatically grasping for the braid that wasn't there, longing to twine his fingers in its soft, silky tip. He cursed beneath his breath and squeezed his eyes shut tight for a few seconds as he forced his hand back down to rest in his lap. He'd thought it would be so easy, once he was out from Frieza's thumb.

No, not easy. Easy was definitely not the right word. He'd known the life would be tough, the day to day existence difficult. That was no surprise and in ways it was actually comforting. The difficulty lay in his mind, in the skittishness and nervous tendencies that the years under Frieza had bred in him. The loss of his hair, his security blanket, seemed to have sucked all of the confidence out of him and now that he was free - well and truly away from his master - he seemed to spend every moment looking over his shoulder for fear that the little monster would rise out of the shadows to drag him screaming back. Worse than his time in captivity, almost, because at least there he hadn't the taste of freedom to make him think of how miserable he was.

“Hey man,” Orly paused awkwardly, reaching forward and then stopping himself, “I know it's rough. I won't touch you again.” He twiddled his fingers, tapping them nervously against his thighs, and averted his gaze. “Even if I might want to.”

Zarbon stared dumbly, suddenly frozen in place by this candid admission. Orly's dark skin grew ruddier across his nose and cheekbones the longer Zarbon looked, and neither one of them said anything for much longer than was comfortable. “I don't know what to say,” the green man finally broke the silence, turning his chair fully around so that they faced each other.

“I'm sorry, that was too forward of me,” Orly dug a hand through the blonde fuzz of his hair, stopping to palm the back of his head in a nervous gesture. “It's only that...I've seen pictures of you. All my life I thought you...I felt guilty because...but now you're on our side,” he finished brokenly, his voice lilting with hope at the end as though his puppy dog eyes just might convince Zarbon to go to bed with him.

“I understand,” Zarbon said curtly, and he did. He was used to being ogled, hit on, propositioned and assumed to be something he was not. His pretty face drew people in, though he hardly doubted that someone young and handsome like Orly would want him so much if he happened to see Zarbon transform.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean...”

“It's okay. Really, it is,” Zarbon interrupted, trying to be kind. He supposed it was flattering that someone might want him, even in this hairless state, but part of him felt the urge to unleash the ugly side of himself, then and there, just to see the boy's reaction. The majority of his brain was much too prideful, much too vain, to transform unnecessarily. He couldn't even imagine how hideous he would be, in that froglike state and with no hair, to boot.

“Oi, oi! Orly, everybody! Get yer asses in here now!” A big, apelike man whom Zarbon did not know was hanging in the doorway, gesturing wildly with one hand. “Come on, important shit is going down!” he shouted, and Zarbon and Orly could see others running past the open door, shouting and muttering to each other as they went. Orly sprang forward and Zarbon got up too, a moment later. His delay cost him, however, and he found that by the time he reached the hallway, Orly had already moved far ahead and was nearly lost in the crush of people. Hugging himself and trying not to get too close to the strangers jostling around him, Zarbon followed, keeping Orly's bright head in view. He supposed it wouldn't really matter if he lost sight of the younger man - they were both just following the crowd and would end up at the same place anyway - but he felt a bit better knowing that someone he trusted was at least close. He really hadn't met many people in the colony yet and considering his past, he still felt a little awkward among them.

Zarbon didn't know it till he got there, but the mob's destination was the Circle - a big, open room used for gatherings and meetings within this rebel cell. Orly had stopped and was waiting for him inside the door. Together, they moved forward through the throng of bodies, closer to the front where a large screen had been set up.

“It went out live, just a little bit ago, but Zavi managed to get all but the first minute or so,” someone was saying to Orly as Zarbon scanned the crowd for any of the few familiar faces he knew. Runey, one of the men from his first encounter with this band, was up by the projection screen, keeping the curious mass of people back as someone Zarbon didn't recognize fiddled with some cables. Across the room to his right, there was a small gathering of a few others he'd been introduced to, but the sheer number of strangers around him surprised Zarbon. He hadn't realized this base was so big, and part of him wondered if he'd been intentionally kept in the dark. The freedom fighters of the universe had not survived so long on blind trust and he was sure that many of the men and women of this chapter would not share Orly's easy conviction that Zarbon was on their side.

“What's all this about?” someone shouted, and the cry was taken up and repeated several times through the gathering. The sense of unrest, unease, and nervousness grew stronger with each second they were made to wait, crammed into the Circle like cattle. If Zarbon had learned anything in his time here so far, it was that resistance members did not like to be confined. This trait contrasted sharply with their tendencies toward secrecy, their need of privacy. They grew jumpy in rooms without multiple exits, but even more so if those exits were not firmly shut.

“Vengeance,” Runey shouted back from the front, and a sudden stillness shot out through the crowd as everyone turned to focus on the big man - many with mouths half open in interrupted conversation. Seconds later, the projector jogged into being and the crowd erupted into hushed murmurs and whispers as Vegeta's face appeared, a larger than life still on the ten foot screen. Runey clapped the cable-fiddler on the back and they nodded briefly at each other before stepping out of the way as someone in the background set the video to play.

“I will not waste your time,” Vegeta said, and it was plain that Zavi, who'd managed to record the live feed, had only missed the first little bit - whatever minor introduction Vegeta might have given himself. Zarbon wondered if the prince had managed to be humble, or whether he'd started with a self-important spiel about being saiyan royalty. Judging by the grim look on his face, he hadn't said much. “Guru is dead,” Vegeta continued, bluntly, and all around the room Zarbon saw faces fall, hopes crumble. The old sage had long been a cornerstone of the entire movement; there was no one among them who had not respected the great old namek. “The killing blow was struck by Captain Ginyu, who had been posing as one of Guru's trusted disciples. Consider all information sent to or from Guru's camp as potentially contaminated and all who shared a close relationship with the namek called Nail are suspect.”

“Daaasa Raiji,” Orly whispered in the language of his own people, voice hoarse, and Zarbon caught himself wondering what sort of god it was that Orly's people prayed to. He put the thought aside quickly, all curiosity lost in the effort to attend to the screen.

“In your grief and mourning, take solace in the knowledge that Guru's death has been avenged. Ginyu is dead by my hand, his necked snapped and his body put to space without ceremony or rites.” Vegeta's voice held little emotion, but at this last statement, a brief cheer went up from the gathered listeners. They might have come from a hundred different planets, a hundred different cultures, but the importance of death rituals, wildly varying as they might be, was universal. To be cast off without them was a fate they felt that Ginyu deserved.

“May his frozen corpse wander the void for all eternity,” Orly muttered venomously.

“The fight is not over, however,” Vegeta continued on, oblivious to the fervour he was creating in this crowd. “Now is not the time to sit back, to cower and let someone else do it. Frieza's most powerful are dying and defecting,” Vegeta stuck his chin out proudly, and Zarbon felt eyes sliding his way, briefly, before they returned to the idol on the screen. “Now is the time to rally and to fight, to take back in blood everything the tyrant has taken from us.”

There was something different about Vegeta, Zarbon thought as he watched, transfixed like the crowd around him. Something not quite tangible, not quite visible, but there all the same. Perhaps it was the set of his jaw, the wild arch of his black hair, or the depth of his eyes. No. Physically, the prince had not changed. A subtle sort of pride ran through him, so different from the posturing, arrogant boy Zarbon had last seen. There was strength in his voice, a certainty that had never been there before as the runty saiyan had tried to prove, through brute strength and a loud voice, that he was there, he was worth it. Fear me, the old Vegeta would demand, with a stomp of his booted foot, worship me. This Vegeta had no need to speak the words. His very bearing commanded it, inspired it in the viewer and Zarbon found he was no exception. He was chilled to the bone.

Orly grasped his hand, tightly, and he did not protest.

“Stand now and stand hard behind me,” Vegeta glared through the camera, as though willing them all to do his bidding, “and Guru's death will not be in vain. Or lie back, cower in your hovels and call yourselves lucky to be alive. Live in fear of who will be next, what injustice, what shame,” he spat the word, “will be soon foisted upon you. Think hard and think well; Frieza's end is coming, and those on his side will not live long after, I promise you that. That is all. The choice is yours.” The prince was silent, his eyes remaining focused on the camera for a few moments before they shifted somewhere offscreen and he nodded once, slowly. The feed cut out then, and the Circle exploded in a wave of chatter, deafening in contrast to the silence that had gripped the room only moments before.

Here it was, the moment the universe had been waiting for. The beginning of Frieza's end, the dawn of something new, something better. Who would have thought, Zarbon mused, that the brat prince, the bane of his existence for so many years, would be its herald?

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That's all for today, folks. Thanks for reading, and please consider leaving a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts!