This is a rewritten version of an old fan fiction. I remembered it climbed past 200 reviews in less than twenty chapters, and honestly, I had just as much fun writing it as everyone else did reading it. That's why I figured that since I've returned to Fanfiction and I don't have any other ideas floating in my head at the moment, I'd redo this. There'll be major changes to the plot and considering it was so long ago, I think I've gotten better. We'll see.

But before we begin, a special thank you to the readers. I was pleasantly surprised when I got on today, finding that someone PMed me two days ago asking if I planned to continue this. Whoa, how long ago did I stop updating? xDD

On another note, excuse the shortness. It's a brief prologue in hopes of getting you hooked.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Spare some change?

Prologue

"Stop it!" I shouted and exploded to my feet, nearly toppling over my chair in the process. "He doesn't deserve this!"

For a moment everyone's perplexity puzzled me-the chorused gasps of the audience, the recession of camera flashes, the once eager interviewers breaking off mid-sentence-because I had not been entirely conscious of my outburst yet, as if something had possessed me to do it. I even opened my mouth to ask, but it snapped shut; my father had torn his gaze from the audience to look at me, his cocky grin deflating and with the realization my blood ran cold. Oh my God, oh crap, I said it out loud.

I started weighing all my options, leaning towards an unconvincing excuse (but they'd buy the fabrication anyway however nonsensical; my father's success made it clear they believed everything they heard) and trashing the idea of revealing the truth on live TV-I glanced askance at the camera crew-when the mayor cleared his throat.

"Miss Satan, if you have nothing else to say, please sit down and let Mr. Satan resume his speech."

I stepped back, as if meaning to take my seat again, but had second thoughts and stopped.

"Wait," I said. "I have something to say." The audience leaned forward and the reporters raised their microphones a little higher, captivated, but with my father of course this was not the case.

"Videl," he began, sotto voce. "Think about what you're doing."

"That's the problem. All I do is think about it," I retorted with more confidence than I felt. He didn't reply, only swept his gaze across the crowd in a sort of paranoid fashion.

The truth Is, I was contemplating my position: First, if I uncovered my dad's greatest secret, the consequences would affect me too. I was, after all, his daughter; and whether I had any part in his fakery or not, the public's consensus would be, "Like father, like daughter." On the other hand, Kami knows I wanted him to get what he deserved. He'd put me through so much.

But all of that can be overruled by the simple name Gohan; the world's true savior. It was he who should've been credited for Cell's defeat, not my bumbling father, but he chose scorn on his family over fame. I hadn't understood his decision before, but I did now. The tragic loss of a family member, a new brother born without ever knowing his father-they needed a peaceful life in order to recover, and the prying media and fan base would shatter that peace in an instant. I thought about how inconsiderate and ignorant I had been with his situation, how he took it and swallowed any complaint because he could see I was hurting, and my eyes became ablaze with tears.

It would be so selfish and ungrateful of me, to send his already struggling family into hiding, but I couldn't stop myself. Everything I bottled up was about to explode.

As if by their own accord, my feet started to drag me toward the podium. To my chagrin, my father didn't fight it but gave me passage.

Somebody stop me.

"I'm willing to pay the price," Dad told me solemnly as I came to stand behind the podium.

I supposed this was his way of pleading forgiveness. At first, I didn't plan on accepting it ever; so much resentment I held for my father. But I came to the startling revelation that soon I would be in a similar position to my father's myself, when the show drew to an end and I'd beg Gohan not to be angry, and decided then that someday I'd bring myself to forget my father's mistakes.

As I pulled the microphone from the stand it was mounted on, I tried to pick out a head of spiky black hair in the crowd, but Gohan was nowhere to be found. I knew I saw him arrive; he probably fled the scene, in hopes of evading a mob of squealing fan girls.

"I'm sorry, Gohan," I murmured, and with a deep intake of breath leaned into the microphone.