Disclaimer: Unless a lot of people die, I'll probably never own Dragon Ball Z. And when I say 'a lot of people,' I mean the entire population of Asia and about half the population of the Americas. Not likely.

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Chapter Three: Strange Encounters

Seventeen looked around, slightly dazed. He stared out the window of the pod, and people stared back. He only knew one thing for certain:

The yellow pod was not a spaceship.

He pressed the release button for the top of the shuttle, climbed out, and morphed it back to capsule form. He glared at it for a moment before shoving it into his pocket.

Having gotten that out of the way, Seventeen decided that it was time to assess his situation. Firstly, he was surrounded by a group of people. A number of them were staring at him. His hand twitched; he severely disliked it when people stared at him with anything except fear.

Patience. He had nothing to gain from killing them. It would only draw unnecessary attention to him. However, all subtlety was probably abandoned by appearing out of thin air in the middle of what looked like a city.

By now, Seventeen's obvious hostility had driven all but the most intrepid onlookers away. Either that, or they had gotten bored. Whichever.

"Excuse me, sir?" Seventeen turned around. The man addressing him was a burly police officer. His voice was gruff and manly, matched by his bulging muscles. Seventeen rolled his eyes. The man had probably practiced looking tough in the mirror. He was not impressed. He chose to ignore the human. He had more pressing concerns.

Namely, where the hell was he?

Seventeen froze when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. "You seem to have created quite a disruption. On behalf of the West City Police Department, I'm obligated to take you into custody for blurg."

Note that blurg is the sound one makes when one suddenly finds a gaping hole in one's chest.

Seventeen strolled away nonchalantly, ignoring the panic swelling up behind him. He frowned at his arm. "Damn it. There's blood on my sleeve. Well, I guess I'll just have to get some other clothes," he mumbled to himself.

It was probably best. Different clothes would help him blend in. His reputation preceded him: shoulder-length dark hair; eyes the color of ice, with about as much warmth; orange bandana; short-sleeved navy shirt atop a long-sleeved white one. No, if he wanted to hide from Trunks, he needed to change into something less obvious.

Two things about that thought bothered him.

One: Seventeen had no clue what he would do when Trunks found him. That was inevitable. Seventeen had killed Trunks' mother, something the boy would never forgive. He was starting to regret that. Well, not really.

Two: Why hadn't his mere appearance started a panic? People didn't start freaking out until after he had killed someone. Either these humans were incredibly dim-witted, or they didn't know who he was.

Still pondering his situation, he strolled into a clothing store. A few moments later, he strolled out of the now-burning store, carrying a bag of clothes.

Pfft. Like he would actually pay for anything. He took off, searching for a place away from all these humans where he could figure out what to do. He noticed a large park surrounded by imposing fences bearing signs declaring "Keep out! Trespassers will be prosecuted."

That would work. He flew over the fence, alighting amidst a copse of trees. Once there, he shed his bloody, tattered, and somewhat repulsive-smelling clothes. He donned the new outfit he had purchased at the store: a white t-shirt, a black short-sleeved hoodie, and a pair of slightly baggy blue jeans. The jeans were a little loose, resting low on his hips.

He turned to the pile of abandoned clothing. He leaned over and, in a fit of sentimentality, picked up his orange bandana and shoved it in his pocket, which now housed the entirety of Seventeen's belongings: the bandana, the yellow capsule, his energy pistol, and a plain black hair tie that he had stolen from Eighteen just to annoy her. It had worked; she had set him on fire in retaliation, annoyed when he put the fire out before it did any damage.

Something of a fond smile ghosted across Seventeen's lips. They had had fun, he thought as he set the tattered clothing on fire. Eighteen had kept Seventeen from being bored. Now he had no one to play with, all thanks to Trunks. Somehow, the Saiyan boy would have to pay for that.

He used the hair tie to pull his long hair back into a messy ponytail. Walking over to a nearby pond, he noted with approval that he was not easily recognizable as a mass-murdering heartless cyborg. That was probably for the best, even though that was his favorite thing about himself: his power and his cruelty. He never claimed to be normal. Or sane.

First thing's first. Where was he? All he knew was that it wasn't outer space. The stupid police officer had said that this was West City. Seventeen knew for a fact, however, that he and his sister had destroyed West City a year of two after they had arrived. He had just left from West City, where he had personally seen general decay and mayhem. He sighed, deciding that it would be easier to just check his radar.

He frowned. According to the radar, he was in West City. Also according to the radar, there were over a million people milling about.

Seventeen grunted. He doubted that they had left that many humans alive, much less in one place.

His mind was reeling. Nothing today made sense. First, the Saiyan brat had become abnormally strong seemingly overnight. Second, said brat had killed Eighteen. And third, Seventeen had no idea where he was because it sure as hell wasn't the West City that he knew and loved to destroy.

He started pacing. What to do, what to do? His first thought was to go on a killing spree. As fun as that sounded, it was probably not the best idea when it came to hiding from Trunks.

His second thought was his plan of going to space. Unfortunately, Seventeen had neither the means nor the knowledge now that the yellow capsule did not hold a spaceship.

His internal musings were rudely interrupted by a voice behind him. Incidentally, it was the last voice that Seventeen wanted to hear.

"Hey, you!" He spun around only to come face to face with Trunks.

Fuck.

Well, his freedom had lasted all of a half-hour. He tensed himself and prepared to fight a battle that he had no chance of winning.

"You dropped this," said the lavender-haired boy, an outstretched hand offer something to Seventeen. His orange bandana.

Seventeen stared, utterly bewildered. Had Trunks hit his head and forgotten that he hated Seventeen? Why wasn't he attacking?

Trunks stared back, still offering the bandana. Seventeen reached for it numbly, waiting for Trunks to grab his arm and break it in half. Shoot him in the stomach. Something like that.

Nothing happened. Seventeen took the bandana and put in back in his pocket. Trunks made no move to attack. Indeed, he didn't even look prepared for a fight. He stood there, arms crossed, wearing a business suit of all things. Not exactly prime fighting gear.

Trunks continued to look at Seventeen, his gaze holding mere curiosity rather than unquenchable hatred. "Now, who are you and what are you doing here?" Trunks asked, running his had through his hair with an annoyed gesture.

Seventeen reeled. Who was he?! He wanted to scream that he was the destroyer of armies, the scourge of the planet. He wanted to shout at Trunks that he had killed his father, his mother, his mentor, and pretty much everyone else Trunks had ever known. How could he not recognize him?! His change in clothes wasn't that deceptive.

The blow to his pride almost made Seventeen attack Trunks head-on. Before he did anything, however, Trunks spoke again. "Well? Do I need to call security?" he asked, arching his eyebrow questioningly.

Seventeen was stumped. Trunks didn't know who he was. Well, might as well grab on to this odd surprise and see where it took him. He needed a name, any name. "I'm… Akira. Sato Akira," he said. Well, that works. And it was only sort of a lie.

Now, as a rule, Seventeen avoided lying. Normally, any truth Seventeen delivered was more painful and twisted than any fabrication he could come up with. Plus, it had the added bonus of reality; you couldn't wish it away like a bad dream. Despite that, Seventeen decided that it would be beneficial to avoid flaunting his identity if Trunks was a little slow in recognizing him.

Seventeen enjoyed life.

"Well, what are you doing here? This area's off-limits to civilians. Furthermore, how'd you get back here? If the guards are slacking off, there will be hell to pay." Trunks tapped his foot in impatience.

It was all Seventeen could do to prevent himself from attacking the boy. Who was he to tell the mighty Seventeen where he could or could not go?! Once again, he restrained himself out of self-preservation. But before he could formulate a response that was not overtly hostile, a woman's voice interrupted.

"Trunks, honey, is that you? Tea's ready if you want some!" An older woman with curly blond hair walked in to the garden. A cursory glance at his databases told Seventeen that this was Trunks' grandmother. Also according to his information, she had died over fifteen years ago.

What the hell?!

Seventeen sighed, deciding that this day made no sense. He was probably having a circuit malfunction and none of this was actually happening. Yep, that's what he would tell himself.

The pseudo-Trunks in his fabricated world seemed capable of only one state of mind: irritation. He sounded testy as he said, "He's not really my friend, Grandma. He…"

The rest of the sentence was cut off by the blond hostess. "Oh, nonsense. You know that friends of yours are always welcome. Come on over here and I'll bring you boys a little something to eat." With that she hustled off, fully expecting the bewildered and irate pair behind her to follow.

Trunks looked at Seventeen in exasperation. "Well, come on. If I send you away now, I'll never hear the end of it. There's no reasoning with that woman." He turned on his heel and followed his grandmother, not bothering to check if Seventeen accompanied him. If he left, well, that wasn't Trunks' problem, now was it?

Seventeen approached the room into which the two humans had entered. He did not like this. He had officially been in this place for twenty-three minutes, and he still had no clue as to what was going on. If this was real, then he needed to get his wits about him quickly.

Upon entering the room, he found a large, bare table surrounded by a multitude of chairs. Seated at the head of the table was Trunks, his arms draped nonchalantly across his chest. He raised an eyebrow as Seventeen hesitated at the door. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, saying, "Go head and sit down, Akira."

Another moment of confusion. Akira? Oh, right! That was him. Seventeen cringed internally as he selected a chair a couple of seats away from Trunks. He was going to have to get used to it, though at this point, he would almost prefer being blown up by the real Trunks. This was stupendously boring. He hated being bored.

A few moments later, Mrs. Briefs strolled in carrying a platter of cookies, cakes, pies, and any other sort of delicacy one could imagine. She set the platter before the boys, chatting all the while. "It's so good to see Trunks socializing with boys his own age. Lately, he's been cooped up in his room, doing nothing but studying and brooding. I haven't seen Goten in months, and they used to be such good friends!"

Yet another wave of confusion. Who the hell was Goten?! That name didn't even show up in his database. Seventeen was so busy trying to figure everything out that he didn't notice when Mrs. Briefs departed and silence settled like an oppressive shroud over the room.

Trunks cleared his throat. "Well?" he asked, a hint of impatience in his voice.

Seventeen clenched his fists. Screw being polite. He seemed to be in no immediate danger. Plus, pseudo-Trunks was pissing him off. "Well what?" he sneered.

"What were you doing in our private park?"

Seventeen counted to ten, trying to calm down. When that didn't work, he counted higher. By the time he reached fifty-seven, he determined that it wasn't helping. The tone in the boy's voice, as if he thought himself better than Seventeen, irked him to no end.

"When one is given a name, it is common courtesy to give one's own name in return," he snapped. He didn't know why it mattered; he knew Trunks' name, unless this bizarre world had changed that too. Still, he was pissed, and was determined to piss Trunks off in kind. Brilliant? Probably not. Satisfying? Hell yes.

Trunks blinked, caught off guard. First of all, no one talked to him like that. Well, no one except his father, who treated everyone as if they were not worthy of breathing the same air as him. Everyone else, however, treated him with respect and often fear due to his inordinate intelligence and strength. But what really stumped him was that the other man didn't know his name.

He was Trunks Briefs, heir to both Capsule Corporation and the Saiyan throne, for all the good the latter was. A kingdom comprised of seven people was essentially useless. He tore himself away from his brooding, refocusing on the dark-haired stranger across from him.

Trunks smiled genially. "Excuse my poor manners. I just assumed that my reputation preceded me. I am Trunks Briefs, Vice President of Capsule Corporation." He watched the other man's face, waiting for a flash of recognition. When none was forthcoming, he continued. "Pardon me for asking, but where are you from? Everyone around here is familiar with my entire family."

Seventeen was caught off guard again. He could make up a background, but then he'd have to remember it later. That was far too troublesome. So he opted for being obnoxiously cryptic. "Far away," he replied smoothly, barely missing a beat.

Trunks leaned forward, his interest piqued. Why conceal something as simple as a location of origin? Either the man was hiding something, or he enjoyed mind games as much as Trunks did himself. "So, Akira from somewhere far away, what do you do? I mean, as a job," he inquired, his eyes never breaking hold with those before him.

Seventeen leaned forward in turn, an idea forming in the back of his mind. "I guess you could say I'm a vagabond." He smiled rakishly.

Trunks was about to ask exactly what that meant when a beeping sound emitted from his wrist. He glanced down at his watch. "Shit," he muttered. "I have to go. Feel free to stay as long as you like. My grandmother loves having people to feed." He excused himself hastily from the table.

"It was nice meeting you, Akira. Stop by again anytime you like. It's refreshing to have someone so interesting to talk to." After saying farewell, Trunks began to walk out of the room. He paused and glanced back; the dark-haired man was watching his exit. He shrugged mentally and departed.

Interesting.

Funny, that was just what Seventeen was thinking about this other Trunks. Maybe this world wasn't so terrible after all. Even if he couldn't blow up as many people as he liked.

A sadistic smile spread across Seventeen's face. One thing was certain: he had found something to alleviate his boredom.

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Thank you for reading! As always, please feel free to leave any comments. Reviews make my day infinitely better! They are like virtual hugs!

-Shadow