Takira paced the chamber slowly, marking every corner and every shadow with searching eyes. She wasn't nervous, per se, just…well, no harm in being careful. Truth be told, she was more anxious for Kabu's safety than that of her ostensible charge. If Deoge noticed, he didn't care; he was busy watching Kabu clamber over the grimy throne with(so it seemed to Takira)entirely undue fascination.

Deoge had made the error of attempting to touch the struggling Kabu, choosing, by design or unfortunate coincidence, to brush his clawed hand along the young Saiyajin's tail. Kabu's reaction—hissing and attempting to bite the Roc—had been noted with satisfaction, if also a little surprise. After a stern injunction from Takira(incidentally, directed at Deoge, not Kabu), king and child settled down to watch each other from a wary distance.

Takira had little patience for such games. All was not well; there was, somewhere on this planet, an assumed enemy, presence confirmed…and then lost. Takira had only been aware of the malignant presence for a moment before it hid again, but that had been enough. Malak was now searching the lower halls and Takira, being stronger, was left to guard the king. Despite Malak's repeated objections, Deoge had seen through with the order to send the Agent to Geo for reconnaissance. The Agent had seemed relieved tog et away…perhaps he didn't wish to stick around to see proof that he'd been wrong.

"Takira…may I ask you a question?"

"Sure, go ahead," Takira muttered, not changing pace or mode.

"I'm sure you realize you have…quite a gifted child." A non-communicative grunt in reply. "You've probably been asked this before, but I'm curious…who sired the child?"

"No one you'd know," she replied shortly.

"I'm sorry, perhaps I misspoke. I don't need to know a name, I realize that's personal information. I simply wished to know the race of the father. I understand Saiyajin are few and far between these days."

"With all due respect, the condition of my face is hardly your business." Deoge tilted his head apologetically.

"My point, Takira, was that I couldn't help wandering if your son weren't some sort of hybrid. I am…well aware of the effects of certain crosses."

"And?" He shrugged.

"He is stronger than would be expected of most Saiyajin his age…"

"I'm aware."

"…is it just an improvement in the species?" Takira paused, peering into a corner.

"Why the sudden interest? Trying to draft him?" Deoge gave a weak laugh.

"No, nothing like that. I just find it interesting. If he is a simple hybrid then…well, he has my sympathies. If not…then I'm intrigued as to the source of his power." Takira frowned.

"Sympathies? What do you mean?"

'He means a hybrid learns to hate both races that spawned it,' hissed a low voice in her head. 'He should know.' Takira stiffened and turned to glare at Deoge, though it was not he who had spoken. The voice came again as though anticipating Takira's next question.

'Yes, I'm here…here to destroy him…and you…and the child. You can do nothing to stop this; I am firm in my purpose.' Takira had by this point backed toward the throne, keeping Kabu at the edge of her vision.

"Show yourself, coward!" she shouted to the empty room.

"No, Takira," Deoge murmured, suddenly sounding so wearily broken that Takira turned in surprise. "She won't. I know her…you'll never see her."

'On the contrary, Cordec…I shall be the last thing you see before you die. Not now; there are still…elements which must first fall into place.'

"Then why tell us now, bitch?" Takira snarled, edging closer to Kabu.

'To give you time to willingly embrace your fate. My devotees saw the necessity, if not truly the cause; by meeting death themselves they were spared the pain of defeat. The option now is yours…if you have not left this plane by the time of reckoning I will be forced to kill you. Make your decision wisely.'

With that, silence descended, in its own way as penetrating as her—it had been female—presence had just been. Takira watched Deoge(why had the voice called him Cordec?)with new-found suspicion, absently reaching an arm to hold Kabu as he climbed up her leg to perch on her hip. Deoge looked back bleakly.

"I'm sorry, Takira," he said quietly. "You stumbled into more than you knew when you killed Mordrig."

"Mordrig? What the hell does he have to do with this?"

"In killing him you gained the notice of Degradu and Denatu…through both you came to my attention and through me," he sighed, "you came to her attention, I suspect."

"Who is she?"

"She is the epitome of an improbably strong, absurdly proud, and now thoroughly dead race." Takira snorted.

"That still doesn't tell me who she is…or how she knows you."

"That is correct," he said with strained dignity. "You'll find out when she wishes you to know and not before. Go check the lower halls for Malak and send him to Geo if you find him. Say nothing of this to him; perhaps he will be spared."

"But…I'm supposed to guard you, protect you."

"You can not. Go…that is an order, Takira." She gave him a searching glare, then snapped a quick affirmative, turned on her hell and marched away; Kabu clung to the scabbard on her back, peering at Deoge from beneath her hair.

'If you're truly our salvation, boy," Deoge thought desperately, 'you'd better do something about it. You're too young to be a martyr.'

* * * * *

"So how close is it now?" Yamcha asked, peering over Bulma's shoulder and casually plucking the cigarette from her mouth. She made a distracted attempt to snatch it back, using her other hand to point at the screen before her.

"Whatever they use for fuel in that thing, it's impressive," she said, tapping her nails on the glass. "They've nearly arrived already; it took weeks to get there before. I've got to see this ship when they get back…" Yamcha cracked a smile.

"Yes, Bulma, you can play with your new toy when they're done with it."

"If they bring it back," she sighed, still tapping the screen. "If they run out of fuel they might have to swipe a different one."

"So? You still get to dissect it or whatever it is you do with your machines." Bulma was too distracted even to glare at him, starting despondently at the screen. Yamcha squatted beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder.

"What's the matter, blue-eyed girl?" he asked softly. Bulma gave a weak shrug.

"Last time they went out like this, they…didn't all come back, is all. And…and we don't even know for sure if Goten is there, and Gohan's not well, and…" She sighed, shoulders drooping. "And Trunks is in charge of all that…he'll see it as his responsibility, you know how he is…how he's been lately."

"He's quite capable, Bulma, give the boy some credit."

"He's not a boy anymore; not my little boy, he's…he reminds me more and more of Mirai all the time. I…don't know if I really want that," she murmured. Yamcha rubbed her shoulder gently, hoping it was the right, comforting thing to do.

"He's under a lot of stress, and there's no one else who could do what he's doing. He…at least for now…has to be like this. Maybe when everything's over he'll go back to normal."

"You don't understand," she whispered. "I don't think he can go back. What do you think made Mirai no Trunks the way he was? He watched nearly everything he loved and cared about die or disappear. This…my Trunks isn't any different. Goku's death hit him hard…he'd almost recovered from that when the sickness took Vegeta." She choked momentarily; normally she could stifle such foolish blubbering impulses, but under stress she found herself becoming more emotional and this…even after this much time had passed…still hurt.

"Then Goten gone," she continued shakily, "and Gohan and Juuhachigou ill; Chaozu and Tenshinhan dead. For gods' sake, even Shenlong is gone now." Leaning forward, she propped her elbows on the desk, head in her hands. "The world as he knows it…as we know it…is crumbling. It's hard and it's painful and it's unfair, but we can deal with it…we have to, as normal thinking human beings."

"Of course," Yamcha soothed, rubbing her back.

"But he won't," Bulma whimpered. "Ever since these things started happening…he's adjusted, yes, but he never really accepted that there was nothing to be done about it. He's determined to make things right now…all by himself, because he feels he has to; and it's not a sure thing, Yamcha. I have every confidence in his abilities, but there are times when you just can't do all you wish you could. I want this to turn out right, but if…if it doesn't…" She shook her head, hand fumbling for another cigarette. When she spoke again it was in a tiny roughened whisper.

"I'm scared…I'm scared of what he'll do."