Bulma sat down on her bed, taking a much-needed mid-day smoke break when she heard a rumbling outside her balcony door. When she stepped outside, she smiled with surprise and glee at the helmet-hidden woman in the motorcycle hovering above.

"Tights! Long time, no see!"

The woman pulled her helmet from her head, revealing her cropped blonde hair and face that looked uncannily similar to Bulma's. She was Tights, Bulma's older sister.

"Sheesh, between you and mom I don't know why I'm so nervous about aging," Bulma said, marveling at her sister's ceaselessly youthful face.

Tights laughed and hopped off the bike. "Keep smoking and you oughta be."

With a cringe, Bulma swiped her cigarette to the ground and stepped on it. "So, what brings you back here? Omori's island getting dull?"

As she capsulized her motorcycle, Tights groaned. "I've got serious writer's block, so I figured doing some traveling would help. What better way to get my mind moving than talking with my genius of a sister?"

"Let's chat in the kitchen! Trust me, everything that's been going on lately will give you material for a whole franchise," Bulma said, turning towards the door.

"Nice to see your city rebuilding itself," Tights observed. "But didn't you say those giant monkey attacks were done with after your buddy got rid of his tail?"

"Oh, it's a looooong story."

A half-hour later, the two sisters were sitting at the kitchen table, laughing with a coffee mug in each hand.

"Man, sorry again about the Galactic Patrol not being any help for finding your friend's son," Tights said. "As soon as I said the word 'Saiyan,' Jaco pretended his signal went bad. At least the kid's back now."

"To be honest, if Goku really had found him somehow, he'd have been a dead man," Bulma replied. "Those Saiyans were ruthless and way stronger than just about anybody here."

Tights restlessly nodded. "You're tellin' me. You wouldn't believe the stories I've…"

Her sister's sentence fell to the wayside, jaw sinking as she looked up.

"Good golly Miss Molly…"

Bulma was confused until she turned around. Vegeta had just walked into the kitchen and to the refrigerator, shirtless with his scarred and chiseled physique on full display. He turned away from the refrigerator with a curious gaze at Tights, who stared at him like a big piece of chicken.

Through sheer willpower, Tights pried her eyes away from Vegeta and to her sister. "Is this your new man? Sheesh, talk about an upgrade from Yamcha. Don't get me wrong, Yamcha's a nice-looking guy, but…"

"He's not," Bulma giggled, though when she realized she had to stop herself from saying 'I wish,' her face went pale. Where had that even come from?

"This is Vegeta." She turned towards the Saiyan and pointed at Tights. "And Vegeta, this is Tights, my big sister."

"Wait, Vegeta?!" Tights shrieked. Her admiration became trepidation. "As in, the Saiyan so notorious in space that the villain of my most popular novel was based on stories that I heard about him, Vegeta?"

Naturally, Vegeta responded with a devilish smile. "Appears I have a fan club."

While Bulma rolled her eyes, Tights pulled Bulma into a huddle and shrugged. "Hey, get it how you can, I guess."

"I'm not getting anything," Bulma corrected, though she couldn't help but giggle.

"When the hell does your father plan on building those bots?" Vegeta asked, drinking orange juice straight out the carton to Bulma's chagrin.

"It's been less than a day. And you should be walking around with eyes in the back of your head after your little stunt yesterday, anyway," Bulma warned, though Vegeta grunted in dismissal.

"Wait a minute," Tights said as Vegeta was leaving. "I think your buddy's kid is wanted for killing a Galactic Patrolman."

Vegeta stopped and turned back around, intrigue in his eyes.

"Oh yeah, you did mention something about that, right Vegeta?" Bulma asked.

"I was the one who killed him, actually," Vegeta bluntly replied, making Tights shiver. "And besides, it's not like they're a threat. Those guys would sooner eviscerate themselves than fight us."

"I dunno, from what Jaco told me one of his coworkers is pushing the case really hard." Tights rubbed her chin in thought. "I think his name was Mango? But maybe they're confident they can handle it."

"Foolish is more like it," Vegeta scoffed. "Tell your friend that if he really wants us, he can have us as long as he's ready to stop breathing."

On that grim note, Vegeta left. Tights waited for his footsteps to fade from earshot before she wearily huffed air. "Sheesh. I know I was swooning over him a minute ago, but are you sure you're comfortable being around a guy like that? He has…quite the body count, to say the least."

"Yeah, and he'll never miss a moment to brag about it," Bulma said as she absent-mindedly sipped her coffee, her eyes on the path Vegeta took out of the kitchen. "But honestly? He's kind of…harmless?"

Tights nearly fell out of her chair. "Seriously? That doesn't sound like the Vegeta I've heard of."

"Don't get me wrong, he's a handful; I didn't even have this many death threats flung towards me after my equal pay op-ed," Bulma quipped. "But dare I say that's just how he flirts and makes conversation?"

"Uh-huh." Tights chided Bulma with a dry, skeptical frown.

"I know, I know. But there's just something about him." A warmth fluttered in Bulma's chest as she thought about the Saiyan. "His pride, his fortitude, his-"

"Abs?" Tights interrupted.

Bulma groaned like she was still eight years old always a step behind the big sister. "Yes, those too."

After she finished her coffee, Tights' expression grew solemn. "I trust your intuition, but just don't get yourself in any danger."

"I know." Bulma shrugged. Their conversation underscored just how silly she should have felt for even developing feelings for a guy who had to be treated with the cautionary level of a silverback. Just as Bulma was about to get up, she overheard Goku's distinct laughter from down the hall. Soon enough, the wild-haired warrior entered the kitchen with a brown bag in his hands.

"Hey, Goku!" Bulma greeted. "What's up? Looking for Gohan?"

"Nah. I can't sense him or Piccolo, so I think they might be off trainin' somewhere," Goku replied. He blinked in surprise upon noticing Tights next to Bulma and pointed at her. "Hey! You're…what was your name again?"

While her sister had a good laugh, Bulma sighed at her aloof friend. "It's Tights, Goku."

"Nah, it's cool, Bulma!" Tights said with a dismissive wave before smiling at Goku. "How have you been? It's great to hear your son's back…even if it's been kind of a dumpster fire."

Goku scratched his head with a somber smile. "Yeah, he's been through a lot."

"But what brings you here now?" Bulma asked.

Goku raised the brown bag in his hand. "A whole new batch o' Senzu beans! I figure Vegeta could really use 'em, so I'll drop two off so he could have another one in case he needs it after a trainin' session, too." He walked to the kitchen table and dug two beans out of the bag, offering them to Bulma.

Bulma grabbed the beans and stared at them in her palm. "Cool, I'll-"

A devious light bulb lit up in her head. And a wicked smirk blackened her face.

"Oh, I'll make sure Vegeta gets 'em, alright."

Both Goku and Tights laughed anxiously at Bulma's tone, knowing full and well the bad intentions it carried. And anxious, they should have been. Vegeta was about learn why nobody should destroy one of Bulma's easily replaceable laptops.

Fresh off of a shower, Vegeta headed for the guest room. He was angry he'd sensed Goku's energy arrive and leave while he was in there, wishing he had a chance to settle the score in a spar even if he knew his injuries would have yieleded another embarrassing defeat. Nevertheless, he went to his room and dug in the closet for a pair of gym shorts, only to come up empty. No clothes were present, not even his dicey armor and bodysuit. That damn Bulma, clearly intruding on him with her fashion obsession.

He left the closet and searched through the dressers in the off-chance he might have placed them there and forgot. After finding nothing, he caught something on the bed out the corner of his eye. It was a box with a sticker on top of it that read, "For the plant-based Prince."

Vegeta tossed the snarky label aside and removed the top cover from the box. In it, a blindingly pink button-up shirt. His lips curling back and disgust, he unfolded the shirt in a single whip. The back was even worse than the front, bearing the word "BADMAN" in big black letters. Also in the box? A pair of yellow pants that Vegeta could tell one glance were too skinny for his legs.

Spit flinging from his grinding teeth, Vegeta slammed the shirt on the bed.

"WOMAN!"

His voice echoed through the entire compound.

"Yeeeeeeesssss?" He overheard Bulma's theatrically innocent voice answer from down the hall. She leisurely strutted into the doorway with a devious smile on her face and leaned against the frame.

"What the hell have you done with my clothes?!"

With transparent concern, Bulma frowned deeply and fluttered her eyes. "But I thought you wanted me to renovate them?"

Vegeta practically dug his fingernails into his palms, the vapid, high-pitched whine of her voice raising his blood pressure through the roof. "I said no such thing. You insisted."

She shrugged and scratched her chin, seemingly lost to the rage on the violent Saiyan prince's face. "Well, I gotcha new clothes for the time being, so it should be fine!"

"You call this fine?" Vegeta yelled, snatching the pink shirt and shoving it towards her. "This pink monstrosity?!"

"I think it'll look great on you!" Bulma glowed, hamming up her voice to sound more like her mother. "And those pants? Will really show off those muscular legs of yours!"

"The Prince of all Saiyans will not be degraded with these godforsaken rags!"

"Even better! Just walk around with your eggplant hanging out all day." Bulma's eyes lowered to the towel hanging from Vegeta's waist with a lustful smile. "I wouldn't mind."

Vegeta's cheeks went red. "Indecent little-! I'll just stay in here until you've returned my clothes."

"'Kay!" Bulma yelled, skipping off. Just as Vegeta thought he'd finally gotten some peace however, Bulma came hopping right back. "BTW, Goku dropped off some Senzu beans, so you can go back to your suicide-level training."

That was enough to take Vegeta's mind off the silly outfit. His skin quivered with anticipation ready not just to intensify his training, but feel his power skyrocket. His slow recovery had already brought significant gains, but the bean would speed up the process.

"Hand it over, then!"

Bulma dropped the vapid façade, folding her arms over her chest with that Frieza-like smile. "Ah-ah-ah! I'm afraid you'll have to earn these!"

Vegeta squared his shoulders as if he was facing the strongest opponent he'd ever encounter. "Is that so, little female?"

"Go ahead, take the beans out of my cold, dead hands."

If there was anything Vegeta hated more about the smirk on Bulma's face, it was the fact that he was, as she had put it, just the slightest turned on by her obstinance. What was her angle, anyway? Did she just want to torture him with the clothes? Or perhaps…? No, perish the wishful thought.

Worse yet, he didn't think he had it in him to kill her at this point, even without the threat of Gohan or Goku striking him down for it.

Granted, that couldn't stop him from convincing himself. He shook his fist at her. "When I'm done with Frieza, I will ensure that the last five minutes of your life are filled with nothing but misery."

Back to empty threats. And naturally, Bulma dismissed him with her widening smile.

"Aw, c'mon, I'm sure you're not that bad in bed."

He stared at her with incredulously enlarged eyes. He wanted to ask her if that was a challenge. She would answer with some coy response confirming as much, and they would be on the bed like pigs wrestling in mud. But that would be surrender, and Vegeta never surrendered in anything.

"Look, just put on the outfit I graciously gave you to spare yourself the pain," Bulma bargained. "Because this is only step one, anyway."

Bulma left for good. Vegeta marched to the doorway, a fist raised as he watched her leave. "It'll be the last step you ever take, fool!"

Vegeta grumbled and picked up the shirt, staring at it like it was Dodoria and his ugly mug. As morbidly amusing as Bulma may have been, her flippant behavior towards him was chipping away at his psyche. But if putting on some dumb outfit was the only thing standing between him and a new surge of power…we'll, he'd been subjected to far worse to get in a healing tank over the years. The dreaded shirt wrapped around his back and into his arms, and the yellow pants clenched around his legs.

A few minutes later, Bulma arrived and obnoxiously whistled in admiration. "My, my, my, you are ROCKING that 'fit, 'Geets!"

Vegeta's throat tightened to a straw's width. "Geets?"

Bulma covered her mouth as she laughed, looking down at his practically glued-on jeans and nearly doubling over.

"I look like a damn flower!"

"Well, you Saiyans are plants, after all!"

"Enough!" Vegeta snapped. "Hand over the bean."

Bulma cut her laughter short and folded her arms again. "You didn't hear me before? This is just step one!"

Vegeta's blood sizzled with dread. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"Weellll," Bulma began, "Since my sister's visiting, the two of us were gonna take my mom out for brunch, and you would be just the perfect plus-one!"

Vegeta's blood vessel popped.

Enough.

Seeing red, Vegeta raised his hand towards her head with his palm sticking out. Bulma's eyes widened when his hand began to glow with bloodthirsty Ki. It illuminated the room with a light that matched the color of her hair.

"V-Vegeta…?"

"Who the hell do you think I am?" Vegeta asked, his voice cold as ice. "I, the Saiyan prince, have dealt with embarrassment after embarrassment for my entire life from people beyond my grasp. I am sick of being your court jester for your personal entertainment, and I will not have my training for the fight I've been preparing for my entire life impeded by your leisurely, asinine bullshit."

Bulma swallowed heavily, fearful towards Vegeta for the first time since the day they met. This was not one of his empty threats – he had meant every word he said.

"Give me the bean. Now."

She nodded, frantically digging through her pockets. "I'm really sorry, I-"

"Bulma?"

Just as he was about to relinquish his Ki, Vegeta looked to the left. Tights was standing in the doorway, startled by the scene before her. Bulma reached out, trying to assuage her fears. "Tights, it's not-"

Her older sister had no interest in whatever excuse was coming and stepped in front of her. She glared at Vegeta with a fearlessness that was the spitting image of the blue-haired girl behind her in normal circumstances.

"I don't give a shit how many people you've killed. I don't even care if everyone here is fine having you around. But don't you dare hurt my sister." Tights defiantly to her chest. "You want to hurt her, you better go through me."

Vegeta lowered his hand. He should have been thrilled to finally be taken seriously. Treated like the savage wrecking ball he truly was; instead, he turned away.

Tights looked at Bulma and nudged her head towards the hallway. Immediately picking up the signal, Bulma stepped out with her on her trail. Before Tights had a chance to wear her down with a big sister lecture, Bulma seized the opportunity to get her word in first.

"There's pretty much no way to explain that, but I really did push him too far that time."

"Bull-shit," Tights scolded, to an anxious laugh. "You know what normal people do when they're pushed too far? They yell…or cry, in Jaco's case. They might even break something to take out their frustration. But they don't come two seconds from blasting you to Rygal-7."

Bulma sighed and leaned the back of her head against the wall. She had nary a single rational argument against anything Tights had said. How had her life come to this being normal? "I know, I know."

"That guy can do what he wants to prepare for Frieza, but it really shouldn't be here," Tights sternly argued. "Your own damn home shouldn't be a mine-field."

"Could you lower your voice a little?" Bulma warily asked, which just completely proved Tights' point. In fact, Tights gave her a sideways, annoyed glanced that said exactly that without the words.

"She can make herself perfectly clear," Vegeta said as he joined the two, making Bulma's throat clench. "Woman, why don't you put your intelligence to good use for once and listen to your sister. You don't really know who I am."

Just to prove his point, Vegeta reduced her balcony's door to a pile of glass with a simple, precisely aimed shockwave. Bulma squeezed her hair in fear he was about tear the entire compound apart, but he flew away instead.

"Oh, great fucking job, Vegeta," she ranted, scowling at all of the shards where her window used to be. "Too good to slide the damn door."

"You don't think I actually hurt Vegeta's feelings, did I?" Tights asked with bemused speculation.

Bulma looked off to the clouds that Vegeta had flown into. "I'd answer if I actually had a clue."

Tights shook her head and muttered a few foreign exasperated foreign expression as she headed downstairs. Bulma turned around to join her, but stopped to look back at the broken balcony. Despite all that had happened, she hoped Vegeta wasn't gone for good. Sheesh, what the fuck was wrong with her?

In a forest as far away from West City as possible, Vegeta sat in the branch of a tree, his eyes set on the largest elk of the land. Sure, he could have blasted the entire forest to kingdom come ten times over, but where was the excitement in that? All Saiyans started off learning how to hunt; it never got old. And after that exchange, he needed some normalcy. He really wanted to test his raw might against a lion, but carnivore meat was universally disgusting.

Once the elk froze, Vegeta dropped down and kicked it precisely in its neck, killing it instantly. There – he had killed a living thing on Earth. Add that to his resume.

Soon after, the carcass hung above an open flame while Vegeta sat down and picked at its body parts. All he could think about was Bulma, and his confusing emotions towards her. She had pushed entirely too far with her nonsense, but it occurred to Vegeta that it was for good reason – he had let her take it to that point. He allowed her to see him as something in the orbit of a friend, because against all good sense he enjoyed her company. And her unceasing attractiveness was but one reason.

He yanked an arm away from the elk with extra vigor as he scolded himself. For the last nine years, he had tried to drill into Gohan's head the folly of attachments, knowing deep down he may have been wrong. And he had failed – not just to snuff the emotional dependence out of Gohan, but to keep himself from growing attached. First it was Gohan, and now Bulma.

"Oh, my dear prince, how you have failed me."

Every speck of oxygen escaped Vegeta's body. Not in nine lifetimes could he ever mistake that slimy, nasally drawl of a voice. He jumped up and wrenched his head in every direction, heart beating thunderously as he searched for anything – a black floating chair, a set of horns, a glass of wine, whatever would reveal his presence.

Suddenly, in front of the flame, the man who he was looking for made his presence seen.

Frieza.

Not knowing what else to do, Vegeta fired a blast…and the blast flew through him. The demure, aristocratic tyrant gently chuckled.

"Silly Vegeta. I am merely a machination of your mind! If I was really here, you would know it."

Vegeta slapped his own face a few times. At last, he had finally lost his mind. Even after shaking his head vigorously, that slimy lizard wouldn't go away. In fact, he made himself comfortable, sitting atop the campfire in front of Vegeta's tasty prize, indulging himself in the glass of wine that never left his hands.

"Don't get me wrong, that aqua-haired minx is quite the fetching woman. Personally, I always found Kiyomi to be the pinnacle of feminine beauty, but this Earthling certainly gives her a run for her money."

Vegeta opened his mouth to respond. Then, he slumped his shoulders in utter embarrassment. He was seriously about to argue with his own thoughts.

After a long, delighted sip, Frieza lightly burped and shook his head chidingly. "And goodness, the way you let her speak to you. Do you think that she's actually me in disguise or something? You are Vegeta, the primitive, ill-tempered prince of a dead race of uncouth monkeys. Any Earthling who treats you with such disrespect should be a pile of blood and guts, should they not?"

The mentally precarious Saiyan prince sat down. If "Frieza" wasn't going to shut up now, he would just have to wait it out.

"I thought I taught you so well," Frieza said in dismay. "I practically made you in my image!"

Vegeta dug through his hair. No. No.

"No wonder you're going to die in however many weeks or months from now at my behest. That girl has you in the palm of her weak, fragile hands."

Frieza set his glass down and stood up with that twinkle in his eyes he always had whenever a wicked idea came to his mind. "In fact…!"

Frieza snapped his fingers.

Sitting at the tyrant's feet in torn-up clothes, blood all over body, and a face covered in bruises? The same blue-haired beauty Frieza had been discussing. Bulma stared at Vegeta with the same terrified expression from hours earlier. But she wasn't just scared and in pain; she looked like she was pleading for him to save her. He couldn't even bear to see it.

"She will die, too."

Vegeta clenched at his teeth. Whether she died or not shouldn't have meant anything to him.

"V-Vegeta…." Bulma murmured, her voice abnormally hoarse. When Vegeta looked at her neck, it had been nearly purple, fingerprints embedded on its flesh. The sound of her voice filled Vegeta with pure dread. "Help me…"

He rubbed his sweat-drenched head while his body trembled. This wasn't even fucking real and he was honest-to-God panicking about it anyway.

"You've been awfully unresponsive to my probing, Vegeta." Frieza sucked his teeth in annoyance. "How rude."

Frieza gingerly ran his clawed fingers through Bulma's blue locks, chilling Vegeta's spine as they ran up and down, strand by stamd. With the other hand, he formed a blade of pink Ki aimed at her neck. Bulma curled her lips back, trying with all of her power not to cry as she saw her violent end drawing near.

"It's boring when I'm just rambling to myself, Vegeta. A compelling conversation requires both participants to be active." Frieza studied Bulma's neck like a rare fruit, seeking the best vein to slice. "Respond to me, my dear pet. If you acknowledge me with your voice, your woman will be spared."

Vegeta shut his eyes. This wasn't real, she wasn't his woman, and absolutely nothing would change if he didn't dignify his own damn brain with a spoken reply.

But when he opened his eyes back up, they were both still there, as disturbingly vivid as it had already been. The blade was now a centimeter from Bulma's throat, and she had given up her fight against her tears.

"We're waiting, Vegeta."

Bulma didn't take her eyes off him. They carried all of her hopes, and they were aimed at him, a proud monster who had brought that same fear to trillions for the last 34 years and counting. But he couldn't bear to see it happen to her. With a resigned acceptance, Vegeta clenched his fists, and scowled like he was looking at the genuine article of his lifelong oppressor.

"Go to hell, Frieza."

They vanished.

At nightfall, Bulma sat down in the guest room Vegeta had been occupying, displaced by the Saiyans' vandalism yet again. She had been withdrawn during her day out with her mother and sister, her mind mostly occupied by that stubborn Saiyan. He was probably as much a mystery to her as she was to him.

Laid out before her on the sheets was Vegeta's body suit and armor – or at least, what was left of them. They were made of a strange rubber material that was as sturdy as it was elastic, though she figured she could reproduce it within days. But it was their condition that truly fascinated her. They bore every detail of the gruesome bloodshed Vegeta treated as casually as a trip to the bathroom. She worried hand over fist about the safety of a man who had survived holes in his torso. And more importantly, had done the same to innumerable innocents just because it was Tuesday.

Why couldn't she have just kept clinging to Yamcha? Sure, he was a doofus at times, and clearly too wrapped up in his baseball fame, but he sure as hell wasn't an unrepentant mass murderer. And he'd probably leave a girl mid-coitus if Bulma said she wanted to start over.

But nope, she had fancied herself to the man who proudly wore these rags of bloodshed and war.

"You're in my room."

Startled, Bulma's body jolted. She looked up at the doorway, and there was the proverbial, maybe even literal, devil. Without even trying, his voice produced immediate caution. And even when dressed like a 47 year-old neck deep in a mid-life crisis, he carried an aura of menace.

"I figured you would be gone for at least the night, and you kinda did a number on my balcony," Bulma replied.

Vegeta grunted and walked inside. His eyes seemed heavy, but not as intense as usual. She wouldn't press on it though, and gathered his torn clothes as she got up. Vegeta sat down on the same bed, exhausted like he'd been through a battle.

The longer Bulma stared at him, the stronger her urge grew to speak. And so, she did. "If you were offended by me, or my sister, I'm sorry. Not that you'd need my apology. But she only knows the worst about you, and older siblings are always gonna be their protective selves."

Vegeta didn't answer, not even with a grunt. He just looked up at her in a sullen manner foreign from him.

"You were right. You're not here to give my single and desperate ass a man to poke and prod. I can't even begin to understand how much this fight must mean to you. If you don't wish to stay here, that's fine. If you do, I promise I'll stay out your way." As Vegeta continued his silence, Bulma gave some more thought. "But it can't be just me. Stop being so rude and stop with the threats. For some reason I think it's part of your charm, but my sister's a normal human being, and she knows better."

"Hn."

Bulma smiled. A grunt at least. "I'll take that as a deal and leave you alone," she said as she began her exit from the room.

"I have a brother. Had."

That was enough to turn Bulma right back around. Vegeta was staring at the floor; it was almost like he'd said it involuntarily. She set the clothes down on the nearest dresser and walked closer towards him. "Really? What was he like?"

"Weak."

Bulma snickered. She should have figured Vegeta would put it in such simple terms.

"He was gentle, soft-hearted. Didn't even see our planet's demise," he said. Bulma pictured in her head a calmer, nicer version of Vegeta and bit her bottom lip to stop herself from killing the mood with laughter. "My father deemed him a lost cause, as did I. He was sent to a weak planet and never returned."

"So that was it? You guys just wrote him off as dead like that?"

"Well, you tell me what you'd conclude," Vegeta scoffed.

Unable to resist her argumentative nature, Bulma placed her hand to her waist. "I mean, not even a search party?"

"What was the use? If he was gone, he was gone. Alive or dead, it wouldn't have mattered." Just to make his stance clear, he added, "Haven't thought about him a day since."

Bulma studied Vegeta's impenetrable eyes. Such a cold stance was consistent with all of his battle-first rhetoric. It was a small wonder he had such an influence of Gohan – hell, his brother even sounded similar to the kid.

"You're not even the tiniest bit curious he might be alive?" Bulma asked.

"I don't put thought into things that would make no difference, Bulma," Vegeta replied. Her heart skipped a beat; he had actually said her name again. "If he was alive and hasn't turned up by now, then he doesn't want anything do with me, nor do I with him."

Bulma could relate to having a distant sibling who wasn't always in her thoughts. Tights was a whole 12 years older than her, too, meaning she had largely been absent from any measure of her life that she could remember. But just outright erasing her existence from her mind? Like many things with Vegeta, she couldn't understand – nor completely believe.

"I've long accepted my circumstances," Vegeta said. His voice sounded like a hand had grabbed hold of his neck, a tight and distressed whisper. "I haven't had a mother since I was four. A brother since I was six. A father or a home since I was eight. The closest thing to family I have is a peasant's son who hates me."

Maybe Bulma had just been sleepy, but she swore his voice cracked towards the end.

"I have…nothing."

She took a long look at his face as his eyes remained glued to the floor. He wore a frown unlike the angry or agitated perpetual scowl she had grown accustomed to. It was a genuine frown empty of anything but sadness. And it broke her heart. She didn't know if she would regret what she did next, but she did it anyway – she grabbed his hand and stared deeply into him.

Vegeta whipped his head towards her, his eyes wide and dumbfounded. He looked incapable of a proper thought.

"You have me."

Vegeta just sat there, eyes traveling back and forth between her hand and her face. He hadn't pulled his hand away; hell, he hadn't even so much as nudged.

"B-Bulma-"

She brought her finger to his lip to silence him.

"You don't have to say anything," she said. "The talking's for my motor mouth."

When she giggled, Vegeta swallowed heavily in his throat, more anxious than she'd ever seen him. She didn't pull her finger away; in fact, she did quite the opposite and rubbed his cheek. Again, Vegeta didn't shy away from her touch, instead exhaling and leaning into her hand as her fingers slid circles around his face.

After she bore into his dark eyes long enough, she couldn't fight the feeling buzzing in her stomach anymore. Not with the way he stared at her like none of the chaos of his life had even existed. She pulled him in and kissed him, and he made no effort to stop her.

But when he began to pull her in, too, they both realized what was happening at the exact same time and broke apart like the other had been made of poison. Vegeta faced forward at lightning speed and coughed loudly while Bulma jumped up to her feet, feeling around her own body as she tried to finagle a redirection.

"Uh…um…" Her hands hit her pocket – bingo! "The Senzu bean! You need that!"

Vegeta sheepishly nodded.

Bulma snatched both beans out of pocket and shoved them in Vegeta's face. He swiped them from her hand and placed them on the dresser beside his bed without so much as looking at her. Her job done, Bulma leaped away from the bed while her heart practically embedded itself in her chest.

"I'm uh…gonna leave now!"

"You should."

She scurried from the room and made sure to slam the door shut. She even overheard the doorknob locking from the other side. With no feeling in her legs, slid down the door and sat, sucking all the oxygen available. Her throat was as dry as the Earth's harshest deserts – what with swapping spit with a Saiyan warlord and everything. Just thinking about it, her brain summoned only one phrase to her vocal cords.

"What the fuck?"

Gohan rolled out of bed, coughing up a wad of phlegm into a vomit-filled bucket. He looked at his arms, relieved they were nearly back to normal size. As it turned out, conquering his fear of ice wasn't exactly smart for his body; for the past week he had been laid up in his bed with a bout of pneumonia. In hindsight, it probably would have been a good idea to wear a heavy jacket while meditating in the cold. His health had since been back on the upswing, but he still felt unbearably weak.

Ignoring the kitchen, Gohan grabbed his puffy, purple jacket, limped out of the lobby and back outside. What annoyed him the most about his health episode, aside from nearly dying, was knowing that Piccolo was spending all his unoccupied time training. He was still weaker than Gohan, but gaining plenty of ground. The Mao-Ken technique would usually push him ahead even, and with Gohan still unable to command his transformation, he had found himself on the losing end of their spars more often.

He and Vegeta had been such fools. Spineless, cowardly fools. Thinking they could close the gap with Frieza just by languishing in his army doing his bidding. Meanwhile, two guys who couldn't even take Raditz were regularly showing them up, and they didn't have to slaughter trillions in their free time to do it. Even if Goku needed the aid of a deity, Piccolo figured it out just through sheer self-determination.

Piccolo wasn't anywhere to be found, probably off training deep within vast space. Gohan tried sensing his Ki, but he couldn't find it anywhere; given how large the room was, he might have been the equivalent of a few light years out, for all Gohan knew. He wouldn't worry himself with it, however, choosing to sit down and focus.

Lately, Gohan had heeded a crucial bit of advice from Lapis – hell, even Vegeta had said it. He focused on the positive things. Unfortunately, after about an hour, he would inevitably give into the fear of losing them. The endless stream of anxiety ruled over Gohan's life more than Frieza ever had.

Regardless, Gohan kept at it, even after barely making progress in eleven months. He just kept sitting down in the harsh cold that had quite literally almost killed him. Actually…the more he thought about it, the more he saw the bright side. He was still alive now, wasn't he? His own immune system had fought off the after effects of the worst, most extreme chills, and was now stronger for it.

Maybe he didn't have to fear the ice anymore.

"Goodness me, it sure is freezing out here, eh? Pardon the pun."

Gohan's eyes jolted open, sensitive to that despicable voice.

"Frieza?!"

He jumped up, looking all over for any trace of the bastard. This couldn't have been happening; how had even known he was here? Or worse – what had happened outside?

"Turn around to your left, young lad!"

Gohan did as directed, and there he was – Frieza, his hands clasped his waving tail, with that phony smile on his face. And he wasn't alone. Right next to him was Goku, only his entire body had become ice. Both of his palms were raised, while his mouth hung open mid-scream.

Even against the below freezing weather, Gohan's body heated up, an aura igniting around him that disintegrated the fabric of his jacket.

"What have you done to my father?!"

That primal, volatile power was wrapping its callous hands around Gohan's mind, its grip tightening as Frieza taunted him with his pompous laughter.

"Strike me down before it's too late!"

His sanity out the window, Gohan flew at Frieza, but the monster pushed the sculpture that was once Goku in front of himself as a shield. Too fast and too manic, Gohan's right arm smashed through, shattering him into a thousand pieces. He hadn't felt anything physically, but the terror that hit him froze him in place.

He was gone. His father, the one who had given him life and had to live every day with his inability to protect him, dead by his hand. All Frieza had to do was round up the pin for Gohan to strike down.

"Nice shot!"

At the sound of Frieza's voice, Gohan's growing dismay shrunk, and wrath took its place. He turned around, more determined than ever to eradicate the abominable virus. He chased after him again with his leg ready to deal fatal damage, only someone else got in his way – his mother and little brother. They, too, were frozen and unable to move out of the way from Gohan's kick. They too, shattered.

Gohan collapsed onto his knees and squeezed two fistfuls of his hair, even ripping a few strands out. He screamed all of his pain out into the void as the white turned into blackness in his unstable vision. None of his efforts had mattered. None of the belief his parents had in him mattered. They were dead, all because of his power.

"Come now, Gohan! It's not all doom and gloom!"

Gohan sat up, feeling another surge of power coming on. Fed up with Frieza and his grip, he turned around again.

The ice sculpture in front of him this time? Arepa.

She had her arm reached out, almost like she had been seeking Gohan specifically. Not only was her face a twisted scream, he could even make out a tear from her frozen eyes. The sight of even her in that state brought Gohan to his knees.

"I never should have trusted this rambunctious tramp to begin with," Frieza said, circling around her. "She was from that turncoat Kabnet's army, after all. Of course she would lead you down the wrong path."

Frieza walked towards her and tapped her shoulder. "But alas, all good things must come to an end, no matter how cute. I think I'll handle this myself."

"No!"

Gohan leaped back up and chased them down, diving at Arepa's statue to protect her. To his surprise, he flew through her; and rather than shatter, she simply vanished. Gohan fell onto his hands and knees, with nothing in his vision but the slick frozen floor.

It wasn't real.

None of it had been. It had just been in his head. Frieza was nowhere to be found and nobody had been reduced to ice.

"Are you sure about that, Gohan? Did you not see what was in front of you, young lad?"

The voice was back. Gohan looked up, finding Frieza standing a few feet away yet again. After a sip of wine, he leisurely moved out of the way, allowing Gohan to see what he bad been referencing. It wasn't Goku, Chi-Chi, Goten, or Arepa frozen in ice – it was Piccolo. Unlike the other four, he hadn't looked fearful. Distressed, yes, but angry more than anything. His body was crouched in a stance, like he'd been fighting something off.

"P-Piccolo?"

Gohan stumbled up, walking right through the image of Frieza his mind had produced. Gingerly, he reached out his arm and tapped the body. Sure enough, he actually felt him that time. Cold, slippery ice; it left a trail of water on his finger.

"Oh no…"

This was real. It wasn't in his head, and it wasn't the work of Frieza. The ice and the cold weather had gotten to Piccolo.

"No, no no no…."

He looked his body up and down, trying to figure out what the hell to do. If he had any time to save him, it was scant. The ice that had ensnared Piccolo was rooted in the frozen floor. With a fierce stomp from his Ki-infused foot, Gohan crushed the block of ice, then phased to the other side to finish the job. He snatched Piccolo's enormous body and flew as he fast he could to the lobby. Once inside, he set him on the floor.

"C'mon Piccolo!" Gohan yelled. "Don't die on me!"

Sure, he could say a lot about the grumpy bastard, but even Piccolo had believed in him. For years, now, Gohan had used the volatile heat of his power to indulge in his pain-suppressing vice. Now, he had to use it for good. A blue flame erupted from both of his palms, hovering above the Namekian's body.

The flame's heat had even singed Gohan's hands as it went to work on the ice around Piccolo. Slowly, but, surely, the shell liquified. And then the water became vapors. Soon, Piccolo's body was free of its frigid prison, but by no means out of the woods. His skin more teal than green, he hadn't shown any sign of breath.

Gohan had no idea how Namekian anatomy worked, but he had to save Piccolo the only way he knew how. He pressed his hands against his broad chest, trying to kickstart his breathing again.

"Wake up, Piccolo...it's not over yet," Gohan pleaded. "Th-The ice is nothing to you, remember?!"

He pressed down some more, but got no sign of movement. But he wouldn't give up just because he hadn't made progress. He kept pushing while yelling empty encouragements, prepared to take as long as necessary to ensure his makeshift mentor saw another day. Too many people had suffered under his watch – nobody more than himself. Even though Piccolo had his own self-preservation in mind, he had dedicated at least a year of his time to getting his mind right. Whether it worked or not, Gohan owed him his maximum effort.

Eventually, he heard a gravelly cough.

The first thing Gohan did was look around, very much aware it may have been his fractured mind producing more noise. But the body he'd been pushing his hands against for the last few minutes fidgeted underneath him. When he moved his pupils to the left, he could see Piccolo's eyelids drifting upwards.

"Son of a…" was the first thing to come from the Namekian's mouth.

Gohan stumbled away. For the second time, his will to see someone else live had paid off. Of all the emotions swirling around his head, relief was the strongest.

Piccolo didn't sit up, but he did tilt his head towards Gohan. A facsimile of a smirk spread across his lips.

"Y-Your eyes, brat…"

Gohan blinked. "What? What about them?"

Piccolo nudged his head straight across. Gohan looked to the right, where a mirror stood against the wall. His reflection seemed normal, only one thing was off – his eyes. They weren't black, like they usually were. Instead, they were a bone-chilling shade of gold.

"What the hell...?"

"Th-That's how they always look…in that crazy form."

Gohan stood up in a trance, his eyes glued to his reflection. This was what he looked like? This was what Vegeta thought was going to finally kill him? This was the face Lapis saw before his demise?

The face that Gohan could now actually see?

He turned back around, just to ensure that Piccolo was still alive. The Namekian was sitting up now, though still overall worse for wear. He appeared exhausted and gaunt, now a paler shade of green. But he hadn't died at the hands of Gohan's cataclysmic power; quite the opposite.

"How does it feel, kid?" Piccolo asked between coughs. "That power."

Gohan stared at each palm. For the first time, he could consciously feel the force of his hidden power within his veins, no longer beholden to his subconscious rage. He could see everything around him clearly, knowing what was real, and what wasn't. The visions that haunted him; none of them had ever been real. If he kept a hold of himself and kept his focus on his goal, they never would be. And even if they did – Piccolo was proof that it wasn't the end.

"It's incredible."

This was the power that could defeat Frieza at last. The terrible, destructive nature of the Saiyan race - only Gohan would wield it for good. To rid the universe of its lowest filth.

The fourteen-year-old half-Saiyan turned to Piccolo, a stare of utmost determination painting his face into a majestic portrait. Even Piccolo was reduced to an awe-struck gasp.

"I'm Son Gohan. And I'm the Saiyan that's gonna kill Frieza."

For a few moments, Piccolo did nothing but blink. Eventually, he stood back up, though his movements were labored. His proud smirk, however, had nothing but power behind it.

"About damn time, runt."

With a heavy swallow, Piccolo ejected the four-star Dragon Ball from his mouth, placed it in hands, and set it down on the floor.

"It's all yours."

…

…

…

Gohan just stood there with a grimace, long enough that even Piccolo's face contorted awkwardly.

"Well? That's what you did all this for, right?"

"I'm not picking that shit up," Gohan whined, squirming at the green slime coating the Dragon Ball.

After an annoyed grunt and a few curses about brats and humans, Piccolo fired a beam from his antennae at Gohan's hands. A rubber glove formed around one, and a can of sanitizing rags in the other. Gohan looked up at the easily annoyed Namekian and smirked.

"Yeah, that'll work."