Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 43

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: I have written and re-written certain parts of this chapter several times, and to my ultimate frustration they're still not really how I want them, but it's been a month and I don't think my staring at them for another few weeks is going to improve anything. I hit a point in my planning where what I'd planned just really didn't work all that well.

On a more pleasant note, FFN has surpassed 500 reviews (Wowza!) and MMO is getting close to 300! At the time I'm writing this note, the reviews on both sites total 818, which is just plain insanity. Thank you so, so, so much to all of you.

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PRESENT DAY

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If Orly had been only slightly less aware of his good looks, he might have thought something was up when all three women began fawning over him. It wasn't a case of stupidity, but of inexperience and arrogance. It was simple; Orly was used to having female attention. He was not, however, accustomed to being drugged, tied up, and slapped around by his various playmates. At least, not without his prior consent.

For their part, Mink, Sabriya and Yul were old hands at ropes and pain, but usually in a different context - one where the client wasn't hissing and spitting curses at them during the process. One where if he was, he was paying handsomely to do so.

“I don't think this is a good idea,” Sabriya said for the fifth time in as many minutes. She'd been against the kidnapping from the start and now that Mink and Yul were talking torture, she really wanted nothing to do with it. Aside from her own personal inclinations, the man they'd abducted was proving to be a bit more rowdy than they'd thought he would, judging from his polite demeanour and charming personality. Between them the three women had serviced enough of Frieza's personnel to know that this blonde boy was no warrior, but he was feisty when panicked, and smart enough. He'd already bitten Yul's hand when she made the mistake of getting too close to his face, and he'd done so hard enough to draw blood, a smear of which was still on his chin.

“Sab, will you just shut up?” Yul hissed, turning to glare at her friend while Mink paced back and forth before Orly's trussed up form. In her left hand she held a lit cigar, of which she had only taken a few puffs, and in her right she twirled a leather whip by the handle. It was meant for play but all three women were well aware that the difference between pleasure and pain was only a matter of how hard you hit.

“How stupid do you have to be,” Mink mused, trailing the whip across Orly's bared shoulders, “to think we wouldn't figure out who you were? A fake name? Hah!” she laughed, “It only works if you put in a little effort. Everyone in the universe knows that voice, Orly.” He flinched when she said his name, well aware of his mistake. If Bulma had figured it out after conversing with him for even a few moments, of course anyone could after having spent an evening with him. Zarbon had told him, time and time again, that failure to disguise his voice was what had gotten him found out by Frieza, too. “Even a child could have recognized you.”

“So what?” he tried to stay calm, knowing that if he pissed them off, he'd only end up even more hurt. “What are you going to do now?”

“Oh, that all depends on if you cooperate,” Yul said darkly, cradling her bandaged hand. “That big, bald one back there, that was a saiyan.”

“Nappa,” Mink smiled, and in other circumstances her demeanour could have been called sultry, enticing.

“And you, me, and everyone in the galaxy...well, we all know how much Frieza wants those saiyans. And I'm guessing, since that long haired one beside him was also a saiyan, that the high and mighty prince himself was kickin' around somewhere in there.” Yul bared her teeth and her narrow eyes turned to slits, making her look like a vicious predator.

“Now don't get us wrong,” Mink picked up when Orly simply glared, “it's not like we're pro-Frieza or anything. Seems a shame to maybe turn in Vengeance when he might be the only thing in the universe that can kill the icejin bastard. But see here, baby sweets, what we three are is pro-money. And this here is a good opportunity. Especially considering the treat we haven't even touched on! Because, and correct me if I'm wrong doll, but that blue-haired ballbuster did call your boyfriend over there Zarbon. And we have it on good authority that Frieza would really like him back, too.”

“So what we're going to do is turn you in, instead,” Yul smiled sweetly and Orly yelped in pain as Mink leaned forward and crushed the tip of her cigar to his knee, quickly scorching through the fabric of his pants to sear his skin. “And we're going to collect a bit of a reward, and maybe, just maybe, we let Frieza's people know that you know where his little lost pets can be found.”

“And then it's off our shoulders. No guilt and we live like queens on the reward money.” Mink grinned as she leaned in to examine the damage she had done.

“Why are you telling me this?” Orly finally spoke. “Why haven't you just done it already?”

“Two-fold,” Mink shrugged and looked away. “You can thank Sabriya over there for convincing us that we should wait a bit, give those guys a chance to get away from here.”

“And as for telling you about it,” Yul was not so abashed, “fair warning. You were pretty decent to us, even if you did nearly rip my thumb off. Been treated worse by men who shoulda been nicer, but business is business and fuck, this hurts like a bitch, man.” She waved her hand at him. “So this way you know what's coming. Figured you might wanna off yourself after we hand you over. Might be for the best,” she finished, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, we're not total monsters,” Mink added, still not looking at him, “I'd even offer to give you a knife or something, if I thought for even a second you'd manage to smuggle it past the security check. But as far as that goes, you'll have to figure it out yourself, I'm afraid.”

“Now,” Yul sat down across from him and crossed one leg over the other, leaning back into the chair so that her six breasts jutted proudly forward, “let's talk details. We want to know what you know, baby face.”

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Orly woke with a start as a sharp tug on the rope binding his wrists sent pain lancing through his arm and across his shoulder. “Shhh!” a hiss admonished him, and he only then realized that he'd cried out in pain. “Be quiet.”

The artificial atmosphere was full dark, past midnight, and the only light in the room came from the garishly flashing neon signs outside the window. The other women had long since gone to bed, leaving him to doze fitfully in the stiff-backed chair they'd tied him to, sitting in the middle of their living room, for he'd realized shortly after the whips and ropes started appearing that for abductors who'd not planned this, they were remarkably well equipped. It did not take a genius to realize that they'd brought him to their own apartment.

“Sabriya?” he hissed, and she patted his arm twice in affirmation before returning to her work on the knots at his back. She cursed softly, disappeared for a moment, and returned with a wickedly sharp looking knife. Orly found himself sweating, counting the seconds as she sawed diligently through the thick ropes. She led him quickly outside and handed him the knife.

“Go,” she insisted, making shooing motions at him with her hands, and he took a few steps, before stopping dead in his tracks. He turned, and she was still there, watching him. She shivered, even though the artificial weather modulators of the space station meant the nights were warm, and Orly thought at that moment that he had never seen another creature look so fragile.

“What will they do to you when they see the ropes have been cut?” Orly asked, and she swallowed thickly but did not answer. Briefly, he wondered if this was a trap of some kind. If so, she was a damn good actress. “Come with me,” he said recklessly, reaching his hand out to her.

“I have to go back inside,” she was shaking her head slowly, “and... You are so kind. So, so kind.” Her shoulders shook a little as she spoke, but she composed herself, pushed a hank of hair behind her ear and looked him in the eye. “I'm going to go and kill them now, so they don't tell.” Her voice was soft and chills ran up and down his spine, looking into her wide, vacant eyes. It was as though someone else had taken over. He wondered if he should just turn and run, let her do whatever nasty deeds she felt she needed to. If he left now, he'd most likely never see her again and the thought sat embarrassingly well with him.

“Not on your life, bitch!” snarled a voice from the doorway and both of them turned, shocked to see Yul standing there, with Mink close behind.

“What the fuck, Sab?” Mink closed the gap in two enormous strides, shoving Sabriya hard with both hands onto the ground. The smaller woman blinked and scuttled backward, eyes wide and afraid; whatever calm had possessed her, it was now gone.

“Kill the bitch! Kill them both!” Yul shrieked, running briefly inside in search of weapons.

“No need for violence,” Orly edged forward, trying to give Sabriya some cover in case Mink should lunge. “We'll just be going,” he insisted, then howled as a kitchen knife thunked into his right arm, courtesy of a cackling Yul, who'd returned with a handful. Thank goodness he was left handed, or he might have been in trouble. Still though, being stabbed was no picnic and for about the millionth time since he'd woken up trussed to that damn chair, he wished that he'd begged Vegeta to let him stay aboard Red, or at least that he'd never gotten involved with this trio of insane women in the first place. Another knife came whizzing at him through the air and he dodged, rolling to the side while he yanked out the one that had already hit.

“We were nice to you!” Yul shrieked from the doorway, “And this is how you repay us?”

“You were going to hand me over to Frieza!” Orly shouted back, cursing as he saw Mink and Sabriya grappling on the ground. Everything in him screamed at him to just run away and leave the women to their battle, but slightly off-kilter or not, Sabriya had saved his life. He couldn't just leave her to die, smothered to death by Mink's enormous breasts.

“Fuck,” Yul hurled a fork this time and Orly wondered if she'd grabbed it by mistake or if she'd legitimately thought she might do some damage with it, “it was just business!”

“Well so's this!” Orly dashed forward, clutching the knife that he'd pulled out of his own arm in his left hand. He skidded to a stop in front of the thrashing girls and plunged the blade down and through Mink's back, a shock travelling up and reverberating painfully through his arm as it glanced off one of her ribs. She howled in pain and threw herself off of Sabriya, rolling to the side as Yul finally left the shelter of the doorway to run to her aid. There was a sickening snap as Mink shoved away, hard, and Orly had only to look at the angle of Sabriya's neck to know that she was dead. He did not wait around to see if Mink's wound was fatal, but rather turned and bolted as quickly as he could, staggering heedlessly through the streets in his effort to get away from the grisly scene he'd left behind. He stopped to vomit twice along the way, each time looking with paranoid caution behind him.

If he was smart, he knew, he would have stuck around and done them both in, but Orly had never had a taste for death. As much as he boasted and encouraged the rebel factions of the universe, Zarbon had been right about him. He was okay in a brawl but the killing instinct was not there; before tonight he'd never actually seen anyone murdered, up close and personal. He'd been near dead bodies, he'd seen videos of people being killed from afar, and he'd been around for a handful of peaceful passings. But the sight and sound of violent death, the smell of it as it happened, these were things that he had never before experienced in the immediate.

They were not things that he particularly wanted to experience again.

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Zarbon sat awkwardly at the kitchen table while Mrs. Briefs - he couldn't quite bring himself to call her Mom - prepared a late-night snack. To his left sat Radditz and on his right was the pretty blonde who'd beat the crap out of Orly. Her creepy brother sat on her other side, and a huge motherfucker with a flaming orange Mohawk took up the next seat. Gohan sat next to Radditz and on his other side was the secret full-blooded saiyan father that no-one in Frieza's camp knew about. The dark-haired human woman, his mother, milled about with Mrs. Briefs and Bulma in the kitchen. Vegeta and Nappa leaned against the wall, ostensibly watching the progression of the food preparations, though in reality each was actually eying up a Briefs woman. The entire crew of Red Station seemed to be there too, all crammed in, except for a few of the nameks. The ones that were there did not seem overly pleased to see him. It was the boy and two adults he did not recognize, plus a third who, while plainly a namekian, seemed to give off vibes of otherness, somehow. If pressed, however, Zarbon would not have been able to say just what was so different, aside from the fact that this last namek did not seem to socialize much with the others.

A timer pinged and the blonde human bustled over to the oven. With help from the other two human females and the two bald human males, she set the table with a veritable smorgasbord of choices, both hot and cold. Zarbon was shocked at first, and then recalled the fact that he was in the company of five saiyans, and began to wonder if there would be enough to go around.

Then again, despite their weakness and oddities, this crew seemed to know their own business.

Takeoff in Red Station had been a surprisingly smooth affair and except for a little bit of rumbling and the bone-deep awareness of outer space that intergalactic travellers so often developed, Zarbon might have been hard-pressed to pinpoint the moment they'd left Harbour Colony. There was no atmosphere to combat with but even so, Zarbon could tell that the ship was well designed and well made. He wondered if the blue haired woman, she of the circuit boards, was responsible. She certainly seemed to be in charge of the ship itself, even if she mostly just went along with what Vegeta wanted. It had been he who'd ordered everyone inside for takeoff, post haste, and Zarbon had not heard a single complaint even though it was obvious that some of the residents of this place had not quite finished their business colony-side.

As though divining the nature of his thoughts, Vegeta chose that moment to turn his attention to Zarbon. “You look like shit, pretty boy,” the saiyan sneered as Mrs. Briefs passed by him with a heaping plate of steamed vegetables, which she set on the table.

“Still better than you, monkey face.” Zarbon shot back. Behind him, Mrs. Briefs stopped to rustle his hair and he stiffened, his whole back going straight with the surprise of it.

“Boys, boys,” she tutted, “you are both very handsome young men.” She pinched Zarbon's cheek from behind and he froze. No one but Frieza had ever dared touch him so familiarly and with such nonchalance. “But there will be no fighting at the dinner table, dears.” She released her hold and jiggled toward Vegeta, who simply bared his teeth at her in warning. Amazingly, she giggled and patted his arm on her way by, and somehow remained fully intact and unharmed throughout the entire ordeal.

“See,” Radditz leaned over and whispered in his ear, “bizarre.” Across the room, unnoticed by the burly saiyan, Puar scowled at the pair. “A word to the wise, don't ever walk in front of her. She's a groper.”

“You're being awfully nice. It's not like you,” Zarbon said, finding Radditz's breath on his neck to be a wholly disconcerting experience. He'd noticed the burly saiyan watching him before, of course, in their previous life as Frieza's underlings. A glance here, there. He'd returned the looks with interest but Radditz had always seemed to tow Vegeta's party line; they had never shared a pleasant or even civil conversation outside of Frieza's hearing.

“Yes, Radditz,” an icy voice said, and both looked up to see that Puar had moved to stand between their chair-backs, a white-knuckled hand gripping each. “What is so different?” When he spoke, Zarbon could swear that his teeth seemed longer and more jagged than they had appeared earlier.

“Puar!” Radditz said warmly, apparently unaware of the trouble he was in. He reached up and covered Puar's hand with his own, though the gesture seemed only to cause more irritation.

“I recall we had a discussion once,” Puar hissed, leaning down and speaking very quietly so that his next words could be heard by Radditz alone, “in which I warned you what I would do, should you ever...stray. Do you remember?” Radditz nodded. “Good. It looked like you could maybe use a reminder.” He cocked an eyebrow and yanked his hand from the saiyan's grip before storming over to the fridge to help Bulma unload another tray.

“Oh god, he's hot when he's angry,” Radditz's voice had taken on a rather dreamlike quality and Zarbon shifted, uncomfortable with the sudden sexual energy radiating from the man next to him. Radditz was big, imposing, and as male as they came, with the evidence of that plainly visible if one focused too long on his lap, and Zarbon found himself responding in kind. “I've been trying to get him to take it out on me in bed, see? But he's kind of a prude and oof!” he gasped as Gohan's elbow drove hard into his side, momentarily knocking the breath from his lungs.

“Uncle,” the child admonished, sounding very much like his mother, “a gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

“Who ever said I was a gentleman?” Radditz grinned widely, but halted his embarrassingly detailed confession to the relief of everyone around. Not one person on the ship would have honestly, seriously disapproved of their relationship - even though some of them might have joked to the contrary - but there are just some things you don't need to know about the people you have to live with.

As for Zarbon, he took the awkward moment of silence that followed as a chance to look around the surprisingly spacious kitchen. From what he had seen of Red so far, it was much more homey than the average ship; the people that now surrounded him had obviously gone to a lot of effort to create comfort in an otherwise hostile environment. While that in itself was not unusual, the details were different than most. The crew of Red station did not surround themselves with luxury, but with quaint charm, from the framed photographs on the walls to the bright, cheerful paint scheme, and the frilly curtains that framed each window in the residential level. It was glaringly obvious that Red was not simply a mode of transportation, but rather a home to those who lived on it.

It was that realization, more than anything else that he had encountered that day, that set him on edge. He had no idea how to act in such a setting, so different from his years and years of military experience, the last decade spent at the beck and call of Frieza himself. And now, in the height of his rebellion, to find that Vegeta was not off slaughtering the masses, but instead floating around in this country cottage of a ship, lord and master of an assortment of weaklings...it was too much.

Zarbon kept expecting someone to say something, to do something, to give some hint that this ship was not at all what it seemed, but as he watched everyone casually loading up plates, milling about and chatting with each other, he knew that it was no act. Nappa, for one, was physically incapable of false pleasantry. He was barely capable of legitimate pleasantry, and there he was, making nice with Mrs. Briefs as she heaped steamed veggies onto his plate. It was then that Bulma but in, planting herself between her mother and the hulking saiyan, grinning a big, fake smile as she ladled several spoonfuls of gravy onto his plate. Mrs. Briefs tottered on to her next victim, and Nappa sneered at Bulma. She gave him a sharp look back, and continued spooning gravy, that smile plastered to her face, until everything on the plate, including the salad, was sopping wet.

At this, Zarbon found himself smiling, which he hadn't done in a long time.

“Word to the wise,” he turned sharply, startled, to find Radditz's face disconcertingly close to his own, “don't look too long at that one.”

“Or what?” Zarbon bristled.

“Or Vegeta'll rip your heart out your asshole, pretty boy.”

“Hah,” Zarbon said humourlessly, “there's the good old saiyan attitude I know and love.”

Radditz snorted to himself, shaking his head slowly as he leaned back in his chair. “It's not just that,” he said. “She's weak, yeah, but she ain't helpless, if you get my drift. These earthlings,” he cast a look at Puar, laughing with Krillin across the room, “they're resourceful. They find ways.”

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“So,” Bulma said apologetically, “that concludes the tour of Red Station, which brings us to your quarters.” She stopped outside of a door and gestured toward it with both hands like a game show model. Her smile was a little forced.

“You don't sound terribly enthusiastic,” Zarbon drawled, flashing a flirty smile despite Radditz's earlier warning. She was an odd woman, yes, but quite charming in her own way and he'd rather enjoyed the tour. Especially the parts where he'd had to follow her up the ladder.

“I...look, I'm really sorry,” Bulma twiddled a strand of curly hair between her fingers, and Zarbon found himself jealous of its shine and texture, “but we're limited for space, you see, and there are only so many available beds...” She broke off and gave him a look of such pity and sympathy, and then broke the news. “You'll have to room with Nappa for now.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Zarbon's voice was flat and his lip curled with distaste. It was that moment that Nappa decided to open the door from within, obviously having heard them.

“I'm not thrilled about it either, Greenie,” he sneered, crossing his arms over his bare chest and making a rather menacing blockade of himself.

“Oh please,” Zarbon shot back, his entire posture changing subtly to face the threat before him, “you wouldn't stand a chance against me.” Bulma felt the subtle shift in the air, the static charge that made her arm hair stand on end, and promptly inserted herself between the two posturing warriors.

“Oh, no you don't.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, shifting her head from side to side to glare in turn at each man. “I don't know who's stronger and right now, I don't give a damn. You can beat the crap out of each other as much as you like in the morning but it is past your bedtime, boys.” She scowled at Nappa until he stepped back, grumbling, into the bedroom, finally allowing Zarbon through the door.

“I'm not into dick, prettyboy,” Nappa grunted as he crawled into bed and tucked himself in extra tight, “so don't get any ideas.”

“Ugh, I wouldn't go there even if yours was the last cock in the universe.” Zarbon sneered, before aiming a pleading look at Bulma, who shooed him toward the extra bed. “Is there really nowhere else?”

“Not since the androids woke up, no.” She shrugged apologetically, thinking of the mish-mash of sleeping arrangements. Piccolo had done the gentlemanly thing, surprising them all by giving up his room to Eighteen so that she might have some privacy. He'd moved his meagre pile of possessions into Krillin's room, while Seventeen bunked with Sixteen, and poor Tien was relegated to a cot in Roshi and Oolong's room. She didn't even want to think about the adult nameks, all of them forced to share two rooms that had been hastily converted from storage areas upon their arrival. “I guess you could go find a couch somewhere if you really wanted to, but you're likely to be disturbed. The nameks are usually up and wandering around most of the night; I think they only need a few hours of sleep.” She stopped her rambling and shrugged again. “Anyway, go to bed. All you have to do is sleep here.” Bulma reached up and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, all the while aware of Nappa's glare. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Get the hell out, woman! I want to get to sleep some time this century! If you need to have a heart to heart, do it outside!”

“Ugh, goodnight Nappa. You boys have fun together,” Bulma cooed as she left the room. The door slid shut behind her and she scurried away down the hall; she wasn't breaking up any more fights tonight and wanted to be well out of hearing range before she was obliged to step back in. It had been a very long day and she still had Vegeta to contend with before she could relax into the blissful oblivion of sleep for the night, and she'd be up early again to try and get the gravity machine operational.

It was a short trek to her bedroom, thank goodness, and she was pleased to see that Vegeta was already there waiting for her. He sat cross-legged on the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the small tablet computer that lay before him. He was no doubt reading up on all the latest news, ascertaining their position in Frieza's priority list, planning routes that would lead them away from the biggest and most well equipped of the emperor's patrols. He liked to be two steps ahead of everyone around him; more, if he could manage it.

“So what's the deal?” Bulma demanded, stalking up to the bed and planting her hands on her hips. Vegeta looked up at her, one eyebrow raised, and said nothing. “Zarbon!” she burst out, “you have got something up your sleeve and I want in.”

“What makes you think that?” he asked, slowly picking up the tablet and setting it on the bedside table.

“Oh please, Vegeta, I'm not an idiot,” Bulma rolled her eyes and turned away to dig in the dresser for her own PJs. “You hate him, he hates you,” she whipped off her shirt and bra and pulled on a worn tank top, “so why'd he want to come along, and why did you let him?”

Despite himself, Vegeta smirked. Bulma was many things, but as she'd pointed out to him on many occasions, stupid was not one of them. Her intelligence was one of the reasons he could actually put up with her for more than five minutes at a time, though a normal person might say it was one of the reasons he loved her. “His more irritating qualities notwithstanding, Zarbon may well prove valuable to us.” Vegeta said finally, watching with sharp eyes as Bulma slithered out of her pants and stood before him simply in her top and underwear. She turned away, hiding a smile as she heard Vegeta scoot closer to the edge of the bed. This was the point, she knew, at which he was debating whether to come to her or wait until she came to him. Bulma took great pride in causing the former. “He is a strong fighter, more so than Nappa or Radditz. It is better that he is on our side than against us.”

“Oh my goodness, call the media!” Bulma turned to face him, slapping both hands over her cheeks in mock surprise. “Is the proud Prince of the Saiyans actually admitting that he needs help?” She laughed and Vegeta sat still on the edge of the bed, giving her The Look; the one that suggested he suspected her of having some serious mental deficiency. He stood up to face her, as he often did when feeling defensive.

“I don't even know where to begin correcting that statement,” Vegeta scoffed, crossing his arms in what Bulma privately thought of as the `proud saiyan' pose. “I,” and he stressed the word so hard that the tendons in his neck bulged with the strain of it, “will not be needing aid to fight Frieza. It is you and your band of misfits I have recruited him for, because in case you have not noticed it, Frieza does not go anywhere without a full contingent of troops at the ready. We will be heading straight into his den, and I will not waste my time with the riff-raff.”

“Oh pardon me, your highness,” Bulma rolled her eyes and turned toward the dresser, where she grabbed her brush and attempted to make some sense of her rioting curls before bed, “I stand corrected.” Times like this she missed Yamcha, who used to offer to comb it for her sometimes. She suspected he'd learned the trick in the romance tips section of a magazine, but the thoughtfulness of following through on it had definitely earned him brownie points. Vegeta, more often than not, would simply scoff at her ridiculous hairstyle, as though he were one to talk, and then mess up all of her hard work by digging his fingers through it when they...

Well, maybe Vegeta's method had its merits, Bulma thought as a flush rose up her neck. A hum of interest rose from behind her as warm hands snaked from her hips to her belly and Vegeta pressed himself against her back. Bulma grinned in triumph, tilting her head to the side at the familiar feeling of teeth scraping her shoulder. Yamcha had also never been the best at reading her moods, unlike Vegeta who would probably know it a galaxy away if she had so much as a dirty thought.

“Do you want to brush my hair for me?” Bulma asked suddenly, leaning backward into his embrace.

“No,” Vegeta replied, so quickly and simply that it drew a laugh from her. She turned in his arms and, laying her own around his neck, kissed him.

“You never answered the second part of my question,” she said, after they parted.

“Zarbon is smart for all that he is a showboating, ass kissing pile of shit. He's undoubtedly seen what's going on throughout the universe,” Vegeta drew her back toward the bed, “and he understands that we are his best chance at getting the revenge he so desperately wants.”

“Soooo,” Bulma pursed her lips and frowned, pulling away, “how do you know it's not a trick? This whole thing could be an act, a ruse thought up by those two to catch us. I want to trust him, but I'm scared. After Nail...well, Ginyu I guess...agh.” She let out a huge sigh of frustration and plopped down on the bed.

“His hair.”

“What?”

“Zarbon has done many things in service of Frieza. He's betrayed and killed, and I'm sure most of it without regret. Faithful servant or not, he'd have done nearly anything to stay Frieza's pet. Cutting his precious hair, however, is not on that list. That was not done willingly.”

“Oh god, you've lost it, haven't you?” Bulma started up at her alien beau with a slack jaw. “You're going to trust the guy because he got a bad haircut?”

“Yes,” Vegeta said, and Bulma blinked in surprise. “Doesn't mean I won't be keeping an eye on him, of course. You did set the computers to limit his communication privileges, didn't you?”

“Yes.” Bulma flopped backward so that she lay on the bed, while her feet remained on the floor. “The computers will only allow him access to generic channels and he is not permitted to send anything to any Empire comm-codes. Incoming and outgoing files will be routed through my account, just like everything was when we thought the leak was here on Red.”

“Good work,” Vegeta said, and Bulma was surprised at the compliment until she looked up to see him standing above her, an intent look upon his face. Gently, he nudged her thighs apart and came to stand between them. She hoisted herself up a little, propping her body up on her elbows as she watched him.

“Since when did you ever need compliments to get into my pants?” she asked, giving voice to the cynic in her head. Vegeta grinned.

“Feeling generous,” he said as he knelt down between her knees.

“Oh, is that so?” Bulma tossed her head back and laughed as he nudged her underwear out of the way. She loved it when he came begging.

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It was the middle of the night, and Vegeta was doing pushups in the gravity room. It still didn't work, but there was something about the place that made his workout feel more intense, as though he was doing himself more good than he really was. He was alone for once; the day's events seemed to have tired everyone else out and if they were not sleeping, they were at least not puttering around on the training mats just beyond the door.

Bulma's company had eased his troubles for a little while, but Vegeta had woken only an hour or so later, feeling restless and unable to go back to sleep. He'd thought about waking her up again, but knew that doing so would put her `get up early and fix the gravity machine' plan in jeopardy, and so he'd refrained. Losing himself in her body, as nice as it was, was only a temporary relief from his concerns. Training, feeling his power level rise day by day, was the only true solace.

Vegeta had played it pretty cool earlier while talking to Bulma; he really wasn't all that worried about the possibility of Zarbon being a spy for Frieza, and that Orly kid was a glass-faced moron. No, he was worried about the women, and was once again kicking himself for not bothering to go out and meet the return of the prodigal perverts. He'd left Radditz and Nappa to see Orly away, and in a stroke of bad timing, Sixteen and those two idiots had shown up with three women in tow, a fact which Vegeta had remained ignorant of until after they'd all gone safely away, having seen not only Zarbon, but Nappa and Radditz as well.

None of the saiyans were particularly hard to recognize; even if their faces weren't all plastered on wanted posters round the universe, they weren't exactly the kind of men who were easily able to fade into a crowd. Vegeta entertained very little hope that the trio of women hadn't recognized at least one of the fugitives in their midst, and since he assumed they were already possessed of dubious morals, he didn't doubt that they were probably working out ways to cash in on their good luck.

Vegeta stopped his furious pushups and sat back on his butt, one fist grinding into the floor as the other held up his chin. If he'd been aware of their presence, and of what they'd seen, he'd have killed those women. Instead, he'd found out belatedly because he'd been too busy training to take note of their weak ki signatures, and had given the belated order to run instead, knowing that they had to get away from Harbour Colony as quickly as possible. It was only a matter of time before Frieza knew of their general whereabouts and he didn't want anyone following them back to Tarble's home planet. As far as Orly's fate, if he was stupid enough to stick around with them for long enough, he probably deserved whatever came to him.

“I should have gone back and killed them,” he muttered to himself, halfheartedly. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought of it, and if he'd thought for a second that Bulma wouldn't find out about it, he'd have done it, too. Damn her fucking face, the memory of it hazy through the regeneration fluid, begging him to stop the unnecessary killing. He'd promised her, too, and what a huge mistake that had been.

Vegeta punched the floor again, this time leaving a dent in the metal panelling. It was awkward and strange, this partnership he had become involved in. On one hand, her companionship required a drastic change in his behaviours, in his very effectiveness as an enemy of Frieza. On the other, it was Bulma who'd supplied him with the means to maximize his training potential and strength, thereby increasing his chances at surviving an encounter with the icejin tyrant. He could leave and be free to slaughter anyone who looked at him wrong, or he could stay and gain the ability to pulverize the only creature he really wanted to.

A sudden flash of ki outside the caught his attention, and Vegeta looked up to see Dende appear in the gravity room's doorway just a moment later. He had both hands clasped in front of his white-robed body, and was looking to the floor right around Vegeta's knees, as though he couldn't quite bring himself to make eye contact. The namekian child seemed absurdly small to Vegeta, who had perhaps never really taken the time to really look.

“What do you want?” Vegeta asked, gruffly. “Have you come for a match?” He cracked his knuckles and then his neck, tilting his head from side to side as he heaved himself up from the floor. Dende looked panicked for a moment and Vegeta sneered; no wonder the kid couldn't control his own. “You're interrupting my training.”

“You...you weren't training,” Dende swallowed hard and forced himself to look up, to meet the intense glare of the saiyan prince whom he so feared and admired. “You were just sitting there.”

“I was meditating,” the saiyan returned, thinking maybe the kid might have a tiny backbone in there somewhere.

At this comment, a thoroughly Bulma-esque expression flitted over the Dende's face and he said, rather dryly, “You were punching the floor.”

“What do you want?” Vegeta narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, and Dende watched with growing trepidation as his tail lashed back and forth behind his knees.

“Zarbon. He's...not your friend,” Dende stammered, and Vegeta continued staring. “Gohan told me that you were enemies. So why...?”

“Why is he here?” Vegeta asked. “The real question is, why are you here? Bulma couldn't help you, so you decided to come get me to kick him off the ship?”

“N...no!” Dende's cheeks flushed a hot shade of violet and he felt his heart hammering in his chest. Truthfully, he had no idea why he was down here, talking to Vegeta of all people. He'd simply been awake, been restless. He'd felt Vegeta's life force, a sort of low key agitation, and had followed his curiosity. He really hadn't meant to say anything in the first place, either. “It's just...he...he killed them. Everyone at Guru's compound,” Dende let out a frustrated sob, though he refused to let his tears fall; the last thing he intended to do was to cry in front of this man. “How do you forgive that?”

“You don't,” Vegeta said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. Dende wiped his running nose on one long sleeve and watched as the prince began to pace. His ki shifted as he spoke further, a subtle change that made Dende's skin tingle just being near. If it hadn't been for the low level, he might have wondered whether Vegeta was about to transform into his super saiyan mode. “There are people in this universe who would tell you that you can,” Vegeta retreated a little further into the room and Dende edged in so that he was no longer in the door frame, “Bulma, Guru. You should know, shouldn't you?” he snorted. “But I'm not them, and since you're here it's plain that that's not the answer you're looking for. You can't forgive him?” Vegeta shrugged, “Then don't. Look at him and understand why he did what he did, but that's not going to change anything. It's not going to fix the past or bring anyone back from the dead. Maybe it'll make you hate him less, and maybe it won't, but that's reality.”

“I...I still don't...”

“Look,” Vegeta rounded on Dende, noticed the child's trembling shoulders and chose to firmly ignore them, “I don't give a shit about your feelings, okay? That's not how I operate. You can curse Zarbon to the deepest pits of hell all you like, as long as you aren't going to do anything to kill him. Fact is, I don't like him either. He's a prissy, self-absorbed, ass-kissing son of a bitch and he did his damndest to make my life hell for a long time. But he's on this side for now, and until that changes or Frieza dies, I'm going to look at his stupid, smug face and not put my fist through his brain, because he's useful.” Vegeta turned and walked away, trying to ignore the sound of sniffling that followed him. “Do what you need to do, brat, to be able to look him in the eye. Beyond that, this whole forgiveness thing,” his lips were curled back in a sneer as he said it, “it's just a word.”

Vegeta stopped his pacing in the center of the room, standing with his back to Dende. Uncaring of the child's presence, he resumed his stretching and dropped into a fighting stance, from which he began a series of katas. His eyes were closed but he could feel the little sage watching him, weighing his words in that brain of his, far too taxed and mature for someone of that age. Pre-pubescent leader of a handful of displaced people, all that were left of his once thriving race. Sounded a bit familiar, though Vegeta personally thought he'd handled it better. Pacifism handicapped the young namek, too timid to step on his own shadow, much less the toes of his so-called followers.

“I think...” Dende heaved a world weary sigh after a drawn out moment of silence, “that I liked Bulma's answer better.” Vegeta snorted, but to his credit did not kick Dende out, instead allowing him to simply sit and watch until he drifted off, curled up on the floor against the wall.

Eventually Vegeta grew tired himself. A better man might have picked up the sleeping child and carried him back to his room, but Vegeta had little by way of paternal sentiments or sympathy for people who fell asleep in dumb places, especially after holding him up from his training. He left the boy where he was, though he did at least have the decency to turn off the lights on his way out. Bulma was fast asleep when he reached their room, and sprawled like a starfish smack in the center of their bed. Indulgently, he did not prod her awake but instead attempted to shift her gently back to her own side. She woke though, as she always did, and a mild snarl escaped her throat as she caught sight of the clock.

“What is it, Vegeta? It's four thirty in the morning,” Bulma grumbled, shifting to curl against him as he crawled beneath the blankets beside her. “Seventeen and Eighteen are coming to get me at six...” He rolled his eyes and waited for her to settle as he thought of the twins, who trailed after her like puppies, and little Dende who was probably half in love with her.

“You know,” Vegeta said, after a moment, “for a woman who professes a complete lack of maternal skill or desire, you have nevertheless managed to accumulate a rather impressive brood of orphans.”

.

.

It wasn't until three days later that Dende finally worked up the nerve to speak to Zarbon alone, and it happened quite by accident. The little namekian had simply intended to use the washroom and had come upon Zarbon, combing out his hair in front of the mirror. It was quite short, compared to the day of the attack on Guru's compound, barely ponytail length. Oddly, Zarbon seemed embarrassed to have been caught performing such a task, even though Dende was given to understand that brushing one's hair was normal for those who had it.

“H...hello,” Zarbon paused with the comb halfway through one side and met Dende's startled eyes in the mirror. He watched the little namekian halt and hesitate, plainly debating with himself as to whether he was going to come in and complete his business, or turn tail and run. “You can come in, you know. I won't bite.”

“I know,” Dende said, a little belligerently, and then regretted it. He was embarrassed by his snappish behaviour, aware that it made him seem like a young child. Guru never would have acted like that.

“Do you?” Zarbon asked, and this time he set the comb down and turned to face the boy. “Do you actually believe you are safe with me? That I am on your side?” He held Dende's gaze, his own eyes challenging, as though daring the young sage to say no.

“...Yes.” Dende sighed, after a pause. He looked to the floor, his hands balled into fists at his side. “I believe you are on our side, I believe we are safe with all of you. But I...I...don't like it. I don't like it that you're here.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you even regret it?” Dende demanded, incensed by Zarbon's calm demeanour. “Do you regret killing them?”

“Truthfully?” Zarbon asked, and Dende nodded. “No. I am not pleased by it and had there been a different way, I would have tried to avoid it, but I don't regret it. I did what had to be done.” He turned back toward the mirror and stared hard at his own face, features strong beneath the shag of wet hair. “I meant it though, when I said I was sorry to hear about Guru.”

“Well,” Dende sighed and looked away, “that's something, at least.” There was something about Zarbon that made him difficult to look at, as though being the object of sight was somehow painful for him. “You are different now,” Dende added after a moment of thought, and watched Zarbon reach up to clutch at the braid that was no longer there.

“Frieza saw to that,” he replied, bitterness staining his words. Zarbon understood what the child meant, and it galled him to the core that his weakness was so visible. It wasn't just hair that he'd lost; it was his sense of being, of pride. Zarbon snatched up the comb instead and ran it through his wet hair, shivering as a few drops of water dribbled down his neck. He felt utterly pathetic, and the last thing he wanted to do was to fall apart in front of a child.

“I think...I don't know what you went through,” Dende said softly, “but Guru always said that a little humility was for the best. As much as I want to, I can't hate you like this.”

“As much as I respected Guru, I doubt he was ever shackled and beaten and...” Zarbon swallowed thickly, unable to say it to a child.

“True, but Guru believed that we are all formed by our experiences, and from hardship comes strength. When we face adversity, we must choose how we deal with it, and from those choices, character is born.”

“And what do you believe? Or are you just a clone, meant to regurgitate every thought and feeling he ever had?” Zarbon wasn't sure why he was baiting the kid so; he'd never had a problem with Guru, and wasn't he supposed to be trying to make peace with Red's crew?

“If you knew me at all,” Dende glowered at Zarbon, “you would know that I am failing miserably in my attempts to emulate my late master. Were I not, forgiving you would be so much easier.”

“I know my opinion probably means very little to you, but living your life according to someone else's ideals...it won't work out. Trust me, I know.” Zarbon grimaced into the mirror, wishing someone had told him that when he was Dende's age, and wondering whether or not it would have made a difference.

Dende cocked his head to the side, thinking, and was surprised to find a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That's what Bulma said. She told me that I should be myself and do what I thought was right.”

“She seems like a smart lady.”

“You know, it's too bad I had to watch you kill my people. If not for that, I think I would like you very much.” Dende sighed heavily, but he breathed more easily than he had in quite some time, as though some weight had been lifted from his chest. Zarbon nodded his head and said nothing, so Dende nodded back, and walked past him toward the bathroom stalls. He was deliberately slow about his business, and by the time he emerged again, Zarbon had gone.