And, she thought gleefully, perhaps it might continue for a while. It had been a week now since Shiatar had recovered from overload shock, and Bulma was delighted to see that there seemed to be no hard feelings on her part toward Trunks. They'd chosen a decidedly un-Saiyan method of dealing with a problem; they'd talked it out. And now Bulma was certain that it was only a matter of time before her plans for her son and Shiatar came to fruition.
A pause in the decimation of the breakfast table came as Trunks and Shiatar reached for the same dish, and their chopsticks tangled momentarily. Bulma pretended not to notice as Trunks drew back apologetically. "Sorry, Ko-san. It's yours."
Shiatar also drew back. "No, you were reaching for it first. You take it."
"There's another right beside it. I'll take that one."
"But this one was the one you wanted. Here."
And it went on until finally Shiatar, growing annoyed with politeness and manners (Bulma would have to work on that with her; the girl seemed to have only the most rudimentary grasp of basic etiquette), speared the disputed item rudely and shoved it at Trunks' face, glaring at him until he accepted it and choked it down. The feeding frenzy then resumed with no further interruptions.
But Bulma hadn't missed the ever-so-slight flush to her son's cheeks, or the fact that he seemed to have finally relaxed enough to drop the cold-eyed warrior persona he adopted toward enemies and be himself with her. Nor had it escaped her that this was the first time since Shiatar's arrival that the two had eaten together at the same table. Yes, she mused, biting delicately into the single piece of fruit she'd chosen for her own breakfast, things were definitely getting interesting between these two.
And just as she'd suspected, it was not Trunks who presented the greatest obstacle to her plans. The boy---man, she reminded herself---was already half-besotted; although he'd never been the most expressive of children, she knew him well enough to recognize the subtle signs in his behavior. But Shiatar was a closed book to her; while the young woman seemed to have lost her own icy shell, Bulma suspected that Shiatar was simply unused to expressing anything but distant, impersonal pseudo-emotion. In fact, Shiatar reminded her more of Vejiita in manner than even Trunks did; the Saiyan prince had been similarly uncomfortable with his real feelings. Shiatar was much better about it than Vejiita, however---and anyhow, Bulma knew better than to voice that particular comparison aloud to the girl.
The only possible glitch, right now, was Shiatar's driving desire to return and free her world. Curiously, it didn't bother Bulma that Shiatar intended to kill her world's Vejiita; after hearing the list of that Vejiita's extravagancies and crimes, Bulma had no trouble distinguishing between him and her own mate. Her Vejiita had had his share of flaws and even blood on his hands, but Shiatar's prince sounded like a monster of the same order as the Cyborgs. No, the target of Shiatar's vengeance wasn't what disturbed Bulma; it was that the girl would have to return to her world to achieve her goal. It would be difficult for she and Trunks to have a relationship across dimensional boundaries. But then, she'd heard of long-distance relationships that had surmounted greater obstacles (although probably not one quite as bizarre as this one . . .).
She sighed, and they turned to look at her. They even looked like a nice couple, she thought, and again conjured a brief image of potential grandchildren. It would be nice to have children running through the Capsule Corporation's headquarters again . . . she dismissed the fantasy and shook her head at them. "Nothing. Just thinking. The DITMIX is almost finished, you know."
If she hadn't already suspected the embryonic development of some deeper bond between her son and their houseguest, the look on their faces would have started her speculation immediately. To their credit, neither of the two warriors' faces actually changed. Trunks sat back and raised his napkin to wipe his mouth fastidiously; his eyes over the napkin were subtly troubled. Shiatar was a bit less discreet. She continued eating, but slowed significantly, and she kept her eyes down in her bowl. An uncomfortable silence fell.
After a moment, Trunks pushed himself back from the table, taking a deep breath to settle his stomach. "I'm going to the capitol again today," he announced. "The people there are trying to settle the ruins, and they need a little help with some of the downed skyscrapers."
To Bulma's surprise, Shiatar looked up. "I'll join you," she said to him. "If you're going to try to rebuild a city, it'll go faster with two sets of hands."
Trunks and Bulma both stared at her, and the young woman blinked back. "What? The people in this world need help, too. While I'm here, I might as well lend a hand."
Bulma could see the impact of this in Trunks' face; her son looked as if Shiatar had just joined his short list of all-time favorite people. He smiled, and nodded to her. "Then I'll be leaving in about ten minutes. Meet me above the headquarters?"
"Fine."
Bulma reached for her teacup again to hide a grin. She'd heard of stranger first dates.
That evening, Trunks stood in the shower, letting the water cascade over his head and body as he reflected upon the accomplishments of the day. He felt good; the capitol was well on its way to becoming as beautiful as it had once been. With Shiatar's help, they'd cleaned up the worst of the damaged and unsalvageable buildings (it had been good practice for them both in creating focused ki blasts) and had repaired the city's damaged reservoir and power plant; with that help the human settlers would be able to restore water and power to the city within a week. The capitol had been less damaged than most of the Cyborgs' targets . . . and soberly he reflected that the Cyborgs hadn't completely destroyed the city because that had been where Gohan had interrupted their usual rampage, and died. But Trunks thought that Gohan would have been pleased to see the restoration they'd managed to accomplish. The capitol, once a haven for the rats, would soon be a human place again.
He stopped the water, and reached for the towel to dry himself. He had more interesting thoughts to occupy him right now. Shiatar had surprised him with her offer of assistance, and to his even greater surprise she had worked enthusiastically to help him restore the city. He'd thought her so consumed by her desire for vengeance that she would have had no interest in a task so menial; when he'd been a youth growing up in the shadow of the Cyborgs, the only things that he'd allowed to occupy his mind and his time had been vengeance and getting stronger. But it seemed that Shiatar had taken to this world. It shouldn't have surprised him, really; in spite of the desolation, there was no danger on this Earth to threaten Shiatar, and here she had a freedom that she'd never before experienced in her life. He hadn't missed the expression of sheer delight on her face when they'd raced home as Super Saiya-jin, blasting through the sky like twin cyclones . . . he'd felt a bit of a thrill, too. He hadn't raced like that since before Gohan had died, not even in the past with Gokuu and his companions; he'd had too great a task weighing on his shoulders at the time to feel much in the way of youthful abandon. It had been an incredible feeling to completely let himself go, unleashing his speed to its fullest . . . Shiatar, he suspected, had shared that feeling.
He sighed, rubbing his face with the towel as he stepped out of the shower stall, trusting his long familiarity with his own quarters to guide him out of the bathroom and into the cooler darkness of the outer room. The DITMIX would be finished soon, and he wasn't sure what disturbed him more: that Shiatar would be trying to single-handedly save her world, or that she would be leaving at all. He was worried; she'd just become a Super Saiya-jin, and hadn't really had time to develop her skills at this level---and her enemy was more than formidable, if Shiatar's Vejiita paralleled the Vejiita he'd known in the past. Even with the incredible power she'd developed, she'd have a real challenge on her hands. Shiatar was a natural warrior and a ferocious fighter---but Vejiita was a natural killer, in any dimension. And in Shiatar's dimension, it sounded as if he'd had more opportunity to develop his talents . . .
He moved the towel up to dry his hair. He still hadn't rid himself of the teacher's concern for a student's welfare. The young rebel had been fighting her whole life; she'd faced death a good deal more often than he had. He was worrying too much---Ko Shiatar could take care of herself. And he had to admit, a good portion of his discomfort with the idea of Shiatar returning to face her enemies had to do with the fact that she'd be leaving his world to do so . . .
He took the towel away from his head---and froze. Shiatar turned away from his window, and came briskly over to him. Her eyes were bright with excitement. "Trunks, I was practicing a little while ago and I wanted to show you this new technique I figured out---" She trailed off, seeing his jolted expression, and a look of confusion crossed hers. "What?"
Whipping the towel around his waist with a speed that bordered on blurring, he stared at her. "What are you doing in my room?" he demanded, more embarassed than angry.
"I . . . the door was open. I wanted to see your barracks. I didn't think you'd mind so much." She seemed genuinely perplexed at his discomfiture, and he forced himself to relax. She'd called his quarters 'barracks,' and he reminded himself that Shiatar had grown up as a slave in a world in which slaves had no property, no places of their own---and no privacy, it seemed.
"I don't really mind," he admitted, trying to sound casual. "It's just that usually people are supposed to knock before they enter someone's quarters, and get their permission before they enter. You can see that I wasn't exactly expecting company."
She looked down at the towel, and he fought hard not to blush. "What do you need that for?" she asked. "You could just power up for a second and be dry."
She had a point, and he'd never thought of that particular use for his abilities. He'd have to try it---when he didn't have a towel around his waist to blow off by accident. Awkwardly he crossed the room, stepping behind the closet door so that he could put some clothing on. To his consternation, she followed him.
"Anyway, I was practicing outside, and I thought of the way you use your sword to focus your ki. So then I thought of shaping my power into a kind of ki-weapon; I've done it before, but never with the kind of precision I'm able to develop now. And it worked!" She clenched her fists in excitement, as Trunks regarded her from the shelter of the closet. Abruptly she sensed that something was wrong. "What? Why are you hiding back there? Put some clothes on and come outside with me so I can show you my technique."
"I will if you let me dress."
She raked him with a look of exasperation. "Then dress! I'm not stopping you."
He sighed, understanding. "Shiatar . . . in this world, people don't undress in front of each other unless . . . well, unless they're intimate in some way. Like, uh, family."
She blinked. "Like family." He nodded, and she frowned. "So, how do you have sex?"
He was glad that the shadows of the closet hid his flush, which he was certain must have covered every exposed part of his body. "That sort of qualifies as intimacy."
"Oh." Her expression was blank for a moment, until comprehension dawned. And then he was surprised to note two spots of color appear on her cheeks. Abruptly she took a step back. "Oh."
"Just turn around for a moment, Ko-san."
She did so quickly, and just as quickly he put on enough clothing to cover his lower half decently. As he buttoned his pants, he grinned to himself; her innocence was so incredible that he couldn't help but find it endearing. He recalled the day she'd put on his too-loose tank shirt and been completely unaware of her exposure, and suddenly understood that moment. "I take it no one worries about this kind of privacy on your world."
"Not slaves," she replied over her shoulder. "When I was in the arena, all of us---male and female---lived together in a big, one-room barracks. We just never thought about things like being naked in front of each other. It didn't mean anything."
He took a moment to increase his ki enough to blast his hair upward, drying it instantaneously; he could put on a shirt and boots and so forth later. "You can look now. It means a lot here. You should only undress around people you're completely comfortable with."
She turned carefully, and jerked back. "You don't have anything on your upper body."
"I'm a man; it's not considered particularly intimate for men to be naked from the waist up."
Hesitantly she turned to face him. "Is it the same for women?"
"No." He turned to rummage in the closet and found his boots.
"Why not?"
He almost dropped the boots. "You have . . . more on your chest than men do."
When he turned back, she was frowning in confusion, looking down at herself. He struggled not to laugh when she looked up. "I have the same things on my chest that you do," she said. "Mine are just bigger."
He smothered a cough behind his hand. "Well, yes, that's why it's considered okay for men to go shirtless. We don't have as much to expose."
She came toward him then, and he tensed in surprise as she reached up to lay her hands on his chest, fingers splaying to cover his pectorals. The look on her face was nothing more than confused and curious. "You have plenty to expose. Your whole torso is bigger than mine. I don't understand."
He wasn't sure whether to be uncomfortable or pleased by her touch. "It's just the custom. I don't know where it came from."
She dropped her hands, shaking her head. "You have strange customs here." She turned away, crossing the room slowly and looking around as he went to his dresser and took out his usual black tank. She watched him as he donned the shirt.
"What other things are different here for men and women?" she asked.
He shrugged, recognizing fascination in her seemingly idle curiosity. "A lot of things. Ways of life, really."
"Like clothes. Those sheath-things that Bulma-san gave me to wear at first; do men wear those?"
He snorted. "Not unless they're drag qu---. I mean, no, not usually. Only women wear dresses."
She folded her arms and leaned against his windowsill. Her face was in shadow. "And what other things are different for men and women here, Trunks-san?"
Intuition made him glance at her, startled; there had been something more to her question than idle curiosity this time. "Many things," he replied, uncertainly. "Hairstyles, modes of speech, customs, ways of thinking. What did you have in mind?"
"Nothing specific." She turned away quickly, and he watched as she moved over to his mantle, where she peered closely at a picture of himself, his mentor Gohan, and Bulma. She frowned at it, then turned to him. "Kakaloto's son?"
"Yes."
She looked at the picture again. "Doesn't look much like him. Did your mother take him as a second mate?"
Trunks almost choked. "Of course not! She was old enough to be his mother!"
Shiatar turned back to him, her face thoughtful. "Is age a consideration in taking a mate?"
"It usually is!" He watched as she picked up the picture. When she looked up at him, her eyes were dark with something else.
"Radditz was old enough to be my father," she said softly. He frowned.
A moment later she sighed, and looked up. He was surprised to see a look of resignation and a small smile on her face. "Sorry. I get that way sometimes."
Uncomfortably he reached into another drawer and found his belt, which he donned. He didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," he said awkwardly, not really knowing what he felt compelled to apologize for.
A soft chuckle from her, and he turned to look at her. "Don't be," she said. "I killed the bastard a long time ago; he only lives in my occasional nightmares, now. I wish I could kill him again, really." She put the picture down; her gaze was suddenly distant and hard. "I will choose my own mate," she added softly, in a tone that brooked no debate.
Trunks just bet she would, someday. He pitied whatever poor bastard she chose; he'd be lucky to have any say in the matter. He was pleased, however, to see that she seemed to have found some sort of peace with her terrible past.
Shiatar sighed, and watched him as he went to the closet to find one of his jackets. When he had shrugged into it and turned, he paused in consternation; she had crossed her arms and was eyeing him speculatively. "What is it?" he asked.
"Have you been assigned---I mean, have you chosen a mate yet?" she wanted to know.
His eyes must have come close to dropping out of his head, and he blushed so furiously that even the dimness of the room could not conceal it. "Ah . . . Ko-san . . . no. Not yet."
She frowned. "Why not? You're well past the age that most demi-Sayin are bred. In my world, that is."
Whatever in hell had prompted this conversation, he didn't know, but he prayed silently that it would end soon. "People aren't bred here, Ko-san."
"I know that. But the concept is sound; you're old enough."
He sighed, feeling his cheeks begin to cool. "Yes, I suppose I am. I've just had . . . other things on my mind."
"Ah. The Cyborgs." She nodded, her expression grave. "I can understand that. Some things are more important."
"Yes." The question had unnerved him, but he was recovering his composure slowly. He busied himself rearranging the hangars in his closet while he tried to figure out what had prompted Shiatar to ask such questions. He couldn't read anything into it; the warrior-maiden was too literal to have intended any innuendo. He suspected that she was simply having difficulty with the concept of a demi-Saiyin who had never been a slave, and so she was trying to discover the differences between him and a typical twenty-two-year-old male demi-Saiyin of her own world. On her world, he assumed, he was old enough to be "bred"---although the concept seemed less than pleasant.
He needed to find a safer subject if he was to maintain any sort of composure. "I'm ready to go. Show me this new technique of yours."
She nodded, her face brightening into an almost cheerful expression, and they turned toward the window. He stood aside to let her go first; when she hesitated, he gave her a sardonic bow. "Ladies first."
She frowned. "Is this some other gender-related custom of your world?"
"Yes. It's a mark of respect or honor that a man---a gentleman---confers on a woman, to let her precede him when passing through an opening."
"Foolish," she said, shaking her head. "If you honor someone, you go through a doorway before them, so that you would be the first hit if an ambush occurred."
He sighed, and she suddenly smiled, startling him. She smiled even less often than he did. He found himself staring at how it transformed her face, momentarily driving away the naturally solemn lines of her expression and making her look as young in spirit as she was in age. What amazed him most of all was that she didn't even know how pretty she was . . .
"It was a joke," she said, startling him even more. "I make them every once in a while."
He chuckled. "Just to keep me on my toes, I bet."
"Of course." He smiled again, and suddenly noticed that she had paused, and was staring at him oddly. He raised his eyebrows in query. In response, she frowned, and then reached up with one hand, her fingers touching his face; very lightly she traced his chin up to the edge of his jawline, and then slipped her fingers through the cascade of his hair. Trunks stiffened in surprise, not daring to move as she let the strands of his hair slide along the webbing between her fingers, a thoughtful look on her face.
"Your hair isn't so strange," she said decisively, dropping her hand. "I kind of like it, actually, now that I've gotten used to it. And you should smile more often; it makes you look better. Maybe then you'll get a mate."
And with that, she turned to the window and flew out. Trunks stared after her. He reached up to his face, where she had touched him; he could still feel the after-sensation of her fingers, like the image that remained on the eye after a flash of light. A moment later, he flew out the window after her.
The next morning.
It is a rarely-used chamber in the heart of the Capsule Corporation head-quarters, a storage room for equipment that is no longer needed in this damaged and nearly empty world. The room has seen nothing but dust and cobwebs and the occasional cleaning robot that ventures into this part of the facility every few months to suck up the dust and drive the spiders out. Another robot is not due for weeks. There are no monitors, sensors, or electric eyes. There are no witnesses.
At first there is only a flicker of anything untoward, a ghost of movement that simply makes the cobwebs sway gently. Then a circle of disturbance appears, spreading rapidly into a visible haze in the air, like the wavering of air above hot concrete in summer. The circle is roughly thrice the height of an average man. The heat-haze silently darkens, until a disc of solid, fathomless black---darkness visible---has formed. There is no wind. The wind is on the other side. The cobwebs only sway, and do not tear.
After a moment, the disc changes, becoming an opaque, cloud-shouded opening into elsewhere. It is two-dimensional only; an observer standing exactly at the circle's edge would see nothing. And that observer would then be amazed to see first a leg, and then its owner, materialize out of nothingness, stepping casually from the air into the still darkness of the chamber. The clouds of the disc swirl as someone passes through.
The leg is massive, its owner gargantuan. He looks around with coolly speculative eyes, hands on his hips; he has almost had to duck to pass through the gate. He has no hair that might catch on the gate's edge and slip into some netherworld between dimensions, nothing save an elegant moustache. The moustache is elegant; its owner is too big and too dangerous-looking for the rest of him to compliment the moustache. The eyes, over the moustache, are cold and hard, one eye covered by an odd crimson eyepiece that only lends a sinister glower to his face. He stands in massive boots, each big enough to swallow a child, and wears great plates of armor, overlapping to cover his massive torso; wrist bands that barely seem to encircle his great forearms; and shoulder-guards that only accentuate the mountainous breadth of his shoulders. The tail wrapped neatly around his waist is as thick around as a normal man's arm. Stopping near a pile of dusty crates, he pauses and turns to glance back at the gate, as another passes into this world.
This one is smaller, but by no means small; if the first of these two warriors were not present, the second would be an impressive physical specimen of his own. If anyone were present to witness his arrival, one striking feature would dominate the first impression: this warrior has a lion's-mane wealth of black hair, rioting over his shoulders and down his back in a tangled explosion; it is as if he is trying to single-handedly make up for his companion's baldness. He, too, wears armor matching that of the first warrior, fitted perfectly to his powerful form, but the resemblance ends there; one eye gleams with eager cruelty in his face, the eyepiece currently retracted into the headgear attached to the nearby ear. The right eye is nonexistent. A long, puckered scar, threading through where the eye once was, is testament to the eye's demise. Further examination reveals that the warrior's right arm and leg are artificial; although moulded perfectly in the shape of real limbs, they gleam a metallic silver in the pale light from the gateway. Unlike his companion, this warrior's loose tail flicks back and forth indolently, only its frenetically twitching tip betraying his real emotion.
The gate's clouds swirl more rapidly, and then suddenly the circle flickers out of existence, casting the chamber once more into shadow. The larger of the two warriors speaks into the darkness.
"The scientist was right. This area is unprotected."
The lion-mane shakes as the other nods. An eager, savage smile is on his face. "Yes. Foolish of them."
"Are you ready?"
"Of course. I've been waiting for this day."
"Don't underestimate her. She's escaped before."
"I know." He steps forward; there is a faint whir of unseen cybernetics as his right fist clenches. "But not this time. She was mine before; she'll be mine again."
He chuckles sofly; his giant companion is silent. As one, they move toward the door and exit the chamber. Behind them, the cobwebs are still once more.
The growing attraction between Trunks and Shiatar will have to wait. It's time for Shiatar's new skills and Trunks' strength to be put to the test. Will it be enough? Or do the two new arrivals to the Capsule Corporation have a few unexpected tricks up their sleeves? In the next episode, it starts! THE PRINCE'S LIEUTENANTS ATTACK!!! TRUNKS IS CRIPPLED!!!
