Disclaimer: Don't own DBZ or Phantom of the Opera, but if I did, I think most people would shy away from seeing either of them. No one really needs to hear Vegeta or Piccolo sing, and I don't think it would be for the best if Raoul and Monsieur Firmin shot energy blasts.

I Remember and Wonder . . .



Who was that shape in the shadows?

Whose is the face in the mask?



The air around him moved suddenly, unnaturally. He inhaled his breath quickly, his pupils shrinking with awareness. Deepening into his fighting stance, his foot scraped along the ground as his brows drew together in concentration. His heart-beat pounded in his brain.

Blinking slowly, he tried to focus his eyes on the foreign presence in the room with him. His muscles clenched in anticipation and a small sliver of excitement trailed up his spine. Frightened and eager, his black eyes focused on one area of the room. He struck.

"Not good enough," a deep voice growled as he was kicked in the back of the head and thrown to the ground.

Still on the floor, Gohan had little time to dodge the next attack from his mentor. Moving as quickly as he could, he rolled away from the strong fist that crushed into the floor where he had been lying seconds before. Attempting to flip back onto his feet, his stomach met with a firm knee and his limp body was sent sliding to the other side of the ring. His hair fell in jagged locks just over the edge; his closed eyes would have stared at the floor outside the ring.

Gohan's arm twitched as Piccolo stepped over to survey the damage. Standing austerely above him, the Namek's eyes followed up a ripped blue fighting uniform, tattered white collar, numerous bruises that looked like they would hurt terribly tomorrow morning, and a mass of black hair askew.

"Come on, Gohan. I know you're better than this," he growled, turning the boy over with his foot.

Gohan's eyes snapped open at the contact and he leapt up, barrelling over his tutor in the process. Piccolo staggered backwards, holding his nose, purple fluid trickling down from it. He growled irritably, showing the slightest hint of his overly pointed canines and took a large, green and pink fisted swipe at his student. Gohan dodged, but not well enough, and what was a fist suddenly became a vice-like grip on his right leg.

Piccolo was about to teach his pupil a lesson in awareness by smashing his skull into the tile ring (as a friend, of course) when-

"Gohan!"

Piccolo stopped his lesson mid-swing and released Gohan's foot, making him fly halfway across the ring before he could gain control and stop his voyage, but still managing to land unceremoniously on his rump with a bounce.

"Gohan? Oh, there you are," Chichi smiled.

"Yeah, Mom," Gohan Painfully stood up, rubbing his rear gingerly and trying to cover the worst of his bruises. "What's up?"

"What's up? You mean other than the fact that I've had no idea where you'd been for the past three hours?" she gave him a reprimanding glare.

"Huh?" Gohan blinked, confused. "I don't understand. I told dad where I went . . . didn't he tell you?"

"No," Chichi glared acidly at the doorway.

Goku stepped out looking at the ground, embarrassed. "Well, I told you he'd gone out, I just forgot where."

Chichi groaned and and massaged her temple. "Gohan, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't be goi-"

"-ing out on my own without telling you directly where I'm going. I know," Gohan said quoted obediently.

"Good. Now that we're clear, let's see you remember that next time."

Gohan frowned in a surly manner and looked down at his shoes.

Chichi softened a bit and walked over to Gohan, kneeling down next to him and holding his shoulder comfortingly. "Gohan," she started, and received a reluctant glance from her son, "I'm not telling you these things to be mean to you." Gohan looked down again. "I'm saying them because I don't want you hurt. You can't be going off alone all the time."

"But I wasn't alone," Gohan piped up quickly. "Mr. Piccolo was with me."

"I know he was, Gohan, and he'll be dealt with later," she shot the Namek a sour glare, "but with all the weird things that have been happening, I don't want you straying too far from your father. Okay?"

"You just don't like Mr. Piccolo."

"That may be true, but that doesn't change the fact that you're safer with your dad."

"You don't think he's just as strong as Dad?" Gohan questioned.

Goku and Piccolo exchanged glances.

"No," Chichi said. "In fact, your dad beat Piccolo in a tournament a couple years back."

"That doesn't mean he's stronger than me now," Piccolo muttered.

"Sure it does," Goku winked at him.

Piccolo fixed his stare on him in a challenging manner. "I think you've gotten rusty."

"Do you?" he smiled brightly.

"I'll bet that's why you don't fight anymore," the Namekian pushed, goading him into a fight.

Goku's smile instantly faded. "Piccolo, don't."

"I never did get a fair rematch for that last fight . . ."

"Piccolo, I-"

"I'll take both you old guys down!" a child's voice echoed in the arena.

The original four in the room turned their heads to the doorway, surprised to find an elderly man in a tropical print shirt, shorts, sandals, and a pair of gleaming red-trimmed sunglasses carrying a gnarled old staff standing beside a little girl, her long black hair in low pigtails that framed her cherubic face, highlighting her deep, blue eyes that looked very determined at the moment.

"Master Roshi!" Goku grinned excitedly, completely forgetting about the impending fight and the pint-sized challenger. "What brings you here?"

"Just thought I'd check up on things . . . and introduce you to one of my new members. But I think she's already done that for herself, haven't you Videl?"

Videl pointedly ignored him and curled her tiny hands into fists, focusing on the other two men in the room.

Roshi laughed. "Feisty little thing, aren't you?" he patted her head.

"Don't get any ideas," Videl ducked out from under the third pat. "Daddy only let me on your team because you said you didn't think bad thoughts about little girls."

Roshi coughed to stifle a blush while Goku laughed.

"Old man," Chichi muttered to herself, "filthy as dirt."

"So, are you going to fight me or what?" Videl crossed her arms impudently.

Piccolo sneered. "Sorry, girl, but I don't fight children."

She pouted. "But you fought that kid," she pointed at Gohan, who had been inconspicuously examining his right arm for broken bones.

"Who? Me?" Gohan jerked his head up at the sudden attention.

"That's no ordinary kid," he smirked.

Videl squinted her eyes at Gohan, evaluating him in such a discriminatingly close manner that the young boy could not hold back the slight blush that spread over his face. She hmphed haughtily.

"He doesn't look so special."

"Hey!" Chichi and Gohan responded with simultaneous indignity.

"What?" Videl smiled devilishly. "Don't like your ego being stabbed at?" Gohan frowned a little as she sauntered up with a self-confident bounce in her step. "Yeah, I bet you don't like that. So why don't you try and defend it, huh?" she poked him in the chest.

By now she had placed herself uncomfortably (for Gohan) close and was staring him down with the most threatening look her soft, girlish features could muster. Chichi looked upon the scene with slightly amused interest; was it so long ago she was challenging her husband in a similar way before they were married?

"Why don't you want to fight?" Videl poked him harder. "What's the matter? You chicken?"

"No," Gohan stood himself up straighter, pushing her backwards slightly in the process. The finger stopped poking him, but the deep, blue eyes still glared. "You know," Gohan said, frowning, "you'd be kind of cute if you weren't so bossy and mean."

"ALL RIGHT, LET'S TAKE THIS OUTSIDE!" Videl screamed, dragging a shocked Gohan by the wrist out the door of the ring.

"What did I say?" Gohan blinked as the little girl tugged on his arm with more strength than a little tomboy should possess. "If it's because I said you were mean, I didn't me-"

"NOBODY CALLS ME CUTE!!"

Chichi outright laughed as the door to the arena slammed shut, the two children gone. Calming her amusement, she threw a still wistfully smiling look at Piccolo who took the hint and followed the children out.

"Anyway, Master Roshi," Goku said with a bit of a laugh at his family's behaviour, "what kind of things did you come to check up on?"

"Yeah," Chichi narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "You're not just trying to find some information to get one up on us for the opening fight, are you?"

"Of course he isn't Chichi!" Goku swooped his arm around his old teacher's shoulders in a masculine hug. "We talked about his before, remember?"

Roshi's brows furrowed behind his sunglasses despite Goku's happy countenance. "Actually, I didn't drop by just to pay you a visit."

Chichi threw Goku an I-told-you-so glare.

"I'm worried about you two owning this stadium," he backed away from Goku, resting his fists behind his back sagely.

"Not you too!" Goku said, dismayed. "There's no such thing as the Tournament Ghost! Why doesn't anyone believe me?"

"Because there's too much evidence against that theory," Roshi's sunglasses flashed.

"Excuse me?" Chichi defended her husband. "I beg to differ. There may be some strange happenings around here, but there's no proof that this is any type of ghost, let alone a neighbourhood legend."

"If you already know about all the terrible things that happen in this place, why are you still holding a tournament here?" Roshi demanded in angry concern.

"I hardly think that the things that happen around here can be dubbed as 'terrible', Roshi." Chichi folded her arms with decision. "The worst that's happened was a light falling. I hardly consider that a supernatural act."

"What about the disappearance of your newest fighter?"

"She's probably off on business somewhere," Chichi reasoned. "She *is* the daughter of Capsule Corp.'s found-wait a minute! How did you know about that?"

Roshi's calm exterior melted under Chichi's suspicious glower. "Well, I-"

"You've been spying on my team, haven't you?!" she screamed, approaching the old master with a deadly angry aura. "I knew it! I knew it! When I get my hands on you, I swear I'll . . ."

Chichi's hands were extended, exposing her dangerously long nails on hands dangerously close to Roshi's neck when a livid, high-pitched battle cry pierced through the walls.

"HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYAAAAAAA!!!"

A muffled 'oomph' could be heard from the other side of the wall.

"Well, I better be going now," Roshi said hastily. "That girl Videl there is a loose cannon some times," Roshi laughed. Chichi remained adamantly angry. He quickly scurried out the door and out of the line of fire without any further explanations.

"Chichi," Goku called to his still irate wife with a soft voice, "you know that that lighting incident wasn't an accident. Why *do* you insist on staying here?" He put a calming hand on her small shoulder.

Her eyes softened a bit as she turned to him. "Because you know as well as I do that Gohan's studying suffers when he's on the road all the time going to different stadiums. If we can be stationary for at least a little while at a time, maybe he can catch up. With the tournaments this stadium can host, we may be able to stay in this one town double or triple the amount we've been able to stay in one before."

"But you know as well as I do that we agreed he'd be a fighter," Goku said.

"You may have agreed to that," Chichi turned away from him slightly, "but I never did. You can't really make a career out of fighting like this. One day something will happen, something will go wrong, and he won't be able to keep doing it. If he doesn't study right now, what will happen when that day comes? It may come sooner for Gohan than it did for you, Goku," she looked up at him again, eyes pained, "and when it does, I want him to have something to fall back on, some kind of safety so he doesn't end up with nothing. And don't tell me that never happens to fighters, because I've seen some of it before myself . . ." she caressed his cheek gently, ". . . and I never want to have to see it again."



She clamped a screw tightly between her teeth as her hands deftly rearranged wires, springs, and cogs. Squinting at the small nuts and bolts surrounding, she carefully inserted said screw into its rightful place, exchanging it for a spring. She wrenched and twisted, torqued and tweaked, but in a manner so adept and precise it was almost an art . . . she could lose herself in it.

Making the final adjustment, she slapped the side of the toaster back on with a little smirk of triumph. Now not only did it make toast, but it percolated coffee, opened cans, served as a small microwave, and could be used as a telephone. *I truly am a genius,* Bulma thought smugly, polishing an imaginary spot on the side. *Now if only that big lunkhead of a teacher were here to-aaaah!*

A blazing blue ball of energy whizzed past where her head had been not two seconds ago and crashed downward into the base of one of the cavern walls, making the rest of them shudder. Loose rocks from the ceiling broke free and fell scattered to the ground. Bulma shook some from her hair, clutching the toaster protectively against her chest as she turned around to the source of what would have been a very uncomfortable situation for her.

A black blur continued to scatter blue orbs of energy around the room, each of them precisely dropping to the ground, obviously attempting to prevent a cave-in. Vegeta gracefully performed kicks and punches, beautiful in their lethality, his body soaring near the great, glassy mirror above one moment, gliding across the white ring the next. He fought with his own shadow, quite an elusive quarry if his near-desperate actions indicated correctly. If Bulma were able to see him moving at that speed she would have seen his scowl deepen with each attack, as though that shadow were taunting him with every action. As though he had just realized that his shadow could not be caught, he stopped abruptly in the air, closing his eyes and slowly descending to the arena floor. He dropped to his knees, sweat dripping down his nose and over those set brows, the mask ineffectually attempting to smother it.

He kneeled like that for a while, panting. His hands gripped onto nothing as they sat on the ring, though they looked strained like he was trying. The sweat fell in an uneven rhythm, their steady stream interrupted by the ragged breathing. His eyes clamped shut as the perspiration rolled over his eyebrows and passed over them, dripping out beneath the white mask. The breathing began to slow, as if gradually going back to normal, but his eyes snapped open abruptly. He stood quickly, urgency screaming in his pulsating veins. Clenching his fists and tightening every muscle in his body, he threw his head back and screamed.

Bulma had to blink away when a blinding blue and white aura flashed up around him, gyrating in rough, jagged peaks, the light reflecting off the mirror above him and illuminating the entire room in irregular flashes, near blinding one moment, the next as dark as though it had truly had blinded her. The light came on in waves that seemed to be striving to reach the shore, each brighter than the last. She turned back to it in awe and curiosity.

"Strange, unnaturally flashing lights," she said under her breath, remembering.

He screamed louder now, a deafening roar that resonated off the cavern walls, rattling the stalactites and the very ground itself. The rocks that had been dislodged earlier from the previous energy attacks now rose up from the ground, trembling in their levitation. The cry pushed forth from the depths of his lungs, forcing his eyes to squeeze shut. Bulma could almost imagine the sound of his vocal cords snapping within the straining call. He was trying to call something, trying to achieve something, and using all he had to do so.

"Screams within the walls," she muttered, "like a soul being torn from the body of a living person . . ."

Suddenly the screaming stopped, the light dissipated, and his head hung low. His eyes remained closed, but his fists unclenched and fell to his sides. He inhaled deeply, calming his rampant breathing and pulse, and snapped his eyes up to meet hers. She was caught staring like a deer in headlights.

"What was all that about?" she asked lightly, trying to draw the attention off her.

He looked down into his open hands. He still had not achieved it. "A legacy," he answered.

Bulma sighed. She knew she would not be getting any more of an answer than that. "I fixed your toaster," she brightened.

"So?"

"So, now it works properly," she quipped. "*And* it does coffee, cans, microwave dinners, and phone calls.

"What use have I for a telephone?" he scowled at her.

"Well fine then, you ungrateful-"

"Have you been thinking at all about your training while you were completing that contraption?" he interrupted, briskly brushing her disapproval aside.

"Well, I . . ." she fumbled

". . . haven't," he completed contemptuously. "Honestly, how do you expect to become a great fighter if you can't even concentrate on a simple task for a day?"

"Now see-"

"Don't bother answering that," he turned around and picked up his cloak. "I don't want your excuses."

"Fine then," she frowned. "If you're going to be acting like that, I might as well not train with you at all today." She stuck her nose in the air and turned, fully prepared to occupy her time elsewhere. Peeking a little bit behind her as she set the toaster down on the small countertop in the kitchen area she saw that he was not paying her the least bit of attention as he fastened his cape on himself. She pretended to occupy herself with her nails as she watched him sit down in a meditative position, obviously not interested in anything she had to say unless, of course, it would be a grovelling apology to him. Bulma hmphed at the thought, insulted.

*But what am I supposed to do while I'm here?* she lamented. *I mean, I've already distracted myself with fixing a stupid toaster! How much lower can I go? I'm meant to work on rocket ships and atom-splitters, not household appliances!* She folded her arms in a manner not so different from a spoiled child. Her pink nails tapped against her forearm, itching for something to do while her eyes searched for possibilities. A rogue glance at the dark alcove in the back of the cave handed her one on a silver platter.

*What *are* those papers there, anyway?* she knitted her brow in concentration, the littered debris atop the desk calling out to her to examine. *And what's with that picture?* Her footsteps resonated in the cavern as she strode over with determination.

Faster than she could ever hope to imagine he appeared in front of her, the stark mask not two inches from her face. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, the demand menacingly soft.

"I told you," she said imperiously, "if you're going to be acting like such a jerk, you might as well not train me."

"So you think that just because you're on a reprieve you can go and do whatever you wish without my permission?"

"Well, you haven't offered to show me around the place yet," she put her hands on her hips and leaned in an authoritative manner. "You've been a terrible host."

"I am not and never will be a mere host for a spoiled brat," he clipped the last word insultingly. "I am your teacher and you will treat me and my possessions with respect."

"You mind *telling* me which ones I should stay away from to keep on your good side?" she said sarcastically.

He paused, almost unsure of himself for a moment, then grunted, "Fine. Anything if it will keep you out of my hair."

Bulma looked up at the wild, spiky black mass above his mask. "Don't worry. I want to keep me out of there too."

He quirked a brow, a look in his eyes that seemed between laughing and growling. Rolling his eyes to brush it off, he smartly turned and began walking in the opposite direction towards the tournament ring replica. Bulma started to follow him, but turned her head back to the desk once more, the scattered papers, pictures, and memories therein threatening, yet enthralling.

Vegeta stopped. "That area is off-limits."

"But wh-"

He glared at her, black eyes burning beneath the mask.

"Got it," she gulped. "Because you said so. Right."

Appeased, he turned again stepped onto the white marble ring, Bulma tailing behind him. He stopped in the middle, giving her a silent indication to look up at the great unpartitioned mirror above them. Bulma lost herself staring into that vast inverted picture of the room she was in, a small languid haze of light reflected off the surface from some outside source.

"So what's with this thing?" she asked when she had retrieved her voice.

"It's a mirror," he looked at her as though she were stupid.

She stamped her foot indignantly. "I *know* that. I was wondering *why* it's here."

"For illumination," he stated simply. "The sunlight filters through the stadium's skylight reflecting on a series of mirrors that run through the labyrinth above and ricochets off this one."

"Well, why don't you just get some normal lights in here?"

"It's simpler to just use natural lighting. The wires and electric bills for the stadium would be too cumbersome," he said. "I really don't have time to be discovered down here."

"What about candles?"

"The smoke in the place would gag you."

"Oh," she said, clasping her hands, unsure of what to do. "What's next on the agenda?"

"What do you take me for, a tour guide?" he snorted.

She rolled her eyes. "Well, it's not like you're done yet."

He grumbled a little, but turned around to show her the next item despite. Bulma followed, once again weaving past the assorted stalagmite sculptures that rose from the floor until they reached one of the high walls of the cavern. The rock face appeared no different from any of the others, possessing the same dark, rough look, the same uneven outcroppings and indentations, the same extension upward to the high vaulting of the ceiling.

"Here," he said.

"What?" she frowned. "It's just a wall."

The corner of his mouth pulled up. "So it seems."

His hand grasped an ordinary outcropping, fingers firmly gripping, and twisted it clockwise. Quickly, a huge slab of the wall began to swing open into the wall, unveiling a dark passageway, narrow stairs leading upward.

"Expect the unexpected, right?" she smirked.

He nodded, turning the outcropping back in its position, the newfound door slamming shut with a dull 'boom' that shook the other walls.

"How many other tricks do you have up your sleeve?"

"Why, Woman, I'm appalled you'd think so lowly of me. These aren't tricks," he smiled deviously, "they're merely a practical use of one's spare time."

"Oh, I'm sure," she quipped sarcastically, but smiled. Even during those verbal training sessions she had been having not so long ago, never had she spoken with her teacher so openly and without either side blowing up in the other's face. If she did not know better, she would say he was actually tolerating her behaviour. And, for him, that was a good thing. "What else is there? Are we done?"

"Far from it," he said, grabbing her wrist. "Come."

Still stepping lightly, Bulma could not help but giggle a little as he almost eagerly pulled her to his next sight. *He's almost like a child showing off all these innovations like new toys,* she thought. *And he gets mad at me for 'wasting' my time making a toaster. It doesn't make any sense how he can be so angry at everyone and yet still be like this on those rare off-moments. Perhaps the mask on his face isn't the only one he wears . . .*

"Watch," he commanded as he ran up to the wall. They were fairly close to the white tournament ring, in one of the larger alcoves, though not quite as large as the one in which the desk was located. Bulma shivered slightly, despite her more hopeful thoughts preceding. Just thinking about that desk, with the news article that had been slashed down the picture gave her chills.

Vegeta cleared his throat and Bulma snapped back to reality. "Watch," he repeated tersely.

"Watching," she said attentively.

He pressed down on part of the wall next to him, the piece he pushed giving way slightly and moving into the face of the wall. A 'whoosh' turned her attention to the way she had originally come into the underground empire, the hole in the ceiling that she had entered by now closing swiftly. It shut with a dull echo, dropping a bit of dust onto the ladder beneath it, climbing up the wall.

"And above that," Vegeta said cockily, "I have that mirror you entered through. The keypad next to it is programmed to keep someone in or out, depending on my whim."

"You've really thought of everything, haven't you?" Bulma stroked his ego, hoping to keep his amiability up. "You've managed to cover any ground that could lead anyone to you."

"Ah, but I haven't shown you the greatest part," he grinned wolfishly.

"What did you make this time?" she racked her brain for anything else he could possibly need.

"I didn't make this one," he said, "but I have put it to good use." He walked briskly to the far end of the cave, in the direction of that constant ruddy glow deep within the ground. "Come. Over here," he said.

Bulma complied, trailing the dark figure to that abyssal chasm on the farthest, darkest side of the cavern, the vaporous tendrils that floated just above the ground clinging more tenaciously the closer she came. She had never noticed how clear the smell of the air was near that crevasse.



"I'LL GET YOU!!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Gohan ducked away from Videl's fist for the umpteenth time. "Please, can we talk about this?!"

"Shut up and fight!" She aimed a kick at his stomach and he jumped just in time, her foot just brushing his purple fighting outfit. "Coward!" she screamed as she charged at him.

Gohan scurried away, accidentally backing himself against the wall of the hallway they were in. He barely had time to blink before a knee rushed toward his head, striking the wall where he would have been not one second ago. Cringing as he looked up from the ball he was curled into, the glower on Videl's face was the only thing that kept him from laughing as she hopped up and down on one foot, holding the injured knee. He crawled backwards on his hands when she finally released her injured limb and stalked toward him. Her dark blue eyes smouldered as she clenched her fists, her teeth grinding together.

"Come on, let's not fight over this . . ." Gohan pleaded. He really did not want to hurt this girl; his father had always told him to be especially kind to girls, just as his grandfather had instructed him. Besides, he did not particularly dislike this girl . . . like he had said, were she not so angry, he would call her cute. Of course, that was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Gohan put his arms in front of his face in a defensive block as Videl drew a fist back, ready to strike.

"Crud," Gohan muttered as he awaited the next, and possibly strongest, attack.

It never came.

"Let me go, you old green jerk!"

"Piccolo," Gohan sighed in relief. Standing up, he smiled to his mentor, who merely grunted in response as he held Videl up by the back of her shirt. Her tiny black-gloved fists and thick pigtails flailed about as she tried to break free. She stopped when she heard a raucous cackling to her right.

"Shut up, Roshi!" she yelled. "It isn't funny!"

Roshi wiped a tear from his eye, but could not stop laughing. "You got yourself into this mess; it's my privilege to laugh."

Videl growled a little bit, crecendoing into, "PUT ME DOWN!"

Piccolo glowered down at her. "Not until you calm do-OUCH!" he exclaimed as he tried desperately to shake off Videl, who was now clinging to his other hand by her teeth. "GET OFF ME!" he ripped her off and she fell to the ground gracelessly.

Roshi's laughter heightened.

"THAT'S THE LAST STRAW!" Piccolo shouted, about to grab Videl again, fully prepared to punish her for her actions. His hand was blocked by a gnarled wooden staff.

Master Roshi frowned behind his sunglasses. "Now, now, Piccolo. No need to let things get out of hand."

"But she-"

"Enough. Videl, why don't you leave Piccolo alone. He's kind of grumpy today."

"No," Gohan said, "he's like that all the time."

"Watch it, kid," the Namek growled.

"Uh, Gohan," Roshi said, still holding himself between Videl and Piccolo, Videl and Gohan, and just Videl and anyone in general, "why don't you go back and talk with your parents. It looks like Videl doesn't want to wait until the grand opening here to fight you."

Gohan took one glance at Videl, who, at present, was making another lunge for Piccolo's hand (who, by now, was slowly backing away from the girl) and nodded. Walking at a speed just below sprinting, Gohan exited, the door shutting quickly behind him.

Piccolo, now a safe distance away from (literally) Satan's child, questioned Roshi with a slight tilt of his brow ridge, "So it's confirmed that Kame Team will be the other team fighting at the opening?"

"You bet," smiled a two-toothed grin, Videl finally having calmed herself down behind him.

"Even when Chichi thinks you're spying on her?"

"Oh she'll get over that," Master Roshi waved the problem away with his hand. "Besides, there isn't any other team of the same calibre that she can choose besides Team Ginyu, and I doubt she'll do that."

"Hmm," Piccolo muttered in mild disbelief, "I think I'd better confirm that."

"You do that," Master Roshi waved the Namek out the door.

"Come on," Videl pouted at the old man once Piccolo was gone, "you didn't even let me get him back for talking to me like that!"

"Videl," he said wisely, "I don't think that picking fights with your superiors will get you many friends."

"Superiors?!" she huffed. "They're hardly my superiors. I could beat the whole lot of them ten seconds flat. Besides, I'm not on the team to make friends. I'm on the team to fight."

"You may be right about why you joined the team," Roshi commented, "but I can guarantee you that you're not stronger than any of the people you've challenged today."

Her determined scowl dropped. "What?"

Roshi smiled smugly and continued. "I bet *you* wouldn't last ten seconds against *them.* Honestly, Videl, you can't even sense their energy, let alone be up to the same level as them."

"Sense energy?" Videl could look absolutely adorable when she was not going to rip off your head.

Roshi's sunglasses flashed. "Yes. That's when you fan your own personal energy to be able to pick up or sense the energy of others. This can often help in predicting your opponent's next move, or just help you figure out where they are at any given time."

Her small brows creased sharply. "Show me how to do it."

He smiled one of his rare, non-lecherous smiles as he began explaining.



His gloved hands tremble as the warm blood steams upon them. It lies all around him, the blue black colour gleaming in the moonlight and on the once pristine surfaces of his gloves. The steam rises to his nose, where he can breathe in the sharp, metallic stench as well as see it. He is intoxicated. He must have more.

Suddenly the fact that the blood is on his gloves is not enough. Tearing them off, he delves his hands into the fresh corpse before him, the dark blood contrasting sharply with the pale skin. Grasping the warm, plasmatic fluid in his hands, between his fingers, he pulls them out, revelling in the feeling of blood up to his elbows. As some drips down into the bleeding ocean he sits in, the warmth of it is sickeningly comforting.

He has done it. He has achieved what all those labouring years of torture were for . . . his goal, his dream . . .

It bathes his hands.

His clean, gloved fist sliced through the air, the sound similar to that of a whistling blade. The heavy heaving of his lungs, the rapid pounding of his heart, the haunted eyes behind his mask all belied the effect of the memory previous. He punched again with such a precise, sudden stop of his arm that tiny beads of sweat that had been clinging to him flew forward due to the inertia.

But the blood would not come off.

He growled, his brows furrowing under the mask, his leg performing a series of complicated kicks. One after the other the kicks continued until the muscles in his one leg burned and he was forced to switch to the other. His target remained elusive.

Fed up with simple leg manoeuvres, he took flight, his dark, yet uncloaked, form vanishing in and out of normal sight as his invisible foe led the attack. He dodged with abrupt, whip-like twists and aerial flips, like some sort of great, dark hawk. Turning quickly, he fired a single blue blast of energy at the great mirror above him, its clear surface deflecting the ball and returning it to him. He dodged it, the sound of its passing a sudden buzzing by his ear. As the orb came closer to the ground where it surely would combust on impact, Vegeta swiftly placed himself beneath it and kicked it back toward the mirror. It came back again and he continued this self-target practise until one rogue block hit the energy just a few degrees off and accidentally forced it into his left shoulder, where it exploded. Vegeta collapsed to the tile floor of the fighting ring replica, a hand over his bleeding wound. The warm fluid trickled down his arm, past his elbow, where it flowed down to his white-gloved fingertips. He removed his other hand and stared at the dark crimson surfaces of his hands, an unreadable expression on his face. The blood fell in uneven drips to the ground and his masked eyes followed each droplet. The pain came rushing back to him, but he would not give in to it.

He surrendered his pain to his anger, his power.

With one mighty bellow, he released the pain in a colossal wave of energy.

Bulma stopped brushing her hair for a second as the noise interrupted her off-key humming to herself. She looked over at her teacher, rolling her eyes a little. Every day he did this, and every day she could still not figure out exactly what he was trying to do. Not that she had been here long, mind you, maybe two or three days; it was hard to tell. But however long she had been here and however long she had seen him train and still not achieve whatever it was that he was trying to achieve, she could not help but watch him with an awed sense of curiosity. She put her brush away in her duffle bag, eyes still focused on the swiftly moving form of her teacher.

Five energy orbs were hounding him now.

She could barely see him as he dashed about, miraculously avoiding every blast and still managing to be able to keep them chasing after him. She caught only brief glimpses of her tutor as he stopped to send another blast back up to the mirror (which seemed to be practically indestructible), the light from his energy casting his shadow in dancing multiforms. Her blue eyes widened at the sight of such technique, now knowing first hand how hard each of those manoeuvres would be to do. Rubbing her arm in a bashfully uncomfortable manner, she was forced to evaluate her own incompetence as a fighter. *How can I even hope to have a chance at winning any tournaments when there are fighters so much better than me fighting? I-*

She stopped her train of thought abruptly. *But wait . . . wasn't the reason for me wanting to fight so I could be with Yamcha? Since when has winning ever become a priority for me? When did this stop being about him and about . . .*

A bright flash of light caught her attention as Vegeta caused two of the energy blasts to collide with one another. She heard him growl irritably, but not taking any time away from the rest of his training, still keeping the energy from colliding with the floor. She had no idea when the beginning of the move had started, but suddenly she was aware that somehow he had gotten the energy to come at him all at once. She would have called out to him in warning, but by the time she had seen it coming, it had already come.

All three of the remaining blasts exploded on impact with his body, blinding the cavern with a bright blue-white light. Bulma unshielded her eyes and was surprised to see him still standing. He was scarred and bloody, but still standing.

*I don't know what the heck he's doing,* Bulma thought, *but I sure hope he doesn't expect me to try anything like that. Of course, that would be assuming that he remembers I'm still here . . .*

Panting with the newly inflicted pain, Vegeta finally decided it was best to take a breather and stepped off the tile ring. He leaned against one of the walls of the cave, closing his eyes beneath the mask and tilting his head back toward the ceiling. His panting began to slow in to small, yet still rapid, puffs.

Bulma grumbled inwardly. *Typical that he would lecture me about wasting my time when he just beats himself silly and takes a whole hour out of my time to recuperate.* She folded her arms and glared at him, secretly hoping that she could bore a hole right through that mask. Right through . . .

*What *is* he hiding behind that mask anyway?* her brows furrowed. *I mean, he never seems to take it off. You'd think after keeping me down here for so long he'd have the courtesy to at least show me his face! What's the worst that could happen if he did?* She blinked curiously before smirking. *What's the worst that could happen if *I* did?*

She glanced around her surroundings, formulating a plan. He stood near where he had shown her the device to open the hole over the ladder to exit, on the convex side of the alcove where the desk was. Her eyes moved from path to path, deciding which would giver her the greatest element of surprise before her eyes snapped with decision.

Silently she crept along the side of the wall, trailing past the kitchen and dining area toward the alcove. Upon reaching it, she treaded softly, clinging tightly to the side of the cavern. She could no longer see him. The broken shards of glass from the picture frames reflected her skulking form until she passed, now reaching near the end of where the wall extended and stopping. She knew he was on the other side. All it would take was one quick move. Her decision wavered and her thoughts jumped around as quickly as the beating of her heart. What-ifs piled up in her mind as her hands gripped the rock wall behind her. She swallowed dryly, but set her jaw in tight resolution. She could hear his breathing . . . in, out . . . slowly, and she pinpointed his location by it. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she gripped the wall one more time as if for comfort and threw herself to the other side of the outcropping.

Too quickly and too suddenly for him to react, and in a movement she was utterly unable to control now, her fingers swiftly tore away the mask.



AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ha! I bet with the musical excerpt at the top that you thought you'd find out what he looks like in this chapter . . . I'm too evil. Oh well . . . anyway, I hope I can get the next chapter out to you guys sooner; I know I left it at quite a cliff-hanger here. Perhaps more reviews will prompt me to write faster . . . not that I'm super greedy for reviews; it's just that since I've passed the one hundred marker for this story, I'd like to have relatively the same amount of reviews as pages I've written. Seems fair, doesn't it? Equal pay for equal work.

Sorry again if this chapter seems choppy, but I've been relatively busy. I need to up my grade in AP US History and probably try a little harder in Spanish, not to mention the fact that Honour Band this year nearly killed me with the amount of school I missed. Not that I minded, but I had a heck of a lot of make-up work that I just didn't get around to doing. I did get a pretty black concert dress out of it, and that makes everything better, right? Well, enough of my boring life. Go and review and wait for the next chapter. Then we'll get to see Vegeta's face!

~Chunks

PS: Go read ZippyDragon*43's 'Romance Idiots with High Ki.' I command thee.