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Vegeta was out of touch for several hours, although anyone wearing a scouter could track his path as he criss-crossed the planet with seeming aimlessness. Nappa met him in the air-lock when he came on board, but was again snarled at when he tried to find out if the truce was over, if they could finally clear out the planet. "Try not to be a complete moron," the Prince snapped. "The technicians haven't figured out the technology yet, and the King wants the technology. Perhaps you are prepared to tell the King why something he desires was stomped on before we deciphered it." Nappa promptly shut up, although he looked very much like he wanted to say something more. Vegeta, not about to give him the opportunity to speak, made sure the Commander did not follow him into his quarters.
Once there, he started to peel off his battle suit as he checked the console for messages. There were a number of ones related to ship matters which, since the ship was clearly still functioning and in orbit, he ignored; one from his father demanding an update, which he scowled at and deleted; and one from Zarbon. Vegeta regarded the blinking light grimly. He had barely spoken to his trainer since almost vaporizing him, not sure what to say or do. He could find no trace of animosity toward Zarbon during his meditations, although, unquestionably, his mind was reaching one particular moment in time and then, simply, shutting down. Sighing irritably, the Prince touched the pad and braced himself for whatever Zarbon had to say.
Zarbon was brief and concise -- a clear sign, thought Vegeta sardonically, that his trainer was still miffed at being nearly killed. Then he focused in on what Zarbon was actually saying: something about an informal get-together, but Zarbon had already told the Briefs the Prince would be too busy to make it, so not to worry about it...?
Vegeta looked at the chronometer and was suddenly galvanized in action. Ripping off the rest of his suit and, for perhaps the first time in his life, wondering what the hell he was going to wear, he ran into the bathing chamber for a shower.
"Everything's under control," Yamcha hastily assured Chi-chi.
Chi-chi, looking around the kitchen at the tell-tale signs of spills inexpertly mopped up, raised her eyes to the heavens and wondered what she had done to deserve this. "I can tell," she said, beginning to check the contents of various pots and pans. To her relief, there actually seemed to be no lasting damage to any of her dishes and, when she surreptitiously peeked into some of the baskets to check Yamcha's steamed offerings, she was pleased to discover that Bulma's frivolous ex-boyfriend actually did know something about dim sum. "Well," she said, "looks like we're just about done in here, after all. Unless you plan on carrying these one by one to the main house, Yamcha, you had better find a cart." There was no answer. Chi-chi turned and looked at the Earth warrior; Yamcha was staring up at the ceiling, a grim cast to his face. "Yamcha?"
"Hmm?" He looked blankly at her, then his features relaxed and he grinned his usual rakish grin. "Carts. Right. I'll have a look around."
I do not believe I am doing this, Vegeta thought has he hovered over the compound, looking at the bright lights, hearing the distant sound of native laughter and a few, deep notes of harsh music. He tapped a finger against a black-clad arm, then found himself hoping he understood what the humans meant by 'informal.' He had gone so far as to pull out the wretchedly uncomfortable ceremonial armor his father always insisted he wear for official functions before coming to his senses and dragging on a plain black battlesuit instead.
The Prince shook his head. There's something on this planet that's making me crazy. What else could explain how he next made the mistake of telling Nappa where he was going? Nappa insisted the Prince required a bodyguard at any 'get-together' that included humans. Vegeta's protest that Zarbon was in the vicinity made Nappa turn his nose up and proclaim that the Prince required a real bodyguard--a Saiyan Elite--and the only Saiyan Elite on the ship was Nappa. Protocol forced Vegeta to give in, although he found himself making one of his mental notes to revise that section of the protocol regulations when he became King...
Taking a reading through his scouter, Nappa said tersely, "This is some kind of set-up, Vegeta. I'm getting half-a-dozen individuals with fighting level ki."
Vegeta looked up into the black, black night. "Oh, most of the warriors we've met are here," he said. "That's not so surprising if Zarbon is right and they answer to the female. After all, if they are her guards, they may think our presence here is a threat. And let's face it, Nappa; it is."
"He's here now," said Gohan. He was sitting on a bench in the conservatory, kicking his heels and feeding bits of the string cheese Mrs. Briefs had given him to some of the multitude of animals Dr. Briefs cared for.
"Who?" asked Bulma, although she had a pretty good idea.
"The one Mr. Piccolo wouldn't let Krillin fight."
"Prince Vegeta?"
"Uh-huh. He's not as strong as he was this morning, but--" the boy swallowed, nervously, "--he's still strong."
Bulma sighed. The morning had turned into a public relations nightmare, with reporters clogging her business lines demanding to know what bizarre genetic experiments the Corporation was involved with, and her private line ringing off the hook with her ki-sensitive friends wanting to know what the heck it was that they just sensed. She eventually told public relations to put out a story that they were testing new holograph technology, but she told her friends the truth. All but Goku who, despite knowing perfectly well that he had a tail as a child, didn't know what the tail did.
"Don't be afraid of Vegeta," said Bulma. "I'm here; he won't do anything to you while I'm around." Which is probably the single biggest lie I've ever told...
"It's okay," said Gohan. His shoulders squared, and his expression became firm and determined. "I know what to do." Then his face collapsed. He pulled another rope of cheese off and held it out to a bright-eyed baby dinosaur with a frill around its neck. "But I'm going to wait until Dad gets here," he muttered.
Of all the reactions the Earth natives might have exhibited when Vegeta pushed into the Capsule Corporations' main building, Nappa glowering at his side -- awe, terror, groveling supplication -- the last one the Prince expected was total indifference to his arrival. The lack of response was so marked Vegeta wondered, for one absurd moment, if he should go out and come back in, perhaps making some noise this time so the natives noticed his entrance and behaved appropriately. Then something in his memory tugged--
Zarbon kneeling in his private quarters, wringing out a cloth into blood-tinted water ; "I've sworn no oaths to you, Vegeta. You aren't my prince"--
Oh, but I was your Prince, Zarbon, thought Vegeta in brief amusement. You just didn't know it at the time. And neither do these primitive fools. Yet. He looked around, casually, and found his brows going up. There was nothing approaching a place of honor in any part of the large room, nor were any apparent in the glimpses through open doors into adjoining rooms. Everyone was -- lounging, Vegeta supposed the word was -- where-ever they could; half the guests were sitting on the floor. When the humans say "informal," they are not kidding!
As he began to shift through his impressions, he realized his arrival had not gone as unremarked as it first seemed. While there had been no announcement, a number of people were beginning to regard him out of the corner of their eyes, and his sensitive ears picked up murmurs from individuals wondering if "that's one of them?" He glanced over to make sure Nappa was planted by the door, and, crossing his arms, walked further into the room to see what would happen.
Vegeta had not gone but a few feet when he felt a touch on his shoulder. Startled at the effrontery, he turned his head to utter a scathing rebuke--and blinked. Although the creature who sought his attention was tall and bipedal, it was not human. It sported a furred face, whiskers and green eyes with oval irises; the Prince could catch a glimpse of sharp teeth behind its lipless mouth. Apparently the humans utilized feline slaves, although, thought Vegeta as he glanced at his arm, the slaves were certainly very forward compared to the ones on Vejiitasei.
Then he blinked again because, although the creature was diffident, it did not speak like a slave. "Excuse me," it said, "you're one of the Saiyans, aren't you? I'm Torane," it said in response to Vegeta's bare incline of his head. "I'm one of the engineers working on the pod."
"What pod?"
"The one Bulma's friend came in," it informed him, nodding when Vegeta asked if it meant Radditz. "We think we've fixed the friction problem," it continued as it extended a clawed hand to indicate a group of humans that were looking at the Prince avidly, "although the simplest solution would be an upgrade in the metallics and using a more reasonable ship's gravity. However, if you're constrained by available materials, that's workable. And with the Doctor's new polymer..."
Vegeta held up a hand, and the creature possessed the sense to promptly shut up. "Let me see if I understand you," said Vegeta, slowly. "You've made modifications to Radditz's pod that you think will improve it?"
The feline nodded, fervently. Vegeta wondered if this were some sort of back-up plan of the natives to make themselves useful to the Saiyans should the capsule technology be rejected. But there was no fear in the creature's eyes, nor those of its human companions. They were eager to talk to him not out of terror of what the Saiyans might do, but out of pride over their own accomplishments. Bulma hasn't told them why we came here, he thought. Apart from her warriors, she's the only one on this planet that knows our ultimate purpose. Where is Bulma?
"You have," Vegeta assured the creature after another offhand perusal of the room revealed no trace of President Briefs, "my undivided attention."
In fact, their enthusiastic explanations of the improvements made to Radditz's pod so distracted him that he came close to missing the entrance of the boy. But his seventh sense, which was keeping loose tabs on all the nearby Earth warriors he knew, warned him just before the boy stepped through one of the inner doors with Bulma, clutching her hand as he stared at the Prince.
Vegeta's own gaze was drawn to the figure behind the two, and he felt something knot, hard, in his stomach. But the child moved, and Vegeta turned his head to watch him approach.
His face drawn in concentration, the brat marched over to Vegeta's chair, folded his hands together in front, and bowed deeply from the waist. Then he stuck one hand out, resolutely. "Prince Vegeta," the boy said. "Welcome to Earth."
Vegeta looked at the hand, not sure what the brat expected him to do with it, and finally reached out with his own and lightly touched one gloved finger against the child's palm. That seemed to suffice; the child dropped the little paw. "You're a Prince?" said Torane in amazement. "You don't act like Earth royalty. They're all stuck-up."
"You have royalty on this planet?"
"Figureheads only," said Bulma. "The real power lies elsewhere."
"I see," said Vegeta quietly after a steady stare that encompassed the figure behind her. "Enforced by Saiyan might, no doubt?"
At that, the figure stirred and stepped out into the full light. "I only fight in my friends' defense," said Kakarott. Then he grinned and added, "And in the occasional tournament."
Although the engineers surrounding him did not seem particularly interested, Vegeta pick up murmurs in which the word 'champion' seemed to feature. He looked at the boy, seeing the blending of human and Saiyan features in the face, the flick of a tail as it lashed anxiously, and the knot in his stomach tightened. But then Kakarott said, "Why are we talking about fighting? It's a party! And my wife will be here soon with the best food you've ever tasted, Vegeta. Come on, Gohan; let's go see if your mom needs any help."
One didn't have to be ki sensitive to know a confrontation had barely been avoided. There was one moment of palpable tension when Vegeta, unquestionably, recognized Goku as one of his own and Bulma was sure the end of the world was going to happen right in her own living room. But Goku's reminder that food was on the way deflated whatever was feeding that dangerous spark in the Saiyan Prince's eyes. Vegeta flicked a dismissive glance at Gohan, who scrambled with relief back to his father, and returned to his conversation with the Corp's engineers. Mom's right. The path to a lasting peace is through the Saiyans' stomachs...
Goku grinned at his son, bending down and whispering that Gohan did fine, glancing casually toward the door where the big Saiyan guard stood. But after one where-have-I-seen-them-before glance that included both the Sons, the guard returned his attention to Launch (a very blond Launch, Bulma noted in dismay), who was definitely in one of her more femme-fatale moods. Bulma hoped that Uzis would not be featured later in the evening's entertainment.
"We don't have to get Mom," Gohan distracted her by saying to his father in an undertone. "She and Yamcha are right outside."
Goku looked up at Bulma, grinned, and said, "I just thought telling Vegeta that Chi-chi was around was a good idea, that's all." She puzzled at the strange knowing look on his face, but at that moment the double doors slid back and Yamcha, Puaru and Chi-chi came into the room to loud greetings and various proclamations of starvation. Puaru took one look at Nappa and dove behind Yamcha's back. Her ex-boyfriend took no notice, pushing one cart and pulling another as he cheerfully announced that the buffet was ready.
Yamcha tended to take over a room when he was in it. And it wasn't just, thought Bulma, that he was helping Chi-chi with the food. He possessed a sparkling, cheerful effusiveness that was devastatingly attractive to females. Add to that his status as a local sports celebrity and he became the focus of feminine attention where-ever he went. Tonight his appeal was even affecting several members of Bulma's Research and Development staff.
Gah. Sports groupies amongst my own employees. I'll have to put something on future applications--'do you ogle professional athletes? If so, what the hell is the matter with you? Don't you have any self-respect?'
"I've always wanted to know what happened to your face?" one of the girls (well, technically, the R&D executive was a woman, but, thought Bulma in amazement, she sure was acting like a teenaged bimbo) asked Yamcha.
He grinned, answering as he always did, "Cut myself shaving." The girl looked at him, wide-eyed, not sure if she should take him seriously. "It was a big razor," he assured her.
Those nearby chuckled, and she finally caught on. She touched him on one arm. "I bet it is," she simpered, which got more laughs.
Bulma gazed at Yamcha, at his carefully-styled hair, the impeccable clothes. It was a far cry from how he looked -- how they had both looked -- when they lived in the desert fighting Emperor Pilaf and the Red Ribbon Army, living off the land (well, off the land and her supply of capsules), going for weeks without bathing, sleeping under the open skies. What happened to us? We came home and started living civilized, productive lives, and suddenly, nothing works anymore. Sighing, she hooked her hands through his elbow and, just for a minute, laid her cheek against his big shoulder. He looked down at her, and smiled softly. "What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just got weirdly nostalgic for a minute."
He grinned widely at that. "Well, any time you want to get seriously nostalgic, you've got my number."
Bulma slapped his arm as she let go. "Boy, do I have your number. Never forget it."
Apparently "informal" referred to more than a general lack of organization; it also meant no one was going to bring him any food. Getting to his feet, Vegeta looked around for a clue what to do next. Everyone was going to one of two stations, grabbing a plate, then jockeying for position next to the tables that Bulma's guard (her personal guard, judging from the way he kept shaking off his entourage of females to stay within a few feet of her) was unloading the food onto. Vegeta started toward them, but was brought up short when Bulma suddenly grabbed the man by the elbow and put her head against his arm. Straining his senses through the party noises, Vegeta could just make out enough of the conversation to realize he had misread something about their association. Were they blood relations, or -- ?
My ex-boyfriend can do that, Vegeta.
Vegeta experienced a white-hot flash of -- something he had never experienced before in his life, that startled him so much he paused to examine it and, by the time he dismissed it as unimportant, it was. But he wandered toward the two anyway, his arms folded, and stood behind them as the Earthling male started to unload baskets from the carts.
Suddenly turning his head over one shoulder, the man grinned at him impudently. "And here's our guest Prince. We meet again, Vegeta. Looking for a snack? Grab a plate, I'll let you have some of this. Made it with my own hands."
Vegeta regarded the hands that had slyly brought his far-more-powerful trainer down and drawled, his tone vicious, "Oh, I don't think so. I don't know where those things have been."
The Earth warrior had the unmitigated nerve to laugh at him. Feeling the flare of energy start to pulse through his arms, Vegeta slowly counted backward from ten and repressed the power surge. Bulma clucked her tongue at the Prince and, spearing something out of a basket with a fork, held the pasty thing out to him. "Now how do you know you don't like it if you won't try it? Take a bite."
Whatever her own rank might be on this backward planet, the lack of respect this woman demonstrated for the son of a King was mind-boggling. You will die slowly for this, he promised her, as soon as we figure out how your shrinking device works.
"Scared you can't digest it?" she taunted. "I thought that Saiyan metabolism of yours could handle anything."
Yamcha chuckled. "Oh, if you're going to start hand feeding people, I'm first in line."
For the second time that night, something knotted in his stomach. You will just die, the Prince mentally hissed at the Earth warrior. He delicately bit off a piece of what the woman offered him and chewed, swallowing slowly.
It was good.
His sudden insight was apparently plain to the humans. Bulma winked at him; Yamcha began to pick up several of the things with the stick-like utensils he was using, plopping copious amounts on a plate before passing it to Vegeta.
Watching from his post by the door, Nappa was aware of a vague sense of unease. But the sloe-eyed blond approached with a laden plate, and he completely forgot that there was any reason he should be worried about Vegeta and the Earth female.
There was absolutely no security.
While the Earth warriors were scattered here and there -- Vegeta ran into the little bald one in the kitchen when he went to exchange a drink someone pressed upon the Prince for something non-alcoholic -- there was nothing about their attitude or locations that indicated they were guarding any part of the premises. They were not even paying very much attention to Bulma, he noted; he could just snatch the woman away and be halfway off the planet before anyone would get organized enough to try and stop him.
As an experiment he began to wander from room to room, mentally snapping at Nappa that he didn't need a nursemaid when the Commander expressed concern that Vegeta was out of his line of sight. None of the Earth warriors shadowed him as he explored the building. He came across that strange cross-species brat of Kakarott's in the large center portion of the building, playing with animals and other children under the watchful eye of Kakarott's Earth mate. She greeted him politely, and even smiled, but the brat glommed onto her side when the Prince approached and Vegeta, smirking, continued through the conservatory into another large, dark room filled with flashing lights and loud music where, for a moment, he thought he had stumbled across some area reserved for local mating rituals. When a female asked him if he wanted to dance, Vegeta experienced a rare instant of sheer panic and retreated hastily up a staircase.
He paused in the hall at the top of the stairs to get his bearings and suddenly found himself following his nose. Saiyan senses were much sharper on Vejiitasei, and sharpest of all during the moon year when their animal instincts were dominant, but he could still track Bulma's strange scent (although humans were like Zarbon; one couldn't tell anything by their smell), heavily present in this passageway, concentrated on one doorway. He pushed open the door, and walked in.
It took Vegeta a few minutes to tease out the purpose of the room. There was a desk with a box on it that, after he tapped it experimentally and the flying objects across its screen dissolved to a plain gray background, he determined was a computer terminal. The machine beeped at him when he touched some of the raised keys; he wrinkled his nose in annoyance and drew back his hand. Turning away, he surveyed more of his surroundings. Bulma had left clothes all over her work station, he noted, most neatly over the backs of chairs or folded on top of various flat surfaces. He stepped further into the room, and suddenly realized that what he took to be a sofa was actually her bed. Frilly edges and pillows three times the depth of any used by Saiyans had disguised its function. Standing next to it, he reached down and picked up a toy of some sort, vaguely equine with a horn on its head. He touched one finger to the horn, finding it bent easily under bare pressure, and looked in puzzlement at the various other toys. Feh, the Prince thought in disgust. What is this fascination with stuffed fantasy animals? Shaking his head, he dropped the animal by the bed and headed back to the hallway.
After a minute, one of the stuffed toys lifted off the bed and followed him.
His seventh sense remained quiet, but the hairs raised on the back of his neck and Vegeta knew that he was being followed. Was it Kakarott? The traitor must have some ki abilities, every Saiyan did, but Vegeta was unable to pick up anything from him. Which might mean either that the removal of the tail also deleted his inborn abilities as a Saiyan, or that Bardock's lookalike offspring was more dangerous than he appeared.
Whirling with knees bent and one arm outstretched, fingers bent into claws, Vegeta confronted -- himself. For one startled second the Prince was sure he was simply looking into a mirror, but it was a strange mirror indeed if it reflected the Prince's half-crouch as his more-usual arms-crossed posture. After a pause, the Prince straightened, crossed his own arms, and leaned a shoulder against the wall. The mirror image followed suit. The two Vegetas stared at each other from under scowling, lowered brows.
"Enough of this," the Prince finally drawled. "Are you going to fight, or are you just going to mimic me to death?"
An alarmed squeak came out of his mirror-image. Vegeta watched his features compact and smush together, until he was faced with--
--another feline. A rather petite one. That could float without any discernable ki, yet.
Vegeta shook his head. This planet is insane. How many sentient species do they have here? And why haven't they fought each other to the death for control of the planet?
"I'm a friend of Yamcha's," the feline told him.
Reason enough to kill the thing on the spot. "I knew right away I didn't like you."
"And of Bulma's. I came up here to get away from you guys," it said, frankly. "Radditz seemed to think I'm some sort of meal."
"Oh, surely not. You're strictly appetizer material."
The little creature's round eyes stared at him, unblinking. "I don't like the way you looked at Bulma," it announced. "Like you own her or something."
"Own her? I can hardly stand to breathe the same air as she does. Besides, she's too weak to be of any use as a slave. She wouldn't last a week."
The feline regarded him. "I know Saiyans are idiots, but are you really that dense?" it queried.
Vegeta's eyes slitted. Apparently suddenly realizing its danger, the feline morphed into a small blue ball, threw itself against the nearby wall and ricocheted at increasing speeds down the hall and out of sight.
The entire planet is cracked, decided the Prince, shaking his head again. Starting to retrace his steps back to the party, he froze, then turned his head to look piercingly at the wall. Just beyond he could sense a sudden, subtle manipulation of ki energy, hastily repressed. Perhaps the Earthlings were tracking him after all. Two can play at that, Vegeta thought with a hard, slight smile. Searching for an exit, he found a window that slid open when he pulled back a latch. Vegeta stepped out into the night air, and slowly sank to the ground.
Slipping out one of the building's back doors, Gohan jumped, straight up, into the black, black night. He was high over the Capsule Corporation when he felt something snatch at the cloth of his jacket, then suddenly he was sitting in the curve of a powerful arm. "Hey, kid," said Piccolo. "Party too dull for you?"
"You might as well come in," replied Gohan. "Dad can tell you're here."
"I don't do parties. Besides, your mom will have a total freak attack."
Gohan made a face. "She doesn't get it." He rested his head against the caped shoulder. "I wish she would like you. I wish Dad would trust you."
"Can't have everything, kid. Your dad and I have a kinda truce right now, but we're never going to be friends. Deal with it."
Gohan sighed, and the two floated in silence for a minute. "When are you going to teach me how to fly?" Gohan asked.
"Let's see you bring home an A on that math test next week, and we'll talk about it."
"I always get A's," said Gohan.
"Well, then, it won't be a problem, will it? If you're half an hour late getting home from school a couple of days after that, your mom won't worry too much."
"That's sneaky," Gohan objected.
"Yeah, isn't it? While I don't share Kami's optimistic view of all this weirdness between the Saiyans and Capsule Corporation, if we're gonna deal with the Saiyans on a regular basis, we're going to have to do sneaky. And you," Piccolo told him, "are the sneakiest thing we've got." He looked out into the darkness. "Hi, runt. What's up?"
Krillin, levitating up to their level, said, "Chi-chi's beginning to look for Gohan."
Piccolo grunted. "Back down you go, kid."
Krillin took the boy, but hesitated a second. "The Prince -- Vegeta? He might know you're here."
"The bloody -- " Piccolo looked at Gohan --"heck you say."
"None of us have ever seen him with a scouter. He wasn't surprised when he saw me. I think he can sense us."
"Well, if he wants to come out and frolic for a while, I'm ready for him now."
Gohan said, "Don't fight in front of Mom. She'll never like you then."
"She's seen me fight before, kid. That's why she doesn't like me now. Night, runt."
"Night, Piccolo," said Krillin, and sank toward to the ground.
Said Gohan in a sudden tone of near-terror, "He's right here."
Krillin looked down, and mentally groaned. But it was too late to do anything. Landing in front of Vegeta, Krillin put his hands on Gohan's shoulders and faced the Prince, silently.
"Well, boys," said Vegeta, eyes glinting dangerously, "it is a nice night for a flight, isn't it?" Neither replied. The Prince looked hard at the child, who swallowed and sank back slightly against the adult behind him. "What are you two playing at out here?" he asked softly, after a glance up in the sky.
"Exactly what I want to know," came a voice from out of the darkness, and the boy's mother suddenly materialized, marching right past the Prince and glaring at the little human. Turning, Vegeta saw the outline of the renegade, Kakarott, silhouetted in the door. "Krillin, you understand that I don't want Gohan running off unless I know where he's going, right? That's been happening entirely too much lately, and I'm not putting up with it any more."
"Yes, ma'am," Krillin promptly replied, an note of relief just evident in his voice. "In fact, why don't we all go back to the party together? There's nothing out here. Really."
Vegeta replied, with another look into the black night, "I think I might be able to find something to occupy myself for a while."
Kakarott grinned at him. "Oh, well, if you just want to burn off some of Chi-chi's cooking, I can help you do that." The Saiyan traitor levitated, straight up, into the darkness over Bulma's compound, as his wife rolled her eyes and grabbed her son, lecturing the boy on the dangers of wandering off.
So, Kakarott does have power. Enough to fly, anyway. Vegeta leveled one more look at one particular sector of sky, then followed Bardock's spawn up, reminding himself of the truce and the fact Bulma did not like to have her plants marked up with ki blasts. This was just -- diplomacy. His father did this, of course; polite sparring with warriors from other worlds, neither really trying to hurt the other one. It was one of those annoying things about being King; you could only fight full-out if it were a life-or-death situation, and you were carefully protected from actually being in life-or-death situations. One more reason to put off being King as long as possible...
Crossing his arms, Vegeta studied the other Saiyan for a moment. Kakarott grinned at him, hanging passively in mid-air with arms and legs dangling loosely. "Ready when you are," he said. Sighing, the Prince moved with a half-speed, flat-knuckled blow to Kakarott's nose, one that wouldn't damage too much when it landed.
The next second he was dozens of yards away, scowling in puzzlement as he righted himself. Kakarott had grabbed him by the wrist and flicked him away. Lucky, thought Vegeta in annoyance. Streaking back, he feinted an elbow to the chest, then switched direction at the last second to kick Kakarott's wide-open side as the traitor blocked...
Kakarott's arm swept up and bent, and Vegeta was momentarily gaping as the tail-less Saiyan trapped his leg between forearm and bicep. Strong fingers curved around his ankle. Then, again, Kakarott flicked the Prince away.
Well, thought Vegeta, his eyes narrowing. Well. You look like Bardock, but it seems there's more of your mother in you than I realized...Folding his arms again, he drifted back and spoke softly to the traitor. "You surprise me, Kakarott. You could surprise me more, I think. Why don't you?"
The other man smiled that curiously vacant smile. "We're just playing, Vegeta. Besides, you lose control sometimes. I don't want you blowing up my planet."
"Your planet?" said Vegeta, dangerously. "Is that what you expect? Do you think I would let you rule this mud-ball in Vejiitasei's name, Kakarott?"
The smile faded. "No one 'rules' Earth, Vegeta. Not you; not anyone."
"That has yet to be determined, doesn't it?" murmured Vegeta. Energy began to cackle around his chest, sparks gathering about his clenched fists. "We could determine that now--"
Kakarott looked at him, brows drawn down, his face empty of all expression. Then suddenly he glanced toward the ground and faint alarm crept across his features.
"Son!" came a shout from below. "Get the hell down here!"
"Crud," muttered Kakarott, his face beginning to show a strange combination of chagrin and fright. "We can't do this now, Vegeta. Bulma looks like she's about to ready to kill us."
The Prince was about to comment that there was no way the insipid female could possibly kill him when Kakarott reached out, grabbed the front of his battle suit, and dropped. Sheer astonishment kept Vegeta from reacting. Unbelievable. It's not enough the natives keep poking at me, but even Kakarott's forgotten himself so much he lays hands on his Prince. Assuming, he mentally added, looking into eyes that seemed empty of anything Saiyan, he remembers himself at all...
Releasing Vegeta as soon as they touched the ground, Kakarott turned to Bulma and lowered his head, chin tucked, gazing at her submissively through his bangs. "Sorry," he said. "We didn't mean to upset you. We weren't going to do anything major, Bulma."
"You've got that straight," snapped the woman.
"But," Kakarott said to the Prince with sudden eagerness, "if you want to spar for real, tomorrow, I know a place that's isolated and..."
"Goku." Bulma pointed sternly toward the building; Kakarott lifted one hand to the back of his head, skirted her carefully, and escaped with obvious relief.
From his post overhead, Piccolo watched the dim figures of the Prince and Bulma who, after a fraught stare at each other, followed Goku back to the party. At the entry Vegeta paused and once more looked straight at him, as if wondering what was teasing his senses, before going inside. One corner of Piccolo's mouth curved up, showing just a glimpse of his fangs. Then he dissolved the dark ki bubble enveloping him and floated upward, the air catching his cloak and snapping it straight out behind him. Obtaining an altitude that would make it difficult for even Saiyan eyes to discern him, the former Demon King resumed his silent watch over the building that held Gohan.
The party was breaking up. From his post by the kitchen, Vegeta watched as people (and whatever the various furry bipedal things were) began seeking Mrs. Briefs or Bulma out to say what a lovely time they had, to touch cheeks or shake hands in some sort of parting ritual. Some carried sleeping offspring as they headed out the door; others were loaded down with 'leftovers.' The tall blonde who had been stationed by Nappa all evening walked over to Bulma and Yamcha to perform the ritual. Vegeta stretched his sensitive hearing to pick up the conversation. "If you need any help taking the apes out, let me know," the blonde was saying to an alarmed-looking Bulma. "Piece o' cake."
"We're not fighting the Saiyans if we can avoid it," responded Bulma, firmly. "Besides," she added, trying to lighten the situation, "they aren't apes. Apes don't have tails. Saiyans do."
The blonde's eyes narrowed, and she smiled viciously. "Well, maybe we can turn 'em into apes, no? Worked for Goku."
"Launch--"
"Don't worry, I won't do anything without your okay." Launch then touched cheeks with Yamcha and left after a bright smile in Nappa's direction. Vegeta slid his eyes sideways to watch her departure. Obviously a covert operative of some sort, he decided even as he fractionally tightened the furry tail wrapped around his waist. Should I warn Nappa--? Naw. If he loses his tail, he'll have to be replaced; and I wouldn't mind that a bit. He gestured with his chin at Nappa, a sign he was ready to leave, and walked over to Bulma.
She smiled at him and held out her hand, although the shadow of worry still lingered in her eyes. "Thanks for coming, Vegeta."
The Prince looked at her fingers, thinking that humans really should keep their fragile appendages to themselves lest a Saiyan accidentally remove them. But he put his gloved hand under hers, carefully, then leaned forward and briefly laid his cheek against her cool one. "My pleasure," he heard himself echoing one of the standard responses with a slight sense of unreality.
He ignored Yamcha entirely.
The Prince had reached the door when someone said his name. Turning back, he found Mrs. Briefs, smiling brightly, holding a platter wrapped in clear plastic out to him. "Something for the road," she said, cheerfully.
Zarbon was sleeping.
Vegeta paused in the doorway, looking at his aide in the indirect glow given off by the tank, and smiled. It could be difficult to tell, sometimes, but this was definitely sleep; because, he noted in amusement, drooling was not something that usually occurred during mediation. He found a flat surface, laid down his burden, then walked over to the tank and tapped Zarbon gently on a booted knee.
Zarbon stretched slightly, made a tiny sound, wiped lazily at his mouth before opening his eyes. "Vegeta," he greeted the Prince, sleepily, then he came fully awake and started to get to his feet. Vegeta waved him down, then held out his hand. Zarbon looked, took the objects from him and raised his brows.
"Twigs?"
"Chopsticks. Yamcha -- the one you thought was Saiyan? -- showed me how to use them."
Zarbon looked at him askance. "Making friends with the natives, are you?"
Vegeta said, placidly, "He will die screaming as I force his own heart down his gullet."
"I'm relieved. So--what do I do with the chopsticks?"
"Believe it or not," said the Prince, "You eat with them. I brought you something from the party."
"You brought me...?" Zarbon followed the Prince's gesture, and blinked at the platter on the table. "My Prince, are you feeling all right?"
Vegeta looked at Zarbon, his face smoothed of all expression. "Just so we're very clear on this," he said, "I am once again going to tell you that, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead. Do you understand?"
It was perhaps only the indirect glow from the tank's chemicals, but something in Zarbon's face softened. "Yes," he said. "I understand." He held a chopstick in either hand and looked at each one in turn. "What is clearly beyond me are these things. Do I spear the food, or what?"
"I finally get to teach you something. And you thought I had no gifts, Zarbon."
Zarbon was willing to bet a month's pay Vegeta had been eating all night. But when Zarbon pointed out in some amusement that the amount of food was much too much for just him, the Prince promptly produced a fork and dug in. Zarbon asked if he enjoyed the party; after a moment of thoughtful chewing, Vegeta indicated with some surprise that he had. He then entertained Zarbon with a number of anecdotes that illustrated (the Prince insisted) that the planet was run by lunatics. "Even Kakarott's infected," the Prince said to Zarbon, his tone faintly incredulous. "He's terrified of that Briefs woman and, as weak as he is, he still could snap her in half with two fingers." Zarbon told the Prince of Kakarott's earlier visit to Radditz, wondering as he spoke how to bring up the impossible existence of the powerful half-breed child. He was considering ways to introduce the subject when Vegeta asked, seemingly apropos of nothing, "Do you remember Uchuun?"
"You've asked me that a few times over the years, Vegeta. I still don't recall anything much past planetfall. That happens when you come that close to dying, sometimes." Zarbon chewed, swallowed, and queried, "Did I get drunk and dance naked around the campsite or something?"
"Oh, I think Radditz might have mentioned that to you," said Vegeta, dryly. "No, nothing so interesting."
"Why bring up a ten year old battle, then? I didn't think your kind remembered anything that long."
"Just getting weirdly nostalgic, I guess."
Zarbon raised a brow; Saiyans cared so little about the past they didn't bother to record much of their own history. "Saiyans get nostalgic?"
"No. That's a phrase I overheard tonight. You know something? It makes no sense. Nothing on this planet makes any sense."
"Case in point," said Zarbon, diffidently. "Did you reacquaint yourself with the little hybrid?"
"Yes," said Vegeta after a pause, looking at the tank that held Radditz.
"He's powerful, Vegeta. Stunningly powerful."
The Prince shrugged. "Unimportant. In less than a week what he'll probably be is debris. Did you try the dim sum? It's surprisingly tasty."
Read The Chikyuu Contaminant: Chapter Nineteen
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