Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 45

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: So I forgot to mention last time that I am sort of back in school - just taking a few courses at the University as an open studies student for my own interest. I am honestly surprised at how much they've impacted my update speed, and I apologize for that. On another note, holy crap FFN, you guys have reached over 600 reviews, and mediaminer, you finally hit 300! In combination, that is over 900 reviews, which is pretty damn spectacular and leaves me pretty much boggled. Thank you so much.

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Last time: Dende discovered that his powers had increased dramatically, while attemting to heal Zarbon's broken nose. The shock of it, coupled with the realization that it was undoubtedly Guru's last gift to him, left him upset and in the care of Sixteen. Zarbon, meanwhile, discovered Vegeta's ascension and after demanding to see it, got the tar beaten out of him and ended up in the regeneration tank. Eighteen and Krillin, on their way to make sure Dende was alright, were surprised to find the boy's room crammed full of his kind.

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PRESENT DAY

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Sixteen patted the little namekian boy gently on the head, his palm alone spanning nearly the entire length of the child's skull. Obeying some unbidden, unexplainable impulse, he turned and sat down on the bed beside Dende. His weight caused the mattress to dip and the boy to lean unintentionally into him. Sixteen put an arm around Dende's shoulders and squeezed tight. It was something he had seen Chichi do to Gohan on occasion and it seemed appropriate. “Losing someone is difficult,” he said in his deep, monotone voice, “even I understand that much. I cannot fathom how much more you must feel it.”

“I...I'm not sure why I'm even reacting this way,” Dende wiped his eyes roughly with the long sleeves of his white tunic. He was embarrassed at the way he'd fallen apart in the medical bay, especially after he'd congratulated himself on being so brave as to go and see Zarbon in the first place. “I thought I was alright, I really did. I had gotten over Guru's death, but then...” he looked down at his hands, frowning, “I felt him, his power, move within my veins, within my very soul...” Dende sniffled, turned to the side just a little and buried his face against Sixteen's chestplate. It wasn't the most comfortable way to sit, but he was embarrassed by his tears and the burgeoning flush around his eyes and nose.

“I am given to understand that emotion does not always follow the conventions of rationality or logic,” Sixteen frowned down at the little boy, not with irritation but with frustration. He didn't know what to do, and he wondered whether it might be appropriate to go and find someone who would. Bulma, for example, or Chichi.

“That's true,” Dende snuffled after a moment, and Sixteen had the feeling that he'd helped somehow. He wasn't quite sure what he'd said, but the tension in the boy's shoulders seemed that much less, and his tears had slowed. It was that unfortunate moment, just as things were looking up, that Oboe decided to barge in.

“What is going on here?” he demanded, glaring back and forth from the child prophet to the huge android. “What did you do?”

“Android Sixteen is not at fault, Oboe,” Dende said, and even Sixteen could tell that the boy's voice was exceptionally cold. The old namek narrowed his eyes, brow ridges drawing down in anger. “Did you need to speak to me?”

“You were late for our council, Dende,” Oboe returned tightly and Dende flushed a violent shade of plum as he recalled the date and time, immediately regretting his earlier haughtiness. “I should think we all have something to discuss with you, given the state I find you in.”

“Oh no...” Dende frowned, twisting his hands in his lap. Shyly, he looked at Sixteen. “I think you'd better go. I have...ahh...business to attend to, I suppose.”

Sixteen looked from the little boy to the old man, and back again. “Will you be alright?” he asked, and Dende nearly laughed at the look on Oboe's face. He'd never considered the fact that he might appear to be in danger.

“I will be fine,” he smiled at the android, who sighed heavily as he stood up. “Really, Sixteen,” Dende reached out and caught one huge hand in his own. He could not grasp Sixteen's entire palm, so he settled for squeezing one finger, “I will be alright. Thank you for your concern.”

Sixteen nodded once and gave Oboe a stern once over as he left the room. The old namek stood, back rigid with fury, as the big heathen left the room. “How...how dare he!” he squawked after the door slid shut. “What does he think he's implying, that big, hulking...”

Dende sighed, watching the old man fume and bubble to himself. What was it that Vegeta had said about Zarbon? I don't like him, but I'll tolerate him enough that I don't put my fist through his face? Something along those lines. Dende straightened his back and wiped his face. Maybe he wasn't capable of being as mean as Vegeta was, but he thought it was about time he started standing up for himself. “Oboe,” he said sharply enough that it startled his old comrade to attention. He tamped down on the guilt he felt over having forgotten the meeting with his kinsmen and ploughed forward, as bullheaded as his two idols. “You should be pleased for Sixteen's concern, should you not? I myself am thrilled to have such friends to watch over me.”

Oboe went silent with shock, his mouth hanging open to reveal pearly white fangs. He huffed, looked as though he was about to say something, and then went quiet again. Who was this tiny demon now inhabiting the young sage's body? What was this sudden sass-back?

“Is everything alright?” Tambourine poked his head in the door and Dende could see Fife hovering in the background. “I heard shouting.”

“Thank you Tambourine, everything is just fine. I'm glad you're here,” Dende puffed out his chest and met Fife's eyes. The older Namek grinned openly as Dende continued. “Could you summon the others, please? I'd like to hold the gathering in my quarters.”

“I'll get them,” Fife said quietly, after it became apparent that Tambourine had been overcome by the same condition currently affected Oboe. He quick-stepped down the hall and around the corner and into the namekian quarters where the others were waiting. “The gathering has moved,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to tame his smile as he met Bassoon's surprised gaze, “to master Dende's quarters.”

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It really was an awkward place to hold a meeting, Dende thought as he looked around at his gathered kinsmen, crammed all into the room that he shared with Gohan. The previous meeting spot, the quarters shared by Oboe, Tambourine and a few others, was not only bigger, but also uncluttered by the paraphernalia of two rambunctious boys. Gohan had the ability to be neat but usually only exercised it when he thought his mother might be stopping in, so boots, armour, books and various other things had been politely pushed aside by the visiting Nameks. Fife and Bassoon had made themselves comfortable on Gohan's unmade bed, along with another pro-Vegeta Namekian who shared their room, Cymbal. Oboe and Tambourine were standing together by the closet, both with arms crossed and identical unpleasant expressions on their faces. Flute, Bell and Cello stood awkwardly by the door, as though they couldn't wait to be out of the Saiyan's den. The three of them were Oboe supporters though Bell roomed with the more lenient contingent and Bassoon swore up and down that they were beginning to sway him.

“Is someone going to tell us what is going on?” Tambourine demanded once everyone had made themselves more or less comfortable. Oboe beside him was being uncharacteristically quiet and Tambourine was actually relishing the chance to speak up.

“Hold your tongue, Tambourine!” Bassoon snapped back, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Unless it was your intent to reprimand our Master Sage?”

“There will be no fighting here!” Dende yelped, instantly regretting not the sentiment, but the unbecoming squeak in his voice. He took a deep breath and tried his best to calm down as he levelled a pint-sized glare around the room. It was nowhere near as intimidating as Vegeta's famous gaze, but coming from Dende, it was enough to shock the other Nameks into silence. “I know that none of you believe this to be so, but this room, as my residence of choosing, is now a sacred place. Discussion and dissent will be encouraged but there shall be no more pointless squabbling here. We are the last of our kind, the last of Guru's flock. If there is nothing else between us, let there at least be respect.”

“Well said,” Fife smiled quiet encouragement across the gap between the beds and Dende was grateful for his presence. Always there, solid as a rock and as silent as one, too. He was not pushy or overbearing, but his support was never in question. He, of all the other nameks, was who Dende would have chosen as Guru's successor.

“I...agree,” Oboe spoke up after a lull in the conversation, though he quickly countered much of the goodwill he'd just engendered in the other side. “Though I do not understand why you so insist on moving us here, my Lord,” he gave Dende a curt little bow of his head as he gestured to the room around them, “I agree that petty infighting will do us no good.”

“Puffed up old goat,” Cymbal muttered to Bassoon, though he shut his mouth quickly when Dende's sharp glare fell to him.

“There will be a time for banter and teasing,” Dende said gently, looking around the room so that the gathered men might understand that this was directed at all of them, “but for now...” he sighed and focused on a spot on the wall, directly above Bassoon's head, and tried to gather his words. “We are so fragile. So fractured and broken as a group. I want us to come through this together.” Dende cocked his head to the side, “I want us to be friends. Guru made me your leader and it is due only to my respect for him that I have accepted this role, but I am no Master. Perhaps one day I will be worthy of the title, but as I have said before, I am not a clone of our beloved Sage. I will never be that and I do not believe that Guru wanted me to.”

“So...what does this mean for us?” Bell, the fence sitter, asked.

“It means that things will be different. I will be different,” Dende replied, shrugging his slim shoulders apologetically. Before he could explain further, the door slid open with a whoosh to reveal Eighteen and Krillin, wearing identical looks of shock.

“Oh dear,” Eighteen said, looking around at the room full of unhappy faces, “did we come at a bad time?”

“No, it's okay,” Dende smiled and gestured for them to come in. They did so slowly, Eighteen picking up on Krillin's uneasiness. “I was just about to tell my brethren what happened today. I want truth between us, always,” he added, this time addressing the room at large. “Guru had many secrets, and while I understand now why he kept them, I would not have it be so amongst us.”

“What kind of secrets?” Cello piped up, his eyebrow ridges drawing down into a wary grimace.

“Nothing that it would have been better for us to know,” Dende replied. “My point is not to pick apart our late Master's actions or thoughts, but rather to insist that while he always seemed to know what was best for us, I cannot claim the same. You, my gathered friends, will know all that I know, and we will share our knowledge, too, with our non-Namekian allies. And on that note,” he raised his voice to forestall the interruptions forming on the tongues of his comrades, “I wish to announce that my healing abilities have increased ten-fold, and that I have made my peace with Zarbon's presence here and in our lives from now on. I would like you do try and do the same.”

The wealth of chatter that erupted was so loud and forceful that poor Dende could do nothing to stem it He'd caused quite a stir and he knew that he'd shocked quite literally everyone in the room aside from himself, but he was oddly pleased at the result. Bluntness was something that he was not accustomed to and while he had to admit that his sudden declaration might have been a bit too sensational, he couldn't deny the results. It was out there, said and done. He straightened his shoulders and sat proudly, waiting for the coming onslaught of questions and accusations. The third announcement - a hastily formed plan to barter the physical labour of his clan as garden helpers for the use of the conservatory as a gathering space - would have to wait.

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Burter squinted through the two-way mirror at the woman in the holding cell. Her arms were crossed over her chest, resting between her two topmost pairs of breasts, and she'd pasted a furious look onto her face to hide the fact that she was scared shitless. “So that's the one who reported it, huh?” he asked the port guard next to him. It had all been explained, several times in fact, but he'd just dismissed the other members of the squad and was curious to see if stories would change without the triple threat of himself, Recoome, and Jeice. Guldo had been present too, of course, but no one was ever intimidated by Guldo.

Burter wondered what sort of fun his comrades would be getting up to while he was stuck here interviewing the bimbo. With any luck she wouldn't take too much of his time, but after that there would certainly be other accounts to hear from the authorities who'd dealt with her and the dead bitches, and likely a mountain of paperwork. Again, he wondered how Ginyu had dealt with it all without wanting to put a blast through his own forehead.

“Yes sir, Mr. Burter, sir,” the man nodded fervently and the motion drew Burter back to attention. The guard's eyes were darting back and forth between Burter and the woman behind the glass. She'd obviously buttered up the guard staff a little; this was not the first man to make some sort of comment in her favour. It wasn't hard to guess what kind of reward they were hoping for. “She's been mighty cooperative,” he added hopefully, and Burter cocked his head. That counted for something, he supposed.

“When did she place the report?”

“Three weeks ago, sir, thereabouts.” The guard shuffled over to the desk nearby, picked up a folder and handed it to Zarbon. “Her initial statement is in there, as well as the coroner's report and crime scene analysis that went on with the two dead ones.”

“Hn,” Burter nodded, taking the folder between long fingers without sparing it a glance. He would look on his own time, and certainly not while the bulky meathead hovered around him. Burter was cranky and in no mood to deal with much of anything beyond a cold mug of alkabrew. He'd been too long in the pod and not enough on land, if Harbour Colony could really be called `land' in the first place. He was still crampy, still achy, and at the moment the idea of throwing that woman down on the table appealed to him a thousand times more than the idea of interrogating her about Zarbon and Orly. Pod travel was rough even for the under-average in height, so folding his nine-foot frame into one of those little balls was not exactly a picnic for Burter. He rubbed distractedly at a kink in his shoulder as he thought of the ride home, and thanked his lucky stars that he was at least slim and not a total brick wall like Recoome. The big lunk's shoulders hardly fit and upon arrival he'd been wedged so tightly inside that it had taken both Jeice and Burter to haul him out. Naturally, Guldo had stood by and watched.

The radio at the guard's hip crackled and squawked, the words unintelligible to Burter but seeming to make perfect sense to the guard. “If you've no further need of me, sir, I ah,” he paused, obviously trying to figure out how to gain the dismissal he needed without offense, “I am requested elsewhere.”

“Get going, you're only in my way anyway,” Burter jerked his head toward the door and slid into the chair behind the desk so that he could still see the waiting woman through the glass. She had a pretty enough face, he supposed, but she was rough around the edges. Ridden hard and put away wet. Not Zarbon's typical type, from what he knew of the other man. Then again, Burter himself wasn't either, so he didn't know quite why he was trying so hard to analyze her. He shook his head and opened the folder, splaying its contents out on the desk before him. Her entire history summed up in a few sheets of paper, and the only important thing the random encounter that had led her here.

Dutifully, Burter skimmed through the report and made mental note of all the important bits - basically nothing. She had a rap sheet a mile long, but it was full of petty crimes, nothing to make him think she might be more involved in the resistance than she claimed to be. Minor theft, prostitution, extortion and blackmail, nothing he really cared about. The encounter with Zarbon was frustratingly brief and although that fact in itself was something of a relief, it was no help in terms of his objective. The woman in the cell obviously had no idea where to find his quarry and it was really a waste of time to question her, but orders were orders and he really had no qualms about delaying Zarbon's inevitable death.

“You shitty son of a bitch...” he muttered to himself, throwing the sheaf of papers back into the folder with little care as to order or straightness. “You were supposed to get the hell off the radar, and instead you fucking fly right into Frieza's face.” He shoved out from behind the desk, tipping the chair as he stood so that it banged loudly against the wall and actually chipped out some of the plaster. Burter didn't care, of course, hardly even noticed the crumbling dent he'd left there and certainly didn't give so much as a thought to the fact that someone was likely to get into trouble over it. He had his own concerns and he wasn't about to let himself be distracted.

Yul jumped in surprise as the door slid open, the empty space soon filled by one of the tallest men she'd ever seen. She swallowed her nerves as she caught sight of the insignia on his uniform, her eyes slowly sliding up to his face. Burter, leader of the Burter Brigade; she'd seen his image on many a propaganda poster. “I swear, I don't know anything,” she said, pre-emptively shrinking back into her chair. She had intended to put up a brave front, as she did every time she had been questioned since the incident, but she had not been expecting to be interviewed by one of Frieza's top henchmen.

“Shut up,” Burter yanked out his own chair and sat heavily down. He eyed her up and down, his irritation growing with each passing moment. “So basically you saw Zarbon for all of five seconds, cavorted around town with this Orly person, and allowed them both to escape with no knowledge whatsoever of where they might be going.”

Yul nodded weakly and stomped down her irritation at his sudden, rude outburst. She wasn't used to being treated this way by men; even the meanest of her interrogators so far had still tried to ingratiate himself with her, but Burter hadn't even so much as waggled his eyebrow ridges at her. On one hand, it was refreshing to know that his mind wasn't deep in the gutter, but on the other it meant she wouldn't be able to manipulate him. That unnerved her. “It wasn't so simple,” she defended herself, “but yes, in the most basic sense that is the truth.”

“Any more details you can give me?” Burter waved the folder. Yul shook her head. “Did you fuck `em?” he asked, and her face flamed with fury. How like a man! Had she not been stared after and patted enough by the inept authorities of this colony, and now the very same thing from Frieza's top goons?

“That's none of your business!” Yul snapped back, her temper overcoming good sense. She was not some lowly street hooker; she danced in a reasonably respectable establishment and when she did more than that, she chose her clientele, damn it! Not everyone with a dick was qualified.

“Think hard,” Burter said slowly, dangerously, “and answer the question.”

“NO!” she shouted back, slamming her hands on the table. “I did not take either Orly or Zarbon to my bed. That good enough for you, or you need to swab my cunt for DNA?” She gestured rudely down to her lap and glared across the table.

“Won't be necessary,” Burter stood up and dropped the folder back down on the table. He was tempted to kill her for that last bit of impudence and probably would have if her answer had been different, but he found himself slightly amused by her and besides, life itself was punishment enough for a woman like that. He left her then, puzzled and alone at the table as she watched him simply walk out. She sat alone for ten more minutes, not sure if she had been dismissed again or if she was meant to wait longer. One thing was for sure; she was never sticking her nose into Empire affairs ever again.

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“Hey big fella,” Jeice clapped Burter on the shoulder and pulled out the chair next to him. He signalled the bartender and held up two fingers as he settled himself in. A moment later, two frosty mugs of alkabrew were plonked down on the bar. He pushed one toward his captain, who up till that point had been rolling an empty glass back and forth between his palms. “Drink up sir!” he sketched a mock salute, “Looks like you need it.”

At this, Burter sat up in surprise, his long back straightening so that he towered once more over Jeice. “Thanks,” was all he said as he picked up the mug and drained it dry in a few gulps. He really did feel a bit better with the fast-acting alcohol already seeping into his system. It numbed him a little, put a little barrier up between his own thoughts and the outside world. He ordered another round for himself and his comrade, holding out his credit chip for the bartender to scan. Two more mugs on the counter, and Burter belatedly realized that he should probably be careful with his alcohol consumption; Jeice was probably the only member of the team he'd ever consider opening up to about anything, but his hard-on for Zarbon was not a matter fit for public consumption. No matter what sort of half-friendship he thought he might have with any one of his teammates, he had to remember that they were Frieza's warriors and their loyalties might not lie with Captain Burter if they thought they might have a chance at leadership themselves. Jeice didn't seem to have much ambition in that direction; he'd not contested Burter's promotion even though the position should rightfully have been his as Ginyu's second in command. Still though, Frieza's universe was one in which caution served a man well and Burter could see no benefit from sharing his secret that might be worth the trouble if he was outed to the icejin tyrant as lusting after the universe's number two fugitive.

Frieza could be blind to things he thought beneath his notice, but he was not stupid. Two and two would go together and Burter would be automatically pinned as a traitor...which, he supposed, he sort of was and sort of wasn't. Yes, he'd busted Zarbon out of the slammer, sent him off in a stolen ship and caused the death of several of Frieza's guardsmen and valued prisoners, but not because of any hidden sense of sympathy for the resistance. The decision had been driven purely by lust but of course that would make no difference to a lizard scorned.

“You're looking down in the mouth, mate,” Jeice said, gulping the last of his first drink so that he could move on to the second before it started to get warm.

“Got nowhere today,” Burter shrugged, sipping his own drink more slowly this time. It was all on the tip of his tongue and he had to be careful that it did not slip free. Yes, he was irritated by the fact that Yul's information had been next to useless, that they were even more lacking in direction now than they'd been at the beginning. He wasn't looking forward to having to report a complete shortage of leads to his master. And yet at the same time, he'd been prepared for the inevitability and knew that Frieza was too, despite the rage that was sure to occur. The real problem was that despite being relieved at not having to kill Zarbon or turn him in, Burter had secretly hoped he might run into his prey.

And then what? Burter shook his head, staring at the amber reflection in the side of his glass. What did he think was going to happen? Sex? Who was he kidding? If he crossed paths with Zarbon while his teammates were around, one of them would have to die and Burter had no intentions of drawing his last breath any time soon.

“Damn,” Jeice said, glad that he wasn't the leader. He had no interest in interrogation or planning or thinking. He was really just there for the violence and the team activities.

“Yeah, bitch didn't know a thing.” Burter took a huge gulp of his drink. “She saw Zarbon get on the ship with Radditz and Nappa, didn't even see the monkey prince, and then she and her two little friends partied it up with that fucker Orly before turning the tables on him.”

“Ugh, I hate that guy!” Jeice spat on the floor at the mention of Orly's name. Frieza had an ear on the resistance and Orly's name was one of the bigger ones. The whole squad had, of course, heard many of his broadcasts, and the group consensus was that he was a self-important, sanctimonious prick who had the unforgiveable gall to be on the wrong side. “What's with all that praise be garbage anyway? And about fuckin' Vegeta? Hell's tits, man, talk about putting your gerwods in the wrong brindlebucket...” Jeice finished his mug and ordered another round for himself and the captain. “Man, you know when Ginyu was alive it woulda been you and me, gallivanting around having fun all day while he did the boring job. Now that you're the boss, I had to hang out with Recoome all day and you know, he likes to party and that's good and all but...well... He's a weird guy. Hit too many times in the head, I think,” Jeice pointed a bright red finger at his shock of white hair, “and it's left him a bit turned around up there. Killing people is all well and good, but my idea of fun ain't exactly lining up with his,” he snorted and Burter couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips. Recoome was a strong fighter and a loyal teammate, but a prime companion for a day out, he was not. No matter where you took him, someone always ended up mutilated. He'd probably been the kind of kid who pulled the wings off live flies for fun, only as he'd grown bigger, so had the prey.

“Sorry man. Maybe leave him to Guldo next time?” Burter grinned and Jeice cackled aloud at the idea.

“So anyway, you bang that chick you had to question?” Jeice asked after he'd gotten his laughter under control. The whole squad had seen her, waiting more or less patiently behind the glass, before Burter dismissed them. “Six tits, man, wowza!”

“Nah,” Burter shrugged, “she was pretty rough.”

“Rough? Since when do you care? Or what, you got a sweetheart somewhere you're saving yourself for?” Jeice teased, batting his eyelashes and making kissy-lips as Burter, who flushed and snapped “NO!” so quickly that the little red warrior's eyes popped open with surprise.

“Oh man, you do!” he crowed, jabbing his captain with one well-manicured finger.

“I don't,” Burter ground out, but he could no longer look his comrade straight in the face; it was a dead giveaway.

“Who is it, someone I know? Oh, that sexy green-skinned girl who does our laundry on base? I've seen her eyeing you up. Or maybe that one guy from Armin Squad that you went out with?”

“Wrong and wrong,” Burter said, “because there's no one.”

“Don't believe you, not for a second.”

“Okay fine, whatever,” Burter rolled his eyes and leaned in toward his half-drunk pseudo friend and whispered, “it's Zarbon.”

“PFFT!” Jeice snorted, spraying his mouthful of alkabrew right into Burter's face. “Oh man, good one,” he laughed, then caught sight of what he'd done. He snagged a fistful of napkins from a dispenser on the bar top and dabbed ineffectually at Burter's dripping chin. “Whoops! Sorry boss-man. But what'd you expect, telling a right zinger like that one, me with a mouthful of booze?”

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“Oh man, that was awkward,” Krillin let out a huge sigh of relief, glad to be free of the little namekian conference. He'd made excuses for himself and Eighteen amidst the squabbling and they'd snuck out, leaving Dende to the mess he'd made. Krillin thought he might have felt worse about it if he hadn't been so impressed by the young sage's new attitude.

“Awkward...” Eighteen repeated in that funny way she had, which Krillin was coming to understand meant she was unfamiliar with something. “I do not comprehend. Explain,” she demanded, though without the rudeness that might accompany someone else's saying the exact same thing.

“Awkward is...it's like uncomfortable,” Krillin frowned as he thought, his eyebrows drawing together and down in concentration. He took Eighteen's questions very seriously and always tried to educate her to the very best of his abilities. “It's like when you don't know what to say or do, or if you say or do the wrong thing,” he added, “but I'm not sure I'm explaining it all that well.”

“That is me,” Eighteen said, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Krillin took a few more steps before he realized that she was no longer moving with him and, startled, he turned to see what the problem was. She was standing still, her head cocked to the side and eyes fixed on some point in the distance as though suddenly turned to stone. “I am awkward,” she said, and her tone implied both a sense of confusion and certainty, as though she had experienced some life-changing epiphany. “I am awkward,” she repeated, this time fixing her eyes on Krillin's face.

“What?” he sputtered, fearing that he'd upset her, “You're not!”

“I am,” Eighteen said firmly, and Krillin realized he had no need to worry. Naturally, she would not understand the word's negative associations and so would be unable, for the time being, to attribute them to herself. “I understand the word uncomfortable and the feeling of discomfort. I feel it often,” she admitted, surprising him. He'd never thought of Eighteen as anything but completely confident in herself, for how would it occur to her to be otherwise? She'd never known ridicule or ostracism, only complete inclusion by the people around her. “I did not, when I was born. The more I exist, the more I realize how much there is to understand about the universe. Sixteen is awkward but he does not know it, cannot comprehend it. Seventeen and I, however, are aware of ourselves as social beings.”

“Eighteen...” Krillin trailed off, not sure what to say. He settled for reaching out and taking her hand in his own again and giving it a squeeze. Her gaze fixed on their joined fingers and she frowned though not, Krillin hoped, due to distaste.

“I like it when you hold my hand,” she said after a moment and Krillin's heart lurched into his throat and sat there, beating for all it was worth. “I do not know why.”

“I...I like holding your hand, Eighteen,” he replied quietly. He wondered if it was terribly indecent to think about all the other things she might enjoy doing with him and blushed madly. She was right; she was awkward. A strange combination of ignorance and knowledge, of worldliness and innocence. Chronologically she was an infant, but physically a grown woman, and mentally somewhere in between. Krillin wasn't quite sure how to deal with all of that. He wanted her with a desperation that bordered on frightening, and yet at the same time he worried that, should things develop between them, he might be taking advantage of her naiveté. It was sort of a no-win situation.

Krillin found himself wanting to say something more, but he wasn't sure what. If he'd met her on Earth and she'd been a normal woman, he would have put his best moves on her, taken her dancing, complimented her every feature, word, and action. He'd have bowled her over with his charm, he was certain. Here though, and with her the way she was, he was pretty far out of his element and his usual confidence was like dust under her heels.

“I must go and speak to my brother,” Eighteen said, abruptly disengaging her cool fingers from his clammy ones. The sudden feeling of air on his palm stung and he clenched his fist against it as he watched her walk away. Always so sudden, ever abrupt. He tried to pretend the conversation had stopped right before his embarrassing confession.

Again, he reminded himself that this was likely not a rebuttal, but simply Eighteen's way. She had no concept of the games that men and women throughout the universe played, using each other's hearts as pieces on the board. The desire to humiliate did not exist within her brain as he knew it, nor would it even occur to her how such a declaration could be mortifying. He could rest easy, knowing it wasn't all some plot to make him feel like a fool...

Or he should have been able to, at least. The insecurity switch was something he couldn't exactly just turn off. Add that to the fact that no woman had ever gotten under his skin with quite the effectiveness that Eighteen seemed to display, and he was one nervous little man. It might have been easier if he knew why, too. She was pretty well the opposite of his normal type when it came to personality, but the attraction was far from purely physical.

“Damn it,” Krillin sighed, running a damp palm over his shining scalp. He was standing alone in the hall; she'd left with hardly a word and him without so much as a see ya later. He'd always prided himself on the fact that if he couldn't offer a woman good looks and average height, he was at least the most well-mannered, charming man they could ever hope to meet. With Eighteen, he felt like he was slacking on all fronts.

Grimly, he wondered if Mrs. Briefs' flowers were in decent bloom, and if Eighteen would even understand the gesture behind a hand-picked bouquet.

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Zarbon sat alone in Mrs. Briefs' conservatory. He'd seen better but it was actually quite impressive, given the short amount of time it had been in existence. There was definitely still work to be done, spots to be filled and seedlings to be loved up into full grown trees, but there was a sense of peace and tranquility there that he desperately needed. He'd only just come out of the regeneration tank after his fight with Vegeta; his hair was actually still damp and he reeked of antiseptic.

The place was blessedly free nameks, still ensconced in their meeting as they were. Zarbon was unsettled enough, and he did not need to feel their judging eyes on him. He'd made surprising headway with the boy, Dende, but the adults were still wary of him. The only one who didn't look at him with the memory of destruction in his eyes was Piccolo, the weird one who was not actually part of their group.

Zarbon sighed and tried to put the nameks out of his mind. His purpose in coming into the conservatory had been to try and put everything out of his mind, but it wasn't working so well. He was thoroughly unsettled and not sure what to do about it, not even sure if it was even worth getting so frazzled over.

Zarbon didn't dream often. He didn't know if it was a characteristic of his people or if the years of psychological torture with Frieza had simply left him too mentally exhausted for dreams. Sleep was an escape from the strains of the day; five to eight blissfully blank hours in which to recharge his mental batteries, to fortify the barriers in his mind. Dreams had become an intrusive thing, a nuisance. When he had them, they were mostly bad, recalling to him the awful things he'd done, the awful things he'd had done to him.

He'd dreamed while in the regeneration tank, and what he recalled of it made his newly healed body ache all over again. Sex dreams were exceedingly abnormal for him. Sex dreams featuring Burter...pretty well unheard of.

Zarbon ran a hand over his tired face, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, trying to dull the mild headache that had sprung up. How many months had it been since his escape? How long since that stupid, impulsive kiss? Rationally, when he thought of Burter's scaly, hairless body, his lumpy face and that weird, bony plating atop his head, it was not something he thought of as attractive. Maybe Burter was handsome by the standards of his own people - he did have a certain strength and evenness of feature - but to Zarbon...well, Zarbon had never looked twice, suffice to say.

So why now? Because Burter had helped him? Because he'd shown some semblance of affection where Zarbon was used to seeing only physical desire? Because he was lonely and there was no tail to be had on this godforsaken ship?

It was odd that he should be so preoccupied with thoughts of Burter while the knowledge of Vegeta's transformation was so fresh in his mind. A few decks below him, there was someone with the potential to finally kill Frieza...and Zarbon was busy thinking about cock.

“It was a stupid dream,” he said aloud to himself. “Not real.” But his face felt hot and there was a hard knot of desire in his stomach where his hatred normally lived. He didn't know what to do and for the first time since departing on Red Station, he actually wished that Orly was with him. The blonde was the closest thing he'd had to a friend in at least a decade; he'd left that sort of thing behind the moment he caught Frieza's eye. Then again, Zarbon doubted that Orly would want to hear the details of this highly unlikely, pseudo-crush on another man.

From his hiding spot behind a hedge, Zarbon heard the whoosh of the conservatory door sliding open. There was a rush of dry, cool air, so different from the humidity that characterized this little haven. He heard the familiar click-clack of heels across the floor and peeked through the dense foliage of his little hiding place to see Mrs. Briefs, headed his way.

“Don't mind me, dear, just grabbing a handful of basil!” she tittered as she rounded the corner and bent to pluck a few leaves from a nearby pot. “Well, it smells like basil, at least,” she said, crushing one between her fingers and then holding it out to him. Dutifully, he sniffed. He didn't know what basil was, but whatever she had in her hand smelled pretty good, that was for sure.

“Is it for cooking?” he asked politely, and she nodded.

“Now, what are you doing all by yourself here, handsome?” Mrs. Briefs stuffed the leaves in the pocket of her frilly, pink-striped apron and put her hands on her hips. She didn't give him a chance to answer, just leaned in so that her face was about two inches from his. “You're upset about something, hmm?” She paused, cocked her head and stared at him for a few minutes. Zarbon didn't say anything, just endured her scrutiny. “Is it your hair?”

“M...my hair?” Zarbon squawked, his hands reaching up to run through the deep green strands in panic. “What's wrong with it?”

“Oh, just a few split ends, that's all.” She dug around in her pocket for a capsule, hit the button and tossed it. A bang and a puff of smoke revealed a large cosmetics case in its place. Zarbon shook his head and watched as she crouched down and began digging through her treasure trove of beauty supplies; he didn't think he'd ever get used to the capsule technology that seemed so prevalent on this ship. Gods, if Frieza ever got a hold of it...he didn't want to think about how much it could benefit the empire. “Here, let me fix it up for you,” she surfaced with a pair of shears, “and you can tell Mom all about what's on your mind.” She dragged him over to one of the garden benches and dug out Seventeen's garishly bejewelled smock from the tool cabinet to serve as a cape. “I went to beauty school before I got married, you know,” she chattered as she ran her fingers through his hair, examining its condition. “Of course they don't call it that nowadays and if Bulma heard me she'd be going on about the women's lib! But anyway, that's where I met my husband! He used to come in to have his hair cut, and you know it's so funny, I thought he was maybe poor because they always had a discount rate in those days to get your hair done by a student. Turns out the silly man was a multimillionaire, and just too distracted to realize he wasn't going into a real barber shop! How funny is that, hmm?”

It was the last thing in the world he'd expected to be doing that day, but the thought of refusing her hardly crossed his mind. Was this how the saiyans had been tamed? Red Station was a hub of danger and intrigue, and yet it was peaceful...domestic in a way that none of them were used to. It was so easy to forget that they were hurtling through space in a desperate bid to escape the most powerful creature this side of the universe.

The strangest thing, however, was that Zarbon found himself talking. He winced every time he heard the snick-snack of the scissors through his hair, but her chatter was infectious and when she bluntly asked him outright if he was having heart troubles, he said he was.

“It's...well, a man,” he admitted. “He and I...well, we weren't really...”

“Oh no, unrequited love?” Mrs. Briefs gasped and tutted like a mother hen. “Well, I don't see how that is. You're so beautiful, who wouldn't love you?” She stroked his hair and patted his shoulder before returning to her work.

“It's not like that. See, I wasn't aware of his feelings until it was much too late. I was in prison and he was...well, he's in Frieza's forces.”

“Oh, just like a romance novel! Like Romeo and Juliet! How romantic!”

Zarbon couldn't help the grimace that spread across his face, but luckily Mrs. Briefs was behind him still, and not able to see it. He let her think what she wanted to, rather than giving her the sordid details. “He helped me escape and then he stayed behind, and it's only now that I'm far away that I'm beginning to wonder if there might have been something there, between us. But perhaps I'm just lonely and...well...” he paused, feeling stupid. This sort of thing was completely foreign territory.

“Well?” Mrs. Briefs prodded him in the back. “What?”

“I have a history of getting involved with the wrong man,” Zarbon finished, lamely. Wrong man didn't even begin to cover it.

“Zarbon, my dear boy.” Mrs. Briefs dropped her scissors next to Zarbon and tottered around the bench to stand in front of him. She bent and reached out to cup his cheeks in her hands. “You can't live your life in fear of what is behind you! You have to reach out and grab every opportunity! Take the bull by the china shop! Or...” she paused, confused, “or by the balls!” She briefly released his face and mimed horns above her head. “You can't let this die! What if he's your one, true love!”

Zarbon almost laughed out loud at that, recalling Burter's request of a pity fuck, and wondering if `love' could even come to play between men so damaged by life. He restrained himself, however, and if he toned down the intensity, her idea really wasn't so bad. “You're right,” he said, “I should give it a try. I just don't know how.”

“Go talk to my daughter,” Mrs. Briefs clapped her hands twice and then clasped them together between her chin. She had stars in her eyes. “Bulma will help you contact him, I'm sure she knows how!”

“I...maybe not yet. I'll think about it.” Zarbon promised his disappointed new friend, but it could only last so long. She brightened, grabbed her scissors from the bench, and made a quick few adjustments to the front of Zarbon's hair.

“You're going to love it!” She squealed, moving off to rummage again in her cosmetics case. She returned shortly with a mirror, which she held up in front of him. “Ta da!”

Layers. They framed his face, tickled his jawbone, and gave his hair dimension and volume he'd never known before. “It's,” he fingered the longest part, a fringe that sat just so on his shoulders, “Wow.”

“Oh, I knew you'd love it!” Mrs. Briefs reached behind Zarbon's head with her scissors and snipped a big, red bloom from the hedge. “But you can't forget the final touch!” She winked and tucked it behind his ear, then packed up all her things and encapsulated them once more. She looked at her watch and realized she'd been gone for forty-five minutes. “Oh dear! The roast!”

Zarbon watched her scuttle away with her pocket full of herbs, and found himself smiling as she disappeared out the door with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. She was certainly something.

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Remember the 90s? Remember Jennifer Anniston's “The Rachel” haircut? I think that's what Mrs. Briefs just gave Zarbon. I would draw it for you if I could.