IV

Unlikely

Bulma, as always, was a wonderful host. She threw great parties and Trunk's second birthday was no different. He'd had a two-tier cake, and Bulma knew, he'd devour on his own if no one was there to stop him. Perhaps the only person who hadn't shown up for the tot's birthday was his own father, but Bulma didn't want to bring that up at all. But she did hear Yamcha grumbling a bit about it. He seemed to always want to get back together around occasions and holidays, Christmas and birthdays and the like. But she wasn't going to let any of that get her down today.

In the playpen with with Goten, Trunks was having a great time. Bunny was also in her element serving drinks and chatting away with some of her book club friends. Gohna and Dr. Briefs were in a deep discussion, shifting between theoretical physics, archaeology in Iran and the androids.

Oh! The androids.

Bulma sipped her champagne as she scanned the party scene, finally locating Krillin playing catch with Yamcha. Putting down her drink, Bulma approached the pair.

"Sorry, Krillin, could I talk to you for a second?" she asked as Krillin caught the baseball.

"Yeah," he said, casting a look to Yamcha, who shrugged. "What about?"

"I'll only be a second, I promise – let's go sit down somewhere."

Bulma found a small garden chair and table that wasn't being used and sat down. Krillin wiped his hands down his pants nervously, pursing his lips.

"So what's this all about, Bulma."

"Well," she started, inhaling. "I was in France last weekend, for Central City Fashion Week and all. Well I, I could be wrong, but I swear I saw Eighteen there. The android."

Krillin perked up. "Eighteen?" he cried. "Really?"

"Keep it down," Bulma said. "Anwyay, so I asked around, and apparently she goes by the name Lazuli – according to Gero's imprints, that was her original name."

"Wait, wait," Krillin said, shaking his head. "So what's she doing in France?"

"Working for Channel, apparently."

"And her brother?"

Bulma shrugged. "Hey, I don't keep tabs on them or anything. Who knows where he is. But, well, I thought given the circumstances, maybe you'd like to know she's living a normal life."

"Yeah," said Krillin, finding a torn piece of napkin on the table and rolling it under his finger. "Yeah I guess. Thanks. It's good to know."

Bulma frowned and crossed her arms. "Sure doesn't sound like it. You really liked her, didn't you."

Krillin shrugged and found that suddenly his knees were awfully interesting. "She wasn't like any other girl I dated… It's been a year and a half since the end of the Games. I shouldn't be thinking about her so much."

Bulma pursed her lips. She could relate, at least. "Hey," she laughed. "I know what it's like to love a bad guy. I know Eighteen isn't at all like Vegeta, but you know what I mean. It can be tough. They're unreadable. Unpredictable. And for a long time you think you can fix them, but you have to accept that you can't. And that can be hard." Bulma put her hand on Krillin's shoulder. "But they'll come back sooner or later. They need you to know that you trust them."

Krillin shook his head, rubbing his forehead. "I thought I'd be happy with her living her life as she wanted. But deep down, I knew I'd be happiest if that meant being with me." He shrugged. "It's hard. Thinking constantly about where she is."

At that moment, Bunny took the opportunity to swing around towards the sullen-looking two, offering a tray of beverages.

"Lighten up, sweeties," she chirped. "It's a birthday party – happy days."

"Thanks Mum," Bulma said, taking two glasses of champagne from the tray.

"Aw, I really shouldn't," Krillin said. "I promised Roshi I'd clean the gutters this weekend."

"What a life," she snorted and clinked their glasses together. "Liven up, Krillin."

Krillin drank his champagne, scanning around the party again. Yamcha, it seemed, had ventured inside to watch a baseball match on television. Chi-Chi was breastfeeding the nine-month old Goten under the shade of a tree. A few people were standing by the bar and talking. Krillin cleared his throat.

"So… any chance of another baby, Bulma?"

The heiress scoffed and rolled her eyes, getting up from the chair, "Unlikely." Then she turned in to Krillin. "Coming inside? I think they're doing karaoke."

The karaoke lasted late into the night. Eventually, Yamcha convinced everyone to keep the party going in downtown West City and Krillin, with eight glasses of champagne and as the winner of beer pong under his belt, felt confident enough to go with him. Going out with Yamacha, one of three things were bound to happen. One, Yamcha would hook up with a girl, they'd have a good time at the bar and Krillin would go home. Two, Yamcha would hook up with a girl, and bring another for Krillin and they'd both score (that was the best time). Or three, Yamcha would hook up with a girl, forget about Krillin and go home, leaving Krillin at the bar thinking his friend had just gone outside for a cigarette (of which he claimed to Bulma he'd quit ). Third was the most likely option and at one-thirty in the morning, it had happened to Krillin again.

The bar was nice. It was dark. It was warm, and it was a long way away from Kame house. Krillin fidgeted over his drink. He'd promised he'd be back by now, but what did he have waiting for him? A perverted pig, an old man, and a talking turtle.

"Another round, sir?"

"Sure," Krillin nodded.

"We're closing up soon, thought I'd let ya know," said the bartender, pouring another gin and soda.

"Appreciated."

"And for you?"

Krillin looked up to the bartender and frowned. Who was he talking to? But the bartender wasn't looking at him, but at the woman strolling toward the bar and taking a seat beside him.

"A glass of white wine," she said, not taking her eyes from Krillin. "And hey."

"H-hey yourself," Krillin stuttered, and then turned back to the bar. "Um, on my tab please. I'll pay for it."

Eighteen smiled. Her hair fell from behind her ear and fanned across her face.

"Sweet of you," she said.

"How did you find me?"

"Ki."

"Oh, right," Krillin laughed. "That, um, that was dumb of me. What… what are you doing here? Bulma said, she um, saw you in Central City."

Eighteen turned to her drink and swished the wine around the glass before taking a sip.

"I don't know. I thought I was on my way to South City," she said. "But I felt you down here. Thought I'd say hi."

Krillin swallowed. "Well, H-hi."

Eighteen gave a small smile. "Hi."

Krillin took a large swig of his drink, hoping it'd calm his frayed nerves – but on his tenth drink, he worried this was some form of illusion from his depraved mind. A kind of alcohol-induced dream. The way she looked, it had to be a dream. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen – that hair, those eyes, her smile. The small amount of eyeliner she'd applied to her cat-like eyes, and the cupid's bow of her lips. The way she pushed her hair from her eyes and behind her ear floored him every time.

"I think I'm dreaming," Krillin admitted in a gush.

"Why?" Eighteen asked.

He laughed nervously. "I mean you, coming here after all these months, wanting to see me, it's unlikely. This… all this. It doesn't happen to guys like me."

Eighteen frowned. "Guys like you?"

Krillin looked into his glass, counting the seeds left in the wedge of lime – 3, the same as wishes from the eternal dragon – wishing he hadn't aired his insecurities like that.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Short guy. Bald guy. Weak guy. Lives with a talking pig in the middle of the ocean guy."

"Oh yes," nodded Eighteen. "I remember now."

The bartender approached them again and Krillin almost screamed inside. Oh no, oh please, not now. Five more minutes, five more minutes! Eighteen hadn't even touched her wine.

"Sorry guys," he said, taking the empty glasses from them. "We're closing up."

Krillin fished out a note while Eighteen slid off the barstool, her glass untouched and still frosty. Hurriedly, he paid the bartender and followed Eighteen out onto the street.

"Where – where are you going now?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "Back to Central City."

Krillin swallowed thickly.

"Do you want to go out to dinner with me?" he blurted suddenly. The fear that Eighteen would just up and disappear for another year or five was very real, and he couldn't let the opportunity slip past him.

"I don't eat food," Eighteen deadpanned.

"You don't?" he replied. "Oh crap, I mean. Aw. Well. A movie? Or something like that."

"Something like that," Eighteen agreed.

The street was empty and quiet – it was an early Wednesday morning and few people were out so late. Eighteen hovered just above the pavement, about to take off.

"So is that a yes?" Krillin asked.

"Saturday."

"Oh wow, really?" Krillin grinned. "Saturday. Gotcha, got it. I'll pick you up."

"I'll meet you in the Central Square," Eighteen said. "At seven. On Saturday."

Krillin laughed nervously, "Right, right, because I don't know where you live exactly. But you do, so um, come around anytime."

"Anytime," Eighteen repeated. "Bye now."

"Yep, haha," Krillin laughed. "Bye."

Eighteen turned and shot up into the sky. The rush of cold air to Krillin's face was enough to pull him out of his stupor.

That really happened.

Nothing could stop Krillin jumping in the air for joy. The buzz remained on the short flight back to Kame House. He was giddy in anticipation, and unable to believe that he'd seen her tonight.

But the night air did much to sober him so when Krillin landed, his stomach was twisting in knots from the guilt. It was Android Eighteen – she'd killed hundreds of people, and from what he could tell from what Future Trunks had said, she'd had no remorse for the things she'd done. In this timeline, she'd been indirectly at fault for killing his best friend. She'd hurt his friends, killed his friends, and had wanted to hurt him at some point.

Krillin entered the Kame House more confused than elated. Everyone was sleeping, the house was dark. He chucked a glass of water by the sink, climbed the stairs, pulled off his shoes and shirt and slept in his underwear. A tropical breeze swayed the curtains through the room, but not even the soft sound of the waves lapping at the shore of the island calmed Krillin.

At seven. On Saturday, he reminded himself.