Standing in the Wasteland – If M17 survived, what do you think he'd do? Well, if he's smart he's not going to try and kill Trunks any time soon. Here's assuming that he didn't try that. 17/OC
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z. You don't want me to own it. But, I do own who/at I come up with.
I haven't written DBZ-fic in a while. So, sorry if it's shitty and OOC, I tried. But, please, the rating is there for a good reason. Respect it.
So, um, inspired 'cause I'm sick of future fics that either don't include #17 (eg., the ones that only bring #18 back...jerks) or somehow don't take into account the fact that he's a cruel, arrogant, sadistic son of a bitch who'd kill you soon as look at you. And he still is. There is absolutely no wooby wuv in this story.
I use 17 instead of Juunana(gou) because it gives him a more inhuman air. And I'm not trying to humanize him. You can still say his name as Juunanagou (I do; old habits die hard and as a point of fact I usually call him Juu-chan or something equally obnoxious and saccharine like that), but I will use 17 as his moniker.
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Strange Bedfellows
The little boy that lived down the lane didn't know what the dead looked like. He ran crying down the road one day, no shoes on, and the neighbor-lady with a three-legged dog came out to meet him.
His mother had died in bed, and we buried her facing west two miles outside of the city, avoiding the unmarked mass graves a little further southeast. It was marked with a small stake that could only be recognized by people who knew who was there. To anyone else, it was just a more careful burial than most.
I remembered the acrid stink of blood and burning concrete. I believed in blind luck and fate, and that darkness was easier to hide in—at least until I learned that the androids saw not in colors, but in infrared light.
Cheating the devil was an idea thought up by idiots—first of all, there is no devil, and second of all, if there is, he's a hell of a lot smarter than you. Besides, even if you do cheat him, if he finds out you're still a dead man.
The sun was hidden behind clouds that morning and I was alone in bed, naked and cold. If the android was anywhere handy I could expect some comment about it, but I wasn't in the mood and got up to take a shower. This building had once been a luxury town house and it was still fancy, though most of the furnishings had either been stolen or pawned. Nobody bothered with the master bathroom and I stepped under the shower faucet, which still worked, if the hot water was a little unreliable.
The skin between my legs was sticky, and I shivered as my fingers brushed over a faint purplish bruise that had spread over my shoulder. I ached, but was numbing under the hot water. There was a stinging line where his fingernails had dug into my skin, irritated further by the shampoo and soap.
Son of a bitch, I told him not to do that...
I was tempted to do something about it but the urge petered out quickly as did the hot water; I shut it off just as the spray turned ice cold. I couldn't hope for more; this far east we were lucky to have water at all.
The towels were clean and dry, courtesy of the lady with the three-legged dog who did laundry for three zeni a load, and I wrapped one around my midsection. I could have done the washing myself, but she had no other way to make any money—her savings had been wiped out years ago and she refused charity.
17 had very few clothes, and he infinitely preferred the ones he'd worn for years. He made sure I knew this, even though I could do absolutely nothing about it when it became obvious that all of those clothes were destroyed. I collected clothing, though I had outgrown a lot and was making a tidy profit out of selling pieces off one-by-one.
I got dressed and went downstairs where it was silent. It was early, where the hell could he have gone?
A little insulted, maybe even a little nervous that he might not come back—the thought was always in my head when he wasn't around and we'd argued recently—I took a stale scone from the refrigerator and smeared marmalade on it with a butter knife.
Marmalade and scones: Two things that until recently qualified as Ultimate Luxury Items. They were becoming more common, though very expensive. There were advantages to being involved with a man who could move like lightning.
A soft tapping took my attention and I lifted my head. I'd gotten used to his light step, if he chose to let me hear it. He didn't always have me know he was there and more often than not he appeared out of nowhere.
"Where've you been?" I demanded sharply, irritated. I wanted to tell him not to scratch me; that next time I'd try to gouge his eye out.
He wasn't human and you didn't have to know it, academically, to realize that. He didn't move like a human. Even though I knew he could kill me without trying, he had a lightness that made him almost fluid. He barely looked like a human; his features were too perfectly crafted and his eyes never caught the light. I hadn't yet found a split end in his hair, and he said it never grew.
17 set a bag on the breakfast table and I was instantly suspicious. He had effectively bought back my favor before with presents (he considered it a game, one where he played along); had he evolved to purposely doing things just to see how far he could push it?
"If that's not aloe vera or disinfectant for my back, I'm going to be very pissed off."
I stiffened as I felt him slide around behind me, but I felt silly when I heard the refrigerator open.
"I didn't have to bring anything for you," he snapped, "And I don't have to tell you where I was."
Fuck you. Fuck the man that made you.
Something cold touched my neck and I jumped, reached behind my head and swiped at him.
"Jerk," I muttered, though a thousand other worse things were running through my head.
I opened the bag slowly. Inside was a silky black shirt that had sleeves longer than my arms and a low collar—and, at the bottom, a jar of disinfectant and some cotton balls.
"...Thanks," I muttered, as he sat down in the opposite chair, smirking triumphantly and drinking some kind of cola.
So, what do you want?
I didn't want to call him predictable, because he really wasn't, but there were very few times that he'd do anything like this and when he wanted something—that was a primary time.
"I hate this place," he said, finally, leaning back in his chair. "I hate the miserable creatures living here. I don't even know why I've stuck around so long." His tone was altogether flippant.
Thank you, I am one of those miserable creatures. Oh, wait, you're aware of that. My bad.
"...So're you going to move on?" I asked, slow, choosing the phrase move on, because the other option was leave, and I refused to say that.
He scowled at me. He was truly unnerving with that look on his face.
"We. We are going to leave," he said.
For a moment I'd doubted I'd heard him correctly. It blindsided me.
"Uh...what?"
"Are you stupid? Or deaf," he demanded, rolling his eyes. "Don't answer that."
I grit my teeth and stood up from the table so quick that my chair nearly fell over.
"I heard you. Fuck off. You can go, but I'm staying here." I grabbed the bag and fled for the upstairs. He didn't choose to follow me.
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And I stayed with him...why?
The question egged at me. I felt like shit...he made me feel like shit. I barely even knew what I felt. But I could see it in his unreal eyes when he looked at me: That thing is human. Is dirt. Is dog shit that I stepped in.
It's a toy, on borrowed time; there is no other way for a human to exist. It glares at me and has to make two pots of curry because its taste buds are so much more sensitive. It exists because I let it.
The sex was good, though I was fragile like spun glass and every motion was made with a sense of measured restraint. It had to be or else I would be killed.
So I stayed because of good sex? I could get that anywhere. I could get myself off, even. I wasn't ugly—even the android had to acknowledge that, which he did simply by failing to mention it at all—so, try again, Lima.
Because he was an arrogant, self-indulged shithead that wouldn't accept it and take like I'd said his taste in socks was bad? That was probably closer to it, but that was placing all of the blame on him—and that would be a lie.
He acted like a child, sometimes. He pitched fits and whined. He was easily insulted and took everything in the worst way possible. God knew he was sulking downstairs or waiting for me to show my face so he could shoot it off.
My parents were mixed with the mud in Hokusei City, and so were my twin sisters. I hadn't heard from my brother in five years, and I assumed he had sunk, too. 17 could threaten me with death, but what good would that do if I wasn't afraid to die?
He could force me to stay or go with him, rape me to get what he wanted, and maybe he was capable of that. He hadn't ever tried, and if we argued over sex he'd never made me, but I knew he liked cheap thrills and there was no question of physical capacity.
I peeled off my shirt and tried to twist far enough that I could apply the disinfectant to the scratch marks. It was utterly frustrating and I eventually gave up, and said to hell with it.
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And, cut.
M17's perspective, next chapter.
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I really mean it guys, if you hate it with a passion you've never found before, go ahead and tell me. It'll give you a chance to let off steam and me a chance for some feedback on what I'm doing wrong. The only thing which will not come under fire without my returning ire is the mere fact that I've used an OC. Tell me anything about the OC, just do not berate me simply because of her existence.
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05/19/2007 - I made some edits. And thank you so much for your reviews! I truly appreciate them; and now that I've actually found my notes for this fic I think I can make some headway with it.