Well, like I said in the note I replaced with this, it skips a bunch of years. And the stories are different enough not to mesh easily, so I'll just grab my reviews from chappy 1 and fill you in.

Nasiya: I sincerely hope this part doesn't go into cheesy land. As for the attackers, well this snippet is from version 2:

They'd come for him. He had destroyed their homes, their families, or their worlds, when he had not been the master of his own fate. They had heard that he now defended a planet, and had joined together to destroy the planet and him.

"They weren't expecting your family, or mine. They only knew about me. But that they took down the others so quickly…" His voice had broken. "No one I fought, no planet I destroyed, had fighters strong enough to do that. I don't know who or what those warriors are…" Again, his voice broke. He didn't like talking about those warriors, and I knew why. They'd raped him, breaking his arms and legs so he couldn't fight back or get away. Raped him until he'd lost consciousness, and still been at it when he regained it. They'd left only when he had stopped screaming at them, stopped caring what they did to him. It had taken days.

So, anyway, they were after revenge. And technically, version 2 is different enough I could post it on its own.

Otaku: Um, well….

"Mitzu! Mitzu! Come on, Mitzu! Vegeta and I are hungry!"

"Oh, all right, Kakarot." Mitzu climbed down from the tree, holding the bananas she'd gone after behind her back. "Greedy monkey. You can wait until we get to the table."

"Mitzu!" Goku sounded crushed. "Why do you have to be so mean?"

"Mean? I'm not. You are greedy." She relented just enough to smile up at him.

"That's not what I meant." Goku turned and went back into the capsule house, his limp more pronounced than usual. He also had one hand pressed against his hip.

"Kakarot." Goku turned to Vegeta. "Get me a drink."

"Sure thing, Vegeta." Goku snagged a pitcher, going outside to the well. Fresh water poured from bucket to pitcher, a nice sparkling stream that dazzled the eyes. A second bucketful, Goku dumped over his own head before taking the drink back into the prince. "Here you go."

"Is your leg bothering you?"

Goku couldn't help glancing quickly toward Vegeta, who sneered at him. "I'm fine, Vegeta."

"Oh, Kakarot…" Mitzu singsonged. "The bananas are ready."

"I do hope the meat is ready as well," Vegeta growled.

"Of course, Grandpa." The girl proved it by serving her grandfather a huge portion with one banana on the side.

Goku forced himself not to limp as he went to the table to get a plate for himself. He didn't get much of the meat, so the bananas scorned by Vegeta and Mitzu made up most of his meal.

The three Saiyans ate with a will, though Goku had only one plate. Goku took empty plates to the sink, carefully washing them as Mitzu and Vegeta continued to eat. His stomach might rumble later - more than once, his stomach had waked the entire household. Often, he slept outside so that his hunger wouldn't be so noticeable.

Goku trained rigorously, and did most of the work around the house. He never raised his voice, meekly accepting the insults and condemnation that both Mitzu and Vegeta gave him. His eyes were often sad, although he smiled incessantly. And he always lied about his leg bothering him.

He washed up the remaining supper dishes, dried them, and put them away. He cleaned off the small table. The floor was swept, the table set for the morning's breakfast. He refilled the water pitcher, and filled the large jug . He restocked the firewood by the grate, then went outside again to replenish the woodpile next to the porch.

Vegeta had taken Mitzu out for an evening of hunting. What they brought back, Goku would be expected to clean and prepare for tomorrow's breakfast. For now, he was out hunting up the chickens that ran semi-wild around the house. The eggs he found would also be part of breakfast, as would any okra or tomatoes that were ripe in the garden. He had the job of tending to the garden, as well. And tomorrow, he would be doing the laundry.

So many years. Goku sat back in the tub, easing his leg a bit more. So many years had passed. They'd found Mitzu alive, something neither of them had expected. Bulma had hidden her in a pantry at the end of the long hall she'd died in. Kindra, her sister, had been killed by the blast that had destroyed the buildings, Mitzu had been fine.

And now, Mitzu was just like her grandfather. Goku leaned his head back, staring up at the few stars in the darkening sky. His limp was a source of amusement and scorn for them both, and his injured hip. He had agreed to a training session for her, had broken both hip and leg during it, dashed to the ground in a combination attack by the two of them. He hadn't healed right, living now in a constant pain that he tried desperately to conceal.

So far, he had done that well enough. He trained. He worked. And he forced himself not to limp, not to show the weakness. But sometimes, like tonight, he wasn't able to do that. Only he knew just how badly he had healed, if it could honestly be called healing. Sometimes, he believed he could still feel the bones grating together, though the injury had occurred nearly seven years before.

Seven years of continuous pain. Seven years of being inferior. He hadn't beaten Vegeta once in the seven years since, though he had been the stronger of the two. Now, all Vegeta had to do to win was get in a blow to his hip or leg. Goku still trained just as much as he ever had, but the pain had ruined him, rendered him useless in a true fight. Vegeta knew it, and rubbed it in his face. It had been over three years since the prince had last challenged him to spar.

Mitzu kept him here. He had helped raise the girl - had done more raising than the less experienced Vegeta had. He lifted his head, turning to look toward the girl's window. His expressive eyes filled with a deep sorrow. He sighed, slipping below the surface of the water to wash his hair. And was suddenly struggling to get back up as a hand landed on top of his head, keeping him underwater.

"He's a weakling."

"Yes." Something pulling on his hair, voices dim in his ears. It was a struggle to breath, much less get his eyes open. He managed. It was important to see. "Oh, he's awake."

Snapping black eyes stared down at him from a sharply pointed face framed by lavender hair. Another pair of mocking onyx eyes regarded him, these belonging to a man. "How do you feel, Kakarot?"

He struggled to speak, couldn't.

"He's too weak to even manage a reply." The man was positively scathing. His head hit the ground with a thud as the girl released his hair, her own mocking laughter joining the man's. "Let's go to bed. Leave him."

He trained. Harder and harder, forcing himself to endure. Collapsing in a sobbing heap when the pain became too much to bear. He pulled weeds from the garden, harvested the produce. He chased the chickens into a pen he built. His cooking continued to improve. He figured out how to make jams and jellies, how to can the vegetables and fruits he grew and harvested. He built a small storage shed. The clothes that had finally become tattered beyond his ability to repair he replaced with new garments he made himself over the winter.

The sadness grew more pronounced in his eyes, his smile began to falter and slip. He no longer noticed the small joys of seeing the perfect snowflake, or the sparkle of an icicle in the sun. He didn't make a snowman, as he had in previous years, or fashion snowballs to juggle. Time passed.

He gardened, he fished. He went about his chores with a kind of listless relentlessness that almost scary in its apathetic intenseness. He took absolutely no pride in anything he accomplished, no matter what it was.

His care of Vegeta and Mitzu never faltered. His care of the children they produced was equally superb. When he had toilet trained them, their parents removed them to the new house they'd put up. He saw them only rarely then. His once great spirit shriveled up and died, as he became a nearly silent husk of a man who rarely smiled and never laughed.

No hint of any emotion seemed to be present anymore. There was no anger, or sorrow, no joy, no despair. He just… lived, speaking only when forced to. He trained, the fierce intensity sinking into apathy as soon as he would fall to the ground. The children he raised took him on, exploited the old wounds to beat him within moments of beginning to spar.