In the depths of night, two figures began to ascend the capital wall, each struggling to find grip on the sleek metal.

"Damn, I wish we could fly over this stupid thing," Turles grunted out, looking up towards Goku, who was progressing steadily above him.

A small laugh floated down, almost lost in the wind.

"It's not supposed to be easy," Goku teased, heaving himself up a few more inches. He found a ledge for his hand in a partition between two sheets of old metal. "That's why it's illegal, Turles."

"Well we may not get the chance to be killed for trespassing if we don't even make it up this thing," Turles replied dryly, watching his friend's muscular legs struggle for purchase on the wall. Earlier that evening, they had bought some old elite training suits off a nomad, but it seemed that Goku's attire was a tad too tight.

The full-blooded Saiyan didn't respond, instead investing all his energy into making it up the large wall. Time seemed to drag on as he conquered each inch, sweat dripping from his brow. By the time the top neared, his arms were quivering with exhaustion. Sucking in a deep breath, he looked down towards Turles who wasn't far behind.

"Do you remember how to suppress your ki to avoid being detected?" Goku whispered, hoping his words weren't lost in the gentle night breeze.

The half-breed nodded in response but then cursed himself as his boot slipped for a few harrowing seconds. "Not that I have much ki to begin with," he mumbled, regaining his composure. When he finally quit wallowing in self-pity, he noticed that the climb was nearly over and Goku was leaning over the top of the wall to offer him assistance.

Together, the two heaved Turles' bulky form up, just in time for a much needed rest against the small lip overlooking the capital.

Goku took in several cleansing breaths, focusing on keeping his ki hidden deep within him. With some luck, the capital guardians would rely more heavily on ki sensors than actual foot patrol, making the peasants' trespass much easier. Beside him, Turles was bent over, murmuring to himself about needing more training before a sudden squeal raced passed his lips.

"Are they…" Turles began, pointing at horrific display of dismembered corpses strung up on pikes several feet away.

"….. dead," Goku finished, eyes wide in disbelief. His hands began to shake, but he quickly sat on them in case Turles noticed his cowardice. "I wondered why there wasn't much security," he finished, staring straight ahead.

Next to the macabre sight were several official signs warning against lowborn Saiyans trespassing into the capital, and Turles let out a frustrated wail, only for Goku to slap a hand over his mouth.

"Shh!" the full-blooded Saiyan scolded. "It's ok….. it's ok….." he repeated, seemingly trying to calm himself down as well. When his friend began to breathe more evenly, he released his hold.

"Shit," Turles whispered heatedly, clinging to the other. "What do we do now?"

Goku rubbed his temple and looked over the wall at the glistening lights of the capital. "Now we find your family," he explained, trying his best to conjure up a small smile. "You still up for this?"

Though he struggled, Turles finally grasped onto his resolve and nodded curtly. "It's too late to turn back now, I guess," he declared, gingerly walking past the gruesome display in front of them and toward the sparkling neon lights of the capital.

Seconds later, Goku joined him in awe. "It's beautiful," he whispered.

A few moments of silence passed by before Turles let out the breath he had been holding. "It's only beautiful if you know what to look for."

Goku turned to his friend and offered a cheeky grin. "Then let's get started."


Among the bustling daily life of the capital residents, Piccolo found himself drowning in a sea of mundane conversations and unnecessary social pleasantries. He rubbed his wrists absentmindedly, running his sharp nails over the pink striations in his skin, not yet used to being free from captivity.

He was happy that his imprisonment was over, but the cost of freedom had been his dignity. Reluctantly, he had agreed to the King's offer, if only for the opportunity to change Vegeta-sei for the better.

Namek was gone, but despite the Saiyans' tendency to be rash and brute, their race was the closest Piccolo had ever come to finding a home among warriors. Now, he just had to find the right kind of warriors to appease the King and secretly support the Prince, should he ever arrive to take the throne.

To complete his duty, the Namekian found himself in the capital's premier tea house, a place owned by a rather peculiar earthling.

"Welcome to Kame House," an older gentleman chimed, saddling up to the small table Piccolo had taken residence at. "What can I get ya today?"

The human was certainly unlike most that dwelled on the Saiyan planet- he was dressed in strange, bright fabrics and wore dark shields over his eyes.

Perhaps he was blind?

"Would you like some tea?" the elder asked once more. "I import the finest teas from Earth as well as several other planets…"

Piccolo shook his head curtly before leaning forward and beckoning the man with a crooked finger. Though startled, the human came closer and raised his bushy gray brows in expectation.

"You are the one known as Merchant Roshi, correct?

"Yep, that's me. What can I do for ya?"

"Then you are very familiar with all the officials of the capital and their offspring," Piccolo observed, lowering his voice. "I am looking for some special citizens. Can you help me?"

At the statement, a wide grin erupted on the merchant's face. He propped his walking stick up on the table and leaned even closer to his guest. "Ah I see," Roshi leered. "What kind of special are you looking for? Busty? Firm and supple? Willing to do anything? Or do you prefer women who don't mind antennae?"

Horrified, Piccolo grabbed the elder by the shirt and yanked him to attention. "I am not looking for women, you lecherous old man," he shouted. "I am looking for young men!"

The exclamation was louder than intended and every patron in the business stopped to stare at the outrageous scene.

Piccolo's green skin flushed a light purple before he shoved the merchant away and rose to his feet in a huff.

"Young men," Roshi mused, combing through his long beard. "I know just the way to find many of the capital's finest. Follow me!"

The elder scrambled to grab his stick, then proceeded to disappear further into the tea house, leaving a flustered Piccolo to ward off judgmental stares.


Walking along the bustling city streets, Bulma tried not to pity herself.

It was hard enough that she was a full-blooded earthling living in the capital, but she was also a woman, which sometimes meant that she was treated like a second-class citizen. If it weren't for her father's status, she would surely have ended up as some Saiyan official's concubine or servant.

Though she had managed to sell one scouter the previous night, it seemed as though all her usual clientele had completely disappeared, and she was certain that the two strange Saiyan men that had stopped her had something to do with it.

Letting out a sigh, she made her way into one of the rounded buildings that housed one of her many part-time jobs, though it was her least favorite.

"What do you want?" a bulky Saiyan man shouted upon seeing her appear in his shop.

Bulma crossed her arms and held her head high. "I'm here for my pay," she declared. "I've sold my quota this month, so you owe me."

Her words elicited a hearty laugh and a wave of a large hand. "You lying bitch," the man sneered. "My canisters of alcohol have disappeared from your quota but I doubt you sold that many. I think you drank them all and now you are here to rob me of my credits!"

"Excuse me, buddy?" Bulma retorted, stalking further into the shop. "I gave you the money! If you were smart enough to count, you would see that the credits are all there!"

Angry, the Saiyan man slammed his hands down on the metal countertop and began to shake. "If I were smart, I would not have hired a Jidwi like you to peddle my wares!" he screamed. "Earthlings, even ones born on this planet, are not to be trusted. You are lucky that your father has such a fine mind or else you would not be allowed in this city. Now get out of my shop, thief, and do not come back!"

The canisters collected along the shelves of the small space shook, teetering precariously, but Bulma could only focus on her employer's accusation.

"But I didn't-"

"GET OUT!"

Frustrated, Bulma pivoted on her heel and grabbed a canister, released the seal, and began to down the beverage.

"What are you doing?" her former employer demanded, coming out from behind the counter to chase her.

Thinking fast, Bulma grabbed two more canisters in her arms and ran out the door, struggling to finish the alcohol. Behind her, the overweight Saiyan man was slowing down.

"Get back here!"

Throwing down the empty containers, Bulma wiped her mouth with a smug grin. "If you think I'm a thief, then I might as well be one!" she shouted before turning to run further into the city. Before long, she had lost the Saiyan man, and she slowed down to a leisurely stroll, murmuring to herself as the alcohol took effect and the part of her mind that scolded her for being so rash began to quiet down.

She started to wobble on her feet, giggling at each passerby and taking in the sights. A few feet ahead, she noticed two Saiyan children using their thin tails to pick the pockets of shoppers and she shouted at them, startling the cubs into running away.

Tipsy, Bulma attempted to give chase, but her feet became tangled up, causing her to smack into an unwitting pedestrian and fall ungracefully.

Two strong arms caught her, pulling her into a hard body that smelled of nature and musk. Looking up, dark eyes shone upon her with concern and for a brief moment, she was speechless.

"Are you ok, miss?" the man asked, his tail waving behind him languidly. His black hair jutted out haphazardly in different directions, but his face held the sharp angles of the elite. He looked nervous, as if he didn't want her to observe him so carefully.

Bulma tried to respond, but her words were slurring together. Instead, she looked deep into his eyes, which were becoming more alluring with each thundering heartbeat….

The strange man shifted her in his arms for a few moments, then a whispered name caught his attention from a nearby alley.

"Goku, hurry up!"

Bulma struggled to focus her gaze on the man's face as he waved to his friend, but when her eyes began to cross, she let out a hearty laugh and clung to her rescuer.

The stranger was startled, but when he attempted to leave, Bulma wouldn't let go, instead wrapping herself around his torso. "You smell good…" she slurred, taking the opportunity to slide her pale fingers into his silky black hair. "You feel good too."

Carefully, the man tried to extract her from his person. "Uh, please get off me, miss," he begged. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

"My shoe," Bulma drawled, now pointing to an object a few feet away. She had just noticed that the boot must've flown off during the fall.

"Uh…"

"My shoe!" she shouted again, flinging an arm up into the air.

Embarrassed, the stranger tried to shake her off, becoming more frantic when he saw a group of city guards approaching. He managed to push her off, then stumbled over to her shoe. He picked it up and tossed it over his shoulder with a murmured apology.

Bulma watched her rescuer run away, though her vision was swimming. She was just about to demand her shoe be returned once more when suddenly it fell from the sky, smacking her right in the face.

"Sorry!" a distant voice exclaimed before Bulma's eyes grew heavy and she curled up in the middle of the street, barefoot and shameless.


The throne room was just as Vegeta remembered it, right down to the ornate marble carvings and the blood-red crest imprinted on the velvet tapestries hanging from the domed ceiling.

Though ten years had passed, he still felt like a small boy coming to bother his father high up on the throne. Only this time, Vegeta had come of age, and the heavily gilded chair stood empty, waiting for him.

"Why are you here?"

That voice was also familiar, yet the malice it held was so foreign.

In one fluid motion, Vegeta turned to face his father, and the heavy cape of his royal armor swayed in response.

The King had certainly aged, his once youthful face now gaunt with the beginnings of grey tinging his beard. His eyes were still dark, but where they once held warmth, chill now emanated from their gaze. This was simultaneously the same man who had nearly died defending his son from Frieza, and yet, he was also a stranger.

The Prince didn't reply to the whispered question, instead opting to remain defiantly silent.

King Vegeta shook his head slowly before unclasping his hands from behind his back and making his way towards the throne. "Are you here because you do not trust me?" he inquired. "I find it strange that you ended your exile on no authority."

Letting out a laugh, Vegeta boldly approached the monarch and made no show of respect. "It would be stranger if I did not come, Father," he quipped. "After all, this is my throne room."

His candid statement earned him a heavy sigh from the King, but nothing more. After a few moments of contemplation, King Vegeta settled back into the large chair and propped his leg up. "You act as if I have not taken precautions to protect you," he retorted. "Do you recall how many assassins we killed daily because of you? Do not make the mistake of thinking your exile was for naught. You breathe today because of me."

"And I am grateful, Your Majesty," Vegeta quipped back, standing tall. "But I fail to see how withholding my birthright now that I am grown is protecting me. If anything, you weaken me. Do you wish me dead, Father? Especially now that I am to take my throne?"

The King clenched his jaw before letting out a shuddering breath. "Why you insolent little cub! I will decide when you reclaim your throne, if you become worthy," he spat. "Until then, you are to live as if the prince does not exist."

Pacing back and forth, Vegeta focused only on his freshly-waxed boots on the smooth floor. "And why should I heed the greedy instructions of an old man?" he questioned. "Do you fear that once the people discover my homecoming, that they will be quick to discard you?"

"And how would you plan to inform them, Vegeta?" the King demanded, letting out a chuckle. "Would you go out into the capital and announce your title to the streetgoers? You would look like a raving lunatic! Only I can affirm your royal birth and I have no plans to do so as of yet."

At the statement, the Prince stopped his calculated pace, overcome by reality. He was in line to succeed his father, but he needed the monarch to willingly declare him king. It was such an obvious truth and it began to burn him up from within.

"You do not know what wrath you have invoked by denying me this," Vegeta spat, turning on his heel to begin the long walk away from the throne. He needed to get away as soon as possible before his impulsivity got the better of him and blood stained his boots.

"And you did not have to watch your brother die because he was weak," the King responded, his voice sounding smaller by the minute. "Think of me what you will, but I would rather invoke your wrath than watch you swallowed whole by those who will try to overcome you."

Vegeta refused to reply, too overcome by memories of a time that still haunted his youth- an ashen face, trickling with blood, and a father who was wracked with grief.

Quietly, he suppressed both rage and sorrow before leaving his father's presence.


Goku had offered to ask the residents of the capital about Turles' family necklace, and though the half-breed was hesitant, he ultimately agreed to let his friend help.

In reality, Turles' sun-kissed skin made him stand out amongst the privilege of the capital, so he had kept to the shadows despite his growing resentment.

Since Goku was at least paler and more apt to be polite, the two had agreed that he was the better choice to investigate the origins of the necklace.

Turles had tried to stay out of the way, but curiosity had proved too much for him. While Goku slept in a makeshift shelter on the edge of the forest, the half-breed had come to find himself outside a large building in the heart of the city. He had overheard that most of the youth frequented this place looking for a good time and he hoped that perhaps he would find evidence of his sister there.

The night was framed in a neon haze, and Turles watched patrons gossip and preen before going into the tavern.

As the crowd began to shuffle forward, a woman stumbled, lashing out to hold onto a Saiyan who struggled to hold her up.

"Sorry!" the woman exclaimed with a giggle. "I'm kind of buzzed."

As she righted herself and dusted off her dress, a flash of silver caught Turles' eye and he felt his heart stop.

In the small hands of the strange woman was a copy of the very necklace Turles wore around his neck- the necklace gifted to him by his father. It was then that the half-breed took note of the woman and the striking blue hue of her hair as it reflected the strong moonlight.

His breath left him as he watched her request entry to the tavern, and when the guards let her through, he rushed to the front, only to be pushed back.

"Your pass?" a bouncer demanded of him while looking him over with a curious eye. "Which family line do you belong to?"

Turles tried to form coherent words, but speech failed him as he reached out for the sister he had lost so many years ago, only to see her slip away.


Of all the places to conduct business, Bulma favored the tavern the elites referred to as Dre'ek. It boasted a strong patronage from the younger population of the city, who were apt to be interested in either her technological prowess or the gossip she came by honestly because of her father's profession.

She had tried peddling scouters there before with mild success, but seeing as most of her currency-making schemes were falling flat for various reasons, she had decided against working on this particular night. That and she had a killer migraine from her earlier escapade with her former employer's alcohol.

Wincing, she remembered waking up on the dirt road like a drowned street rat, and cursed herself for the thousandth time that night. What would her father say when he finally heard word of her antics? She couldn't stand to go home now and face him. Instead, she casually roamed the tavern, watching the capital citizens mingle and dance. If anything, the nightlife was a good escape from reality, providing entertaining sights and good company.

Just as Bulma settled by the bar, a cacophony of cheers erupted near the main entrance. A chorus of swooning soon followed, which signaled the entrance of one the first-class' finest young warriors.

Broly was accompanied by several other Saiyans, who all sauntered in confidently, dressed in armor that Bulma would've had to sell several dozen scouters just to touch. As usual, his wild hair was slightly restrained by the golden ringlet resting atop his head. The Saiyan bachelor flashed a smile, causing many of the females in the room to giggle.

Rolling her eyes, Bulma turned her attention back to the bar keep, only to be interrupted once more by another wave of murmuring. She craned her neck just in time to catch sight of Trunks, another eligible Saiyan man. Though a half-breed, his loyalty to the crown and aristocratic family earned him a decent place in the first-class faction.

She had to admit that he was good-looking with his sharp features, icy blue eyes, and long, flowing hair that looked like lavender silk. But at seventeen, he was fairly young and impulsive, using his family's name to fulfill his childish wants.

Certain that she didn't want to stick around to watch the two rivals exchange faux niceties, Bulma finally ordered a water and made her way towards the back of the building.

Occasionally, the owner would throw old cybernetic parts in his storeroom and she was allowed to pick through the leftovers for anything useful. Tonight, she would just grab a sack full of some things, stash it somewhere, and enjoy the rest of her outing…

The storeroom was dark and musty, but Bulma had grown used to both sensations. Pulling out a small light stick, she got to work rummaging through the bins and found several things right away, securing the objects in the bag on her hip. Within a few minutes, she became so satisfied with her finds that she began to sing to herself, shamelessly squealing out the high notes of her favorite songs.

"Quiet, woman," a deep voice growled from somewhere to her left.

Startled, Bulma whipped around, holding out her small source of light. Nothing unusual caught her eye, causing her great confusion. Carefully, she approached the corner of the room, only to find metal containers stacked to the ceiling.

"That's weird," she whispered, brows furrowed. "I could've sworn I heard a voice…"

"You did."

This time the voice came directly from behind her and she jumped as a large hand clamped over her mouth. It tasted of salt and she gagged at the sensation.

Next, hot breath assaulted her ear as the intruder spoke again in a low timbre. "I cannot rest with your torturous screeching invading my space," the strange man explained. He was so close that Bulma could feel his full lips brush across her neck and smell the sweet twang of his breath. Her pulse began to race. "If you value your life, leave."

Finished with his instructions, the intruder released her and Bulma stumbled forward, nearly falling over a crate. She righted herself and tried to locate the man, but it was too dark to properly identify him. Other than his intimate contact and the heady musk in the air, she would've thought she was completely alone.

"Do you sleep in here or something?" she inquired, backing up towards the door. It wasn't often someone was homeless in the capital, but it did happen on rare occasion. Perhaps a vagrant man had found his way into the back of the tavern?

The stranger did not answer; instead, a creeping silence settled over the room and Bulma took the opportunity to make a run for the door. This time, however, she actually tripped over a container as she turned, sending her crashing to the ground and the light stick flew out of her hand.

The soft glow raced through the air and briefly illuminated the small space. A labored gasp flew from Bulma's lips as she recognized the silhouette.

It was undoubtedly one of the men who had put a stop to her scouter sale the night prior- the Saiyan with the flame atop his head and the sinfully dark eyes.

Before she could react to this new information, a scream from somewhere in the tavern filtered into the storeroom. Without a second thought, Bulma stumbled out, running down the hall until she found the source of the cacophony. A large crowd had gathered in the center of the main room and she pushed her way through the mass of bodies to get a better view of the situation.

On the ground was a tanned Saiyan man with his face to the floor while another patron crushed his head with a heavy boot. Bulma immediately recognized the antagonizer as one of Broly's entourage, though she couldn't place his name.

All around, people were shouting encouragements as the two men squared off, and this only exhilarated the dominant Saiyan, who pressed his foot down harder until the darker-skinned man cried out in agony.

"Look what I found," Broly's man sneered. "Not only do I think this half-breed snuck in here, but by his looks, I would guess that he is trespassing on capital grounds as well."

An audible gasp swept through the room before Trunks stepped forward to silence the crowd with outstretched hands. "What makes you think that?" he questioned, watching the half-breed on the ground carefully.

Broly's friend pointed a finger at his prey and laughed. "Just look at how dirty he is!" he exclaimed, looking the crowd over for assurance. "Also, what kind of hairstyle is that? Looks like something a third-class dirt eater would have."

Laughter erupted from the gathered audience and Bulma watched in horror as the attacker leaned forward, increasing the pressure on the half-breed's head. The poor man screamed, his skin flushing an unholy shade of red.

"Enough!" Trunks demanded, funneling a bright surge of ki into his hand. "Just let him go and we can continue on with our night."

Broly's friend paused, brought his foot up in defiance and began to lower it quickly when a deep voice bellowed out.

"That is enough!" Broly shouted, sparks dancing along his skin. The circlet resting atop his forehead began to glow. "Let the peasant go."

His demands were heeded and the half-breed was released from his crushing hold to rise on unsteady legs. His eyes were crazed as he scanned the crowd before stopping on singular point- Bulma.

Her breath caught in her chest as his dark eyes met hers and she felt that she had known those eyes before, but in a different person.

Before she could respond, the man turned and ran, but not before she saw the beginnings of crystal tears threatening to fall down his filthy skin.


It was a mistake to think that his father would so readily accept him, but part of Vegeta had grown up believing the lies that Raditz was so eager to accept. Lies that proposed that the King had sent his only son away to "preserve" him and ensure that it was safe for him to take the throne, but Vegeta was now aware of the stark reality.

He was nothing more than a puppet that would be bent to his father's will for as long as the monarch needed him. By keeping him hidden for so long, the people never grew to know or love their prince, leaving him powerless.

In the cool night air, Vegeta walked the emptying city streets, nursing a bottle of wine that he found in the tavern's store room. After the annoying human woman had interrupted his sleep, he made his way outside, freely roaming around without a single care.

Ah, the woman.

His tail bristled at the thought of her.

She was a presumptuous little thing, sneaking into the tavern to steal machine parts. Surely she was the same woman he and Raditz had stopped from selling black market scouters the previous night- her cloying scent was certainly the same. Had he been in a better mood, he would've enjoyed intimidating her, but in reality, he just wanted his rest.

Vegeta sighed in frustration once more, looking up at the darkened sky.

To the people of the capital, he was nothing more than a stranger.

It was a demeaning concept.

Taking one final swig of his tart wine, he tossed the bottle to the wayside and approached the beginnings of the palace grounds. Though his father had extended his generosity and prepared quarters for he and Raditz, Vegeta had wanted nothing to do with it.

He merely wanted some fresh air and some numbing alcohol, but he knew that Raditz was most likely beside himself trying to locate the wayward prince, so he decided to return to the palace.

Vegeta managed to make it to the edge of the small forest surrounding the palace gates when he heard an odd sound emanating from a nearby bush. Curious, he began to search for the source when a large hand pulled him back and angrily spun him around.

The Prince's unfocused gaze came to rest on the stern face of Nappa.

"Your Majesty," the commandant huffed out, tightening his grip on Vegeta's shoulders. "How dare you run away from the crown's generosity! Raditz could not find you and had to beg for your father's assistance!"

"Nappa," the Prince growled, wrenching away from the larger Saiyan's hold. "You shall not touch me in such a manner!"

"Excuse me, my Prince, but I shall do whatever is necessary to-"

Nappa's rebuttal was interrupted by a loud gasp from the bush behind Vegeta.

A split second later a whispered "shit" could be heard from the same area, prompting Nappa to immediately investigate. He thrust his hands into the vegetation and brought out a squirmimg Saiyan who looked equal parts terrified and annoyed.

"What is your name?" Nappa demanded, hoisting the intruder high into the air.

Vegeta sighed and rubbed his temple, already feeling rather languid due to his earlier wine. "Let him go," he drawled, already turning to walk towards the gate.

"I-I'm sorry…. Your Highness?" the trapped Saiyan finished his statement as a question despite Nappa's strangling hold.

Upon hearing his title, Vegeta stopped dead in his tracks. He knew what those two words meant for the fate of the man, and had he not been slightly intoxicated, he wouldn't have cared. But after the tense meeting with his father, it became apparent that he had no connection to his people and he could not let that continue if he ever wanted to supplant the King's reign.

"Let him go," Vegeta demanded once more, his rough voice cutting through the night air. He heard Nappa sigh deeply behind him.

"I cannot," the commandant replied. "He must be killed."

"It is an order," Vegeta tried, clenching his fists.

"I have orders from the King."

Trying to control his shaking hands, Vegeta grit his teeth. He knew that there was nothing a faceless, powerless prince could do except stand by and watch.

Well, maybe there was one thing.

Exhaling into the gentle breeze, Vegeta made one final attempt at asserting some form of power. "Then at least give him a head start."

Nappa grunted out an approval and dropped his captive.

Seconds later, the sound of slapping feet drowned out the furious beating of Vegeta's heart.

It was victory, but it was hollow.