Initiation

"A military operation involves deception. Even though you are competent, appear to be incompetent. Though effective, appear to be ineffective."

-Sun-tzu (~400 BC), The Art of War. Strategic Assessments

God, these stupid things are really starting to itch! If I could just scratch it…ahhh…no, just a little bit further, a little bit…Come on Videl!

Providing a running commentary on her little quandary, Videl Satan's psyche did nothing but aggravate her already irked state of mind. She needed to strain the metallic set of links to their maximum to get her fingers in scratching range of her wrist. Obviously she couldn't scratch her wrist with the fingers of the same hand, she wasn't a freak or anything. The rusting iron that was painfully clamped on both her wrists effectively restricted the movement of her arms.

If that itch doesn't go away I'm going to scream!

To the casual observer—hypothetically of course, Videl was sure no one even knew she was incarcerated in this crude rendition of a medieval dungeon, let alone have someone observe her—the frustration of the young woman seemed awkwardly incongruous given the present scenario she had found herself in. Fretting over an insignificant itch when she was bound and shackled at the wrists and ankles, confined in a musty cellar filled with decaying fragments of what once were people, and surrounded by hostile men that weren't fazed by morality was peculiarly eccentric indeed.

Sure she was Videl Satan, a femme fatale who had proven herself more than capable of ensuring her own security. But whether she liked to acknowledge it or not, she was a woman, and she retained every weakness that was associated with the 'fairer sex'. Most notably, her appearance; her body, her beauty. How could she protect herself now when she was virtually rendered immobile by these metallic constraints? Being a woman, in a place where ethics are seldom known and morality seldom adhered to, she was in a danger that perhaps supersedes death. Violation. She could be violated, and that was her shortcoming. She hated it. Hated it with every ounce of her being that regardless of how much she progressed in the martial arts, and despite her prowess in combat, she would always be handicapped. A handicap endured solely because of birth? It was a selective handicap. But it was there, and in certain scenarios the possibility of that grew.

What would Gohan think of her then? A philandering whore who had forsaken the concept of modesty? The feasibility of that was very slim, she noted with an unusual mix of fear and relief. Gohan was an understanding man with a forgiving heart. And he loved her too, and wouldn't abandon her then. But it would always be between them, this stigma that would pervade her essence. She never was the type. She wasn't a slut that 'slept around' so to speak, regarding the act of making love a novelty when two people meet, and have a bed around somewhere. She was pure, and she did it because of her. Not because she was the daughter of the champ, and certainly not because of the fear of perception from her contemporaries. She did it because she respected herself, and respected her body, and respected the concept of love.

When she met Gohan, and subsequently fell head over heels for him, she then suddenly knew the magnitude of that initial sacrifice. An epiphany of sorts. She realized that she had stayed pure so, in the future, she would be able to share something special with her beloved. Her sanctity would only be offered to him and when he would accept her gesture, a bond of exclusivity would be formed between the two. A gesture that contained the zenith of her love and affection for that one man she would devote herself to. She wanted Gohan to have it. She had persevered through years of teenage temptation and endured countless whispers of the devil, but she was resilient and triumphed. Now, from circumstances out of her control, her sacrifice could be rendered worthless by one action.

Helplessness. She hated it. And so she despised that one weakness of her too, with a passion.

F—king itch!

************************************************

"Care to spare some change for a man down on his luck?" The voice was slurred, removing all traces of whatever accent he had once retained. The clean-shaven young fellow gave him a contemptuous look, and then shaking his head in disgust at the grimy outstretched hand he rapidly crossed the street. The destitute male watched him regretfully for a while, then retracted his arm back into the sanctuary of his card board and newspaper. He rubbed his palms together and huddled closer to the pages of the 'Satan City Globe', trying to gather whatever miniscule amount of heat it offered.

November was chilly as always, and he took another swig from something wrapped inside a brown paper bag. His worn and haggard frame eagerly anticipated the influx of liquid that should have been making its way down his esophagus. The man furrowed his brows in confusion though, and removed his chapped lips from the mouth of the bottle. He peered into it, and much to his chagrin, the bottle was empty. If he wasn't so thoroughly inebriated he may have been able to discern that fact from the lighter weight of the bottle.

Suddenly he heard a sound that was suspiciously familiar. Turning around from the park bench that served as his mattress, he saw them again. The two burly thugs, one towering above six foot and easily two hundred-fifty pounds, and the other was of average height and sported a stocky yet powerful frame. The sound was the vain protest of a couple of scantily clad women, unfazed by the November wind that chilled the bone.

The men appeared to be dragging them towards the relative privacy of the dark alleyway adjacent to the strip club they had emerged from. The women knew their protests were futile. They didn't want things to get more physical than they were going to get so their shoulders sagged and they entered the shadows of the alley followed closely by both men.

"Look Misty, there ain' no point in arguin'. I'm a feelin' a little excited an' that can't be no good when the boss comes, ain' that right?"

"I know, I know, but can't you just 'pop a boner' today and leave it at that? I had a very hectic day and just want to get it over with."

"Don't worry babe, this'll only take a minute." He revealed a row of crooked and yellowish teeth, and starting unzipping his trousers. His larger compatriot already had the other woman pinned down against the wall. Her concupiscence startled him considerably—disregarding the fact that she was a stripper—because she and her partner were protesting rather vociferously a moment ago inside the club. He cursed his luck with rather vulgar expletives at getting the more reluctant of the two.

"Come on," he urged with some contempt as he grabbed her arm and pushed her against the wall. She struggled ferociously against the vile thug until she felt him clamp her wrists and compress her against the brick building. She cried out in pain but the carelessly discarded trash and stench-infested dumpsters gave her no sympathy. She felt her lower garments being torn and braced herself for the impending thrust, but before the matter escalated to that effect she heard a growl emitted from her right. Both the goons and the strippers swiveled their head in the direction of the strange feral sound.

"Who the f—k are you boy?" The stocky mobster asked the figure. From what little visibility the night and alley combination offered, the goons could perceive a silhouette of a relatively short man. The peculiar thing about him though, aside from the strange noise he had emitted, was that his head area was oddly disproportional to the rest of his frame. Either the man was wearing some kind of pointy cap or headgear, or he sported a wacky hairstyle. It became apparent that the latter speculation was the more accurate of the two when the figure stepped forward and let the pale moonlight illuminate his sharp features.

"Who the F—K are you calling BOY, you sorry excuse for a man. Can't even court women properly, pathetic ingrate!" Both thugs stared at the irate short man with some astonishment and a bit of resentment. Was this guy signing his death wish?

"Yo, what's that 'bout women, boy? I've had me more p—sy than you can count!" Both men laughed derisively as if the punch line was some grandiose insult that had surely shattered the other man's self-confidence.

The strange pointy-haired fellow smirked evilly as he regarded both these imbeciles. "That's funny. I know you spent nine months trying to get out of a vagina, but now it has become apparent you've spent the rest of it trying to get back in. So far, no such luck. I'm glad to see that you haven't let your education get in the way of your ignorance."

Both of their complacent smirks were replaced rather quickly by irritated scowls. It was apparent that a bout of wits would leave them severely handicapped, so they decided that the more belligerent route would be most advantageous. "Wha…are you insane? You wan' us to pound yer ass down to the ground, boy?"

A vein comically bulged from the irate semi-midget as he advanced on both gangsters threateningly. "If you make such a derogatory insinuation at me again 'BOY', your voice will be permanently muffled by your ass."

They responded by two nearly identical stares as their rather limited intellect tried to decipher the man's convictions. Was this an egotistical display of bravado intended to cajole their women? Or did this incensed, diminutive man have any substance backing his boisterous showboating? Well, it was now or never, the shorter thug mused. The way he saw it, he had no choice but to escalate this little verbal feud into something more physically confrontational. Why? Because it was a matter of his honor—however perverse his perception of honor may be. He could not let some relative newcomer—he was sure he had never noticed him in any of the drug trafficking rings, the strip joints, and he was positive this guy wasn't in the new crime syndicate taking the city by storm—best him and the respect his countenance demanded in this neighborhood. Wasn't he the one assigned to administrate the strip-club and gang-related criminal activities that entrenched this shanty downtown district by the leaders of the New Mafia Crime Syndicate? Decrepit and infested with dilapidated buildings this locality may be, but it was still his responsibility and with the boss coming over to scrutinize his daily affairs he could not afford any mistakes.

Mistakes in the Mafia meant certain death, and if you were of the lucky select few, you'd possibly get a speedy and painless death. The 'higher-ups' though, rarely displayed such clemency. It was an action borne more of necessity than it was out of malice. Not that the individuals associated with the Mafia were shining examples of benignity. They were rancorous ruffians with an innate penchant for violence. They were evil, brutal men and if given the power and criminal jurisdiction would morph into corrupt despots receding more and more into the bowels of ignominy. But if the leaders of the Mafia displayed even slight traces of compassion when dealing with ineptness, wanted or not, it would encourage more potentially disastrous mistakes. In the world of crime, a mistake could lead to the eventual incarceration of the individual in question, and his subsequent interrogation. That could cost the Organization dearly. Malicious as they were, keeping their operations clandestine took precedence. They were instructed to protect sensitive intra-gang information at all costs, including the proceedings of their intramural activities. Their strip-clubs, their crack houses, drug labs and refineries, casinos, and of course, their headquarters.

Vegeta mentally surveyed the larger of the two 'morons' as he had so effectively dubbed them. He was clad in a plain black shirt with some sort of peculiar symbol emblazoned in gold in its center. A tough but worn leather jacket, ornamented with metallic zippers that had lost its silvery sheen, covered most of the shirt and added a bit more bulk to the man's massive build. Faded dark jeans and a pair of combat boots that looked like they've witnessed a couple of wars in their lifetime completed the ensemble. He was obviously a subordinate of the other thug, who was dressed a little bit more presentably than him, resplendent in a white under-shirt covered by a baggy blue sleeveless vest, and some brown khaki pants. This 'gentleman' presumably was the one directing things around this ramshackle neighborhood, or at the very least, would be able to lead him to the head honcho.

Vegeta smirked amusedly at their collective bewilderment, as he nonchalantly waved off the two equally astonished women who had taken a spectator position in this whole affair. They scurried away in haste, fearful that this altercation will eventually escalate into a bloody brawl. Worse comes to worse, there may even be some gunfire to add to the foray, and they had no intention of being caught between a testosterone driven clash of egos.

Both gangsters advanced upon the solitary figure, identical scowls of aggression set upon their hard faces. Slowly, they circled around the man, as the giant hulking figure strafed to the midget's side, coming around his back and effectively trapping him between himself and his shorter partner. As they circled though, he saw that the wild haired opponent still had that infuriating smirk plastered on his face, and his arms had come across his chest, acting defiantly in the face of danger. Losing any shred of control they had, both men yelled out, cursing and ranting. The bigger man lunged forward, wanting to take apart the freak from behind. His shorter partner had opted to strike the man from the front. As they approached, the larger man set up his knee for a massive impact to the back, hoping to reduce the midget's spinal cord into dust. His face took on a malicious grin, knowing that victory was close. Suddenly, and without warning, the wind picked up, and his grin fell. His knee connected, but it wasn't the stiffness of a backbone. He looked down and cringed, seeing his leader and partner hanging off his knee, his stomach in massive pain and his whole body going into dry heaves, attempting to relieve something from the enormous strike.

"Ah f—k," the big guy muttered, pulling his knee back from his partner's stomach, grabbing him by the shoulders and dropping him lightly on the ground. He turned his head sharply, looking at the wild haired man, who, throughout this entire instance, still had that sickening smirk written on his face.

"You know," he spoke, "I've seen incompetence before. But never have I witnessed it with such enthusiasm, bravo! " It was clear that Vegeta, while amused by the pointlessness of this fight, was somewhat willing to let this big lug continue dancing with him

"You little F—k!" he cried out, sprinting as fast as he could towards the midget. He cocked his hand back and let loose, confident enough that he would hit his target and smash that stupid smirk from his face. Of course, it all depended on the guy still standing there, and such wasn't the case. His momentum caused him to swing towards the ground, impacting it with his fist before going into a rather bruising roll. He ended up on his back, a few scrapes and cuts appearing on his face, neck and knuckles. Still, he quickly spun around, placing himself in a crouched position, looking straight into his opponent's eyes. "I'm goin' ta rip that f—king smirk off yous and shove it up that big a—hole."

"Well, it appears that you've hit rock bottom long ago, and it's been downhill ever since." Vegeta sneered at him. He held out his arm, and with a wave of his hand, beckoned him forward. "Let's make this concept a little simpler so even you and that empty skull can understand. I stand here. You try to hit me. Simple enough? I can go into a detailed tutorial if you want." He knew he was trying to play the large man into the little game he was amusing himself with. Hopefully he was smart enough to actually figure out that this was a losing battle.

Apparently not, for the big guy actually decided to charge yet again, causing Vegeta to raise an eyebrow languorously. He knew that he had to wrap this up soon and continue looking for some useful information, so the questions would eventually have to come. He watched his opponent wind up for another punch, this time an uppercut instead of a straight jab. He let him swing, and instead of moving around him like he did the previous times, Vegeta decided to just dodge side to side. The uppercut missed, as did the following three jabs, all aimed for the Saiyan's head. To any prospective onlooker, it would look as if Vegeta was actually losing, allowing himself to be hit by such a massive brute, yet having the endurance to take the punishment. That's what the mobster allowed himself to believe, until he realized that he was losing his breath and none of his fists had connected yet.

Deciding to end this, he reached up as high as he could, wanting to strike down on top of the midget's head. He swung down, and hit something. He smirked, until he realized that he didn't strike his intended target's head, but rather, his intended target's hand, which had his own fist inside a death grip. He struggled to pull out, but was surprised to find out that he was going nowhere, and the short man's arm was practically holding him in one spot, unmoving.

"Game over." The two words resonated through him ominously. He began to feel that inkling of uncertainty creep upon his composure, a small but compelling persuasion to abandon everything and flee. Fear. He had felt it before, no doubt. Once initiated into the inner realm of Organized Crime, especially in a large criminal jurisdiction like Satan City, fear would be a commonplace occurrence until experience hardened their souls. He was hardened as any other 'middle-class' gangster, his ten years of service attesting to that fact. He had all but forgotten what fear truly felt like. That sharp tinge in the bowels of his stomach, that cold sweat, that increasingly volatile shaking his hands would succumb to, and most of all, the thoughts. What was he to do?

"Wha…What do yous wan'? Th…Them girls? Take 'em! Take 'em all! Here, I'll get 'em for yous!" The large ruffian tried to ease out of the vice-like grip clamped down on his wrist while he started for the strip club. But, try as he might, his assailant wouldn't budge.

"You cowardly fool. I don't want to flaunt off with some philandering A.I.D.S infested whore and earn myself an extra large dosage of STDs." Vegeta sighed heavily at the blank, but still trembling, demeanor of the massive oaf.

"I need some information," and before Vegeta continued on, he witnessed the goon take in a sharp intake of breath. Not one triggered by surprise. No. This was one of reluctance. His facial features accentuated that supposition nicely. Akin to when one is placed between 'a rock and a hard place.' Vegeta leered at him dangerously, tightening his hold on the massive wrist fractionally, which in turn nearly caused the poor thug's wrist to crumple like discarded paper.

"If not, then I have no use for you. Do you know what I do with people that aren't of any use to me?" Vegeta kept his impassive glare on the gangster, boring various holes into his already fragile psyche.

"N…No."

"Do you want to know?" The sarcasm and the concealed threat that went with that statement was not lost on the giant, regardless of his limited intelligence.

"N…N…No." He seemed to have a little bit more trouble enunciating that simple word properly.

"Very good, you're learning. Now, a lady…" deciding to abandon his initial plan of subtle extortion, Vegeta went for the more brusque approach. "Videl Satan, daughter of Hercule Satan and probably the woman you mobsters hate the most was kidnapped recently. You happen to know anything about that?" Vegeta gave the incarcerated wrist another persuading squeeze, prompting the larger man to whimper back a semi-coherent response.

"No…Nothi…Nothing. I didn' knows thats she was gone." He looked back at the short man fearfully.

"You're not happening to lie to me, are you? One thing I hate more than cocky, full-of-shit a—holes like you, are liars. I absolutely despise liars."

"You…You hafta believe me! I know nothin'! If…If it was in this region, yeah, I'd know…But, but, something like that ain' goin' to be known to somebodys like me."

Before Vegeta could interrogate the felon further, a soft groan filled the musty air of the alleyway. The other unfortunate thug, the leader, was regaining his consciousness. How convenient, at least for an aggravated Saiya-jin Prince.

He gave one more condescending scowl at the massive brute, and then flung him with astounding ease at the stench-infested metal dumpster ornamenting the derelict alleyway. The hulking frame of the gangster collided with the metal with a resounding 'bong', as he slid down the side his physique upside-down. City officials probably had minimal jurisdiction in this place, and had more potent things to worry about like drug trafficking and prostitution than renovation of habitually neglected alleyways.

Vegeta stalked over to the staggering leader, who still hadn't discerned what exactly had happened and why he resumed consciousness lying face-first into a pile of what looked like dog excrement in a filthy alleyway. He didn't have much time to ponder over his predicament though, as a sturdy grip clamped on to his collar and elevated his body four feet into the air with surprising strength. He felt his back press against the brick sidewall of his strip club, and had to peer considerably down to identify whom this aggressor was. Immediately the frowning, malicious face he saw evoked his memory into a frenzy of activity. He remembered all, and he remembered with a scowl that he had been smashed in the gut by that f—k of a fat ass. Dried remnants of his blood caked along the side of his lips and mouth, and some had dried while dribbling down his chin. That knee had caused a whole lot of fluid to be regurgitated back up from his torso.

"What the…" His anticipated attitude was cut brusquely off by the irate Saiya-jin. The toying with the bigger and much more stupid of the two was an unexpected treat, but now everything was becoming monotone and his patience had ran out.

"Shut the f—k up and listen to me carefully," Vegeta pushed the stocky man harder against the wall and small squeaks could be heard, probably the man's bones as they were compressed by enormous amounts of pressure.

His eyes bulged and he clawed desperately at the hand that gripped his collar, gasping for air and silently pleading for this torture to come to an end. Either way. Even death was better than this slow and excruciating show of brute force.

Vegeta eased up on the man, but still maintained that gruff voice and demeanor to take advantage of the situation. The goon was spooked. This was the best time for fear to obscure his better judgment and have him squeal some sensitive information in exchange for his life.

"Videl Satan," the man flinched when he heard the name, and never being one to lighten up on his perception skills Vegeta immediately acknowledged that. "Yes, I'm sure you know her. She's a pretty famous lady around filth like you. She was kidnapped. I want to know where she is. You will tell me. You will tell me or you will have to hear your bones be crushed under tremendous, but very slowly administered, pressure until your bones resemble clam chowder." The grave look Vegeta directed at the man made it obvious that he was dead serious, and that graphic description of his torture method left no room for the imagination.

The mobster had discarded any remnants of pride and machismo his disposition had retained earlier. He knew that to allow such irrelevant things to dictate his behavior now was a matter of certain life or death. The irate midget with the funky haircut was not in a mood to be humored any longer. Anyone could observe that with minimal sensory exertion. What added mountains of effect to the man's threat was his far superior strength, which could easily snap his neck like dry twigs. That wasn't very comforting for an innately pusillanimous thug who cared for nothing but his own. The future can be changed. That hope was still there. He would deal with the Mafia bosses later. He was now rendered at the complete mercy of one man that had shown callous sentiment for his own life and also highlighted his dexterity in inflicting pain. That was too much.

"She…she was kidnapped. At the orders of the new boss. I…I dunno the boss…Not many do. I…I don't know why she was taken. Her…Her death…She was to be killed! Her death was ordered earlier on. Word was that she was shot but survived. I dunno why…Why the order for her death was cancelled…No more word on her. Suddenly she was to be left alone…I don't understand it."

"She was taken by orders of the Mafia you say?" Vegeta hadn't let his malicious demeanor waver in the slightest, and he still kept his iron fist clamped on to the thug's collar.

"Yee…Yeah…She must be at HQ…I…She must be…High profile people are…you know…there."

"Where is this headquarters, if you care to divulge such information of course." Vegeta intensified the pressure on the man marginally and the effects were already showing as the goon clamped his eyes shut in pain. It was obvious that Vegeta had no intention in giving the gangster any choice in his course of action.

"The new HQ is…is kept very secret. I…They didn't tell me where it is…It was under wraps, not even some front men know where it is…"

Vegeta's eyes narrowed dangerously, as he prepared himself for employing more persuasive tactics. Disregarding the pleading protests of the gangster Vegeta began to slowly intensify the pressure applied to the thug's collarbone.

"Al…Alright…Ahh…I'll tel—"

So immersed was he in this delicate procedure of physical extortion that only his subconscious registered the subtle air vibrations suddenly evident around him. Before his heightened senses could properly detect the cause of the strange anomaly his detainee's skull suddenly exploded in a messy combination of red fluid and white semi-solid bone matter. Vegeta scowled inwardly in irritation and leaped back into a lanky martial arts pose. He knew what had happened, it was easily discernable. Such things weren't uncommon in the unscrupulous world of the Mafia. This tactic was used extensively by Frieza and Cold back in the Universal Imperialism days he was trapped in before. Obviously he was used to other mediums of projectiles rather then bullets. And, much as he had changed for the better, he still had to acknowledge that this policy of 'intelligence containment' was an exceptionally practical tool for the mendacious bosses of the Mafia. Eliminate the threat, regardless of their allegiance. He watched in morbid fascination as the bloody remnants of the lead thug slid gracelessly down the soot and graffiti decorated brick wall, leaving a smear of arterial red in its wake. How long had it been since he witnessed such a macabre scenario unfold before him? Too long?

He hadn't bothered with pursuing the perpetrators of this assassination; he knew it was a futile cause. This meant that the Mafia had already come to know that they were undertaking this reconnaissance mission. How, was the baffling question at hand. Satisfied with the small, yet valuable, piece of information he was able to gather he filled the halcyon night with a fiery red aura and departed for his intended destination.

***************************

"This is truly intriguing! They know. That ups the ante considerably. But, I know too. I know more. Well, 'Mr. Saiya-man'," the drawl that accentuated that name was unmistakable, "We'll see who can best who in our little game of chess. I will triumph. That is inevitable. You know why? Because good is always fallible. Always!"

The glee in which he conducted himself at the moment was so nonconforming to his somewhat monotone personality that it bordered on schizophrenia. Who was this person prancing about the musty cellar in uncontrolled excitement? Certainly not the android. It couldn't be.

He turned two enthused eyes at her, not even attempting to veil his consuming emotions. "Good. Good is so boring, don't you agree? You would know. But you still refuse to acknowledge it, foolish girl. You go day in and day out and slave away for the benefit of these pathetic lowlifes. What do you receive in the end? Nothing! And you still do it. How stupid can Good be? I will win. It's simple. I will win because your beloved has so many weaknesses it's almost insulting to my exquisite intellect to exploit them. Almost." With that word his flippant countenance morphed unexpectedly into a somber and serious expression.

"You cannot suppress me. You cannot pretend that everything is okay." He wasn't looking at her anymore. His gaze traveled behind her to some random spot on the rank and decayed walls of this dungeon he kept her in. Whom the 'you' he was referring to was, she had not the slightest hint. But it was an educated guess that it concerned the Z fighters, or someone they knew.

"You think that after that calamity, that everything could return to normal? Your normal is not my normal!" Videl jolted violently in fear as he screamed with feral intensity at that ambiguous spot on the wall. "What is my normal? I have no purpose! I was created for a reason. I lost that reason. Son Goku is dead! What do I do now? Farm?! No." He diverted his attention back to resilient, but shaken, depths of her blue eyes. She feigned heroism but with his staid and calculating stare he knew the untold cries of the heart. "There are no heroes. There are no murderers. Only killers, and victims."

His lips slowly tugged upwards into a small smile. She was the key, and he had it. "You, my pretty, are my trump card. You will defeat them for me. How ironic, that his heart is set on saving you only to be dashed by you too. The benefits of the double-edged sword, wouldn't you say?"

"You can't beat him so easily. He'll come, and then you'll be sorry you ever imagined this whole thing, you sorry excuse for a creation." She clenched her eyes shut in anticipation of any physical retaliation. But the backhand never came. Instead, her eyes opened up to perhaps a more unsettling scene. The android was grinning, literally from ear to ear.

"Your helpless groping for hope is very amusing. Just that may make all this careful planning and patience worthwhile. I was never one to set my goals low though."

"Helpless? It's you who should be worried, you monster. You tried to kill me, you kidnapped me, and now God help you when Gohan finds your pitiful carcass."

"I know very well the intricacy of Gohan's emotions. I've observed their effects and have taken it into account. It's simple really. Why engage him in a fight, when I can exploit his other weaknesses too? I'm pulling the strings here, fool. I'm not going to throw away my advantage gained from years of planning and effort just on some falsified pretense of honor and chivalry. Opportunism is the key of my advent into this position of power. I have planned, I have read, and I have planned some more. No matter how many fighters I am against, they cannot decipher my intentions fast enough to stop me. And you, my disillusioned teenager, will witness the despair of your beloved until the guilt consumes you. Human emotions are so petty, yet so compelling. I never understood it."

"That's because you have no emotions, you fiend. No matter how much you try, you'll never be anybody but a failure of a mad scientist. Discarded remnants of a failed experiment."

It was clearly evident that Seventeen was forcibly containing his bubbling anger. It would put a major damper on his plans if he allowed an inconsequential being like her to get the best of him. "You cannot sway me from my goal, ingrate. There's nothing you can do to stop this, but sit idly by and witness the demise of everyone you love. Especially 'Saiya-Man'."

She smiled weakly, throwing a look of pity at the hawkish Android. "Like it or not, Gero's success was Cell. That leaves you as a failure. The dregs of his inventions. Why do you think you had to be absorbed to complete Cell? You were just a pawn, a simple component for something much bigger than you can ever be." She had utilized the detailed information Gohan had told her about the Cell debacle a little while ago. She needed to distract this beast enough to keep Gohan out of harm's way. More than her desire to be rescued was her need to keep him secure. Even if it was at her expense. But she knew he would not heed her pleas for him to stay away from this madman even if he could hear her, he was way too protective of her to ever consider the thought.

"You stupid bitch! I will incinerate your pitiful existence with a wave of my hand!" Before he could make good on his threat something beeped loudly, sharply contrasting the eerie silence laced with Seventeen's ranting voice. Seventeen stopped his arm from descending heavily upon the raven-haired vixen and covered his ear with the errant hand.

"What?" He said irritably.

"Boss, they've all left to go back."

"Good. Await further instructions."

He smiled wickedly at Videl before walking towards the entrance to her musty cellar, halting right at its threshold and peering back at her.

"Be a good girl and stay put, I've important things to attend to. I'm going to pay my sister a surprise visit. What can I say, I love family." He spoke briskly into the makeshift telecommunications set wired onto his body.

"Commence the blitzkrieg."

(A/N- A little delayed, but that was because of circumstances out of my control of which I don't wish to divulge. I'm sorry for not responding to those of you who asked earlier, but 'Tomber Amoureux' is French for 'Fall in Love', that's about all the French I know so don't get technical with it. ;x. Anyway, that first 'major' fight scene in this story was penned and choreographed by none other than my buddy Fred (ShaggyDiz), who is absolutely phenomenal when it comes to portraying the necessary elements with regard to fight scenes. 'Ash the Wanderer' is widely reputed of being one the best in penning fight scenarios on this site, and I honestly believe ShaggyDiz is right up there with him (Check out the fight scenes in his story, "The Warm and Fuzzy Feeling From the Back of a SYN" to verify my praise.)

Well, it felt damn good that after a long spell of reticence someone actually critically analyzed this story and included some pointers (I used to get them at the inception of this story, but once I started heeding the advice, gradually it withered away). Don't get me wrong, I'm tremendously gracious for everyone who has written some nice words regarding my story, it really helps as far as motivation is concerned. And speaking of which, I know of two authors who display amazing potential in their own right and have a very unfair amount of support to back them.

Squrrel Assassin- An author that has progressed so marvelously from an average author to something to be revered as is displayed in his newest fiction, "The Man in the White Suit". Very cool, and it is easily discernable by the quality of the piece that he has put some very good thought into the plot and has included some intricate developments too.

Halm Vendrella- I just noticed his story, 'The Heart of Souls', and it is an awesome attempt to genuinely write a story containing G/V. The care in which he develops the plot and the superb narration provide for an interesting read. Awesome Literature, but sadly, he has got minimal attention to his ongoing piece, which is very disproportional to the quality that it possesses.

Please people, it is a travesty for writers with such great potential to be discouraged by the lack of reader response. The best of which is to offer them helpful pointers, but it is of no lesser magnitude to write a pleasant review outlining the parts you liked (I strongly suggest people write a review taking care of their spelling/grammar. You don't need to be perfect, but some attention to the sentence structure goes a long way in terms of perception).

Penchy-chan- An author who doesn't have a disproportional amount of reviews (She deserves every single one she gets, though), but whose style and narration is exemplary and has indebted the readers of this site by the awesome stories she has written. 'Oujisama' is widely acclaimed by readers, but anything she writes is of extraordinarily high quality.

Sage- Best way to describe her is an iconoclast graced with outstanding literary ability. The way she writes, and the way she actively deconstructs characters is absolutely beautiful. But, be forewarned, you may need a tissue handy in several of her stories, including the completed gem, 'Dark Shift'. Happy endings are endearing to most readers, I know, but to errantly pass off a chance to read any of her works solely because you thrive on sanguine 'fluff' is inane.

I extol their effort and dedication along with the other authors I have mentioned previously, in this chapter and the last few chapters, because it is of my humble opinion that these people make it worthwhile to read fanfiction. Of course there are more, and I'll attempt to highlight ones that I have come across as I progress. I apologize for missing anyone though, sincerely.

"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."

-Oscar Wilde