Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. If I did, Kuririn would not have grown that ... that ... moustache! Ugh! Poor, poor (formerly) cute Kuririn ...
A/N: Here's chapter two. Sorry it's a day late ... extraneous circumstances wouldn't allow me to update yesterday. But anyhow ... Yes, Vegeta fans, the Prince comes home today ... and I doubt he'll be happy! As for Bulma and Trunks, they were separated after they were brought to the . . . well, I'm not telling where they are yet. ^^ But they meet up with each other, too -- and a couple guards learn what it means when they hurt the mother of a certain 6-yr.-old Saiyajin princeling . . .
Damsel in Distress? Not Likely!
Chapter Two: Daddy's Home
The lights were out in the house when Vegeta returned, save for a white light in the livingroom that didn't look like the normal household illumination. He shrugged to himself as he landed on the lawn; probably the woman's computer had overloaded the generator again. Vegeta winced, hoping no important programs had been lost in the power outage — Bulma would be in a foul mood for a week, and probably wouldn't come to bed until all the information had been regained. Darn that computer . . .
Vegeta reached out a hand to open the door, but he froze halfway through the action. Glittering in the starlight was Bulma's necklace, hanging on the doorknob. Vegeta took it slowly, holding it in the palm of his hand and gazing at it in horror.
He had given her the gold chain after Cell had been defeated, as a sort of apology for not helping her with Trunks. Vegeta knew that Bulma never took the necklace off — it meant as much to her as the wedding bands that Kakarotto and Kuririn's wives wore. He'd found it rather amusing at first that a silly trinket meant so much to the woman, but seeing the look on her face when he'd given it to her made the "sentimental nonsense" all worthwhile. Funny how she could do that to him . . .
Seeing the chain on the doorknob could only mean one thing — trouble.
Come to think of it, Vegeta realized he couldn't sense any ki coming from the house. The faintest sense of panic began to scrabble at his throat. What was going on? Not wanting to waste any more time, Vegeta pulled open the door with such force that he ripped it right off its hinges, and ran into the house.
As soon as he was inside, Vegeta knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. He wasn't three feet inside the door before the stench of blood hit him, nearly knocking him over. Whoever was dead in the house, there sure were an awful lot of them!
He made his way to the livingroom, from where the light was emanating — it turned out to be a portable floodlight set up on the floor. Vegeta's eyes bugged out as he saw the bodies of eleven heavily-armed soldiers, lying in a pile — next to two lifeless forms covered by Bulma's bloody house robe.
"Please don't be Bulma under there," Vegeta found himself saying, feeling as though a hand was squeezing every drop of blood from his heart, and he lifted the housecoat slowly.
Instead of Bulma, the bodies of her parents were revealed. Both had been shot through the head.
"It can't be," Vegeta declared hoarsely, his voice rasping with surprise. He had never gotten along particularly well with Bulma's parents, but they'd always done what he'd asked them without complaint — at least, none to his face. Mrs. Briefs had fixed his meals and kept his clothes clean when Bulma was busy, and Dr. Briefs was always there to update the Gravitron when Bulma refused, or to build him spacecraft when Vegeta wanted to leave. They were merely weak humans, but they had taken him in when everyone else on the planet thought he could not be trusted.
The skin at the corners of Vegeta's eyes tightened, and his sense of warrior's dignity prevailed. He lifted a hand and closed the humans' pain-filled eyes, feeling that even the woman's parents deserved to die a better death than whatever had befallen them.
It wasn't long before Vegeta stood up, and his jaw was set with determination as he held Bulma's necklace tightly in his fist. "BULMA!" he shouted, straining his excellent Saiyajin hearing for any trace of a reply, but there was none. He searched the entire house, inside every room and behind every piece of furniture, flaring up his ki so that he filled each room with a bright, blue glow.
Suddenly, Vegeta realized something else; his six-year-old son was missing, as well. Fear gripped Vegeta's heart then, for though Trunks was extremely strong for his age, he was as yet untrained — and unless someone got him very angry, his powers would stay at a fairly low level.
The first thing that came to mind was that Bulma and Trunks were dead — but this was dismissed after a moment of careful thought. If they had been killed, their bodies would have been lying there with Dr. and Mrs. Briefs. There was no logical explanation for them to have been killed and their bodies removed.
Besides, Vegeta would know if Bulma died.
Vegeta frowned to himself as he went back to the livingroom. Clearly those in uniform were hired assassins or soldiers, from where Vegeta had no idea — and as to what had transpired here, he could only guess. Two of the soldiers had been killed by an energy blast to the chest, undoubtably courtesy of Trunks. Despite the severity of the situation, a tight smile of pride for his son crept across Vegeta's face.
The rest of the militiamen and women had died from bullets from one of their soldier's weapons. Had one of their own turned on them and killed them? Vegeta's eyes narrowed, and he examined the placement of the bullet wounds. Looking at the way the soldiers had fallen, and where the bullets had struck, it was apparent that whoever had shot the gun had waved it around in a haphazard manner, without any careful aim. No professional assassin would shoot like that, Vegeta knew for a fact.
As another fact, Vegeta knew only one person who did. He'd seen her at target practice before, and the sight had sent him running for cover.
Bulma.
She and Trunks must have taken matters into their own hands, Vegeta deduced, and again the corners of his mouth lifted upward before the scowl slammed in place over his features once more. It was apparent that Bulma and Trunks had missed at least one person in their killing spree, and that this person or persons had been enough to overpower them and take them away.
A low growl rose up in the bottom of Vegeta's throat, and his fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails bit into his palms. He had to find who had done this, to get back Trunks . . . and Bulma. No one could kidnap his son and his woman! Not only was it an affront to his Saiyajin pride, it was . . . it was . . .
Vegeta knew perfectly well what it was, and his lip curled in a snarl as he left the house quickly. It was because, despite his grumbling, Vegeta felt protective towards his son, and Bulma, and he'd be blasted to pieces if anyone was to take them away from him!
As he took off into the air, Vegeta began wracking his brain to think of anyone who hated him or Bulma enough to do something like this. But no matter how hard he thought, Vegeta could not come up with a single suspect. Finally, the Saiyajin blew out his breath in a sigh of defeat. Though it would be a blow to his pride, there was only one thing left to do — he had to visit the one person who knew Bulma almost as well as he did.
******
A loud explosion woke a groggy Yamucha from a restless sleep, and he sat bolt upright in bed. "Wh-what?" he demanded sleepily, and the blankets tangled around his legs when he tried to stand, so that as he got out of bed he landed in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Another explosion, closer this time, and an angry shout. "Human! Get down here now!"
Yamucha rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in an exasperated prayer to Dende-sama. "O, no. Not Vegeta. Not this late at night, please! Dende, what did I ever do to you?" he fought to disentangle himself from the bedclothes, and yelled down the hall, "I'm coming!"
"Now!"
"All right, all right. Now," Yamucha sighed and struggled to his feet, the blanket still wrapped hopelessly around his legs. He managed to stumble to the front door — or rather, what was left of it. Apparently the explosions had been the front gate and the door. An enraged Vegeta stood in his front foyer, but immediately Yamucha was put on guard — there was concern in the Saiyajin's expression, mixed with anger and — could it be? — fear, as well.
"What's the matter?" Yamucha demanded, his mind springing instantly to battle mode. Even after two years of living in peace, his old combat reflexes were still fresh within him.
"The woman and Trunks are gone," Vegeta explained, leaving no room for subtleties. "Her parents have been shot. I want to know who could have done this."
A combination of shock and the sheets entangled around his feet caused Yamucha to fall over. "Bulma is gone?" he repeated dully, feeling like his heart had been ripped from him. He finally grew impatient and blasted the blanket to ashes, and he climbed to his feet. "What happened?"
Vegeta filled him in on the details, speaking in his usual curt tone, but Yamucha could tell he was worried for the safety of Bulma and his son. Once the Saiyajin had finished, he fixed Yamucha with a steely-eyed glare. "Well? Have you any idea who is behind this?"
"Gosh, Vegeta . . ." Yamucha scratched his head, thinking hard. "I really don't know. I haven't been involved in Bulma's company for a few years now, but I know enough that none of her major competitors have the funds for anything like that. If those soldiers were mercenaries, that is. If not, we're dealing with something completely out of my league. There was no ransom note or anything left?"
"Nothing," Vegeta shook his head. "Auughh," he snorted, "You're useless. I don't know why I bothered coming here. Go back to bed, you weakling."
Yamucha frowned as Vegeta turned back to the ruins of the front door and started to fly off. "Hey, wait! Where are you going?"
Vegeta stared at Yamucha like he had "stupid" tattooed on his head or something. "Are you dense? I'm going to find them."
"Do you even know where they are?"
"No," Vegeta's tone was frustrated, and he bit out the words like he didn't want to be reminded of that fact. "But I'll find them."
Yamucha hesitated for a second as Vegeta took to the skies, then he ran a few steps and flew into the air himself. "Wait, Vegeta! I'm coming."
The look the Saiyajin gave him made Yamucha feel like he was a bacterium on a slide, being peered at through a microscope. "You? Don't make me laugh, human. You would only slow me down."
The scarred warrior crossed his arms, his stubborn glare matching Vegeta's eyeball for eyeball. "Look, I care about Bulma and Trunks, too. This affects me almost as much as it does you," he cocked an eyebrow, then took a calculated risk and added, "Besides, if you didn't want me to interfere, you wouldn't have come here in the first place."
Vegeta opened his mouth to retort, but clamped it shut after a second, eyebrows knitting together in an expression of fury. "Maybe you might be of some infinitesimal use," he admitted grudgingly, and Yamucha felt a stab of triumph. "You have more knowledge about this planet's stupid policies than I care to clutter my mind with. But I'm warning you, if you hinder my progress I'll blast you."
"I want to find them just as much as you do," Yamucha argued. "I won't slow you down. I promise."
Vegeta grunted in response, but Yamucha knew that was as good a reply as he was ever going to get from the arrogant warrior.
"All right," Yamucha's eyes narrowed in thought. "No ransom note, so this had nothing to do with you. If it had, then you would have received at least something, wanting you to come fight or anything along those lines. It can't have anything to do with her company, either — again, there would have been a note or a threat left. So whatever the motive behind this was, it had to have something to do with Bulma herself."
"Now I know why I came to you," Vegeta snorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Your intelligence is incredible," he snarled. "Incredibly low, I mean! Of course it had something to do with Bulma!"
"You're not listening," Yamucha protested. "What could Bulma do for anyone?"
Vegeta just raised an eyebrow.
Yamucha's face reddened with embarrassment. "That is not what I meant!" he spluttered for a minute. "Vegeta, get serious!"
"I was serious."
"No, I — aughh!" Yamucha threw up his hands in defeat. "Well, that aside, Vegeta, why would someone want to kidnap Bulma?" suddenly, he snapped his fingers triumphantly. "Her programming! Bulma invents stuff all the time. Maybe somebody wants her to invent something illegal for them. Trunks must be there to make her listen to whoever kidnapped her."
Vegeta frowned. Though he didn't want to admit it, the human had actually made a valid point. "H'm. Perhaps."
Yamucha nodded. "Even if I'm wrong, we'd better not waste time. We should get going soon."
"Smartest thing you've said all day."
Yamucha took the sort-of compliment without comment and was preparing to fly, when he remembered he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. Good thing Vegeta was in too agitated a state to have noticed, else he would have made fun of him, no doubt. Yamucha held up a hand. "Let me just get some clothes and stuff, all right? It'll just take a minute or so."
"You have one minute . . . and don't think I won't count!"
The scarred warrior was back in his allotted time, and the two men took off, leaving a trail of energy behind them.
******
A pair of wide, curious blue, eyes blinked, then slammed shut instinctively as knives seemed to jab at his head and back from all angles. Trunks groaned and forced himself to sit up, feeling pain burning in his back. He placed a tiny hand on the sore area, and it came away sticky with drying blood.
The boy shook his head, trying to will away the discomfort, using the mind-over-matter technique Papa had showed him as he looked around the room he was in. It was fairly empty, except for him, with little furniture and no windows or pictures on the walls or toys to play with. There was a small bathroom off to one side of the room, as well as a thin mattress and blanket that he assumed was supposed to serve as a bed.
"Is anybody here?" Trunks called nervously, and his own voice bounced from wall to wall jeeringly, laughing at him, and he backed away to the middle of the room. Suddenly he felt scared — he was all alone in this big, empty room. He wanted Mama. He wanted Papa. He wanted Goten. He wanted anybody. Anything but being stuck in this place all by himself.
Trunks drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, and it was then he noticed that the shirt he was wearing was far too large for him. He peeled it off, looking at the material curiously, noting that the back of the shirt had been stained with his blood. Again Trunks touched the small of his back, and this time he felt the bandage covering a wound that he didn't remember receiving.
He thought for a minute, then he remembered the blinding pain that had occurred just before the swirling blackness — after Mama had killed all those soldiers. Mama must have missed one. Someone must have shot him. Despite the obvious gravity of his predicament, Trunks grinned widely. He'd been shot, with a real gun! Wait until Goten heard about this!
The smile faded. If he ever got out of here, wherever "here" was. And where was Mama? Had they . . . had they killed her, too? Trunks' eyes widened, and despite every effort he made to stop them, tears welled up in his eyes and spilled down over his cheeks. He didn't want Mama to be dead. He didn't want anybody to be dead, except whoever did this to him.
The little boy curled up in a ball on the floor, tucking his knees up under his chin and rocking back and forth, crying softly. He knew Papa would have hit him or something for crying, for being a weak baby, but he couldn't help it. No matter how hard he tried to be brave, the tears kept coming.
Just when Trunks thought he couldn't handle it anymore, the door slid open. He got to his feet quickly, holding his borrowed shirt tightly, wadding it up into a crumpled mess between his little fists. He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand, not wanting whoever it was in the doorway to think he was a baby.
It was soon apparent that it didn't matter what the person thought of him. "Come," the person ordered, coming to stand in front of Trunks. Trunks looked up . . . and up . . . and up . . . to see a tall lady glaring down at him. She had brown hair that was longer than Mama's, and green eyes that made him shiver. She didn't look nice at all.
This was confirmed when the lady grabbed Trunks by the hair and dragged him out the door after her. Trunks squealed in pain and clutched at the woman's fingers, trying to dislodge her grip. Even Papa didn't pull his hair — that was just mean! "Leggo," he complained, still struggling as he was propelled down the corridor faster than his short legs could run with comfort. "I won't run away. I don't know where to go anyway!"
"Shut up," the woman snapped at him. "I don't like little kids and I like you even less. Don't push me."
Trunks looked up at her, and when he was certain her gaze was directed elsewhere, he stuck his tongue out at her. It didn't accomplish anything, but it made him feel a little better. Papa had always chided him when Trunks did something silly like sticking out his tongue or making faces, saying that was what babies did — but Mama had argued right back. She said that Trunks was only six, and until he killed somebody, he could act as silly as he wanted.
That sobered him up quickly. Mama had meant well, but she hadn't actually thought her sweet little boy would kill anyone. Trunks' face fell as he remembered the bodies of the two men crumpling to the floor the night before. They were dead — really, really dead. Deader, even, than the mosquitoes Trunks would squish if they tried to bite him. He felt bad that he'd killed somebody; he'd taken away their chance to eat, sleep, laugh, have fun, watch sunsets, play . . . anything in life that they'd ever liked doing. It wasn't a good feeling.
But along with the remorse was something else. When his power had zoomed up like that and the energy had shot from his hands, Trunks had felt something different. A sense of . . . of something. He'd felt happy — insanely happy. He had never felt so strong in his entire life, and the whatever-it-was had run through his body like it had taken the place of the blood inside him. It felt like . . . like the one time Goten had dared him to stick his finger in a light socket, and Trunks had done it. Yeah, that was it — it was like electricity, shocking him and filling him with power. It had hurt, kind of, but Trunks hadn't minded. It felt too good for the hurt to make him want to stop.
The only bad thing was, that kind of power killed people.
In spite of himself, Trunks let out a whimper. He wanted to feel that power again, but he didn't want to kill. That wasn't what he wanted to do — he wanted to be a warrior like Papa, but without having to make other people die. Unless, of course, the people who had kidnapped him tried to hurt Mama again. If they made Mama cry out of pain again, he would make them hurt. Trunks scowled defiantly, and he glared up at the woman who still held him by the hair. This lady would go first, if he had to. Trunks didn't want to kill, but if they made him . . . he would. Nobody made his Mama cry and got away with it.
Mean Lady (as Trunks defiantly decided he would call her) tugged hard on his hair, making the boy wince. Trunks was sure he would be as bald as Muten Rôshi when this was over. He glanced up to see the lady glowering at him. "Kid, we're going to see your mother now. I'm warning you, any false moves and she'll get hurt. Don't think I'm kidding, either."
"You hurt my Mama and I'll hurt you," Trunks replied, grabbing the lady's fingers and trying again, unsuccessfully, to free himself. "You're not nice at all. And if I don't hurt you, when my Papa finds us, he'll kill you! He'll blast you to pieces and then make you eat yourself!"
Mean Lady's lip curled in a nasty sneer. "You talk big, kid. Too bad your 'Papa' won't find you."
"Whaddaya' mean, he won't?" Trunks demanded vehemently, "He's my Papa! He's smarter than you. He'll kill all you bad people!"
"Shut up!" Mean Lady let go of Trunks' hair, but only so she could give him a vicious backhand to the face. Trunks stumbled, but looked up at her with a grin.
"Papa hits me harder 'n' that when we're playing. You gotta' do better than that."
Mean Lady growled, low under her breath, but she just caught a new fistful of Trunks' hair and yanked him down the hall again. Trunks grimaced, but pretended it didn't hurt. He didn't want to give Mean Lady the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.
Finally, after what seemed like hours to Trunks' sore scalp and tired legs, he and Mean Lady reached a door. Trunks frowned at it, since it looked exactly the same to him as the one he had just left. If Mean Lady had brought him back to his room, he would get really mad . . .
But no, the number on this door was different. This room was number 803. Trunks tried to remember what number his room had been, but he didn't know. He'd have to check that later. Mean Lady punched a button on a keypad by the door, and when an angry-sounding man answered through a speaker in the wall, she replied in a loud voice. Trunks winced as her voice rasped in his ears. He didn't like Mean Lady at all.
As the door slid open, Trunks thought to himself, Mama'd better be okay. She's not as strong as Papa and I are. If somebody hit her, I'm gonna' get mad.
"Trunks!"
Trunks' head spun around, and he saw Mama sitting in a chair with her hands chained to the arms. Her face, the one that Papa had boasted (in secret, of course) was the prettiest one in the galaxy, was caked with blood all down one side, and her other eye was stuck shut from where blood had trickled down from a cut beneath her eyebrow. Cuts and bruises covered her arms and shoulders. Her hair, which Papa liked to play with when he thought Trunks couldn't see him, had straggled loose from its ponytail and hung in tangles over her shoulders, wet with blood from where it had touched her face. Her bangs were matted together and stuck to her forehead.
"Mama!" Trunks yelled in horror, and he spun around to look at Mean Lady. "You weren't s'posed to hurt her!" he screamed, hysterics getting the better of him. He jerked away from her grip, hardly noticing that the woman's fist now held more than a few lavender strands of hair in it. "What did they do to you?" he demanded.
A soldier stepped in front of Trunks when he tried to run to Mama, but Trunks kicked him in behind the knee, in the spot Papa had shown him. The man let out a yell of pain as his knee dislocated and let Trunks pass. Trunks ran to Mama and jumped onto her lap, feeling so guilty that he had let her get hurt. He was supposed to protect Mama — Papa had told him that when he was little.
He was still holding the shirt he'd somehow been given, and Trunks used it in a clumsy attempt to wipe the blood off Mama's face. It didn't work, so Trunks threw the shirt on the floor and flung his arms around Mama's neck, hugging her tightly. He heard the chains clink as Mama tried to hug him back. "My poor baby," Mama whispered. "Are you all right?"
"Me?" Trunks sat back and looked at her, and he lifted a tiny hand to try to brush the sticky bangs off her forehead. "You're the one that's hurt, Mama. I'm sorry I didn't pertect you right."
"'Protect', Trunks," Mama smiled. "And don't worry. It was my fault that I got hurt, not yours. I tried to get away so I could find you, but the soldiers caught me."
"They didn't hafta' be so mean to you," Trunks protested. "That's . . . that's . . . that's just mean!"
He turned in Mama's lap so he could scowl furiously at the assembled soldiers. They were all grinning, like the face Papa made whenever he sparred with somebody that was losing. "It's not funny!" Trunks shouted at them, "You're s'posed to be nice to girls, 'specially Mamas! Don't you have manners?"
Mama shook her head, and she whispered in his ear, "Don't talk back to them. You'll only get hurt."
"I don't care," Trunks' small body shook with rage. "They can't — they can't — hurt you and then laugh. Even Papa's not that nasty!"
He jumped off her lap and ran toward one of the men. He could feel the power inside him again, and instead of trying to focus it — like Gohan and Piccolo-san tried to teach him to do — he just let it explode out of him like lava in a volcano. The energy shot from his hands, and one of the men went down. Trunks grinned, and again he had the feeling of exhilaration. Now he knew why Papa fought. Now he knew why Papa spent so much time in the Gravitron, even when Mama yelled at him to come inside. This power was like . . . like a drug. The more he got, the more he wanted.
Suddenly Trunks felt something hit him like a giant wave, and all the power that was building inside him died. It felt like the time he'd watched a bug fly into Piccolo-san when he powered up — the poor little insect had shrivelled up and died, just like that. That was how Trunks was feeling. His legs seemed to turn into jelly, and he fell to the ground. As he lay there, as weak as a little worm in the dirt, Trunks wondered why his arms and legs wouldn't stop twitching so much. It was really annoying . . .
"Trunks! Are you all right? Stop it, you —" (Mama said a word that Trunks would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap if he'd repeated it) " — That's my child!"
Trunks forced his jittering eyelids to open, and his blurred vision to focus. A tall man stood over him, holding a funny-looking gun. Trunks had never seen that kind of weapon before, and there had been plenty of them pointed at him today and yesterday. The man had black hair, really short and kind of spiky, standing straight up off his head. His eyes, from what Trunks could discern, were brown, and his face was tight like he always had his teeth clenched. There were laugh lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, but they were years old — like he hadn't laughed for a long time. He looked strong, though nowhere near as strong as Papa.
"There you have it, Briefs-san," the man said to Mama, nudging Trunks lightly with the toe of his boot. Funny, but that little act hurt even more than one of Papa's punches. "I hadn't intended to demonstrate the weapon's properties so soon, but it doesn't matter."
"What did you do?" Mama's voice sounded more worried than Trunks had heard in a long time. She sounded as scared as the time Papa had blown up the Gravitron and had to stay in bed for more than a week. "Will he be all right? If he isn't, I swear I will find some way to hurt you . . ."
"Don't get yourself into a snit," the man reassured her. "The weapon just reduced his energy to zero. Quite handy, actually. But don't worry, it's only temporary. I hit him with the lowest setting, so it should wear off in about ten minutes."
The chains rattled again, and Trunks fought as hard as he could to see. Mama's face was bright red with anger, and had Trunks been able to move, he would have smiled. When Mama got that mad, even Papa stopped arguing and did what she told him to do. These soldiers had to be pretty stupid if they weren't scared by now.
Mama's fists were clenched, and she was straining to lift her arms, to break the chains even though it was a hopeless effort. Trunks could see blood dribbling down her wrists as the shackles cut into her skin, but Mama didn't seem to notice. Trunks knew that as soon as the bad people were out of the room Mama would probably start to cry from the pain, but as long as someone was watching her, she'd pretend to be brave.
Finally the man who had shot Trunks (or Gun Man, as Trunks decided to identify him) pointed a finger at one of the other soldiers. "Hey, you! Unchain the woman, will you? I doubt he would be happy if Briefs-san is any more injured than she already is."
The soldier Gun Man had been talking to jumped and ran to unlock the chains from Mama's wrists. As soon as she was free, Mama pushed past all the stupid men and ran to Trunks, where she picked him up in her arms gently. Even that hurt, but Trunks didn't have the energy to complain. He felt so weak . . . even when he tried to speak, his lips moved soundlessly. Mama looked at him sadly, like she was hurting inside.
"Poor Trunks," she whispered, then stared up at Gun Man with a stubborn look on her face. It was hard to look tough when she was all beat up like that, but Mama managed it somehow. "Do you want to beat up on a six-year-old some more, or have you finished showing how macho you are?" she snapped.
Gun Man frowned at her. "Look, I can't have your son running around and killing my men. And like I've already told you, it won't harm him permanently. Once the paralysis wears off, he'll be back to normal," he ignored Mama for the moment and looked at the guard he'd yelled at earlier. "Take Briefs-san and her son to room 336 and inform the General of the statistics of the mission. Make sure to include the fatality on our side, too."
The soldier paled at the last part, then he frowned. "Room 336? But that's a guest suite!"
"Of course it is," Gun Man snapped. "I know what I'm doing. They will be staying here quite a while, and I don't see the point in keeping them in one of the cells. We are soldiers, not barbarians!"
The other man sighed reluctantly, then nodded. "Yes, sir. May I at least remove all potential weapons from the suite beforehand?"
Gun Man thought for a minute, then noted the determined expression on Mama's face and nodded. "I think so. You!" he pointed to Mean Lady. "Blade! Take the two to the mess hall and get them something to eat."
"Sir . . ." Mean Lady's eyebrows were furrowed in anger. "The boy killed one of your men, and you are going to pamper him like a spoiled little palace brat?"
"Who said anything about spoiling?" Gun Man shot back. "I just said to feed him. As for Jones, he was an idiot not to get out of the way. We were warned about this boy and his species. Don't contradict me, Blade. Do as I order."
Mean Lady's lip twitched, and for a second Trunks thought she was going to disagree — but then she touched her fingers to her forehead in a sharp salute and nodded. "Yes, sir," she gave Mama and Trunks a dirty look, and Trunks ached for the freedom of movement so he could make a face at her . "Come with me."
Mama squeezed Trunks comfortingly as she followed Mean Lady out of the room. "Don't worry about a thing," she promised him, "You're going to be okay. Daddy will find us soon, and everything will be fine."
******
H'm. Yamucha's in the mix now, eh? :: grins :: We'll have to see how long he can take flying with a volatile and rather worried Saiyajin Prince as his travelling companion. ^^ As for Bulma, she still doesn't know what she's in for . . . but at least she's got Trunks -- and it looks like she's going to protect him. Go Bulma! And what about 'Gun Man'? He doesn't seem all that bad, does he?
Next chapter: Bulma finally is informed of the reason behind her abduction, and maybe finds herself with a potential ally? We'll see . . .