The Last Warrior

A moment later, Shiatar's green eyes fluttered open, and she blinked around disorientedly. "Hi, there," Bulma said to her, and the eyes fixed on her.

"B-Bulma-san . . ." Shiatar frowned, and tried to sit up; Bulma pushed her back down. It was a sign of Shiatar's weakness that Bulma was able to do so.

"Relax. You've been sleeping for three days."

That woke her up. "Three days! What . . ." She shook her head, trying to get her bearings. "What happened?"

"You don't remember? Trunks said you reached Super Saiya-jin."

She looked up at Bulma and gasped, and then memory flooded her eyes. "Yes . . . I remember. I . . . I was so angry . . . I wanted to kill him . . ."

Bulma chuckled. "Hey, that's my son you're talking about."

Shiatar shook her head again. "No, it was Vejiita . . ." Bulma turned, frowning, as Shiatar blinked, struggling to remember clearly. "No. Not Vejiita. But . . . he looked like Vejiita, sounded like him . . . I hated him the same way."

Bulma watched her. Trunks had told his mother what he'd had to do in order to awaken Shiatar's power, and it seemed that the experience had been more powerful than he'd intended. "Trunks went to go work with one of the local villages again," Bulma told her. "Otherwise he would have been here when you woke up. He waited by your bedside for two days."

A scowl crossed the younger woman's face. "He needn't have bothered."

"Oh?" Bulma crossed the room to pick up the tray of broth and juice she'd made up for her. When she turned, Shiatar had struggled upright again. The younger woman didn't answer, but the anger on her face was all to readable.

Bulma put the tray on the table, since without the guardrail she couldn't put it on the bed, and offered the juice to Shiatar. "You know, he wasn't happy about what he'd done," she said. Shiatar accepted the cup, and regarded Bulma warily over its rim. Bulma smiled. "I've rarely seen him that upset, actually."

Shiatar snorted, lowering the cup. "Trunks. Upset. Right."

Bulma took the cup, and offered the bowl of broth. "He does have feelings, you know," she replied softly. "He's not like his father. It's hard for him to hurt people."

"He did a damned good job of it with me."

Bulma gave Shiatar the spoon, and reached out to touch the demi-Saiyin woman's head; the fever was almost gone. Shiatar started at the touch, and Bulma smiled again. "You were pretty out of it for a while. Trunks said you almost had too much power. Your body had some trouble dealing with it; you even developed a fever from the overload. But I think you'll be okay, now." Shiatar frowned, and began to drink the soup straight from the bowl, ignoring the spoon. Bulma sighed. Saiya-jin manners; at least Shiatar wasn't as bestial in her eating habits as Vejiita had been at first. But then, Shiatar was just recovering from illness, so she had an excuse.

"Trunks only said what he did to make you angry," Bulma said, offering a napkin. "It seemed to work."

Shiatar hesitated, lowering the empty bowl. Bulma saw the telltale flicker of confusion in her eyes. "Yes. I suppose it did." She looked up at Bulma then, and her face became thoughtful and curious---and anxious. "Bulma-san, you said Trunks wasn't like his father. And he told me that his father was . . . was your world's Vejiita."

"Yes, that's true." Bulma nodded, and was startled to see a strange look on the younger woman's face. Shiatar suddenly looked down at the bowl in her hands.

"How . . . how do you . . . deal with it? With . . . the memories?"

The memories? Bulma frowned. "What do you mean?"

The hands trembled on the bowl, and Bulma quickly took the bowl from her. She liked that bowl. "I mean . . . when someone . . . hurts you, how do you stop . . . seeing his face? I still have nightmares, sometimes . . ."

Bulma almost gasped, grasping at something close to the truth. Trunks had told her that Shiatar had confided in him three nights before, but he hadn't said what she'd told him; now Bulma's intuition told her what her son had not. The poor child . . . but Trunks had said that Shiatar didn't need sympathy. Still . . . she reached out and put her hand on Shiatar's, and the younger woman looked up at her.

"I've never been hurt the way you have," she said softly, "and you're a lot stronger than I am to have survived something like that."

Confusion crossed Shiatar's face. "But . . . Vejiita . . ."

Bulma shook her head. "My Vejiita---Trunks' father---wasn't like the one you know."

Shiatar stared in shocked comprehension. "You . . . you mean he didn't . . . you weren't . . ."

"No. The Vejiita of this world . . . wouldn't have done something like that. Oh, he had a temper beyond all belief, and a violent streak a mile wide, and a mean streak that was even wider, but . . . he had a sense of honor, too, in a rough sort of way. I think he cared about me--although he'd never admit it. And I . . ." She smiled, a little ruefully. "I never told him this while he was alive. But I loved him."

Shiatar leaned back in the bed, her eyes wide. She looked up at the ceiling. "I never met a Human woman who willingly . . . who cared about a Saiya-jin. And I never heard of a Saiya-jin who cared about anyone but himself." She sat up suddenly, focusing on Bulma again. "That's why you love Trunks."

Bulma blinked. What an odd statement--- "Well, yes. He is my son."

A hand reached out and caught hers with fearsome strength, although not enough to hurt her. "Are all mothers like you?" Shiatar asked seriously.

Bulma stared at her. That one, pitiful question told her more than she'd ever suspected about this woman-child's life, and suddenly she understood the old, old look in Shiatar's young eyes. What had this girl been through? How much had she endured?

Abruptly, Bulma made a decision; she leaned forward and hugged the girl. Shiatar jumped, and when Bulma pulled back, the younger woman's face was frozen in mingled fear and confusion. Bulma laughed, in spite of herself, then sobered.

"Yes, most mothers love their children. If your world weren't so wrong, I'm sure there would have been a woman who would be proud to have you as a daughter."

The young warrior relaxed, and Bulma was pleased to see something that was almost a smile touch her lips. She flushed, and looked away. "I . . . It's nice to think so. Th-Thank you, Bulma-san." Abruptly she folded her hand into a fist, raising it to look at it speculatively. "Maybe one day, my world will be . . . what it used to be."

Two days later, Bulma pronounced Shiatar fully recovered. After immediately going to the gravity room, Shiatar was gratified to discover that it hadn't been a dream; she really was a Super Saiya-jin.

It hadn't been nearly as difficult this time. Ironically, it was summoning the images of Vejiita and Radditz into her mind that allowed her to make the shift. The power blasted from within her, singing through her bones and her blood, and she shouted with the glory of it, hearing her cry echo from the walls and around her and through her. At last, at last, she had her chance. At last she could avenge her people, and the slaves of her world, and her honor . . . She tried out the moves of her new form, throwing a dozen punches at the air in half a second, revelling in the fantastic strength and speed. The full 400 Gs of the gravity room were nothing to her now. She shot from one end of the room to the other, and might as well have teleported; it was almost instantaneous. She fired off a ki blast at the energy-absorbing walls, and laughed as it almost overloaded the gravity room. And that hadn't even been a fraction of the full energy she could muster. She would savor the day that Vejiita lay dead before her!

She couldn't hold the Super Saiya-jin form for very long because she felt good, better than she had in years. Dropping back down to the ground, she sighed as she felt her hair drop back into its usual unruly mess. She might have to cut her hair short; charged with the energy of the Super Saiya-jin form, it was little more than a mane of golden spikes---

"How do you like having what you want most in all the world?" a voice asked behind her, and she started, spinning about and slipping into a combat crouch. Damn; she hadn't even sensed his ki, she'd been so absorbed in herself . . . Trunks stood behind her, leaning against the open doorway of the gravity room, arms folded. To her surprise, there was a faint smile on his face. How long he'd been there, she couldn't tell.

And unbidden, the memory of the night by the falls---and his cruel words---returned to her. She straightened and lowered her arms, but remained tense. "It's great," she replied tonelessly. "Thank you for helping me reach it."

The smile slipped, and he lowered his eyes. "If I could have thought of another way to goad you into releasing your anger, I would have."

"I know that." She turned away, going over to the wall beside him to pick up the new jacket she'd gotten from Bulma; she hadn't yet learned to transform without destroying it and had taken it off this time. "I don't blame you for it. You're a good teacher; you did what you had to do."

He was silent for a few moments, and then he sighed. "It was true, at least, that I'm not your teacher any longer. You don't need me any more; you've learned what you wanted, and you'll teach yourself anything else you need to know."

Startled, she paused in donning the jacket, and turned to stare at him. He wasn't looking at her, his eyes fixed on some distant point, and she thought, for just a moment, that his expression was almost . . . sad. But . . . "I don't need you any more? But . . ." She frowned. "I may have learned what I wanted, but I haven't learned all you know."

He shrugged. "When you've got a few years, I'll teach it to you. But I think you're in a bit more of a hurry than that. Besides, you've got nearly as much power as I have, from what I can gather, and you're an experienced fighter; you'll develop your own techniques, best suited to you, on your own in time. You already had the skill; I just showed you how to reach the power."

She slipped the jacket up onto her shoulders, accepting his explanation. He had been a good teacher, after all---"So am I ready, now, to face Vejiita?"

He focused on her, and she suddenly realized that he resembled his father most often when he was angry. At any other time, like now, he was too damned serious to look like Vejiita. She'd seen the Prince's expressions rage from haughty to malevolently wicked, but never the kind of intense, perpetually introspective look that Trunks wore. She wished, suddenly, that he would smile more often.

And then she recalled the malicious smile on his face when he'd leaned close to her and whispered his poison in her ear . . .

He folded his arms. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know how powerful your world's Vejiita is. Or how skilled a fighter."

She folded her arms, belligerently. "How powerful was your father?"

His eyes sharpened suddenly, and his expression went unreadable again. "Very powerful." He smiled suddenly. "If he'd lived, I know he'd never have stopped improving himself."

There was something odd about the way he smiled, but she dismissed it. A more interesting subject had come up. "You never knew him."

Another odd smile, not quite pleasant. "I . . . knew him in a way."

Now this was interesting. "What do you mean?"

He gazed at her for a moment, considering. And then he told her about his journey back in time to change the future.

Shiatar wondered if she'd hit him too hard during a sparring match. "So . . . your mother built a time machine, you went back to the past and saved Kak---Son Gokuu's life, and tried to prevent the Cyborgs from destroying the world. Do I have that much straight?"

He nodded, amused at her disbelief. "So far."

She leaned her weight on one leg, trying to see if he was mocking her. "And . . . because a genetically engineered mutating creature . . . somehow killed you---" she spoke slowly, trying to understand, "---and took your time machine back to the same period, you didn't face the Cyborgs, you actually faced that creature, which ate the Cyborgs . . . and was killed by the man who trained you, who was actually . . . a boy at the time? And in spite of all this, it didn't change anything in this present time of yours?"

Trunks sighed. "I suppose it does sound confusing."

He didn't know the half of it. "And I . . . should believe this."

He chuckled. "I seem to recall that you didn't believe me when I told you I could teach you."

She stiffened, and sighed. "It just sounds so strange . . ."

"And it doesn't sound strange that Kaasan built a machine that could cross dimensions, which pulled into it the last remaining freedom fighter of another world in the nick of time before she could be killed, so that she could learn to become a Super Saiya-jin and go back and save her world?"

He had a point, damn him. She folded her arms. "All right. I can see how it might have happened." The concept was mind-boggling; to go back in time and change the future . . . "Why did you do it?" she asked, after pondering the idea for a few moments and still finding it difficult to comprehend. "It made no difference on this world; why even bother?"

Trunks sighed, and turned toward the door; she followed him out of the gravity room. "It wasn't about changing my world," he said quietly as they walked. "It . . . it's hard to explain. But there was a woman there, in the past, and a little boy, who will have a husband and a father now. There was another boy who doesn't have to grow up as an avenger, who can grow up to be a scholar, if he wants to. A great warrior in the prime of his life who will live to reach even greater heights, and his family will have him." He thrust his hands into his pockets. "There were so many lives I could change by going back---or at least, so I thought. But my time-travelling almost made things worse. That's why I destroyed the time machine." He sighed. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Shiatar stared at him, utterly thrown. This did not sound like the man who had driven her mercilessly over the past few weeks, or the man who had cruelly taunted her about the awful secrets of her life. In fact, he seemed like a different man altogether . . . She stopped in the corridor. He stopped also, and raised his eyebrows in query.

"It's just that . . . I don't know what to believe about you. You're . . . different, now, somehow."

He made an "ah" of comprehension, and resumed walking. After a moment, she moved to catch up with him. She glanced at his face; he seemed to be searching for a way to explain.

"I had to be different," he began, "to be your teacher. If I was to be a good teacher, I had to push you, goad you into working harder. And you, in particular, didn't need a nice teacher." He glanced at her sidelong, and she knew he was recalling all of the times she'd tested him during their training. In spite of herself, she almost smiled, and looked away.

"And then, three nights ago, I . . . I had to be your enemy. It was the only way. You were blocked, I think. Because of what happened with your Chichi. You had developed your control over your emotions to such a degree that you would never have gotten angry enough to surpass your limits unless I hurt you enough to break that control. I had to do whatever I could, use whatever I could, to force your anger to break free."

She looked away, her jaw tight. It sounded as if he was trying to apologize, obliquely, for what he'd said. Resentment surged through her. "You seemed sincere enough."

He sighed, lowering his head, his hair obscuring his face. "You had to believe it, or it would have no power."

She closed her eyes, and saw him standing on the ledge before her, looking more like his father than any son had a right to look in spite of his pale eyes and hair. And she remembered the cruel, cruel smile . . . She shuddered. "You even looked like him . . ." she murmured to herself.

Trunks heard it. "My father?" He glanced at her. "I did spend some time with him in the past. Enough to learn his ways of dealing with people." He sighed ruefully. "Those ways could be surprisingly effective, if painful."

In spite of herself, she noticed that he spoke as if he knew from experience, and it piqued her interest. "How did you like him, when you met him?"

He shrugged. "I suppose it's safe to say---I didn't. Not at first, anyway. He wasn't exactly the type of admirable father-figure I'd imagined my whole life. He didn't like me much, either, when he first met me---and he let me know it."

She frowned. "You said you didn't like him at first."

He looked away, as the wind stirred his hair. "No. But later . . . I don't know. I . . . learned to respect him, after a while. I began to understand him. And I think he did the same with me. But as for liking me . . ." He shrugged again. "It was months before he called me by my name, instead of just 'you, there.'"

She snorted. "What did you expect? His half-Human son---who at first glance looks nothing like him, you know---shows up as an adult, strong enough to challenge him? It's a wonder he didn't kill you."

Trunks shook his head. "No, he wasn't like that. He would have done it, of course, if I'd been a threat, but I think, on some level, he was as fascinated by me as I was by him. It's just that his way of showing it . . . left something to be desired."

Shiatar nodded. "That's the way Saiya-jin treat their children. If he didn't denounce you as some illegitimate brat or try to kill you, he must have liked you."

"Interesting logic. I'm not sure if 'logic,' however, applied to my father."

" 'Logic' isn't easily applied to any Saiya-jin. Did you ever spar with him?"

He nodded. "We trained together for a while. If you thought your sessions with me were hard, think again. My father didn't 'spar,' he fought. All-out, until both of us were too exhausted to stand. And I suspect he'd have killed me if I hadn't fought at my highest ability."

"Hmmph." Shiatar looked him up and down; he was a little taller than Vejiita, but not quite as broad. She would have given much to see one of their matches. "Saiyajin logic, again. Every time he tried to kill you, he was probably expressing fatherly affection." She chuckled at the idea of Vejiita expressing any kind of affection, then sobered, remembering Bulma's revelation. She actually loved him . . .

Abruptly she realized that Trunks was looking at her oddly, and she frowned, confused by the look. "What?"

"You're different, too," he said, surprising her. "You've been as hard on me as I've been on you the last few weeks. This is the first time we've had a civil conversation since before I became your teacher."

She scowled, but realized that he was right. "I've never reacted well to authority," she admitted. "I treated you the way I treated my trainers back when I was in the arena. Maybe a little worse; you were softer on me than they were."

He glanced at her, and she realized the irony of her words then; suddenly she realized how foolish it was to be angry at him for doing what had to be done. He'd hurt her, yes, but he hadn't been the first, or the worst---by far. She sensed, instinctively, the sincerity of his apology, and believed him when he said he hadn't meant the things he'd said to her; and after all, it had worked. He'd manipulated her into discovering her hidden power, and she'd be grateful to him for that forever. He'd made her dreams of vengeance possible. That was the bottom line.

Abruptly she stopped in the hallway, and turned to face him when he stopped as well. "Let's start over," she said. "I know you had to say those things to me; what I told you that night, about my . . . my life, that was the first time I'd told that to anyone. I . . ." She lowered her eyes. "I never told anyone because those secrets are the only real vulnerabilties I have left. I don't like that, but I know it's true. Attacking those secrets was the only way you could have really made me angry, I know that, too." She took a deep breath, and looked up into his startled face. "You did the right thing. Thank you." And she bent at the waist for a respectful, stiffly formal bow.

He stared at her in surprise for a moment, then unexpectedly returned the bow, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. When he straightened, he asked quietly, "So are we friends, then?"

The question startled her. She'd never thought of herself as the type that anyone would want as a friend. Even the members of her resistance cell had been more acquaintances than friends---but then, she'd been their leader; she hadn't had the luxury of friendship with them. She'd watched their closeness and developing camaraderie from afar, and had even shared in it, to a degree. But she had never been one of them. She'd never been one of any group in her life. Arena slaves were generally a close-lipped and distant lot; it simply wasn't prudent to develop friendships with people that one might have to later kill in the ring. Only Chichi had called herself friend to Shiatar in her whole life.

And yet, here . . . on this other world, she'd met two people who she already respected. Bulma fascinated her; she was a seemingly inexhaustible source of affection and caring, with enough left over from her son to even offer some to Shiatar. She could still feel the Human woman's arms around her. What had that gesture been called? From a dim memory, she found the word: hug. Bulma had hugged her. It made Shiatar feel strange, but by no means in an unpleasant way.

And Trunks . . . in spite of herself, in spite of everything, she liked this odd-looking, unpredictable demi-Saiyin warrior. His personality was a strange blend of gentleness and ruthlessness, with a dash of justifiable arrogance thrown in; she who had prided herself on being able to read anyone was repeatedly confounded by him. He fascinated her because of that, in a different way than Bulma did. She wanted to pick him apart, find out what made him tick. Although she hadn't planned on it, she felt a kind of comfort when she was around him, a sense that with him, she would never have to really explain herself. That was why she'd chosen to tell him her tale, that night out by the falls---and why it had hurt so much when he'd said those cruel words, like a betrayal. She was glad, although she would never admit it to him, that his attack had been contrived rather than real. He would understand her, because he could relate; his life had been, on an almost symbolic level, very similar to her own. It was a strange feeling, that sense of comfort, like nothing she'd ever felt before. Was this how a friend was supposed to feel? She looked up, into his non-Saiyan blue eyes, and decided that it must be.

"Yes," she said. " I suppose we are."

Now that Trunks and Shiatar are ready to fight as a team, will the power of the Super Saiya-jin alone be enough? Or will even Trunks' formidable strength and skill be tested? In the next episode, the beginning of the end! THINGS ARE GETTING INTERESTING; THE OTHER WORLD BREAKS THROUGH!!