Disclaimer: DB/Z/GT does not belong to me. It is the property of Akira Toriyama, Toei Animation, and FUNimation. I've completely run out of funny disclaimers. So, to make up for this sad loss, I give you . . . Dancing Chibi Trunks!
[Chibi Trunks dances]
There you are.
A/N: I haven't updated this in an even longer period than Deeper Than Colour! Believe me when I tell you that this story has been bonking me over the head for the entire two years since my last posting. It's a complex storyline, for me at least, and I'm still not sure about it. There's a lot more politics than I'd like and no way to get around them.
But oh well, I'll work it out. I knew when I started this story that it wasn't going to be particularly simple, and that's how it's going to stay. I just have to work out some of the specifics. I'll get it done, never fear!
One last A/N: This chapter is officially dedicated to my best friend Shaun, a.k.a. Kuririn. He's the one who prodded and poked and bothered and threatened me until I finally got this chapter out. Any of you who were waiting for this may send him your thanks in the form of cash, cheque, money order, or cute boys. Eheh.
Damsel In Distress? Not Likely!
Chapter Six: Kids — Can't Live With 'Em . . .
Loud retching and gagging noises broke the silence of the house. A few seconds later, Yamucha staggered out through the door, one hand pressed over his mouth, and the other clutching spasmodically at his stomach. After vomiting on the lawn for a few minutes, the human climbed shakily to his feet and managed to stumble back into the house.
Inside, Vegeta stood with his arms crossed, surveying the bodies lying on the floor of Bulma's living room. The only visible sign of discomfort was his nose, wrinkled in distaste at the stench rising from the corpses — but then it might have only been disgust at Yamucha's weakness. Otherwise, his expression betrayed no emotion.
Yamucha slumped wearily against the doorjamb, struggling vainly to control his heaving stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trembling. "Man, Vegeta! How can you just stand there with all those bodies?"
He'd intended it to be a rhetorical question, but to Yamucha's surprise, Vegeta spoke up. "This is nothing," his words were scornful, but his tone was noncommittal, casual. He could have been reporting the weather. "I had seen a thousand times this much destruction by the time I was my son's age."
"That's more than mildly disturbing," Yamucha grimaced, images springing to mind of three-foot-tall, chubby-cheeked little Vegeta surrounded by carnage. Cold shivers ran rampant down his spine, and Yamucha wondered if the experience to which Vegeta had admitted, had any impact upon his development as a child. Witnessing genocide had to have drastic effects on a six-year-old's personality.
Vegeta turned sharply, shooting Yamucha a frigid glare. "Save your pity for someone who wants it, you weakling. Help me get rid of the bodies."
"Sorry."
The two fighters dragged the bloody corpses of the military men and women outside, trying to ignore the smell. Once the pile of bodies was complete, Vegeta raised a hand and released a large energy blast, reducing the soldiers to a mound of ashes. "Disgusting humans," Vegeta growled, spitting derisively on the remains. "It's lucky for them that the woman killed them quickly . . . I would not have been so merciful."
Silently, Yamucha stood back, sensing Vegeta wanted to be alone, and he leaned back against a tree, a frown creasing the lines of his face. He had seen Vegeta in variety of bad moods, ranging from annoyed, angered, exasperated, battle-crazed, beaten, and furious . . . but nothing like this.
Vegeta's expression was dark; the only comparison Yamucha could come up with was the sky before a gigantic thunderstorm, where the dark clouds rolled about in the turbulent sky, and thunder and lightning crashed ominously in the distance.
He wasn't quite sure how that image translated into a facial expression, but something about Vegeta's tight mouth, churning onyx eyes, and flushed skin seemed to exude pure danger. Whoever they were, Yamucha did not want to be Bulma's kidnappers when Vegeta found them.
After a time, Vegeta's low, wordless growl erupted into a primal roar, and his energy flared up around him, white and sparking. The ashes were blown into the wind and scattered by the force of Vegeta's aura. Yamucha flew roughly into the tree with such an impact that the thick trunk splintered and toppled over.
Eventually, Vegeta wrestled his emotions under control and reigned in his power, glancing at Yamucha with what might have been embarrassment — if he had been anyone but Vegeta. Scowling fiercely, Vegeta fixed Yamucha with a stare that practically dared him to make fun of him. Fortunately for Yamucha, he recognized the unspoken threat and wisely kept his mouth shut.
"Are you going to gape all day, human, or are you going to help?" Vegeta snapped, the sharpness in his voice startling Yamucha.
"No, I'm coming," Yamucha agreed readily, not wanting to spark the irate Saiyajin into abusing him any more. His jaw still felt stiff from the punch Vegeta had dealt him earlier, even though Dende had healed him.
Wordlessly, Yamucha and Vegeta carried the bodies of Bulma's parents outside. Yamucha almost threw up again when he saw them, lying in the puddle of blood and brains that had dried and hardened. The gruesome sight was enough to make Yamucha swear off eating anything for the next week.
As he cradled the doll-like form of Mrs. Briefs, tears gathered in Yamucha's eyes, spilling over when he tried to blink them away. Bulma's mother was a wonderful person, one of the few who had never badmouthed Yamucha for anything. While she didn't come off as particularly intelligent to most people, Mrs. Briefs was full of good advice and had acted as Yamucha's unofficial counsellor when he and Bulma fought.
He'd never thanked her for talking him through his relationship with Bulma . . . all the late-night chats in the kitchen, over mugs of tea . . . for sticking by him when Bulma erroneously accused him of cheating on her . . . believing in his strength when all the other warriors had surpassed him.
All that, and Yamucha had never expressed his gratitude. He shuddered, knowing it was too late now — he could only hope she had known how thankful he was.
Vegeta, bearing Mr. Briefs, remained stoic. He had said his goodbyes earlier, and was not about to do so again with the human present. Lifting a hand, Vegeta blew two holes in the ground with a couple quick blasts, not wasting time. He placed Mr. Briefs in one, instructing Yamucha to do likewise. Once the task was finished and they scooped earth back over them, Yamucha stood in front of the graves, chewing on his lip as he fought back another surge of tears.
Suddenly, he got an idea. "Hey, Vegeta, do you think —" he began, but the Saiyajin had gone. He was in the house again, and Yamucha heard various crashes and bangs as Vegeta began his search for the dragon radar. "Never mind," Yamucha muttered. "I'll ask later."
Shaking his head, the human walked back to the house to try to help Vegeta find the radar — if the irate man didn't kill him, first.
"Look, Mama, I'm a Suuuuper Saiyajin!" Trunks crowed, running around the room with his arms outstretched as though imitating an airplane. "Look, Mama, look!"
"Trunks, Mommy is busy right now," Bulma gritted, trying to tune out her son's high-pitched laughter, staring pointedly at the computer screen. She had been working on her various projects for a week now, and unfortunately, had come no farther in hacking into the security system. Perhaps she wasn't as clever as she thought . . .
"Look, Mama!" Trunks bounded to her side and tugged on Bulma's sleeve insistently. "Look! LookitlookitlookitlookitlookitLOOKIT!"
Tiredly, Bulma risked a glance at her son — and nearly had a heart attack. Trunks had taken the yellow marker he had been drawing with, and dutifully coloured his pale hair with it, including his eyebrows. Bulma's blue eyes popped, and she clapped her hand to her forehead.
"AAAUUGHH!" the woman screeched, "Trunks, you're driving me crazy!"
Trunks just laughed and skipped out of her reach, picking up crayons and pelting her with them, pretending they were laser blasts. "Pow! Boom! Bang! Lookit, I'm Papa! Big Bang Attack! Final Flash! HAAAAA!!!!!"
Bulma buried her face in her good hand and tried to ignore the crayons and markers that were flying across the room. "Why me?" she complained. It was hard enough being forced to build biological weapons to kill her friends, and simultaneously trying to crack one of the toughest computer systems on the planet, without having to deal with her hyperactive son. He was bad enough when Goten was around, but when he was stuck by himself — despite the sobering reality of being a prisoner, Trunks obviously couldn't take being cooped up in one room day after day.
The door opened and Entare entered with his soldiers, probably to take Bulma and Trunks to the mess hall for lunch. Bulma pounced. "Get him out of here!" she shrieked, grabbing Trunks by the waistband of his pants and holding him, kicking and yelling, in midair. "This boy is driving me nuts. How am I supposed to get anything done with him running around like a maniac?"
Entare's gaze swept over the disarray of the room, and his expression was a mixture of disbelief and stifled amusement as he took in Trunks' hair and the mess he had made. "I can see how it would be difficult, but honestly, Briefs-san, what do you expect me to do?"
"I don't care!" Bulma ranted, shoving her finger in the older man's face. "Either you find someone to watch him for me, or else I'll kill him myself! Then how will you have any leverage over me? Huh?"
"You could try to kill me," Trunks smirked, with the self-satisfied expression he inherited from his father. Both Saiyajin knew how much it infuriated Bulma. "It would be funny. Give everybody popcorn and let 'em watch."
Bulma let out another scream of frustration, causing all the soldiers to jump, startled. "Being held here against my will is bad enough," she snapped, "You can't expect me to deal with this, too!"
"But — Briefs-san —" Entare protested, obviously confused, "You're the one who insisted that your son be with you at all times! Make up your mind!"
Trunks wriggled out of Bulma's grasp and ran around the room, picking up his drawing utensils as though nothing else was going on. Bulma glared at Entare. "Listen, Mister. Don't sit here telling me what I said and what I did. Okay? I'm not saying you should throw Trunks in a dungeon or something — just let me work by myself for an afternoon. Is that too much to ask??!"
By the end of her plea, Bulma was again shouting at the top of her voice, waving her arm wildly. Trunks giggled at the looks of shock on all the men's faces. "Uh, fine," Entare said finally, "I'll find someone to watch him."
"Good," Bulma nodded with satisfaction. Somehow, being able to order her captors around made her imprisonment marginally more bearable. Suddenly, she wheeled on Entare, staring at him threateningly. "But if he hurts Trunks, let me tell you, I'll —"
"All right!" the man threw up his arms in frustration. "I know, I know! Nothing will happen to your child. Does that satisfy you?"
"Yes," Bulma smiled primly, all signs of her previous loss of composure gone. "Thank you very much. Now, let's go have lunch."
Entare blinked slowly, and Bulma repressed a laugh at the stunned look on his face. He was obviously trying to process what had just happened. "Who's in charge of whom here?" she heard him mutter as they marched to the mess hall.
"Oh, you are, of course," Bulma replied brightly, "I'm just the prisoner. Why?"
"Never mind."
Next to her, his arms full of crayons and markers, Trunks giggled heartily.
At lunch, Trunks scarfed down as much food as he could before Mama caught him and made him stop. Entare-san got testy when Trunks ate too much. Trunks didn't like Entare-san very much yet, but he knew Mama did. She got less freaked out when that man was around than when it was somebody else, and Trunks noticed. He thought Entare-san noticed too, 'cause he made sure he was always there when they had to tell Mama to do something or take her somewhere.
Entare-san wasn't that bad, Trunks decided generously. At least he had a little bit of patience. And he didn't stare at Mama like he wanted to do stuff like Papa did with her . . . some of the other bad guys looked at her like that. Trunks bet Papa would kill them just for looking at Mama like that. Mama usually didn't notice, but when she did boy oh boy the men paid for it. Mama was a scary lady when she got angry.
"Are you gonna' watch me?" Trunks asked Entare-san, his mouth full of dim sum. The army food was pretty yucky stuff at first, but Mama had hacked into the computer and found the files for the food processor. That was a few days ago. She told it to make better food, stuff that she and Trunks liked. It was funny 'cause either the army guys didn't notice the change or they were just glad they were eating food that actually tasted good now.
Entare-san raised an eyebrow and glanced at Trunks curiously. Trunks hated that expression. It was like he was a baby when people looked at him that way. "Me?"
"Yeah, you," Trunks rolled his eyes. Grownups were pretty dumb for pretending they were smart. "Mama likes you. Are you gonna' watch me?"
"No. Unfortunately, I have other priorities than babysitting," Entare-san smiled tolerantly. "I'll find someone who's off-duty to take care of you."
"Nobody boring," Trunks demanded, waving a chopstick for emphasis. "I'm a crazy, crazy kid. I don't wanna' make somebody go insane 'cause they're not tough enough to handle me."
The man chuckled, and Trunks felt a little stab of satisfaction. Entare-san was one of the few grownups who laughed when Trunks made jokes. The rest of the army guys just stared at him like he was stupid, or like they couldn't believe he didn't babble like an infant. Trunks grudgingly admitted that the Captain wasn't that bad . . . but Papa could still kill him when he came. Or maybe just rip his toenails off.
After lunch was over, Entare-san motioned for Trunks to come with him while a small contingent of soldiers escorted Mama back to her lab. Trunks scowled at the tall man and refused to look at him, marching down the corridors with as much dignity and royal pride as he could exude with his small frame and lavender hair. He wasn't gonna' let a bunch of big men intimidate him. Even if they did have guns.
Entare-san led Trunks through the halls to a room that, from the outside, looked exactly like all the others. No matter how many times Trunks walked through the building, he always got lost in seconds. He bet Papa wouldn't, though. Papa would just shoot a bit blast down the hall and burn up the entire building.
Trunks giggled involuntarily, picturing all the people dying. He didn't feel bad about it anymore . . . he used to feel all guilty when he imagined killing, but not anymore. He knew enough about the NRR's motives to eradicate any sorrow he might feel on their part. He just wanted Papa to hurry up and get rid of them all.
Especially Mean Lady . . . or Blade, as she wanted everybody to call her. Trunks snorted. Blade . . . what a doofy name! Anybody who had to use weapons like that instead of their hands or energy blasts were weak. Weapons were okay, but if a warrior relied on them, then he wasn't a real fighter. Blade was all just pretend. She wasn't as tough as she thought she was. Just wait until Papa came. He always said that the only reason he didn't hit Mama was because he had too much honor to hit women . . . but Blade didn't count. She was a meanie woman.
Entare-san punched a number on the passcode-thingy on the door, but nobody answered. The man frowned impatiently and pounded the password again, muttering bad words under his breath. Trunks chuckled. Through the door came sounds of yells and noises like a punching bag getting hit. Trunks' eyes lit up enthusiastically. Maybe the guy who was going to baby-sit him would spar with him! That wouldn't be so bad . . . and he could get bruises and freak Mama out. If he was lucky, she would start throwing things again.
Entare-san pushed the intercom button and barked, "BLADE! Deactivate the manual override, at once!"
Trunks felt the blood leaving his face. Blade? He had to spend the afternoon with her? Oh boy . . . he tugged on Entare-san's pants. "I don't want to stay with her," he hissed. "If you make me, I'll kill her!"
"Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that," Entare-san smiled tolerantly, that smug, "I'm a grownup" look on his face . . . the one that Trunks wanted to blast away. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. Blade won't hurt you."
"Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that," Trunks repeated mockingly, high pitching his voice and striking a goofy pose, but Entare-san pretended not to notice.
By the time Blade opened the door — very nonchalantly — Entare-san looked like he was about to break it down himself. Blade didn't seem any happier at the interruption, and Trunks started. He'd thought she was faking all the training noises, but it didn't appear to be. Her hair, pulled back in a French braid, was messy, loose strands sticking to her face and neck with sweat. The tank tops and track pants she wore were likewise sweat-soaked, and Trunks had to chalk up a few minor respect points. At least the mean ol' lady could train.
The esteem didn't last long, and Trunks sure wasn't laughing now. He stood with his arms crossed, legs planted firmly apart, glaring with all the ferocity he could muster. Entare-san had left him with an admonition to behave, and a warning to Blade not to touch him. "Why did it hafta' be you?" he demanded accusingly.
"Believe me, I'm asking the same question," retorted Blade, scowling down at him. She stood in a similar position, arms folded in hostility. "This is insulting."
"Insulting?" Trunks screeched. "Insulting! Hah! I'm the strongest kid in the whole world — I'm even stronger than you! You should be honoured to hafta' watch me! I'm just mad that I hafta' stay with an ugly meanie like you!"
Blade growled, then spun on her heel, military style, and returned to her punching bag. "I'm going to ignore you," she declared coldly, "So just shut up and amuse yourself. Some of us have better things to do."
Trunks stuck out his tongue at her, but true to her word, the woman didn't even look at him. Irritated, the small boy plopped down onto the ground, pulled out his crayons, and started drawing dirty words on the floor. This got him snickering, and soon Trunks was scrawling obscene insults about Blade on the floor tiles — something that kept him gleefully amused until the subject of his scorn finally noticed.
"Hey! You're going to wash that off," the woman snapped, pointing.
"The hell I am. Make me," Trunks dropped into a fighting stance and gestured suggestively. "C'mon, let's spar!"
"Don't be ridiculous. I don't fight with children."
Trunks scoffed. "Oooh, 'fraid you're gonna' loooose?" he taunted. "Poor ol' mean lady! Too 'fraid to fight a little kid 'cause she knows he's waaaay stronger than herrrrrrrr . . ."
Growling, Blade clenched her fists, bent her knees, and lashed out in a fast roundhouse kick that caught Trunks in the side of the head. Off-guard though he was, Trunks didn't move. "Hah! That was pathetic! I bet my Gramma could kick better than that!"
In truth, the blow actually made Trunks' head ring, but of course, he would never admit to that! Like he'd ever give that ugly ol' crow any satisfaction. "You gots your free hit — now it's my turn!"
He debated turning Super Saiyajin, but tossed that idea aside quickly enough. Sure, he wanted to beat on Blade, but it would be over too fast if he transformed. She was a human, after all. Trunks powered up, enjoying the look of surprise on Blade's face. "No energy blasts," he declared, "I won't need 'em to beat'cha."
With that, he attacked with a powerhouse punch. Blade flew across the room and slammed hard into the far wall. Trunks pounded his fist in the air and cheered in triumph, noting gleefully that Blade's nose was dripping blood.
But then she was up, fists clenched and eyes glinting with challenge. Trunks started; Blade didn't even wipe the blood trickling down her chin. Instead, she dropped into battle stance, and charged.
A small smile worked its way across Trunks' face in spite of himself. Maybe this wouldn't be such a boring fight after all . . .
Entare knocked at Blade's door when it was time for supper. He felt slight misgiving at having left Trunks with his irascible underling, but she really was the only officer capable of watching the boy. One didn't obtain the highest combat rating in the entire NRR for nothing.
Hopefully the boy had merely annoyed Blade for an hour and then fallen asleep. Judging by his hyperactive state this morning, the child shouldn't be able to maintain his energy for too long. Any normal child would have taken a nap long before now.
Mirroring this morning, no one answered Entare's polite rapping. Nor did Blade appear when he pounded heavily, nor when he shouted into the intercom. Just as he was at the breaking point, Entare took a chance and entered his passcode onto the door. It slid open.
The Captain muttered some choice expletives and stepped into the room, whereupon he froze in place.
Both Blade and little Trunks lay unconscious on the tile floor, bruised and bleeding from several fresh wounds. Entare swore loudly and dashed forward, cursing himself for placing Trunks in Blade's care. He'd known the two hated each other, but he wasn't aware it went this far . . .
Just then, Trunks stirred. "Oog," the little boy muttered, rolling onto his side and spitting. Blood and a broken tooth splattered to the floor. "Who won?" Amazed, Entare watched as the child merely rolled his neck and shoulders, checking for dislocations, then looked at Blade.
"Hoo!" Trunks crowed, dancing around, "I woke up first! I win! Mean Lady loses! Hahahahaha!"
Entare could only stare as Trunks found the nearest marker and scribbled all over Blade's face, drawing circles around her eyes, whiskers, a moustache, and an 'I am Stoopid' tattoo on her forehead. Entare figured he should probably stop the boy, but it really was Blade's fault for fighting someone twenty years her junior.
At last, Trunks glanced over and noticed Entare's presence, shooting him a gap-toothed smile. "Hiya!" Trunks skipped over to him, "I beat Blade in a sparring match. Can I come back tomorrow?"
"Uh," struck speechless, Entare merely shook his head and led Trunks out of the room. "You were playing?"
"Yup!" Trunks beamed, "She ain't as good as Papa or Goten, but she's pretty good for a human. Maybe next time she might even beat me! But prob'ly not."
"How am I supposed to explain this to your mother, may I ask?" Entare said dryly, remembering Bulma's injunction to bring Trunks back unharmed. "I promised nothing would happen to you."
Trunks shrugged. "Mama's used to it. Papa and I get way bloodier than this at home."
"And what about your tooth?"
Again, Trunks brushed off the concern. "They're my baby teeth, right? Another big one will grow in soon."
Entare sighed. "Child, you certainly are strange. Clearly I have a lot to learn about dealing with you."
"Clearly," Trunks repeated mockingly, and Entare had to laugh. It wasn't difficult to tell that this boy was his mother's son; he possessed both her wit and her indifference to command.
Trunks glanced up at him, crystal eyes probing. "Hey, if you're worried Mama will get mad at you, I'll tell her it was my idea," he grinned. "If you gimme a piggyback ride."
"Fine," Entare started to crouch, but Trunks leapt onto his shoulders before he could complete the motion. "If your mother still tries to throw something at me, you won't get any dessert tonight."
Trunks just giggled and pulled Entare's hair, making him wince. "Hah. I'd like to see you try, Mister Dopey."
More than once, Entare mentally added up his monthly pay voucher, and decided it wasn't nearly enough money to deal with all of this. And that night, as he lay nursing the bump on his head (courtesy of a blow to the head, from a vase thrown by Bulma), Entare wished the brilliant programmer would just hurry up and get this over and done. The sooner he could get away from the woman and her child, the better. They were starting to get to him, and that wasn't good. The General must never find out that his subordinate was beginning to bond with his prisoners . . .
A/N: Well, there you have it. I can't give "Next Episode..." previews because I really don't know what's going to happen. Things are going to get kind of dodgy from here on, though ... Just stick with me and I promise I'll see you through — eventually!