Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 46

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'm so sorry for the delay. It was long to begin with, and then Dec.27th I got up, ready to do one last re-read and edit before posting...only to find that my file had become corrupted and, naturally, this was the only one out of 46 chapters without a backup copy or a previous version that could be restored. Two hours of frustrated attempts later, it remained unsalvageable so I had to re-start from scratch. Blarg.

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PRESENT DAY

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Burter woke up, and sincerely wished that he had not. Harbour Colony's bright, fake sunlight pierced his still-closed eyelids, turning his world a violent shade of red. Somewhere in the distance a faucet dripped, every plink of water against the porcelain rebounding around in his skull like a cannonball. His head was pounding, and his mouth tasted as though something had curled up in his throat and died a grizzly death.

All this before he'd even opened his eyes.

Wincing as his lids came apart, eyelashes sticking together with the remnants of crusty sleep, he tried to recall just how much alcohol he'd consumed the night before. There was a woman next to him, perhaps she'd know. Or the woman beside her, he thought, craning his neck to look at the other occupants of the bed, or maybe Jeice, snoring away on the far side.

Burter sat up, suppressing a groan as gravity caught up with his aching brain, and tried to recall exactly what he'd done last night. He had no recollection of meeting the two women between himself and Jeice, had no idea if they'd been picked up or paid for. Fuzzy remembrances were all that came to mind; skin against skin, his mouth on someone else's, yet another around his cock. He spared a glace for his three sleeping bedmates and wondered who he'd done what with. He clutched his head as a fresh wave of pain lanced through it, and stopped trying to think.

First order of business: find pants.

He stood carefully, both to ensure his own steadiness and to avoid waking up the woman beside him, and spied his pants carelessly crumpled in one corner. “Boss, go back to sleep,” Jeice's voice grumbled drowsily from the bed, just as Burter was hiking things up over his bum. He turned around to see his little teammate frowning up at the world, though his eyes were still closed. From this height and vantage point, Burter had an excellent view of Jeice's spread-eagled body, limp red dick plastered to one thigh. He'd seen it a million times in the locker rooms, in the showers, in sex clubs, but to his knowledge he'd never had intimate contact with it before. Still didn't know, actually.

Bending down, Burter scooped up Jeice's own pants and lobbed them in a perfect arc, so that they landed on the man's face. “Get up,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “We're going.”

“Fine, fine,” Jeice muttered, wriggling into his pants without even getting off the bed. With his companion half dressed, at least, Burter began to feel better. Jeice finally rolled out of the bed and together, they hunted out the remaining items of their respective wardrobes, before sneaking quietly out into the larger apartment. “Did we pick them up,” Jeice asked, “or were they hookers?”

Burter groaned and slumped down onto the floor to pull on his boots. “No idea,” he replied, and watched Jeice dig a small handful of credits out from his pocket.

“Just in case,” the red warrior grinned and dumped them on the counter. “I'm guessing pick up though. Hookers'd have made us pay for a hotel room rather `n bringing us back to their place, right?”

“Probably,” Burter shrugged his shoulders and heaved himself off the floor. He was envious of Jeice's easy attitude, but at the same time it helped him feel a little less awkward. Either they hadn't touched each other, or Jeice didn't care that they had. “So...how much did I drink last night?”

“Dunno, sir,” Jeice shrugged, running a hand through his tangled white hair. “I lost count somewhere around the fifth shot we did, and that was on top of a few rounds of alkabrew,” he broke off, with a muttered oath as his hand caught in a snarl of something, and Burder watched him gently ease the strands free of each other, and of the flaking substance, camouflaged in hair of the same colour. Burter swallowed, thickly.

“Is that...” he paused, “is that what I think it is?” He could feel the heat rising beneath his scaled cheeks as the unmistakable scent of stale semen wafted in the air.

“Well yes sir, it is,” Jeice said, candidly. He met his captain's eyes only briefly, shrugging his shoulders before he went back to picking at the mess. “But don't be embarrassed, aye? I'm pretty sure I asked you to.”

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“So what exactly am I looking at?” Bulma asked, cocking her head to the side as she studied the graph on her computer screen. Sixteen was behind her, crouched down so that he towered only minimally over her. She'd offered him a seat upon his arrival in her lab, but he'd declined. Comfort didn't seem to factor much in Sixteen's decision.

“These are the results from the most recent electrocardiogram tests.” He reached out and tapped her computer screen ever so delicately for a man whose palm spanned nearly her whole head. “Vegeta, Radditz, Nappa,” he said, touching each line in turn, and then, on the most erratic line, “Goku.”

Bulma was not a medical doctor; her area of interest had always been mechanics. Physics and chemistry were her strengths and while she was not quite up to snuff with biology, she was certainly no slouch. “So basically, what we're seeing is completely abnormal behaviour in terms of the electrical signals running through his heart, yes?” Sixteen nodded.

“The problem lies in determining if this abnormality is the cause of his problems, or if it is caused by them.”

“Not to mention what to do about it,” Bulma sighed, squinting at the violent up and down of Goku's orange line as though it might offer some clue. “This thing, the wasting, Nappa said that organ strain and damage is common in adult sufferers. The question is, why hasn't the process started to reverse itself with proper nutrition and exercise, like he said it would? We've been taking the readings for some time now and Goku's are always completely out of whack, even at rest.” Bulma huffed in frustration and they both sat, staring at the computer screen for a long time.

“I fear that there might be permanent damage,” Sixteen said, breaking the silence. Bulma winced, hearing him voice her exact thoughts.

“We'll just have to keep running tests, keep a close watch on him, and pray that whatever information Tarble has, there's something that might be able to help us.” Despite the forced cheer of her words, Bulma did not stop staring at the screen, her mind running through the possibilities as though she were looking at the electrical map of one of her inventions. The human body ran on electrical currents, held by neurons instead of wires, and she couldn't help but feel as though there might be some connection that she just wasn't seeing.

“I am sorry that I cannot provide more information at this time,” Sixteen said, sounding as regretful as he possibly could. “Goku is...a good man.”

Bulma winced, guilt flushing through her at the awkward look that passed over the android's features. He was working so hard to save the life of the closest thing to a rival he would ever have, and no one had ever stopped to consider his feelings. “You are a good friend, Sixteen,” she said, turning in her chair to take his hand, squeezing it between both of her own.

“Thank you, Bulma. You are my very good friend, and I am honoured to be considered the same.” She released him and he stood, inclining his head in a very slight bow. “I only wish I was able to do more in the immediate present.”

“I know, the waiting makes me antsy too. But what else can we do?”

“You are right, as you usually are.” Sixteen smiled and turned to take his leave. “Though I think I will return to the infirmary to puzzle further over this conundrum.”

Bulma watching him go, his broad back looking clunky in relation to the thin aisles between shelves and piles of equipment, though he moved with a grace and ease contrary to his size. She was surprised, then, to see a slender form coming through the stacks just after Sixteen's bulky one disappeared.

“Zarbon!” Bulma sputtered, sitting up in her chair and self consciously tightening her scraggly ponytail.

“I hope I am not intruding...?” He trailed off in a half-question, eyeing the mess of papers and parts that were scattered on the desk.

“No, no, please sit,” she gestured to the chair across from her desk, belatedly realizing that there was a stack of files atop it. Perhaps that's why Sixteen had refused her offer of a seat. “You can just put those...uh, wherever. On the floor's fine.” She cast about for a clear spot on the desk, and failed to find one. Without comment, Zarbon did as he was told and sat down with a grace that would make any finishing school mistress proud. Bulma, for her part, tried to sit up a little straighter and smoothed down her rumpled coveralls, to the best of her ability. Really, they would need a good wash and a trip under her mother's iron to be presentable. Actually, Bulma caught sight of herself in the reflection of her computer screen as it blacked into standby, and realized that she could use a good wash, herself. “Um, what can I do for you?”

“I am told you are the resident communications expert.” Zarbon got straight to the point; she had to admire him for that.

“I am,” she replied warily. She hadn't been alone much with Zarbon, and it wasn't that she was afraid of him, but rather that he was still a bit of an unknown quantity. That, and she wasn't used to feeling like the ugly one in a conversation. “Your hair looks nice,” she said offhand, and he reached up nervously to touch it.

“Your mother's touch,” he said. “She also told me to come see you. I,” he paused shyly and Bulma was surprised to see it. So far Zarbon had shown her nothing but utter and complete confidence in himself, though looking closer she could see the clues of a deep insecurity. “I need to contact someone. In Frieza's army.”

She was boggled, he could see it on her face. It took her some time to compose herself, but eventually she did it. Bulma was nothing if not used to being shocked. “I don't know that I can promise that,” she said, hesitantly. She wasn't about to trust him with full access to the communications systems, but she was terribly curious, she couldn't deny it. The way he spoke of his time at Frieza's side, it didn't seem like he'd made any dear friends, and especially not one he might be so eager to contact.

“I know, but the question had to be asked.” Bulma watched his eyes dart downward and to her surprise, the beginnings of a blush spread across the bridge of his nose. In a second, her resolve began to weaken; she knew the signs. Love interest.

“You really get around, don't you?” Bulma blurted, thinking of the awkward goodbye he'd shared with Orly, and guessing quite correctly that there'd been something between them.

“It's not...well...I...” Zarbon stumbled over his words; the women of this ship were strangely perceptive and unbearably forward; he was used to having his personal boundaries respected, and to intimidating those around him into leaving him alone. Oddly enough to Zarbon, when he finally collected himself enough to meet Bulma's eye again, he could tell that something in her bearing had changed. He'd no way of knowing that the hint of romance in his situation was probably the only thing that could have convinced Bulma to let him send his message.

“Who is it?” she asked, trying to disguise her eagerness. In this, she was like her mother. Briefs women were suckers for romance, and born matchmakers.

Zarbon's reply was so quiet and mumbled that Bulma barely heard it.

“BURTER?” she practically shrieked in surprise, eyes wide and mouth open in disbelief. “But he's so...” she trailed off awkwardly.

“Ugly?” Zarbon finished her sentence for her. “I know.” He swiped a hand across his face, taking a moment to press his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. His flush had deepened and spread now from cheekbone to cheekbone. “Believe me, I know. I don't get it either. He broke me out of Frieza's prisons, believe it or not, and I find myself feeling...something more than gratitude.” He coughed, clearing his throat in an attempt to diffuse his discomfort. He could not meet Bulma's eyes.

“I'm imagining this,” Bulma tapped her head and cocked it to the side, “and I'm not sure what to think.”

Zarbon swore in another language, Bulma wasn't sure which one, and glared at her. “Do you treat the monkey prince like this? If so, your cunt must be made of gold, else I can't see how you'd have survived this long.”

“Hey,” Bulma snapped, narrowing her eyes at him. She was used to insults, living on a ship full of saiyans, but the really crass ones were normally not directed at her. “Goodness knows I have a gutter-mouth to compete with the best of them, but you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” She shook a finger at him but continued quickly, sensing that he might not get the reference. “Anyway, you need me, buddy. And you're lucky because despite your bad judgement and inability to give me the respect I deserve, I think I'm starting to like you.” She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, watching her erstwhile companion gape openly in shock. “So what is it exactly that you want to say?”

“A brief thank-you, nothing more,” Zarbon said, trying to scrabble together what remnants of his dignity he could. There wasn't much, not after his barb had rolled so smoothly off her back.

“I think we can work something out,” Bulma sighed, “though I should probably know better. It's got to be short and it's got to appear completely innocent, like someone's punched in a wrong number, or something. I'll make sure it can't get traced back to us, but you don't want to get him in shit, should someone else happen to read it.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Go think about it, what you want to say, quickly before I change my mind about helping you. Come back to me when you've got an idea of some way to code it so he'll understand.”

“I am in your debt.” Zarbon stood and inclined his head ever so slightly, a small bowing gesture. Bulma couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not, so she simply shrugged and bid him goodbye. She watched him for a few seconds before turning back to her desk, suddenly at a loss for what she'd been working on earlier. She wondered if she should be more rankled by his insult, ashamedly admitting to herself that if he'd been less devastatingly handsome, she'd probably have taken more offense.

That wasn't entirely true, she thought. It wasn't as though she'd fall at the feet of any handsome man, no matter how badly he treated her; she had more pride than that. It was moreso that she understood Zarbon's predicament. He was essentially alone, or believed himself to be, at least. Surrounded by strangers and former enemies, he seemed constantly on edge. Bulma wondered how long it had been since he'd known kindness, or had someone he could call a friend. She felt a sudden surge of guilt; aside from training, Zarbon had little contact with his shipmates, and getting beaten up day by day was not the way to make anyone feel particularly welcome.

With a sigh, Bulma added “make friends with Zarbon” to the ever-growing list of tasks she kept in her head.

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Zarbon walked through the stacks feeling a curious mixture of relief and apprehension. He was nervous about contacting Burter, and entirely unsure what he could possibly say that wouldn't give the whole thing away, but he felt a bit better for having spoken to Bulma about it. It was good to know that once he'd collected his thoughts, she would be there and willing to help him. He really wasn't used to being able to rely on other people like that and was surprised to find how light it made him feel.

Zarbon's sense of peace and goodwill lasted all of about one minute, for the second the lab door slid shut behind him, a white-gloved hand wrapped around his neck. “Vegegghhhck,” he choked, gasping for air as he was slammed against the wall.

“What were you doing in there?” Vegeta snarled. He was forced to loosen his hold when Zarbon could only gurgle in response.

“What the fuck!” Zarbon tried to slap Vegeta's hand away, but he was unable to. The saiyan growled and jerked his arm, pulling the other man's head forward before slamming it back against the steel panelling. His grip tightened and Zarbon's fingers scrabbled against Vegeta's arm, nails digging in as deeply as they could.

“Must I repeat myself?” Vegeta asked, mindless of the gouges in his flesh, or the blood dripping slowly down his arm. He loosened his own grip when he felt Zarbon's fingers begin to weaken, and pulled completely away, leaving the green man to fall, gasping, to the floor.

“You're fucking crazy,” Zarbon wheezed out, clutching his throat protectively with one hand.

“You have no idea.” Vegeta squatted down so that he was eye level with the curled up Zarbon. He'd felt the man's ki with Bulma's, felt the up and down of her energy, and had driven himself half mad, imagining what might be going on between them. “If you fuck with her, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“I didn't do anything,” Zarbon insisted, and his voice came out normally this time, though his vocal cords ached with every syllable. Before Vegeta could respond, the door beside them whooshed open and there was Bulma, looking horrified.

“Vegeta!” she shrieked. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” She'd heard the bang of Zarbon's head against her wall, though she hadn't known it as such at the time, and had come to investigate. Her sneakers slid as she stepped in a small puddle of blood, but she caught herself, reaching out a hand to the wall. Slowly, Vegeta stood and stepped back. Her glare followed him but quickly returned to Zarbon's neck, where his bloody fingers were doing little to hide the ugly, mottled bruise that was beginning to spread there. “Zarbon, go to the medical bay. Sixteen should be there,” Bulma said, gently patting Zarbon's shoulder. He flinched at her touch, eyes darting to Vegeta, and picked himself up off the floor. She felt guilty, knowing that he'd just come out of a regeneration tank that morning, and the injury was not severe enough to warrant a return. Zarbon would just have to deal with it. “He might have something to soothe that. And please come back and speak to me,” she glared at Vegeta while she said this, before directing a smile back at Zarbon, “when you've thought more about what we discussed.”

“Yes...thank you.” Zarbon inclined his head in a brief bow, turned, and was away as fast as he could manage without taking flight. So much for making friends.

Wordlessly, Bulma turned and stalked back into her lab, ponytail streaming behind her. Vegeta was close on her heels as she headed for the back, where the lab gave way to a small corner of spartan living space that Dr. Gero had set up, for when he'd been too busy or hermetic to leave. There was a sink, a microwave, and a shower that was barely more than a pipe sticking out of the wall, over a drained basin set into the floor. Bulma had put up a curtain and was in the habit of keeping nice toiletries on hand, but it was still pretty dreary. At least the old man had had the decency to put the toilet it its own little cubicle.

From the cupboard beneath the sink, Bulma yanked out her first aid box and plonked it on the counter. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she finally spoke, as she doused a cotton pad with peroxide. She grabbed Vegeta's arm and scrubbed vigorously at his wounds.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” the prince responded, not even flinching at her unnecessarily rough doctoring. Bulma pressed her lips so tightly shut that they began to go white at the edges, and took a deep breath in through her nose as she threw away the soaked cotton pad and reached for a length of fabric bandage and began to wind it around his arm.

“You are really something else, you know that? Did he say something to you? Did he imply something?” The bandage slipped and she cursed. “All he did was come in here to ask me a favour. Nothing happened and nothing will happen. I won't have you beating up someone simply because he comes to talk to me. Almost every single man on this ship is friendly with me, and you don't have a problem with any of them.”

“Everyone else on the ship is bound in trust to either you or I,” Vegeta growled. “It's not about the fact that he is male and you are female. If I ever found the two of you in bed, believe me, he'd not be the only one to die.” Vegeta narrowed his eyes at her and she pretended not to notice as she pinned the bandage and snipped the excess away. “The saiyans are mine, the earthlings are yours, and the Nameks would not lift a finger against anyone. Zarbon is the only free agent aboard this ship, and he needs to learn his place.” Bulma watched as Vegeta flexed his arm, testing the quality of her repairs. They both knew he didn't need it, but Vegeta was smart enough to know that the process had allowed Bulma to distract herself from her anger.

“Pissing him off isn't going to make him loyal to you.”

“Pah, Zarbon will never be loyal to me,” Vegeta said. “And I will never be able to trust him in the way that I would trust in mine. For now, his fear of me will keep him in line and that is enough.” He reached for her with his good arm, pulling her against him, and she rested her head against his chest. He was hard - he always was, after a battle - and she could feel his hand dipping low on her back. “I do not want you near him.”

At this, Bulma grew stiff herself, and pushed her way out of his grasp. “What do you think is going to happen right now?” she asked, crossing her arms and glaring at him from the relative safety of a few feet away. “You've scared away the rival, and now you're going to come in here, rub up all over me and solidify your claim? I don't think so. I'm not your property and you can't dictate who I will and will not spend my time with.”

Vegeta grumbled low in his throat and reached for her again, but she slapped his hand away and stepped further back. “I don't get off on blood and violence like you do,” Bulma snapped, despite the response that had risen up at his touch, and the sight of him straining against his shorts. Had she not just witnessed the aftermath of his attack on poor Zarbon, she'd have been halfway to undressed. As it was, this was one of those uncomfortable moments where she was forced to look at reality and realize once more that she was in love with a man who was capable of great evil.

“Bulma,” Vegeta growled, half cajoling, half threatening, and Bulma shook her head.

“Take care of it yourself,” she said, and stalked off to take her frustrations out on some of her latest experiments.

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Piccolo frowned to himself, refusing to open his eyes in the hopes that his lost meditative state might just be recaptured. He usually didn't have a problem ignoring the world around him, but for some reason the namekian conference going on just on the other side of the bushes was proving a great distraction.

He suspected it was the part of him that was Kami, who lay at fault. Namek had been his home once, millennia ago, and there was still a thread of kinship that tied him to the strangers on the other side of the hedge. The part of him that was Piccolo felt only irritation at the interruption, having considered himself completely devoid of kinship ties for his entire life.

The conglomerate that still bore the name “Piccolo” was unsure how to feel, especially when he opened his eyes at the sound of soft footsteps, to see the youngest namek standing before him.

“What do you want?” Piccolo grumbled, watching the boy swallow nervously. It had been several thousand years since any part of him had lived on Namek, but he thought that this child looked absurdly young to hold such responsibility. There were lines of strain around his mouth and dark smudges beneath his eyes.

“Well, um, sir...Mr. Piccolo? May I call you that?” Dende had heard Gohan refer to him as such, and thought it seemed most polite. A grunt from the elder namek assured him it was fine. “I was wondering...that is,” he stuttered, nervously. “Bulma told me you used to be a god. Part of you, at least,” he added, though it was clear by his tone that he was not quite sure if he had it right.

“Yes,” Piccolo said, and didn't offer any more.

“Oh. Well,” Dende was at a loss for words. Gohan's enthusiasm regarding Piccolo had led Dende to believe that this would be much easier. He trained his eyes on the ground. “What was it like?”

“Hard,” Piccolo said, and Dende's gaze shot up. Piccolo looked the same, but there was something different in the tone of his voice, as though someone else had spoken. “Rewarding,” said the part of him that had been Kami, and Dende was transfixed. “I am everyday grieved that I could not to more for my beloved Earth, but the experience of it is not one I would trade for anything.”

“How?”

“How, what?” Piccolo snarled, shaking his head. Dende jerked back, and the moment was lost. “Interfering old man,” the elder namek bared his teeth at the child, blaming him for the temporary lapse. “Go and leave me, boy.”

To his credit, Dende stood his ground. “You should listen to him, whoever he is.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It is never wise to deny a part of yourself,” Dende insisted, unaware that his words made the other namek grind his teeth in irritation. “I carry my mentor inside of me; I would do almost anything if only he would speak to me in words.”

“Kami was not my mentor,” Piccolo grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring off to the side. A thoroughly unexpected sense of guilt rose up in his gullet, and he found that he could not meet the child's eyes. Kami had given up much, perhaps more than Piccolo had, in their joining.

When he'd agreed to the merging, he'd not expected Kami's presence in his head to be so intrusive. He'd known, of course, that his mind would change, but he'd expected a more complete sense of melding than what had happened. Instead, it seemed that most of what came out was Piccolo, while Kami seemed to exist somewhere in the back of his skull, almost a separate entity but not quite. Day to day, Piccolo was entirely in control of himself, and perhaps kinder for the merging, but essentially the same man as he'd been that fateful day on Earth's lookout tower, before Goku's arrival. Every so often, however, something would trigger the old sage to come strongly forward and Piccolo would find the presence in his mind overpowering.

Piccolo stared at Dende, wondering if the remnants of Guru's knowledge might provide him some clue. The child was speaking, but he had no use for what was being said. Other questions ran through his mind. Had something gone wrong with the fusion? If this was how it was meant to be, Piccolo felt he'd been drastically misled. He wondered if they would separate again once dead, potentially to meet in the afterlife. He had a serious bone to pick with the old man.

“Do you know about the techniques of splitting oneself, or merging with another?” Piccolo asked, interrupting Dende mid-sentence.

“No...not much, at least,” Dende said, startled by Piccolo's abrupt interruption. Curiously, he took a step forward. “Why?”

“Many thousands of years ago, a man by the name of Piccolo left the planet Namek,” Piccolo heaved a sigh as the boy came closer, daring to sit down like a child for story time. The mere fact that he continued speaking made him wonder if Kami's influence was more deeply ingrained than he even realized. “He came to Earth, then very young, and decided to become its guardian, its god. Such powers as determine those things tested him, and found him worthy but for a small darkness in his heart. It is the nature of all men to have a balance of both, but gods must be one or the other. So Piccolo ripped the evil from himself and was split into two men, Kami and the Demon King, Piccolo Daimyo.” Piccolo could feel Kami's presence surging to the fore of his mind again, but did not fight it. This was the old man's memory, after all.

“Kami became Earth's guardian, and Piccolo its most destructive influence. Millenia passed and neither could do anything about the other, for they were two halves of the same whole, and their lives bound together. Kami lived and Piccolo Daimyo died, but not before spitting out an egg containing a clone of himself, a son to carry on with the other half of Kami's soul. This Piccolo grew and eventually was persuaded to re-merge with Kami, in hopes of saving the Earth, or at least themselves. I am that merger.”

“Why the questions? You seem to know much about it, yourself.” Dende looked upon the man before him with a new sense of awe and wonder. All namekian children were taught that such things were possible, but even in Guru's knowledge, the instances were rare.

Piccolo did not answer, just sat there scowling, and Dende did not press him. For his part, Piccolo was reluctant to speak of this failure, this potential weakness in his construction. He wondered whether things would have turned out differently, had he not been a clone of his father, but the original man himself. Had something essential been lost in procreation? He'd had no mother to interfere in his genes, but even having not known the old man, he had a feeling they were not quite the same. Would his father even have agreed to the merger in the first place?

He thought of himself, standing on Kami's lookout as explosions dotted the Earth below, and wondered if he was not precisely Kami's other half as his father had been. Concern for himself had been at the fore, but there was sadness, too, for the loss of his home. He was not exactly the evil that his progenitor had symbolized.

“I am sorry,” Dende said, after a moment, “but separations and fusions are not common. Guru had knowledge of them and knew some merged namekians, but I am given to understand that the transformation varies from pair to pair. The only thing that is the same among them is the technique.” He paused, and a slow, bittersweet smile transformed his mouth. “I suppose that is wrong, actually. One could say that Guru merged himself with me, but the mechanics of our situation are drastically different from yours.”

“How is it for you, exactly?” The voice was curious, and Dende cocked his head, unaware which part of Piccolo was speaking to him.

“Guru's memories and knowledge exist in my head as though they were my own, as though my life is simply an extension of his. I am still, however, distinct. I do not have the feeling that I am the same person as he was.” Dende smiled impishly up at his frowning elder. “It is quite disconcerting to recall the period in which our memories overlap. Kind of...dizzying, to see it all from two viewpoints.”

Piccolo scowled. “I have that every day,” he muttered, and Dende wisely remained silent.

“Anyway,” the boy stood up, brushing off his white robes as he did so, “I should be getting back to the others. Would you,” he paused, nervous, “would you like to join us? It does not have to be right now,” he hastened to add, seeing Piccolo's scowl deepen. “Or even every meeting. You may come as you like; we would be honoured to have you.” Dende executed a quick bow from the waist, and scuttled off before Piccolo had the chance to shoot him down outright.

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Burter stared into the mirror as he towelled off the bony plating on his head.. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin had an usually grey cast to it. He looked downright exhausted, and felt twice that. He'd spent an age in the shower, the water so hot as to nearly scald him, and had gotten out only when his hide began to prune. He took his time deliberately with his post-shower routine, but given that he didn't have hair to style or makeup to put on, he could only draw out drying himself for so long.

With a heavy breath, Burter hung his towel on the hook and padded into his room, naked, where he sat on the bed and contemplated his computer for an unseemly amount of time. He was dreading writing the report to Frieza, even though he'd known the likely outcome of this trip before he'd ever left the mothership. He hadn't found much of anything on Harbour Colony, and with no leads on where exactly Zarbon might have gone, he was even further away from finding his quarry than he'd ever been. The thought was at once comforting and eminently frustrating.

Burter dressed slowly while his computer powered up, and tried to think of how best to word his lack of success to avoid bringing down Frieza's ire. To his utmost surprise, there was a communication from an unfamiliar comm-link number waiting for him when he signed on to his program. Curiously, he clicked on it.

. Thanks for the kiss, it said, simply, and that other thing, too.

There was no signature and he first wondered if it might be from one of the women he'd left in bed that morning, but the date stamp on the message said he'd received it in the middle of the night, and while he couldn't recall much, he thought that if someone was going to thank him, they'd have done it to his face rather than hop out of bed in the middle of things.

A sudden thought struck him, and warmth seeped through his veins as a deep violet flush suffused his entire body. Could it possibly be Zarbon? He reached for the keypad, fingers trembling, but the second he tried to type a reply, another sentence popped up beneath the first.

. Sorry, no can do.

Burter watched, stunned, as the screen closed and the whole program shut itself down. When he started it up again, there was no record of the mysterious message ever having existed. Panicked, he ran a quick virus scan, just in case, but nothing turned up and he relaxed back into his chair, certain that he'd gotten it right. It was Zarbon, it had to be.

Feeling a bit lighter in all respects, Burter set his mind to the unpleasant task of making his report to Frieza.

.

.

Galaxies away, Bulma was startled out of a fitful sleep by the sound of her computer chiming. Bleary eyed, she swiped her straggling hair from her forehead and peered at the screen. The program had been executed in its entirety, and had removed itself successfully from Burter's computer.

“Well, good,” she said aloud, smacking her dry lips together and wincing at the stale taste in her mouth. She made a mental note to tell Zarbon later on; it was two-twenty-two in the morning, and she didn't think he'd be up and about. Thinking about it, Bulma decided that she didn't really want to be up and about either.

Grimacing, Bulma sat up and tried to stretch out the kinks in her back. She'd fallen asleep in her chair, bent over her desk with her head pillowed on her arms, one of which had fallen asleep. Annoyed, she shook it out and grit her teeth the rush of pins and needles as normal bloodflow resumed.

The ship was dark and quiet as she made her way to her room, the muted sound of the television in the common area the only sign of life as she made her to bed. She took a quick glance in as she passed, to see the back of Tien's bald head as he flipped restlessly through the channels. Despite having been on board for quite some time, Tien still suffered heavily from the after effects of his experience in the slaver camps. He never said so aloud, but it was obvious to anyone who cared to look at him for long.

Feeling guilty about it but too tired to stop and offer comfort in yet another direction, Bulma padded past the door and into the wing where the bedrooms lay. She was surprised to see Puar float out of the room he shared with Radditz, clutching a pillow that looked monstrous in his tiny cat paws.

“What are you doing up?” she asked, startling him.

“Radditz is tossing and turning in there,” Puar cocked his head back at his door, “and I can't sleep. It's difficult to get used to, this sleeping through the entire night.” He cast a self-effacing grin at her and she reached out and scratched him behind one ear. True to his nature, Puar had never kept a normal human sleep-cycle, awake and asleep at whatever odd hours suited him. The advent of his relationship with Radditz saw him trying to adjust, and apparently he was not coping as well as Bulma had thought. “I thought I'd go watch some TV.”

“Tien's out there,” Bulma said, and she felt bad to think she might be trying to warn one friend away from another. She hadn't meant it in that way, but she wanted the cat to be prepared.

“Yeah, I figured he would be.” Puar shrugged his little kitty shoulders and almost lost his grip on the big pillow. “He usually is, you know. Tien doesn't sleep much. He, um, he has nightmares.” He paused, clearly wondering how much he should say and how much he'd been told in confidence. “He talks to me sometimes, but not much. He tries not to remember, and I don't want to make him. I think sometimes just being there is helpful.”

They stood in silence for a moment, simply watching each other, before Puar shrugged and made his exit, leaving Bulma standing alone in the dark. She was glad that someone was looking out for Tien, though felt guilty at the relief she felt that it didn't have to be her. Bulma loved her friends, but it was tiring taking care of everyone around her. Between running Red Station and keeping the boys in technologically advanced training aids, she was exhausted. Add to that the effort of trying to complete her own projects and do her own research, and she was bagged. She needed someone else to take care of her, for once.

Gratefully, she stepped into her room, squinting in the darkness to see Vegeta's humped form beneath the bedclothes. She hoped he wasn't too angry at her for earlier, mostly because she was cold after stripping off her coveralls, and really hoped he wouldn't shun a bit of a cuddle. The bed was warm and she snuggled up to him, planting a kiss on his bare shoulder. He turned, half asleep, to draw her into him and she smiled into the darkness as his arm settled around her.

“Are you awake?” she whispered, and he grumbled in response, which she took as a yes. “Did I wake you?”she asked, and his answer this time was to crack open one eye, the white of it barely visible in the dim light of the alarm clock, and glare at her. “Love you,” she crooned, snuggling in and pillowing her head on his arm.

“Hn,” he said, his hand sliding down to rest on her hip. He squeezed gently, drawing her hips toward his own. He was naked beneath the blankets and his ardour, it seemed, had not been dulled by her earlier rejection of him.

“Oh geez, you're hardly even awake.”

“Awake enough,” he muttered, hand sliding round to her backside, and she snorted with laughter. She rolled on top of him, straddling his belly, and planted her hands on the pillow on either side of his head. His hands kneaded her thighs and she groaned in pleasure.

“Get my back,” she moaned, and he obliged, his fingers working up and down her spine as far as he could reach. “Oooh, that's the spot.”

“Bulma...” Vegeta growled, shifting beneath her, hands on her hips again to keep her steady. She laughed and moaned again, a long, drawn out sound that even had her a little turned on. His fingers clenched and she blinked like an owl in the dark, surprised at the sound of tearing fabric as Vegeta's fists came away with a chunk of fabric in each.

“Hey!” she yelped as the rest of her underwear flopped away from her body, wilting without the support of sides. “What the hell? I liked those!”

“Accident,” Vegeta muttered, though she could hear the smile in his voice. “Fortunate accident,” he added, scooting her hips backward so that the stand of his erection pressed against her naked bottom. “I'll buy you a whole drawer full of new ones.” He reached up and back to dig out a condom, and was halfway through unwrapping it when she took it from him.

“Awfully presumptuous, aren't you?” she asked, pulling the rubber out. She squeezed his ribcage with her thighs, supporting herself as she leaned back, rolling it down over him behind her back. She lifted herself, scooted backward a touch, and sat down on him, slowly. His hands covered her hips, and she put hers on top, squeezing once, before she began to move.

He dislodged her hands, moving his own up to knead her back again and she laughed, put her hands on his chest, and moaned obligingly for him. Slowly, Bulma eased herself down onto his chest and allowed him to do the work for a few minutes.

She would take care of everyone else, and he would take care of her.

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And there we have it. Apologies for any mistakes and awkwardness - I wasn't as thorough in my editing as I normally am, in the interest of getting this thing posted.