by gamzee, it's been nearly ONE YEAR since i last updated?! how the fefeta did that even happen?!

(i'm hells of Stuck in the Home, chums. hussie has somehow infected me with some srsly inordinate juggalo hatelove.)

to those of you who're still around, i'm so sorry to keep you waiting, and i promise i'm still in this for the long haul. even if it's shaping up to be one seriously loooooooooong f*ckin' haul. although there's some good news: VEGETA FINALLY GETS HIS MOTHERF*CKIN' THEFT ON IN THIS CHAPTER ALL WITH THE SHIP OF SPACE N' SH*T. mIrAcLeS.

and lovelovelove, muchly of the love, much muchness, much muchly muchness of all of the love to my reviewers, spare though ye' may be. i cannot tell you how much your words help me stay motivated. :3

['disclaimers are brutal shit-ninjas with turds for nunchucks.' -roxy, hstuck]


chapter nine

Bulma watches her reflection in the vanity mirror as she runs a brush through her hair, brooding over its unmanageable length. Sulking, she wonders at the point of keeping it so long when there's no one around to appreciate it. Personally, she's always preferred it short, shoulder-length at most, and only ever bothered growing it out because Yamcha'd once professed a preference for longer hair.

Yamcha. She clutches the brush to her breast, where a wrenching pain twists through her like a knife. With a guilty grimace, Bulma acknowledges her dead boyfriend hasn't much entered her thoughts since she'd gotten back from Namek. It isn't that doesn't miss him anymore -she does, occasionally badly enough that she experiences actual physical discomfort, but the moments are fleeting, the occasions fewer and further between. At first she'd needed diligence to repress her grief, to blot out the all-too-vivid memory of watching him die before her very eyes, but these days, tuning out the heartache is no longer the chore it used to be.

She tries to tell herself this's only true because he's so soon to return, and probably also because the dragonballs've dulled and otherwise seriously distorted her appreciation for the finality of death, but a part of her reads these as the half-truths they are. Unsurprisingly, this is the same part of her that's recently uncovered an inappropriate...awareness of a certain deadly alien hobo, and knows the root source of her distraction lies far afield of such flimsy rationalizations.

Which is more repugnant still, because she's been 'distracted' for months. Meaning Vegeta's sudden relocation to a decidedly raunchier corner of her headspace isn't nearly as sudden as it seems. She guesses this means that, on some level, she's always found him appealing, in a wicked-dangerous, allure-of-the-forbidden, purely carnal fantasy kinda way...though it'd been an easy enough thing to overlook when the first time she'd laid eyes on him was through a television screen, with the knowledge that he'd come to lay waste to her world and leave no survivors. The image of his face, scored by a tiny, twisted grin while his creepy, acid-brained monsters kamikazed her boyfriend, was one that was with her constantly on the flight to Namek, haunting her dreams, inhabiting her deepest fears as fevered visions of him finding and killing her without mercy or compunction. On Namek, the dreams had only gotten worse, and significantly so after she watched him -without the remove of the tv or Baba's crystal ball- put his arm through the guts of that once-gorgeous-turned-lizard-demon blue guy, then smilingly demand the dragonball Krillin'd gone through hell to retrieve.

Then, though he hadn't chosen it for himself, he came back to Earth. She learned, within the first half hour after the wish that brought her home, that Vegeta had fought with her friends against Freeza, that Vegeta had died, and that he had been inadvertently revived as a direct result of his defection from Freeza's army. Astonishing developments, certainly, yet then of more immediate importance was the matter of his apparent disinterest in sadistically murdering anyone in cold blood. He'd played it pretty fast and loose with the hurtful and horrible provocations, but otherwise made no real move to draw anyone into an actual altercation -until he creamed poor Gohan, at least, but that had been a blessedly brief (if admittedly emotionally harrowing) affair, over as quickly as it'd started. As far as Bulma could tell, even that had likely been more posturing than a real attempt on the kiddo's life.

With everything else happening at the time, this'd all just been noteworthy-weird in passing, and had paled in memory to the moment he unexpectedly spoke up and gave them the key to bringing Goku home. The solution was an obvious one, one she or Gohan or someone would've worked out eventually, allowed the benefit of some space to process their loss. But, ulterior motives or not, one of the more recent villains to join the ranks of Goku's mortal enemies had still inexplicably helped, contributed something important and uplifting in an extremely bleak moment.

"Oh," she breathes, meeting her own eyes in the mirror. Epiphany flashes through her, offering the answer to an increasingly burning question -four months grasping vainly after any rational reason why Vegeta no longer inspired the same sort of paralyzing, mortal terror he used to, only to realize she's subconsciously known why all along. It's so obvious now; she's been here she doesn't know how many dozen times before, at the crossroads with one of Son-kun's endless supply of arch rivals, unknowingly beholden to the unintended transformation of vengeance-fueled foe to grumpy, begrudging friend.

Bulma acknowledges the possibility that she's calling this one prematurely -Vegeta's every bit the frustrated psychopath he's probably always been, and he's hardly 'friendly,' but then, she could say the same things of Piccolo, and she's more sure by the day that the Demon King's an ally for keeps. In any case, for someone with such a catastrophically bloody history, she decides that -all things considered- Ol' Veggie's actually been remarkably well-behaved. Destructive, petty, inexcusably rude, a volatile blend of demanding and vindictively impatient, and generally menacing, yeah, but he's somehow not quite the insatiably blood-thirsty caricature she'd imagined.

And maybe that doesn't count for much in the grander scheme of things, but she thinks it's probably significant all the same.

Anyway, here she sits, hours away from wishing back her best-friend-slash-ancient-legend-come-to-life, as yet unmurdered. For weeks and weeks, she and Vegeta've been flaying one another alive with words, and not once has he raised a hand to hurt her. He has raised his hands to do...other things to her, salacious-seeming things -a warm-calloused thumb skimming up her wrist-

The brush claps hard against the vanity, where she's just hurled it in frustration. She has got to cool it with this Vegeta preoccupation. Everything's six damn degrees of the guy these days.

The intercom slices cleanly through her train of thought, making her start: "Bulma, sweetie, you've got a visitor!"

"Who is it?" She asks of her mom, mentally listing through everyone she knows who's still alive who might possibly've come to call. Her mother doesn't answer, which is irritating but by no means unprecedented, so she knows not to keep trying. Instead, she hastily tidies the devastation she'd just wrought, and pulls her hair back into an efficient ponytail as she flounces downstairs to greet her guest.


Puar raises a tentative paw in greeting where he hovers at the threshold between living room and kitchen, and Bulma finds herself shaken by the shock of her inattention.

"Goodness, Puar; it's so good to see you." On saying it, she finds she absolutely means it. The shape-shifter ducks his furry head, eyes watering, and makes a bee-line for Bulma's neck. She feels the soft length of his tail winding familiarly along the nape of her neck, and quietly smoothes the fur at her friend's back.

"Oh, Bulma, I've missed you!" Then, hysterically, "And poor, poor Yamcha!"

"Shush, shush," Bulma soothes, "he'll be back before we know it. And today Son-kun and Krillin're coming home!" The need to divert the sudden attack of guilt rushes through her. "Dunno if you were just stopping by for the wishing, but if you'd like to stay, I could sure use the non-parental company." Bitterly reflecting on Vegeta, she adds -with a definite sour note to her tone, "Or the friendly non-parental company, I should say..."

Warmth swims in the feline's still-wet eyes.

"I'd love to stay!" Relief washes through her.

"Great! I was actually just about to head out to the kitchens to see if I couldn't help mom and Chi-Chi start setting things up for the party later; what say we set you up in Yamcha's old room and then go together?"

"Sounds delightful!" She smiles fondly and leads off, finding it easier to break the unavoidable Bad News to her old friend when she doesn't have to look him in the eye. Really, though, she doesn't know why she's so uneasy. In the ten-some years they've been a couple, the level-headed one between Bulma and Yamcha has always been Puar. Puar will understand, and even if he doesn't take her side (though she can't remember the last time he didn't, the sensible darling), he'll see why she had to do what she'd done...hopefully.

"So, uh," she clears her throat, "don't freak out or anything, because everything's totally under control, but I figure I should probably warn you to look out for—"

"AHHH!" Puar suddenly shrieks, and Bulma casts an automatic glare over her shoulder at what can only be her very own live-in Saiyan, currently rudely baring his canines at her long-time friend. In the seconds that follow, a quaking bundle of fur tucks itself against her in a dread-fright, and Vegeta, seeing Puar's slipped his threat display, turns it happily on her. She rolls her eyes and directs her words at the cat glued to her stomach.

"Like I was saying, you should probably watch out for Vegeta, Prince of eating all our food and bitching all the time." To soften the impact of her less-than-flattering introduction, she sticks her tongue out at the alien bully, and Vegeta's fierce expression tips up in lethal amusement. Her stomach lurches sharply, and she tells herself to stop it, that they make special-horrible HFILs for girls who crush on their boyfriend's murderers.

Sensing that he's gearing up for a retort, she turns up her nose and leaves the room, Puar clinging and terrified at her elbow all the while. She feels his gaze on her back all the way up the stairs, and does everything in her power to ignore the ever-loving hell out of it.


When they reach her room, Puar unfurls himself and floats to the terrace doors, setting his furry paws dramatically against the pane overlooking the lawn.

"Bulma, what on earth are you thinking? He killed Yamcha!"

"Hey now, don't go pointing fingers at me; Goku's the one who decided Prince Jerkface deserved a second chance. Even if I disagree, what'm I supposed to do about it?"

"I hardly know, but offering him a place to live doesn't seem like it should've made the list!"

"This isn't exactly easy for me either, Puar, knowing the horrible things he's done –the horrible things he still plans to do, but I think the safest option for everyone is to keep him close. Maybe he'll never warm up to us, but maybe our hospitality'll at least make him think twice before he tries to blow the planet to smithereens. And if not, at least in the meantime he's not out doing...y'know, whatever it is alien gangsters do in their spare time. It's not ideal, I know. But for now, I really think this's for the best." He looks a long way from convinced, but defers nevertheless to her judgment. She breathes a soft sigh of relief.

"If you say so..." The shape-shifter arcs around to look at her. "Still, this doesn't...feel right."

"Preachin' to the choir here."

"And Bulma," Puar starts again, hesitantly, "what -what happens when Yamcha comes back?" She knows precisely what he's asking: how is she planning to tell Yamcha she's sheltering the guy who killed him under her roof? The thing is, the answer to this already-uncomfortable question has recently become...complicated. "How can you even bear to have him here?" Phantom heat shivers across her jaw, a lingering reminder of Vegeta's breath on her skin, and invisible evidence of her body's (totally involuntary!) response to his sinister insinuation: "Just what 'game' do you imagine we're playing?"

In the hangover confusion of this wanton flash of memory, she finds she has no answer.

Puar continues, "And how could Yamcha possibly be expected to live here while he's around?" She realizes that Puar's not provoking her intentionally, that he's just concerned for his best friend, but this compassionate understanding is meaningless in the face of her unexpected touchiness on this particular subject.

"Are we even together, Puar? We were fighting before this Saiyan business happened, and I'm not obligated to forgive him just because he went and got himself killed!" She feels immediately bad for saying it; it's true, Yamcha'd been dating around in the 'off' portion of their on-and-off relationship before the Saiyans had shown up, and they had been at odds over it, but hadn't she resolved a hundred-hundred times since he'd died that she'd let it all go, allow them a chance to start fresh? When had that iron-clad resolve melted away?

She feels edgy at the notion that she'd only started to rethink her position after she'd gotten back from Namek...which, as it happens, coincides with the arrival of-of NO ONE, because that's as far as she lets that line of thought go.

Running a hand through her hair, already regretting her spaz attack, "I'm sorry. I...that's not what I mean. You know I love him, Puar, and I miss him like crazy, but we've got a lot to figure out after he's home. Evil marauding space aliens or no." Puar settles a reassuring paw on her shoulder.

"You're right, of course. I'm sorry for jumping on you right after I got here..."

And, because she has no filter, she replies: "No, believe me. I need all the tough love I can get when it comes to Vegeta." Puar gives her a very strange look, a vaguely suspicious widening of the eyes and mouth, and she clears her throat. "Anyway, there might not even be an issue -I still have no idea what Vegeta intends to do after Son-kun's wished back. But if he launches into full-out Battle Mode on my property, assuming he survives his beatdown, you can rest assured I'll be handing him his ass and his walking papers when Goku's finished with him."

"Well, that's...something." The shape-shifter acknowledges, still obviously concerned.

Desperately seeking deflection, "Should we adjourn? Mom n' Chi Chi've been goin' at it non-stop for the past couple days, and we're comin' up on Zero Hour as we speak, so they could probably use a spare hand or four." She knows Puar knows she's deliberately avoiding the gigantic, belligerent, Saiyan Prince-shaped elephant in the room, but she knows Puar also knows not to press her when she's so obviously not willing to discuss the matter. Plus, her mom and Chi Chi really could use all the help they can get; the Namekians've been up to some kinda 'traditional spiritual cleansing ritual' all morning, but they'd promised to be finished by noon -which is in roughly an hour. After that, they'll all either have a big, bitchin' feast, courtesy of the two best cooks she's ever known, or they'll all be up to their necks in the proverbial creek full of shit sans rowing apparatus, courtesy of her aforementioned metaphorical elephant. And Epic Showdown for Earth or not, actually, Son-kun's bound to be starving, so they're gonna need as much food as possible immediately on-hand for him to funnel down his throat.

"Alright," he acquiesces, "but Bulma-"

With resignation, "Yeah, I know, Puar. Just, let's put a pin in it for now; there'll be plenty of time for awkward-and-upsetting conversations after Son-kun's home." He lets it rest, as she'd expected he would, but she knows this discussion's far from over.


Summoning Porunga is an occasion of great consequence for the Namekians. There's a gravitas among them, a grave appreciation for the incredible power the dragonballs command that's absent entirely in the way Goku and his moronic friends've always used the orbs. Gohan's insisted that they, too, have their own traditions: Goku'd shared stories about his shrieking mate's grand feasts on wishing days, and told the kid all about the large, festive parties the blue banshee and the turtle hermit've thrown, but he has to imagine those're probably more about celebrating the return of butchered loved ones than to pay any respect to the dragonballs or the wishing itself. But for Piccolo's people, this is a rare and sacred affair.

Yesterday, the runt explained that, on Namek, the dragonballs had only ever been used in times of great calamity or exigence, and even then only by unanimous consent of the Council of Elders, following what sounded to Piccolo like a metric fucking ton of pointless, public deliberation. Pointless, because even after this arduous process, the final say was in the hands of the Saichourou, who could arbitrarily overturn whatever decision had been painstakingly reached by the Elders.

Still, tedious and absurd as it all seems to him, the part of him that was once Nail rationalizes that this system was clearly designed to make it as difficult as possible to use the dragonballs, precisely because their power is so tremendous. The dragonballs can undo death, grant untold power, reorder time, or even remake the very fabric of reality. Anything capable of such feats should neither be taken lightly nor abused.

Personally, Piccolo thinks the very existence of the dragonballs is one hilariously colossal 'fuck you' to the gods and the natural order of the Universe, and that they practically invite abuse: of course every self-serving bastard from every corner of every galaxy is going to seek them out in a bid for gain and glory. But, the Brain Parasite formerly known as Nail stubbornly insists, though the dragonballs may well inherently be seven shiny beacons perpetually beckoning evil hither, that is NOT why they were created.

Why the fuck were they created, then? He wonders irritatedly to himself, rolling his eyes when the residual Nail-bits predictably have no answer.

"For Peace," Muuri's voice spills out of the silence like a breaking tide, washing over the assembled and seeming at first to be directly responsive to Piccolo's unvoiced question. Inwardly fuming, deeply unhappy at the prospect of yet another fucking relative rooting around in his brain-"for Life," Muuri continues, and Piccolo realizes all of the Namekians have bowed their heads, and that they're quietly mouthing the words with their newly-appointed Saichourou-"for Balance." It's some kind of prayer, he realizes, some ritual chant of sacred purpose. The angry tension eases out of his shoulders, and he casts a sideways glance at his protege, whose head is likewise lowered out of respect for the ceremony, though he doesn't know the words to join them in their mantra, either.

Several days ago, when Muuri came to invite Gohan and himself to this very pre-wishing 'purification rite,' it had immediately shot to somewhere near the top of his very long list of Things He'd Intended to Avoid at All Costs, but the kid'd just as immediately promised they'd both be in attendance. And, because he's apparently completely incapable of denying his heir, here he now stands, in the Western quarter of the Briefs' terrarium, for what must be the seventh consecutive hour, bored out of his fucking skull.

They Namekians recount fond memories of their fallen bretheren (shockingly without anger toward or even mention of Prince Vegetable, who'd claimed the lives of those still lost), mourn and celebrate their previous Saichourou, meditate on the endless cycle of life and death and rebirth, memorialize the planet they'd tragically lost, and -the real meat of the ceremony- recite the storied history of the dragonballs: how they came to be; what means their very first Saichourou used to discover and tame Porunga, the Almighty Eternal Dragon; which wishes they had granted and which they'd denied; and who had been chosen to deliver the wishes to Porunga on behalf of them all.

Meanwhile, as the droning history lesson finally draws to a close, Muuri's voice can be heard again, and the hushed murmuring promptly quiets, "The Earthers have suffered through a terrible ordeal in the hopes of reviving their loved ones, and in the subsequent defense of our people, our planet, and ultimately, the entirety of the known Universe. For their bravery and selfless sacrifice, their profound compassion and hospitality, for the honesty and magnanimity of their wish to see their cherished nakama returned home, the council of Elders and I, myself, in my capacity as Saichourou, have unconditionally decided to make the Earthers' wishes a reality.

"For this task, by the will of the tribe, my son, Dende, whose bond with the Earthers runs deep and whose rapport with the Almighty Eternal Dragon is already established, has been selected to speak on behalf of our people and our new, dear friends." Piccolo's eyes ping to the runt, who -as ever- is right at Gohan's side (who is, in turn, right at his side). Dende freezes in place, and his eyes are wide with bashful astonishment, and Piccolo can tell from the naked shock slapped across his face that this's no small honor bestowed at whim: it's huge. "Dende," Muuri's voice parts the small sea of Namekians neatly down the middle, as they all step to one side and turn back to look at the runt, who by now is purple as a turnip from all the attention suddenly directed at him, "will you accept this sacred duty?" The runt's too busy short-circuiting to respond, and Piccolo smirks unkindly as the part of him that was once (and still occasionally is) the Demon King imagines Dende turning down this 'sacred' honor and leaving them all sputtering in disbelief.

Instead, Gohan reaches out, curls his chubby child fingers around Dende's, and offers him an encouraging smile. The "Yes!" comes squeaking outta the runt almost immediately, and Piccolo angrily waylays the mushy rush of pride he feels before it has a chance to smear itself all over his face.

For the next several minutes, while his kin pass out congratulations to Dende and warm sentiments to one another like it's going out of style, Piccolo waits impatiently for this thing to be fucking over already, and resumes his sentinel's watch over Gohan and the runt.

/-/


The Namekians' pre-wishing ceremony moves and fascinates Gohan: he sees in its enactment a deep and abiding sense of community, of family, and an absolute, unbending respect for the awesome power of their legacy, the dragonballs. And of course he's thrilled when Dende's chosen to represent his people and make their wishes to Porunga.

But, as genuinely captivated as he is by the rites, he can't help but to constantly wish things would move along more quickly, because -after all- it's the only thing still standing in the way of bringing his dad home. Really, though he does feel guilty about it, at best he's only half paying to any given thing happening for the duration of the ritual, 'cause his thoughts keep straying back to his dad, who's coming home today.

Today's the day his family'll finally be reunited. And maybe this time they'll have longer together than the few weeks' worth of healing they'd shared before he flew off with Krillin and Miss Bulma to help revive Mr. Piccolo and the rest of his father's friends. In his mind, that time barely counted anyway, since he and his dad had both been mostly incapacitated for the entirety of those too-short weeks.

Now, with no new threat hanging over their heads, he and his dad'll be able to go running around together in the woods, like they'd done before that fateful day at Kame House, so long ago. Only now, he can help his dad hunt and fish, and keep up without needing to be carried or borne on Nimbus. They'll play with the woodland animals, and spar, and bathe in rivers and fall asleep under the stars and wake up and fly home and eat breakfast with Mom -he can imagine it all: the wind in his hair, the smell of trees and grass and berries and a hundred hundred creatures, the sound of his father's laughter, the wide, unstoppable smile on his mom's face-

"Kid." He snaps out of his reverie guiltily when the familiar weight of Mr. Piccolo's hand falls on his shoulder. He blinks up first at his sensei, and then back down at his surroundings. All around him, the Namekians are moving inward, embracing, solemnly touching foreheads, extending an arm to clasp, a hand to hold, until they're all physically connected to one another, all at once.

Dende appears between Mr. Piccolo and himself, offering his hands. He doesn't hesitate to take hold, and Mr. Piccolo sighs heavily, but follows suit soon after, and together they follow Dende through to the heart of this congregation, where the Namekians warmly welcome them. Gohan's expecting some cue that'll let him know what he's supposed to do next, but after several seconds of comfortable quiet, there's still nothing to indicate what he should be doing, until-

"Thank you, brothers." Muuri intones from somewhere in the midst of the crowd. The Namekians lift their hands and touch fingers to foreheads, making some sign or salute, and echo the Elder's gratitude. Afterward, as one, they begin pulling away from each other, and then laughter and chatter erupt from every direction, all solemnity evaporating. Dende, too, gently disengages, and beams up at him.

"Showtime, huh, runt?" Mr. Piccolo asks in his customarily gruff fashion.

"Yes, sir!" His friend answers.

"It's...over?" Gohan wonders aloud, a little stunned at how, er, unceremoniously the long ceremony had ended.

"Yep!" Dende affirms.

He almost can't believe it. It's time. Right now. In the short stretch it takes them all to make their way to Miss Bulma's front lawn and summon Porunga, he'll have his dad back. And Krillin, too. For a long moment, he just stands there, at a loss. He's waited four months for this, but now that it's actually happening, it barely feels real, it's all happening so fast-

"Hey." For the second time in probably as many minutes, his sensei jolts him back to the present when a clawed-and-banded hand reaches down to tousle his hair (which is going to make Mom unhappy, but he's got more important things on his mind). He peeks up at Mr. Piccolo through his mussed bangs, and smiles to find his mentor wearing one of the surliest expressions he's ever seen, though Mr. Piccolo's aura -a soft, shimmery green- reveals a familiar contradiction. Gohan sees relief, or awe, or perhaps even joy in his teacher, though he doubts Mr. Piccolo would ever admit to as much. Still, the sight of it's enough to ground and steady him, to help him pull his head back onto his shoulders. "Let's go bring your old man home, kid."

Gohan doesn't need to be told twice. He grabs Dende's hand and shoots out of the terrarium at top speed, and his excitement's explosive, dizzying, exhilarating.

I'm coming, dad!


The word 'impossible' doesn't exist in Goku's vocabulary, and never has. Some things're just more difficult than others, 's all. Like figurin' out that when Chi Chi says she's "fine," she almost certainly means she's exactly the opposite of 'fine.' That'd taken him years to finally put together. Learnin' how to use and master the Kaio-ken hadn't been easy, neither; he'd nearly burned himself up from the inside-out hundreds of times. (It was a good thing he'd been dead at the time, actually, 'cause he can't imagine he'd've survived the trainin' otherwise.) He'd gotten the hang of it eventually, though, and now he can flash it on and off at will, without pain or injury, for pretty much as long as he needs.

So he knows masterin' Instant Transmission's only a matter of focus n' effort: he can do it, just...not yet. And probably not for months more, if he's bein' realistic. For one thing, 'folding space' ain't as easy as he'd hoped it might be; he's gotta learn a whole new way of thinkin' about matter and energy -which is actually the easier part of the deal, since he hasn't really thought about either one before. The difficult part's havin' to think of himself in a new way, as an 'unfixed object, unbound by conventional spatio-temporal logics,' which is a string of words Matcha n' Taro -his teachers- had somehow pieced together from his memories of Bulma and Dr. Briefs, thinkin' it'd help him better understand how to go about teleportin' himself to a specific location across crazy huge distances.

...his teachers thought wrong. If anything, he understands the process now less clearly than ever.

So, instead, his teachers have him workin' on a different task: meditation. They want him to concentrate on pickin' up ki from further n' further away, and to try n' force his mind's eye to see not just the energy, but the entity the ki belongs to, too. That's how he'll know where to move, when the time comes. Finding and lockin' onto ki ain't the problem -he's been doin' that since before he knew that's what he was doin'. But seein' his target's a real struggle, and 'pparently that's not a step he can just skip over, 'cause that's the step that'll give him his 'vector' -and if his vector's even slightly off or otherwise incomplete, he could end up trapped in the 'interstitial space'he'd pinched together. And while he ain't super sure what the heck 'interstitial space' means, Matcha'd painted a pretty grisly psychic portrait of what'd probably happen to him if he got himself stuck inside it.

So far, he's built himself up to a point where he's capable of zeroin' in on Matcha and Taro from nearly halfway across Yardrat, but he still can't see 'em yet. Not even from much closer. It's one more new skill he's gotta perfect before he can start doin' some actual transportalizin'.

Still, he is makin' progress. Sloooow progress, which is frustratin', but he can feel himself inchin' closer to his goal every day. And, while he's painstakin'ly developin' all the different little pre-requisite techniques he needs to perform Instant Transmission, he's also -incidentally- teasin' out methods for gettin' a hold of his restless inner-Super Saiyan. Another couple months, and he thinks he'll prob'ly be ready to risk transforming again, for the first time since he crash-landed here. Then he can start trainin' again for real.

And it's all thanks to his awesome new friends. As spiritual teachers, the Yardrat-jin're second to none. Not even when he'd trained with Kami had he felt so totally spiritually secure. Realignin' his center'd barely took any time at all, and after he'd taken care of that, Taro n' Matcha n' Cacao n' Bpat started readily volunteering meditation techniques he'd never've thought up on his own, partly to help him rein in his unstable power, partly to help him learn Instant Transmission, but also partly just because. Add this to the fact that each n' every one of 'em's nearly as good at cooking as Chi Chi -although it's hard to compare, since none of the food here tastes anything like the grub back home- and he can't think of a better place to've been stranded.

Still, in spite of good company and great food, he does miss home. He loves his fightin' adventures and can't imagine that'll ever change, but...well, he loves his family, his friends, and Earth, too, and he'd always just sorta assumed he could have all those things all at the same time, all the time. Fight super strong bad guys, save the world, hang with Bulma n' Krillin n' Yamcha n' Tien n' Chaotzu n' Master Roshi, and go home to Chi Chi and Gohan at the end of the day.

Thought of his son makes his chest squeeze tight, and he presses his fingers wonderin'ly against his breastbone, a grin quirkin' at his mouth. An image of Gohan flashes into his mind -the wide, dimpled smile, the graspin' fingers and wild hair Chi Chi's constantly fightin' to tame, the bright purity of his aura only now beginnin' to hint at the incredible power he'll one day command...

Breathin' deep, he follows where the meditation bids, to a thousand-million memories of Chi Chi, scoldin' him, smackin' him, threatenin' him with ladles, curlin' around him in the dead of night, the softness of her hair 'gainst his shoulder, the warmth of her breath against his skin, the tread of her dreams sad, anxious for his inevitable leavin'-

SON GOKU, a voice like a bolt o' thunder booms into his brain, joltin' him out of his trance n' nearly startlin' him sideways, YOU HAVE BEEN WISHED BACK TO EARTH. For a falterin' instant, he doesn't know what to think about this announcement, 'til he remembers this's happened once before, a year after he'd died fightin' Radditz. He realizes he prob'ly should'a expected this...of course his friends're tryin' to bring him back: they don't know he's still alive, that he's stayed gone by choice.

Oi, Chi Chi's gonna be maaaaaad...

Bracin' himself, "Ahhh, sorry," he says, out loud, not really sure if the Eternal Dragon can hear him but definitely sure he doesn't know how to have a conversation with his mind, "But I hafta stay here."

Awkward silence follows.

THIS IS...A REFUSAL? The strained disbelief he hears makes Goku wonder how often the Eternal Dragon's been turned down. Maybe never? YOU ARE CERTAIN?

"Yep, 'fraid so. I can't leave just yet -I'm still trainin'!" He waits outta courtesy for the Dragon to answer, but when all he gets is a long stretch o' nothin', "Uhhh...hello?"

WHAT.

"Ahh," he begins, oblivious entirely to any bounds he might be oversteppin', "if it ain't too much trouble, could'ja tell everyone I'll definitely be back, soon as I can?"

Immediately, in a voice like rocks rainin' down a mountain: I AM NO MEAN CREATURE TO ATTEND YOUR INSIGNIFICANT SOLICITATIONS, MORTAL. I AM THE ETERNAL AND ALL-POWERFUL-

"Pleeeeease?"

Finally, with a sigh like a spent hurricane, AS YOU WILL.

"Wow, thanks!" He returns, though there ain't a reply at all this time 'round, so he knows the link's prob'ly been cut for good. Which is just as well, since now he's more determined than ever to learn this technique and get back home to his family.

Wait up for me, guys.


Vegeta makes up his mind before the Earthers can even begin to decide what they mean to do with their wish: he's going to space.

If Kakarrot's going to spend the next who-knows-how-long out there learning some impossible new technique (and what the hell else could that mindless waste of skin possibly be up to?), he sure as hell isn't going to sit idly by, twiddling his thumbs on this insane fucking rock. He'll fall behind if he stays here, among this demented troupe of weakling fools.

He pushes away from the wall, gaze sweeping perfunctorily over the assembled idiots, lingering, for an instant, on Bulma's profile, aglow. This does nothing for him but to confirm the dire necessity of his leaving.

Then, without a second thought, he sprints for the ship, ready to be quit at last of this freakshow.


Finding out Son-kun's been alive and well this whole time turns out not to be such a happy twist, after all. Because wherever the hell he is out there, he's been staying on purpose. He chose not to come home. And just now he'd chosen to stay who-knows-where to do who-knows-what for who-freaking-knows how much longer, with shit-all to say to any of them beyond a vague promise to be back 'as soon as possible.' Kami, why must all of her male friends be such perennial fucking idiots?!

Bulma's heart breaks all over again at the sight of Son-kun's wife and child, both of whom look devastated and uncomprehending in the wake of these shocking developments.

For her own part, she doesn't know what she's feeling more -hurt, betrayal, curiosity, resignation, anger, or soul-deep sadness. In fact, they all seem to be trapped in some sort of emotionally turbulent stupor, as no one's spoken a word in minutes. Even at the massive immortal dragon's exasperated prompting.

Ultimately, it's Muten Roshi who -in trademark style- breaks the tension by cracking wise about the 'legendary Super Saiyan's legendary fear of his wife,' thus restoring a semblance of levity and normalcy to this oppressively unhappy atmosphere.

Afterward, they turn to the matter of who they should bring back instead of Goku, and, following some supernatural hijinks, resolve that, in addition to Krillin, they'll be reviving Yamcha, too.

Which is great, obviously. More than great, actually. Fantastic! Extraordinary!

It's just...suddenly she's going to have to confront an extremely unpleasant interpersonal situation much earlier than planned. Her heart lurches, and her turmoil over Son-kun's apparent abandonment compounds. What's she going to do? Vegeta and Krillin probably won't be on friendly terms, but at least they'll have some recent history as allies to fall back on. But...Vegeta and Yamcha, sharing the same airspace? When the last time they'd met Vegeta'd science-magicked some space monsters into existence to murder Yamcha?

This is going to be a mess-

-is what she's thinking until she feels the tell-tale rumble of the earth under her feet, and hears the equally telling explosive burble of engines firing up, and realizes that the Prince is nowhere in sight and oh, that miserable-thieving-jackass-

And thus is her turmoil transfigured into volcanic fury, and her worries laid to rest, when Vegeta absconds with her spaceship.

...she supposes this means he's not coming to the barbecue, after all.


*the yardrat names, in case it wasn't clear, are all courtesy of goku, who's named them all after foods sharing the same color as their spots: taro=purple mottle, matcha=green spots, cacao=dark brown, bpat=reddish-brown (bpat is the korean word for 'red beans,' which are used in all kindsa korean and japanese desserts; weird texture, but super tasty!)

next chapter: krillin n' yamcha epilogue-ificate.

because.

BECAUSE.

we have OFFICIALLY REACHED THE END OF PART ONE YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

there'll be a couple of chapters following with ol' veggie in space, then goku's homecoming, and then, finally, like three years and way-too-f*ckin'-many-chapters after i initially promised -the (shitty!)TWIST.

haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarts