A fist in her gut, a kick in the face, and suddenly all Takira could see was the wall. Sliding to the ground as the blackness dissipated, she turned and forced her crossed eyes o focus on the lean dark image in front of her. The Agent sighed.

"Had quite enough?" Takira coughed, then wiped away the blood with the back of her hand. She shook her head, wincing at the pain in her neck.

"Again." The Agent looked mildly disgusted.

"As long as I live," he suddenly smirked as though at some private joke, "I will never understand the way you Saiyajin think." Takira sighed and struggled to her feet, leaning on the wall.

"I've been through this before, Baka," she growled, using what she'd chosen as his new title, "It's the quickest way for me to gain strength. As long as the regen tank is here, why not use it?"

He grunted, then suddenly appeared next to her, kicking her in the side and sending her careening facedown across the floor, leaving a thin bloody streak on the tile. He strolled over and nonchalantly planted a foot on her back, nudging her scabbard with his toe.

"Now, the worse I beat you, the stronger you'll become, is that it?" he mused. "Well, then…" He leaned over and snatched the katana from its sheath, kicking Takira on to her back. She stared up at him and for the first time since the fight had begun, fear touched her eyes. The Agent graced her with a small cruel smile.

"Always willing to help…" he murmured, and in one smooth motion, plunged the point into her, slitting her open from stomach to groin, jerking the blade out and casually examining the blood on it as she screamed.

"Oh, shut up," he snapped, knocking her unconscious with a quick ki blast. "You'll thank me when you wake up…that is," he whispered, "if you wake up…"

'Why not do it? Just leave her here to die. It'll get her out of my hair so I can focus on more important things…' He'd almost come to a decision when he suddenly perceived the intensely uncomfortable sensation of being watched. He snorted and turned to the observation deck to glare at the source.

Just as he'd suspected, it was the brat, what was the name she'd given him…oh, yeah, Kabu; Saiyajin and their stupid names. Why Takira had insisted the infant watch was utterly beyond the Agent's comprehension, and now he wished he'd been more emphatic when he'd told her to keep the brat out of his sight.

Kabu's tiny face, framed by its spiky mat of black hair, was all but expressionless as he fixed the Agent with a dead stare. The Agent shuddered slightly in spite of himself; he wasn't sure how a Saiyajin baby had gotten blue eyes, but the effect was rather striking. Kami knew the Agent had exploited it himself when intimidating his victims.

There was, he thought as he replaced the katana, something very strange about that kid…somehow unreal, even for a Saiyajin. With an irritated sigh, the Agent lifted Takira's limp dripping body and glared back at Kabu.

"Don't give me that look, brat; I was just going to take her to the tank." With a derisive snort directed at both the baby and himself, he set off to heal his wounded partner.

* * * * *

Reality came slowly as Piccolo cautiously eased out of his meditations. He wouldn't have come out at all, given the choice, but there were matters, pressing matters, that needed tending. Even as he crept back into full consciousness he kept his mind expanded, clear…listening for the slightest hint of a threat.

After all, she would be waiting for her opportunity. He wasn't about to let her make a zombie of him.

His sigh echoed damply from the cold cave walls, answered by a faint whimper from the prone figure lying at Piccolo's feet. His condition had, if anything, grown worse since Piccolo had first found him and hidden him here; in the back of his mind, Piccolo wondered if he were truly doing to the man a disservice by keeping him alive. He hardly viewed it as a choice, though.

Tenshinhan was too good a man to simply let die.

It boiled Piccolo's blood to see him laid so low. It didn't seem fitting, somehow. When Tenshinhan went down he went down fighting, yet here he lay: stiff and trembling, occasionally crying out in pain , staring at nothing as tears leaked from his eyes. At first Piccolo hadn't understood what afflicted the triops, but soon enough his tormentor attacked her new victim.

Piccolo shuddered. The woman(or whatever she was)had a voice to match her actions: smooth, cold, and holding the promise of great pain. She'd almost taken Piccolo as she had Tenshinhan, but he found sanctuary in meditation. Now it was no longer relaxation and training, but defense. It was the only place she couldn't find him.

That was all well and good for him, but Tenshinhan—or at least his body—required occasional attention, and worse, whatever had gone wrong with Gohan now had him completely under its power. Piccolo could no longer sense his pupil; there was always the possibility that he'd died, but Piccolo knew better. He'd long held that the only being capable of destroying Gohan was Gohan himself.

Regardless, it was plain that the half-Saiyajin was in danger, and Piccolo was not about to stand by and watch it happen. With a last glance at Tenshinhan, the Namek took off, fighting an inexplicable feeling of vulnerability.

What was life if not for risk?

* * * * *

The dead silence in the lab only added to its apocalyptic appearance. Twisted metal, torn wires, and gutted machinery sprawled in broad array across the burnt floor. Broken glass crackled beneath their feet as Pan and Trunks surveyed the damage.

"What happened?" Pan wondered aloud, staring wide-eyed at the ruined equipment. Trunks didn't answer; he was busy scanning the place. He couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone…a faint groan sent him hurtling to the other end of the room, hurriedly tossing debris aside as he finally recognized the wavering signal he'd felt. Pan helped him ease the battered Krillin from the rubble.

"Ugh…finally," Krillin grunted. "Did either of you see her? Where'd she go?" Trunks' eyes narrowed beneath knit brows.

"Who?"

"Juuhachi," Krillin sighed, wiping a bit of blood from his face. "I don't know what got into her, but…she just went bezerk: destroyed the place and took off."

"You couldn't stop her?" Pan asked. Krillin snorted and glanced at her.

"Would I be here if I could? I tried but…" He shivered. "It…was like she didn't even know me or something. She just hissed something under her breath about 'the source of control', blasted the hell out of the lab and…er, left through the wall." He waved a hand to indicate the gaping hole which marked her exit. Trunks nodded guardedly.

"Was Bulma here when…when it happened?"

"No. Yamcha and I got back just as she and Chichi were about to leave. Yamcha went with them, and I stayed with Juuhachigou."

"Where were they going?" Krillin winced and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Well, as near as I could tell, they were going to look for the dragonballs…apparently it was Chichi's idea; I'm not sure exactly what they've got planned." Trunks grunted.

"There are probably a dozen different wishes they could make at this point," he murmured.

"Tell me about it." Another sigh. "Bulma said you two were off looking for Gohan…any luck?"

"Not as such. We…almost found Piccolo, though."

"Almost?"

"We spotted his ki signal for an instant, and then it disappeared." Trunks shrugged. "I don't know why; either he suddenly decided to cloak himself, or…" No one dared mention the other obvious possibility.

"Well," Krillin muttered, "We could go back out looking for him or Juuhachi…"

"Wait a minute," Pan interrupted. "What about my mom? Was she with Chichi and Bulma?" Krillin blinked.

"Now that you mention it, no."

"Did they say where she was?" Krillin shook his head.

"So maybe we should check your house first and see if she's okay?"

"Of course she's okay," Pan snapped, "but she might know why Chichi was bent on finding the dragonballs."

"Does it matter?"

"It might," Trunks said. "It's entirely possible they know something we don't." Krillin gave a dry chuckle.

"Considering we know absolutely nothing, yeah, I'd say it's possible." He stretched, grunting and wincing, and dusted himself off. "Well, who's up for more running around in circles? Let the wild goose chase commence."

* * * * *

It was happening again. What had held so much promise was showing all the warning signs he'd come to expect. The inevitable upheaval was not far away; and once again he was pinned, helpless, in its path, a victim of his own accursed blood.

Cordec growled to himself. His escape had been so nearly perfect, for a few foolish months he'd almost believed…but no. It was coming back to haunt him, every detail of that old travesty. The mistake was old, but he'd been chosen to suffer its effects, despite every attempt he'd made to evade his destiny. His was a twin dynasty forged in blood an fire…and he, the culmination of it all, was an unwilling overlord.

A slow sigh flowed through lips still unfamiliar to him; never had he felt less at home. Had he known this to be his fate he would have let Denatu kill him…but hindsight, for all its infuriatingly perfect logic, could not help him now.

There was still a chance, a very slim chance, of realizing his dream; but first she would have to die, and he couldn't kill her. To simplify, he had to complicate, to save, he must destroy.

To have lived—it looked quite likely—he would have to die.