Disclaimer: I do not own Dragonball Z. First fic in a very long time. Hope I'm not too rusty.
Prologue: Thirsty
She started, sitting up in her bed as she looked around with wild eyes. Her breathing was erratic, her cerulean hair sticking to her forehead and face in long sweaty strands. Her room was dark and silent as usual, excluding the unceasing hum of her poor pedestal fan as it blew mildly cool air over the bed. She brushed her hair away from her face impatiently and kicked the twisted covers away from her body.
God, I need a drink.
She scrambled out of bed and padded her way softly to the bathroom. Feeling her way to the sink, she twisted the knob and stuck her head under the faucet. Her mother would have a fit if she saw her slurping at a sink, but that didn't exactly matter. Not anymore at least. She had her own place; she earned her own money, so by God she was entitled to a good wee-hour slurp. Turning off the faucet, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and made her way back to her bed in her one bedroom apartment. Crawling back under the covers, she closed her tired blue eyes with a sigh. It was small, the toilet made noise at four in the morning, it was on the third floor, but it was hers. They'd think twice before telling her she couldn't survive on her own.
He sighed and looked down at his watch. Three twenty-three. AM. He glanced back up at the door on the third floor, his eyes following the staircase traveling up the side of the building with its peeling white paint and ivy-covered roof. AM… He sighed again and closed his eyes. This wasn't in the job description. He could be at his house. Or better yet, he could be at the hunting lodge his parents had left him, sleeping in that unbelievably soft bed in the guest room. He smiled at the thought. He'd have to move that bed into the master bedroom one of these days. Who knew he could be such a pushover when it came to soft beds. Soft…foam…beds. Instead, he was here: in his car, watching a door at three thirty in the morning. His cell chirped and he opened his eyes to glare halfheartedly down at it. He picked it up and flipped it open, holding it to his ear. "What?"
"Well aren't you grumpy."
"Piss off."
"Just thought you'd like to know, Charlie will be runnin' a little late."
He growled and ran a hand through his ebony, gravity-defying hair. "Why?"
"He's got the runs. Satisfied?"
He scowled and snapped the phone shut and tossed it into the passenger seat with a grunt of irritation. He never liked cell phones. They just told him bad news. He didn't know where in the world he'd developed the patience to learn how to use one. Then again, he didn't know how he had developed the patience for a lot of things these days. He looked down at his fingers that tapped slowly on the steering wheel. Was it really only a few years ago he'd been killing people left and right with these same hands? He sent a small burst of energy to the tip of his index finger and a small orb of light appeared. He gave a small rueful smile and let the energy dissipate before turning his gaze back to the door on the third floor of the old apartment building.
God, I need a drink.