"...the question? Miss Briefs? Are you with us today?"

The young girl started as the teacher's voice finally drilled into her ears. Guiltily she looked up from her blank notebook to Miss Pinkerton, and mumbled an incoherent apology. Miss Pinkerton briefly frowned and, readjusting the small spectacles on the bridge of her nose, resumed her lecture to the class. She sat very straight on the chair, legs primly crossed at the ankles, and held her painstakingly typed notes at arm's length. Her greying hair was gathered in a neat bun and she wore a calf length dress buttoned up to her neck, maybe a relic she'd found somewhere in her attic. For all her students knew, she could have been born a century before their time.

Bra thought her to be an amusing character in a quaint, old fashioned way, and enjoyed literature enough. Although she was no dazzling genius like her mother, she'd always been in advance over children her age, and at ten years old she'd already skipped to the eighth grade. From her earliest years she'd been curious and eager to learn; that was why Bulma hadn't spared any expenses and enrolled her in West Capital's most prestigious private school, so she could fully receive the benefits of a well rounded education.  A few downsides of the establishment were its rigorous disciplinary system (spells of detention regularly fell without discrimination on nearly all students), and the fact that wearing a uniform was a strictly enforced part of the school code. But on the whole, Bra enjoyed it there, succeeded brilliantly in all subjects and was regularly praised by all her teachers.

On that particular afternoon however, she found it quite impossible to concentrate on her Shakespearean verses. Her mind kept on wandering back and forth from her mother to her father, and she simply couldn't shake the feeling of ill omen the video tape had created in her.

Vejita had set off alone every morning to look for Bulma, stayed out the whole night, and only checked back at Capsule Corporation for half an hour shortly after dawn. He hadn't allowed anybody to go with him, not even Trunks, and Bra herself had begged him to let her help, to no avail. His had been a categoric "no", and when he said no, it was useless arguing with him. Invariably he ushered a protesting Trunks into the limo, then took Bra to school himself, instead of letting the chauffeur drive her. Vejita's sudden protectiveness gave her a good enough reason to worry, and she could tell he was more concerned about the situation than he actually let on.

Thoughts of gloom thus churning in her mind, Bra was in the process of chewing her pencil to bits when a little noise outside the classroom caught her attention. She turned her head, and what was not her surprise when she found her father's face appearing by the window, his hand lightly tapping on the glass.

"Papa!"

Her involuntary shout of surprise had all heads turn in the same direction than hers, and almost instantly, Miss Pinkerton's class became about as quiet and orderly as a Bedouin bazaar during festivities' week.

Boys gawked in amazement, girls whispered to one another excitedly. It no longer struck any of them as odd, seeing their classmate's father hovering outside a third floor window, for they had grown somewhat accustomed to his sudden appearances on the school grounds' most unlikely places. Every once in a while, he would literally "drop in" just to see Bra or sometimes take her out to lunch.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Miss Pinkerton started angrily. "Cease this immediately and get back to your seats! I will not tolerate such__" Her eyes widened as she saw just who exactly had disrupted her class.

Little did Vejita know that while he'd been feared by most of the vicious space mercenaries he'd had under his command, he'd practically gained an idol status among the female student body of WC Institute's eighth grade. Had anyone ever had a chance to capture him on film, his face would undoubtedly have made a fine addition to the fast growing world of locker material. And to think that Bra's father was actually in his fifties! He didn't look a day over thirty, and with that, he was generally dressed to kill. Not to mention that he could fly. Oh, flying was a definite plus for originality. Leo what's your name, in your face. Backstreet Boys, eat your hearts out. Ripe coolness was this season's flavor, and this man was hot, no question about it.

Even Miss Pinkerton seemed to agree with the general trend, and that in itself was saying a lot. Students always looked forward to her running into Vejita, just for the sheer entertainment of watching the stern old maid suddenly loose her composure and sharp eloquence, should he do so much as step into the same room she was in. Presently she seemed to have lapsed into yet another of her absent-minded daydreams, a beatific expression smoothing out her usually tense features.

Glancing at the swooning teacher through the open window, the Saiyajin asked: "Would you mind if I borrowed my daughter for the day?" His eyes settled on Bra, and a slight smile curved his mouth. "She's needed for some... family matters."

Bra all but leaped out of the window, while Miss Pinkerton stood and stared, mouth agape, unable to summon an articulate reply. Father and daughter were gone in a flash leaving an entire class of thirteen year olds ooing and aahing in their wake when she finally whispered: "Why, of course Vejita-san..."
 

The first thing she did when she saw him was to fly into a rage. Patiently Goku let her pour out her pent-up emotions onto him, yelling, kicking and pounding on his mighty chest with tiny fists that would never really hurt him.

Only when she finally came to a stop, more exhausted than pacified, did she lift her tear strained face up to him, and gasped at his appearance.

"Goku-sa?" Chichi began weakly, her voice trembling, as he raised a finger to her lips to gently silence her.

"I missed you..." was all he said. The next thing she knew was the feeling of his strong arms around her, sweeping her off her feet, and his mouth, hot and desperate, nearly crushing hers as it never had before.

Surprised at first, Chichi felt the panicky urge to pull away from her strangely acting husband. But instead she found herself responding with almost equal intensity, hands snaking up his neck to take hold of the ebony colored mane. She wasn't growing any younger and in ten years she wouldn't have the strength to keep up with him.

Besides, it had been such a long time.

They flew in silence. Vejita had imperceptibly slowed down so his daughter could  follow, but he noticed with satisfaction that she was well up to speed. The cool ease with which she maneuvered in the air clearly indicated practice.

He hadn't even expected her to show any interest in training to begin with. One day she'd just showed up at the door of his gravity room, her face resolute, asking him to teach her how to spar, and that had been it. He'd been absolutely floored --and delighted.

As a little child she'd been typically Human, girlish and coy, a near perfect carbon copy of her mother. He could still remember a little six year old sailing into the living room, supremely confident in the knowledge that she had her father wrapped around her little finger, coaxing him into joining her dolls' tea party. He could still remember himself, weakly protesting, then numbingly saying yes... It hadn't mattered then that Bra bore no resemblance whatsoever to him; Vejita had immediately grown attached to her, in a way he hadn't felt with Trunks. Maybe it was because Trunks was a boy, maybe it was because he'd been born at a time where Vejita himself had no idea how to go about being a father. Nothing in his Saiyajin upbringing had prepared him for parenting children, unpredictable halfbreeds to top it all. And then there had also been the matter of pride. Always pride.

Pride had almost broken the few precious things he'd ever encountered in his life, starting with Bulma. It was a true wonder they'd made it past the first five years of their precarious relationship. At the time, his immaturity, along with hers, and his own incapacity of coping with a woman who truly was his equal in all ways but one had infuriated him, sometimes to the point where they'd almost surpassed his desire for her. It went without saying that possessing her body had provided him with a thrilling release at first, but it was the times between their feverish couplings that brought nothing but frustration. Intolerant of one another's differences, their minds had clashed with discordant notes where their bodies had danced in harmony. Both too proud and unyielding, they'd bickered at no end over the most trivial things, refusing to see that what they'd needed the most was the acceptance of the one facing them.

All too often the wrong words had seemed to come out of his mouth, and Vejita had been powerless to stop them. How many times had he left her all by herself, broken inside while she'd valiantly tried to put up a front, taunting him, challenging him? How many times had he experienced that insidious flash of smug cruelty at the childish notion that he'd somehow managed to hurt her? How many more times had he yearned to go back to her, make her his -truly his- and claim her as such for all the world to know? Of course...he could never have brought himself to do such a thing then. Any tenderness he felt for her had been dismissed as some twisted remnant of lust, an unwanted weakness his prolonged sojourn on this planet had begun to ingrain in him.

But now Vejita knew, his pride had been a lost cause from the moment he saw her wide blue eyes on Nameksei. It was only a matter of years before he could finally admit that she'd gotten under his skin, and that he completely, unreservedly welcomed surrendering to her. Taking back the tears or the years they'd spent hurting each other would not be possible, but protecting the years to come wasn't out of his reach.

So there he was, dashing accross the countryside in search of the woman he could no longer do without. It was the first time she'd pull a disappearing act on him, and he was sorry to say, she was doing a fairly good job.

She couldn't have devised a better way to drive him mad with worry, that stubborn, foolish little female of his. Had she honestly believed that he'd accept her outrageous demands, that he wouldn't turn the world upside down for her? Of course not. She knew full well that he would have never allowed her to run out on a solo quest like this, however grand and magnanimous her reasons were, especially with these Creatures lurking around.

Three days he'd combed the Earth looking for Bulma, obsessively, methodically, and so far his endeavors had been fruitless. Whatever patience he had left was wearing dangerously thin, but thankfully, the sight of his daughter's serious little face was providing a timely distraction. He also felt infinitely better knowing that at least she was safe by his side.

"Papa..."

"Hmm..?"

"Do you think Mama is in any kind of serious trouble with these people?"

Vejita started at the pertinence of her question. It was plainly obvious to him now that Bulma had been hiding something from him, although he couldn't begin to fathom what it was. But "trouble"? With the Nashr'tali..?

"Whatever it is, we're going to help her," he replied at last. Bra said no more and settled on his back, one arm twined around his neck.

The sky above was streaked with fingers of salmon and orange, blending in with a darker shade of deep indigo. Another long summer day was pulling to an end, and soon all would be still and silent in these mountains. Slowly pushing the door of the little cabin open, Bulma stepped out and walked over to the edge of the cliff. A light breeze caressed her face as she went, and she briefly closed her eyes.

Somewhere out there Vejita was looking for her. Even from a distance she could feel the great, proud fire of his ki, and it made her heart soar to finally understand this essential part of him. Now she could see what fighters meant when they talked about the color of a ki signature... How she longed to free the bond she had learned to suppress, make herself known to him. There was much to tell him, many truths to reveal. What if she'd been overreacting about the whole situation? What if there was another way?

Once more a blinding pain racked the inside of her head. With a strangled cry, Bulma doubled over, violently shuddering and struggling for control.

It hurt.

It hurt so much she wished she could knock herself unconscious to make the pain stop. She knew she was only making it worse by resisting the force that assailed her during those times, but she couldn't help fighting it. It seemed crucial that she should not let her will be defeated. So she resited for a while longer, her hands gripping the sides of her head, until the agonizing feeling ebbed away, leaving only a sting beneath her eyelids and an oppressive heave in her lungs.

The sight that greeted her eyes when she could finally open them elicited a gasp of wonder out of her. The grass, the trees, everything around her had been coated with a soft, shimmery blue glow. As the sun faded past the horizon, its dwindling rays played with the airy substance, difracting through it in a brilliant rain of colors. The eerie tableau was absolutely spellbinding, and Bulma momentarily forgot everything else, her vision rapt with the ethereal beauty of her surroundings.

Only when the glow began to dissipate did she fully come to realize the horror that lay beneath. Suddenly, it seemed that all colors had been drained from the landscape, leaves and strands of grass shrinking and withering until they crumbled into dust. Life was being sucked out dry of the scenery, and soon not another sound from night birds or crickets could be heard. Only Bulma remained, alone in the dead valley.

The guttural wail came from somewhere deep inside her, and took its time before finding its way out, tearing the silence with anguish. Sinking to her knees Bulma prostrated herself, burying her face in both hands.

There was no way, NO WAY, she would ever drag Vejita in this waking nightmare.

Remarkably enough, visiting Chichi had been Piccolo's idea. His suggestion had been a subtle one, a casual 'why don't we make sure she's not tearing the house down although I really really could care less'. But Yamucha and Kuririn had easily seen through all that rough coolness, and had agreed to partake in his plan without questioning his motives. Kamesennin, Eighteen and Marron had naturally tagged along.

What no one expected upon entering the Son house however, was to find the missing Saiyajin practically ravishing his wife on the kitchen table. So enrapt were the two with each other that they didn't even notice the group walking in on them at first. It took several coughs from Yamucha to break their rather... enthusiastic reunion.

"Aya...Minna..." Cheeks flaming red, Chichi favored her unexpected guests with a sheepish smile. Still loosely holding onto her, Goku looked around dazedly, wishing he could conceal the bruises that the bright lighting only made more noticeable.

"Son..." Piccolo started, his unfazed expression somewhat wearing off. " I hate to state the obvious and all, but... you look like shit."

Goku made a helpless gesture, then suddenly froze in place, as if thunderstruck.

"Vejita."

All eyes turned to the Saiyajin who'd just walked in through the open front door, his daughter trotting after him.

"Kakarotto." Vejita echoed, as he halted in the middle of the room.

Without another word, Vejita advanced towards Goku until the two men faced each other, almost touching. The others could clearly see the conflict of emotions playing accross Vejita's face, confusion turning into disbelief as he searched the other Saiyajin's inexplicably guilt-ridden expression.

*Someone tell me... * Vejita leaned forward, warily sniffing Goku's clothes and skin. *...this can't be happening. With a growl he drew back, his eyes narrowing to smoldering pinpoints. Levitating off the ground he took another sniff, this time in the crook of Goku's neck.

It was there.

It was there! Unique, unmistakable, maddening. Bulma's scent on Kakarotto. And it wasn't faint. Almost as if the two of them had...

"Kakarotto..." he hissed between ground teeth. "What the fuck is going on?"

Goku looked at him square in the eye. "I can't tell you, but__"

Vejita started when he felt it. Abruptly the bond between him and Bulma had re-established itself, and the first thing he felt was pain. She was suffering. Begging. Pleading. Calling out to him.

Apparently Kakarotto must have felt something as well, for he took a step back, face paling. "I'm so sorry Vejita." And with that, he placed two fingers on his forehead and disappeared.

It took Vejita a few seconds to realize that Goku had just spoken in Saiyago.
 

And so he flew, the devil on his heels.

Finding Bulma wouldn't be difficult now, he just had to concentrate on her mindless calls for help. Whoever was trying to harm her would not live to see another sunrise, and he'd make good on that promise. As for Kakarotto... Super Saiyajin three or not, he'd get the beating of a lifetime for putting her in danger.With that thought in mind, Vejita pressed on, his anger and ki building up at an exponential rate.

He hadn't gotten within a mile of their location that his rollercoaster ride came to an abrupt stop. Rocketing at full speed as he was, he slammed face first into something he hadn't expected to be there: a magnetic shield. The force of the impact sent him reeling back a few yards in the air, causing him to break into a litany of curses.

He launched himself at it, only to find himself bouncing backwards. He could bend the surface, but not tear through it. Frantically he began to search for a possible opening, but soon came to the conclusion that there was none. The invisible barrier formed an impregnable sphere that rose from the ground to about a mile up in the atmosphere. There was no way in... except through teleportation, which he could not do.

Just then Vejita felt Goku's ki steadily rise until it reached intimidating proportions. All the while he was still hearing Bulma in his mind, and the violent emotions coursing through her were now beyond fear. She was terrified, of what he couldn't get a clear mental picture, and he didn't care. He had to get her out of there even if it meant__

*No*

Another ki was on the rise, concurrent to Goku's, and Bulma's own ki -as small as it was-, was dropping, lower and lower.

*take everything i have take it all just don't take her please please please*

Slamming his fists against the unyielding barrier, Vejita let out a desperate cry as the bond once more snapped and vanished.

But it was far from being over. The new ki burst to staggering heights, overpowering Goku's, if such a thing were even conceivable. The Earth began to stir as a formidable explosion stormed inside the sphere. Then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

Goku's presence was now reduced to barely readable lifesigns; the alien ki was cooling off. Bulma...was simply gone. Gone also was the barrier, and Vejita quickly sped through clouds of billowing smoke, almost too afraid of what he'd find--or what he would not. He still took note of the cool, glowing substance pooling on the disemboweled ground everywhere around him, licking at his feet.

Gradually the dust settled, and the strange glow receded, partially revealing two figures standing on a higher rock formation at a distance. Kakarotto, and a somewhat taller, lankier silhouette set against the moonlight. The other ki must have belonged to that one, and Vejita didn't have to guess that he was in the presence of an extremely powerful Nashr'tali.

Seconds seemed to unfurl into an eternity as he hovered closer to them, his mind vividly registering every detail of the ghastly scene that was taking place before him, yet seemingly unable to connect with its reality. He watched in disbelief as Kakarotto collapsed, his body heavily sagging against the Creature in the awkward semblance of an embrace. The Creature bent down as he slipped to its feet and, catching the Saiyajin by the arm, lightly tossed him aside like a broken ragdoll. Throwing its head back, it then gave a long, heart rending howl, and ceased all movements.

Vejita had to cover his ears. With bated breath he waited for the rush of adrenaline to overcome his senses, but he was numb, his emotions frozen as if detached from him. He should be doing something, attacking, screaming, killing---anything. But he merely stood there, a few hundred feet from the thing that had just murdered his mate.

The Creature moved again. Straightening up in alert, it took a few hesitant steps, then all of a sudden swung around to face Vejita. The latter involuntarily shuddered, a gnawing sense of foreboding finally seeping its way through his bones. They were still far apart, and from where he stood Vejita could not clearly see the Creature's face, obscured by an unkempt curtain of hair. Yet he could have sworn its eyes were fixed on him, like burning holes filled with raw hatred.

Hatred and something else he couldn't quite define.

However, instead of charging at him, the Creature did something very unexpected. It whirled on itself, long locks of pale hair flying about, crossing both arms in front if its head as if to hide its face--and with an angry snarl vanished into the night.

Dark. Light. Dark. Light... Goku streamed in and out of consciouness as he was being rushed into ER, figures in white and familiar faces spiraling around him in a dizzy ballet.

"Goku-sa!! Goku-saaa!!!"

"Hurry it up goddammit! He's loosing too much blood!"

"Sir, you can't__"

"Move over, I'm a doctor and this man is my father!"

Goku felt a warm squeeze on his hand as Kuririn's face came into view. "Hang on Son! You're gonna be fine, Gohan's taking care of everything..."

Eyes widened in panic, the Saiyajin made an attempt to speak. To his dismay,  his voice could only produce a throaty gargle, and he found himself choking on his own blood. "Ssh, don't try to speak now," Kuririn soothed, close to his ear. "It's ok, everything's gonna be ok..."

Goku gave a frustrated wimper. He looked pleadingly at his friend, trying to make him understand. *EVERYTHING'S NOT GOING TO BE OK!!!* he wanted to shout, but his vocal chords seemed to have given out. His entire body felt mauled beyond pain, as if he'd been lanced by hot knives and he found it very difficult to breathe. Speaking would not be an option.

Yet he had to warn them, he had to warn his king... Goku began to thrash about, and struggled to sit up in spite of the hands that were restraining him. Two extra nurses immediately rushed by his side to settle him down, aided by Kuririn and Yamucha. There was a sharp sting on his arm, and when he looked down his gaze founds Gohan's.

"Sorry, Dad." The young man said, his brow creased with worry. He'd thought it best to inject his father with a strong dose of tranquilizer, so the latter wouldn't hurt himself in the throes of delirium.

The drug worked almost instaneously, but not before Goku gathered the last shreds of strength he had, and screamed Vejita's name at the top of his lungs.

Yamucha sighed heavily as he walked back into the waiting room. His eyes immediately seeked out Trunks and Bra, who sat in a corner. The young man was livid and his sister was sobbing quietly, holding onto his arm. Goten stood near them, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. Kuririn and Eighteen, both a little paler than usual, looked up, eyes questioning.

"Do I take it the senzu bean didn't work this time?" Kuririn queried.

Yamucha nodded. "Gohan thinks it's because of the virus. Goku's sustained several serious internal injuries, but they shouldn't be lethal to a Saiyajin. Only problem is that he's not healing like he should be and..."

"And..?" Kuririn prompted anxiously.

"It looks like it's actually getting worse. He could sink into a coma any minute now." Yamucha finished in a rush.

Trunks sprang to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Yamucha asked as the young man walked past him through the doorway.

"My mother was just murdered." Trunks stated coldly. "Am I supposed to just stay here and do nothing about it?"

"Have you gone daft?!?"

All jumped at the sound of Piccolo's voice.

The Namekkian sat almost uncomfortably on a chair that seemed too small for his built, flanked by Pan and Chichi. He'd wrapped a comforting arm around the woman's slumped shoulders, and looked like he was about to rend limb from limb the first fool who'd try to harm her. Yamucha couldn't help but blink at the sight; it did make for quite a historical moment. Chichi and Piccolo Daimaoo. The woman who used to abhor the evil influence of a Demon King on her son, and the Demon King in question. Friends. Life was strange.

"So what exactly are you gonna do once you get out of here? Call the freaks out to play?" Piccolo continued. "Do tell us, because I'd love to see someone try their hand at it and succeed. I mean, seeing that neither that royal pain in the ass father of yours or Goku, should I remind you he's bleedin' his head off as we speak, could do anything against one," he said, emphasizing the last words.

A dam finally snapped inside Trunks. "Then what do you suggest we do?!?" He all but yelled at the green man. "You got an idea? Some kind of great divine inspiration? That shouldn't be too hard considering that you're sitting around all day up there!" Trunks gave a bitter laugh, and Piccolo's gaze turned deadly. He would have reacted, had he not noticed that Vejita's son was both laughing and crying at the same time.

"Miracle... We need a fucking miracle..." Trunks choked out.

Yamucha was fearfully following the exchange. A fight between Trunks and Piccolo was just about the last thing they needed, second only to a fight between Vejita and Piccolo. But then, judging from the Saiyajin's catatonic expression earlier on, it didn't seem like he would be up for any kind of fighting. Which regrettably was not a good sign either, in Vejita's case.

His mind furiously debating on whether or not he should be telling everything he knew, Yamucha remembered the vow of silence he'd made to Bulma, only a fortnight before. He really wished he could have talked to Vejita in private first, but he hadn't been able to find the Saiyajin anywhere. The latter had carried Goku all the way to the hospital, then had probably taken off some time after, when no one paid attention.

Yamucha placed a hand on Trunks' shoulder. "Piccolo's right. We can't just set out on a crusade against these creatures when we don't even know their weaknesses. But there might just be a way if you stay here and listen to what I have to say..."

"Say what?" Kuririn started.

Piccolo's hawkish stare fastened itself on Yamucha. "Spit it out, wolf boy. You know something we don't?"

Yamucha took a deep breath. "I guess...you could say so. Now I'm not sure how much of this information is a hundred percent accurate..."

He wearily slid down onto a chair, and with as much clarity as he could muster, began to relate the entire last conversation he had with Bulma, down to the very detail. His audience went from bewilderment to shock as they heard about the truth behind Goku's unexplainable behavior, the contents of the dreams that had terrorized him for almost two months to date. He also told them about Bulma's own dreams, the extraordinary symptoms she'd experienced of late, and her own hypothesis on the nature of her relationship with the Caste. Finally he told them of a way to defeat the latter, a way that, in Bulma's own words, could forever rid the world of all Nashr'tali.

An ancient prophecy... A savior. An executioner.

He sat at the bar, half sprawled over the counter, head cast down and eyes closed, his hand drawing circles around the glasse's rim. He hadn't expected to end up in a place like this. He'd considered flying off somewhere, far from everyone and everything, and give way to the Earth shattering explosion of rage and grief that had built up inside him. But one look at his children's frightened faces back at the hospital had convinced him to do otherwise. He had to be stronger than this...

Yet truth be told, he'd never felt so lost in his entire life. Without her...Without the warmth and reassurance of the bond they had shared, the desperate pit of loneliness opened before him like a bleeding wound in his side. Bulma couldn't be ressucitated, and she couldn't go to Heaven either. The mere thought of her soul wandering alone and tortured in the limbs made him want to kill himself so he could walk up to Enma Daioo's desk and rip the self righteous bureaucrat of the dead's head off.

Vejita closed his hand around the glass. With one blow, the Creature had managed to kill his mate and send Kakarotto, his companion in battle, his friend even, on a one way ticket to a fate worse than hell.

The glass shattered under the strength of his grip, and he clenched his fist, oblivious to the shards sinking into his flesh, drawing blood from it.

"Huh... You ok pal?" The barman's inquiry reached his ears.

Vejita slowly raised his head, and looked at the man through empty, bleary eyes. The latter involuntarily recoiled, and resumed serving drinks to the other customers.

That one, that Creature would be the first to go. Vejita wasn't sure how he'd do it, but he would make it pay. Slowly. Painfully. For now though, he just wanted to forget, if just for a moment, to drown himself in the music's low humming, the unexpected comfort of an anonymous crowd around him. For an instant he fancied himself a Human, leading a simple life, with petty concerns and petty ambitions. Still, he knew better than to think his burdens any greater than those of the Human race. If no one stopped the Caste in time, Humanity would no doubt suffer one hell of a wake up call...

He saw her then, as he started looking about the smoky, dimly lit room.

Standing tall she walked slowly, with the sensual, sinuous gait of a jungle cat; her close fitting dress did nothing but flaunt the perfection of her body, from the fullness of her breasts, to the alluring fall of her hips. One sultry, gorgeous dream of a woman heading his way.

All eyes were more or less discreetely turned in her direction, and as he watched her sail up to the counter, Vejita had to admit that she was, without a doubt, one of the most enticingly beautiful females he'd ever seen. He also immediately knew that she was no Human. Too much confidence, too much unveiled power in her commanding presence.

She sat down next to him, without a word, without a glance at anybody in particular. Unable to look away, Vejita stared at her with a mixture of horror and fascination. Where had he already seen her? How could he have already seen her? She was even lovelier up close, with long crimson colored locks that ended in delicate curls, her lips two rosebuds and her pale, opalescent skin slightly flushed at the cheeks.

Casually, she ordered a drink in a soft, singsong voice. Then she turned around. She had the most beguiling eyes, pupiless, and crimson colored like her hair and the clothes she wore. However, once her gaze locked with his, Vejita felt his blood run cold.

So maybe she was intolerably beautiful, so maybe one look from her would drive any other man to the edge, but he, Vejita, found himself growling belligerently at her. It was a deep seated, instinctual response, and he didn't understand it on a rational level. Not yet. But in that instant where he recognized his antagonistic feelings, Vejita also knew he was in the presence of a mortal enemy, one that he should kill and obliterate, lest she got to him first.

A gentle smile spread on her lips, sealing the unspoken challenge he'd thrown at her. She stood up, left a twenty zeni bill under her half emptied glass and walked out.

Vejita released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, and someone nudged his arm.

"She wants you..." said the man sitting on his left, with a drunken leer on his face.

Vejita snorted. "Right." He looked at the twenty zeni bill. More than enough to pay for her drink...and his.

Clenching his still bleeding hand into a fist, Vejita stalked out of the bar after her.

She stood leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the street, her blood red eyes piercing through the darkness, beckoning attention. Vejita stiffened when he saw her there. Not without some annoyance, he realized that his senses hadn't deceived him earlier on: she truly was very, very beautiful... If she had been anything remotely startling in the bar's dim interior, she presently was a stunning sight to behold as she emerged from the shadows into the light. Pristine and surreal, she looked like a finely cut piece of jewelry, slashing red hair and clothing against her pure china white skin.

Once more a low, involuntary growl escaped him; he ground his teeth to stifle it. With determined strides, Vejita crossed the street and halted only a few feet away from her.

"Who are you?" he demanded abruptly.

She tilted her head, as if gauging him. "And just who do you think you are?" She made a move to walk away, but his hand shot out quickly, and caught her arm. The red eyes appeared to flash, but she did not attempt to shrug him off.

"Vejita, last prince of the Vegeta House and heir to the throne." Vejita stated flatly. "Now, you are?"

She regarded him curiously. "I don't think," she replied with measured words, "that you are in any position to make demands, Saiyajin."

His grip on the delicate white wrist tightened. Had she been Human the bone would have shattered...

*Nashr'tali constitution* he surmised.

She reacted then.

With a jerk, she easily broke free of his grasp, and in the same split second, Vejita felt her elbow sharply connect with his jaw, hitting him so hard that he went flying backwards--directly into the bar's glass windows.

For an instant Vejita sat stunned among the debris, as people rushed outside in a hubbub of screams and confusion. The barman was vociferating; he was calling the police. Through all the commotion, the woman stood calmly, watching the scene with an impassive air.

Vejita snarled to himself as he jumped to his feet. That would teach him to let appearances deceive him. There was no time to lose with formalities; he powered up into Super Saiyajin mode and lunged towards her.

She blocked his first punch without flinching. She did the same for every other direct attack he tried on her; it was as if she could anticipate his moves before he even decided on them. Her own actions were concise and efficient, and although she was on the defensive, Vejita could only guess how much damage she would cause, did she choose to attack. He'd caught a glimpse of the possibilies when she'd first hit him, and his still stinging jaw was there to prove it.

This woman was an odd combination really. Such an airy, seemingly delicate appearance, barely concealing the overbearing, brutish force of a juggernaut.She had begun to take the offensive as well, and he found himself cringing with each of her attacks. Fleetingly he thought that she actually made a better sparring partner than Kakarotto had been of late, but he quickly dispelled the notion. There was something inexplicably wrong about her and she sickened him. He'd choose Kakarotto over her any time-- whether the man was in top condition or not.

There was a lapse in her defense and Vejita took the opportunity to deliver a vicious blow accross her jaw. An eye for an eye.

Her head whipped back but she immediately recovered, and flashed him a smile. *How about your life for an eye?*

In that instant the tables were turned, as she roughly grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him against a brick wall. Stone cracked under the impact of his body, and she hoisted him up so their faces were at the same level. Savagely she yanked both of his arms upwards, pinning his wrists above his head with a crushing grip.

"You've gotten stronger I see, but it's still not good enough," she informed sweetly. "It's never going to be enough.You couldn't even save your precious mate, could you?"

Ragingly Vejita tried to throw her off, but to his horror, he realized that he was almost paralyzed. He could still feel his body, but he had absolutely no control over it.

"You knew it couldn't last. She was never meant for you," the redhead continued absently, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "I knew a girl once... Her name--who cares what her name was. You see, she was a Queen to her people. She was like you, just like you, puny and undeserving. Mortal. Animal. Do you know she had the audacity to defy me and steal what was rightfully mine? Oh, but I showed her. I taught her to fear me. For hours and hours she screamed in silence under my hand, and then..." She smiled. "You don't remember any of this, do you?"

*can't think that I do* Great. Not only was this bitch dangerous, she was also stark raving mad.

Vejita renewed his attempt to writhe himself away from her, but it was no use. All he could do was to glare at the revoltingly perfect face that hovered close above him, the blood red eyes that glinted with malevolence.

"You know... " She pressed her body against his, her left hand encircling his throat while the other still held onto his wrists. "Ah, Vejita-chan...I was very, very displeased when I learned that you had come back to life. I had hoped I'd never have to deal with you again. But then it occured to me that I'd have twice the pleasure..."

Vejita couldn't force back a yelp when he suddenly felt her lips descending onto the line of his jaw, her tongue flicking a burning trail down his jugular. Her hand slipped under his shirt and yanked it half way off his shoulders with a brief tearing sound.

"To feel you... Feel your life slip through my fingers..."

Her mouth found its way down to his collar bone, and she bit down--hard. Her blunt teeth easily punctured through his skin, and he knew from the pain that she must have broken something there. He stoically tried to withstand her degrading touch, but dread settled into him just the same. He would have rather had Furiza beating him to a pulp and killing him all over again than bear another moment of this.

"Male. Hmm... So different, it's almost arousing." Her knee forcefully parted his thighs. "How do you like this, you little whore...?"

"Fuck... you..." he managed to grind out.

"Wrong answer." Again, her razor sharp nails dug into the tender skin of his throat, bruising, tearing. "I'm the one doing the fucking. You're a whore, just a whore...as you've always been and always will be," she chanted, right before her mouth once more came in contact with his skin, abruptly this time, hot and aggressive.

"So you want to know who I am...hmm? I'll make you remember." Her left hand swiftly stole its way down to the belt of his jeans, easily snapping it loose.

"My name is Maaka, and I'm going to make you bleed if it's the last thing I do..."

Upon her request, the Karougi ship had left her somewhere outside of the Earth's atmosphere. She'd sensed Vejita's ki right away, and not without a shudder, recognized Maaka's as well. Fear tying a knot in her stomach, she'd raced towards their location, only to find a buzzing crowd of Humans, both law enforcement and civilians, gathered around a building. And no trace of either Vejita or Maaka.

"Kid, would you step out of there, this is a crime scene!" A burly man in a blue uniform hollered, causing her to frown.

A biting remark was about to find its way past her lips, but Shiroki clamped her mouth shut. Being treated like a child when you were over a thousand years old was something one got little used to, but for now it was a necessary evil. No sense in attracting attention upon yourself when the situation called for discretion... So the girl gave the officer a fright filled glance, polished by centuries of practice, nodded and scampered away.

She eventually found Vejita unconscious in an alley not too far from there, and cursed herself for being so late. Maaka had gotten to him first after all. Shiroki didn't believe she would have made that much of a difference had she arrived earlier on, but at least she could have protected him in some way or another.

The air was still heavy with the remants of Maaka's Sha'iyu, and the Saiyajin laying on the ground bore its lethal mark. She hadn't infected him as severely as she could have, but the end result would be the same: a restless, painful death. The process would take a few months, maybe a year. This was only the beginning, after all he was still alive. Whatever the Caste's big plans of conquest were this time, Shiroki highly doubted that Maaka would depart from this planet without fully having taken revenge on Vejita. Certainly she wouldn't find satisfaction until she saw his body burn, and fed his soul to the Netherworld...

Gathering the Saiyajin into her arms, Shiroki thought it was far too heavy a price to pay.

"There now..." Vejita heard through a dim, throbbing mist, as he felt a cool hand gently pressing against his cheek. "You'll be all right."

A flash of blinding pain jolted through his brain as he lifted a heavy eyelid. Vejita groaned out loud, wondering what was it with him and morning headaches. Or was it really morning? He'd completely lost track of time. He was aware however, of another presence nearby. Light and subdued, and again, definitely non-Human. It took him a final effort to open both eyes, and when he finally did, he realized that he was in a very unfamiliar place. A room. Somewhere.

His vision focused on the little girl sitting at his bedside. More precisely, on her silvery, trademark pupilless eyes.

With a snarl, Vejita bolted upright and tried to move away from her, but his still numb limbs only succeeded in having him clumsily fall off the bed. The grey eyes followed him, and for a moment the two of them simply stared at each other in wary silence. Or rather, Vejita stared at the girl in wary silence. As for Shiroki, she couldn't help but smile as she observed him, a strange mix of long restrained emotions dancing on her features.

"Why don't you come back up here," she offered, patting the mattress. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He snorted mentally. *As if a puny little thing like you could...* "Chibi, you do realize you completely lack credibility, don't you?" Vejita informed coldly, pointing to the girl's face.

She grinned. "And you completely lack dignity, laying there on the carpet."

Prickled, the Saiyajin stood up, not without uttering a string of low oaths as he felt his knees wobbling under his weight. "What the hell did you do with my clothes, brat?" he demanded, suddenly noticing that he had nothing on.

"Your 'clothes'?" Shiroki raised a sly eyebrow. "You mean the muddy, torn rags I found you in? They're in the trash. You can take them back if you want to, although I can easily provide you with new ones."

Vejita gingerly sat down on the bed, and shot what he hoped to be a scathing glare at the girl. Although she didn't seem a trifle abashed by his overt animosity, she nonetheless retreated to a respectful distance.

"Maaka did rough you up a little, didn't she?" It was a quiet statement, but the gentle, almost tender concern it held was startling.

Vejita's gaze dropped down to his wrists, which still bore nasty rings of bruises. Mechanically his right hand flew up to his neck and collar bone, where some spots felt sore under his touch, and others downright painful. "Che... Nothing but scratches, Chibi. Nothing but scratches."

The girl's eyes followed his as he resumed the southward inspection of his body. "Well, at least she left you in one piece," she commented impishly. "You're still your chiseled, beautiful self, Vejita." Shiroki broke into a wicked smile, amused at the slightly flushed expression that suddenly crossed the Prince's face. Vejita, who for once couldn't find anything remotely intelligent to retaliate, merely humphed and roughly pulled the sheets up to his waist. He wasn't an excessively modest person, but being under this little girl's scrutiny inexplicably made him feel naked, in more than just one way.

The girl became serious. "You're lucky to be alive, you know."

"Should I thank you?" the Saiyajin retorted huffily.

She ignored him. "In case you're wondering why your bruises are taking such a long time to heal, you've been infected by the Shai'yu...I'm sorry about that."

Vejita blinked. "The what?"

"Shai'yu." Shiroki repeated patiently, the words softly rolling off her tongue with a strange inflection. "It's the virus the Nashr'tali -most of them that is- carry. It infects most non-Nashr'tali living organisms, weakens them and... eventually destroys them. Depending on the degree of contact the subject has with the Shai'yu, the symptoms develop more or less quickly. I've seen some people survive up to six years with the virus inside them, but these generally haven't been directly infected by a Nashr'tali. On the other hand, receiving the Shai'yu full blast guarantees immediate death."

Vejita nodded absently. That about matched Piccolo's explanations.

"What else... Aa, yes. Parents who are infected will beget terminally ill offsprings, and the latter rarely make it past their first year. The virus is only effective in a certain area, generally a planet, while the Caste reside on it, but gradually becomes innocuous if they leave the said area. Then again, it doesn't change much for the population, because the Nashr'tali usually exterminate every form of life they find in the area of their dominion prior to leaving... As I said before, the Shai'yu puts a strain on your body's healing abilities, and almost always exacerbates the symptoms of any other sickness you might have." The girl sighed. "As far as I can tell, you've been infected by Maaka and some other Nashr'tali whose Shai'yu signature I can't recognize..." She looked puzzled. "Hn... Probably a youngster... Did you happen to run into that one last week or something?"

Vejita froze. The green haired boy? That must have been him. Little by little some things were beginning to make sense. The boy must also have infected Bulma then, which provided a perfect explanation for her fatigue afterwards. But what about...

"Can't you feel a third one?" Vejita questioned.

"No, I__"

"I met him just today as a matter of fact," Vejita cut her off, his voice suddenly dry and hollow. "He packed one hell of a ki blast. Enough to start a fucking plague if you want my opinion. Does that mean Kakarotto's really going to die? "

"Kara..." the girl echoed softly. But the Saiyajin could no longer hear her. The events of day were unfurling before him, and reality finally faced him in its most cruel light.

The Creature had mercilessly wiped her out of existence.

It. Had. Killed. Bulma.

"Bulma..." He swallowed, trying hard not to let his emotions surface.

"Vejita, anta daijoobu?"

He gave Shiroki a hard stare. For a long minute nothing was said, and the girl didn't press him on. She simply sat by his side and watched as a first tear pearled its way down his cheek.

"He killed her. He killed her and I couldn't do anything." His voice was scarcely above a whisper, but the pain it held was so raw Shiroki could almost feel it.  Understanding immediately dawned on her. This "Bulma" must have been his mate. And she'd just been ripped away from him because of one insane Nashr'tali's obsessive need to hurt him.

There was another tear, and yet another. Vejita distressingly ran his hand over his face, trying to contain himself. It was already bad enough that he felt like his insides had been torn out; having someone actually witness his breaking down only added scalding embarrassement to heartbreak. Yet there he was, a tight, painful knot in his throat, helpless to stop the tears from falling.

"He should have killed me too..." he continued shakily, sucking in a big gulp of air.

"...So you wouldn't have to sit here crying your eyes out in front of some strange little brat who just fished you out of the gutter?" Shiroki finished for him, her mouth curving into a commiserating smile. Before he could move back, her hand was on his face, brushing the trail of his tears away.

"Vejita... You can't mean what you just said. I know how much it hurts to... lose someone you love, believe me--I know. But you can't give up on yourself now. Not now, not ever." Propping two fingers under his chin she tilted his face up so he would look at her."I have not lived through a thousand years just to have you die on me again."

The Saiyajin looked at her strangely. "Why are you helping me?" he ventured at last.

Shiroki drew her hand back. "You don't remember me at all?"

"What is it with you people?" Vejita shook his head in frustration. "What is it I'm supposed to remember?"

Shiroki didn't directly answer his question. Instead, she produced an object from her sleeve. Vejita's eyes went wide as she held it up. It was a broken piece of armor, a recognizable part of a breastplate, and it bore the arms of the Saiyajin  Royal household.

"In some cultures this would be considered as a priceless antique. You can have it tested if you want. It's been well preserved, so it doesn't look half as ancient as it really is, but you'll find it's at least several centuries old."

"That's impossible," Vejita argued between slight hiccups. "The Saiyajin didn't develop into an organized civilization until... the last two hundred years. We didn't make those kind of armors until a hundred and fifty years ago, and that's stretching it!"

"That's what you think," Shiroki corrected. "That's probably what your forefathers wanted you to think too, but I'm here to give you an updated history lesson."

"Why would they try to hide something this important?" Vejita wondered in suspicion.

"I'll give you two words. One: politics. Two: shame." Shiroki turned the worn out fragment in her hand. "This," she went on, "comes from an armor that belonged to a man named Yasai. Great man. Great mind. Born in the wrong century--make that the wrong millenium. Also born to the wrong people I'm afraid. In the year 233 BCE of this Earth's calendar he proclaimed himself leader of the Saiyajin and took the name of Vejita, to honor the one he'd always believed should have ruled in his place."

Vejita stared at her for a moment. "What happened to that guy... Vejita?"

Shiroki couldn't help but grin. "Her."

Seeing Vejita's growing confusion, she elaborated. "It was a woman. His little sister, and she died at age sixteen. Her name was Vejita. She was the first Saiyajin who ever bore that name," Shiroki took a graceful bow, "and I have every reason to believe that you are her reincarnation. You have her soul, I'm sure of it."

Soul Under takes place in the DB world, not ours. Meaning, it has a different geography from ours and a different calendar (and very very different people too but we won't get into that). For this story however, I took the liberty to use a few references from our world (namely Leonardo what's his name and Shakespeare), strictly for reader identification purposes.

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