At the heart of the matter, once you got right down to it, and cut out all the other minor or not so minor means to make a profit, Caspi Station was a trading post above all else. A massive one, bloated with the money of hundreds of races, and swarming with arms dealers, soldiers and mercenaries like ants in nest, but a trading port nonetheless. A significant amount of the internal spacing was given over to providing a place for the off-world traders to live, eat, sleep and yes, to do business. To that extent, the station hosted three great trade halls, which were really more like cities.

Yes, to Roran, it seemed that cities were an appropriative image. On their own, each hall was a space wide enough for a block of buildings, reaching up to the sky where the vast underside of the domed structure could be seen. There was enough air space for machines carrying passengers to flit to and fro, from building to building. And there were buildings, oh yes. Everything ranging from massive structures of gleaming steel to tiny shacks of rotting wood. Everyone and anyone who had some kind of product to sell was doing it here. Roran passed high-tech stalls laid out with weaponry, lasers, slug-throwers and shields. Near them, there was a market place selling fresh food from a dozen worlds, and not so fresh from a dozen more. Above them, there loomed the massive multi-story buildings belonging to the giants of the trade halls, the corporations, and the conglomeration responsible for selling and buying mining equipment, ships, soldiers, goods and arms. These buildings loomed, noticeably different from the others, to Roran's eye. Squat and heavy, reinforced with armour, each one flying its own private banner like the flag of a warring nation.

So, the battles don't just go on down on the battle. He thought to himself. People fight up here as well. I guess it's not surprising. This is where most of the money is made too, and I can't believe it's all legit.

There were streets that snaked between the rows of buildings, forming a network of arteries that could bring one anywhere that they needed to be in the trade-city. Moving along them there were floating cars, each one the size of a bus. They were sleek and silver, piloted by a droid slaved to the main computer. Taking those who had the money to pay wherever they might want to go.

For those who didn't want to pay, or who couldn't afford to, there were smaller paths set between the main road, upon which most of the bigger buildings bordered. These were crowded; merchants shouted out the wares they had to sale, people walked past, gangs of soldiered on break stood in sullen silence.

Above everything, there was the noise. The noise of millions of people going about their day, living and growing older.

And this trade city was only one of three! All of equal size. It struck him how vast this whole place had to be. A cold feeling of awe and shock which spread across his body. He paused in the middle of one of the streets, and just stared.

This is what was taken from us. He thought, after a moment of silence. This is what we should have had. He imagined what it would be like to walk along streets like this on a Tuffle city, surrounded by crowds of Tuffles, his own people.

It was a pleasure lost to him now. All he could do was to try to remember what it had been like.

Roran stopped by a street terminal to pull up a map of the city, the crowd mulled around him aimlessly. So many people after so long alone was enough to make him feel wary, and his eyes hardly stopped moving behind the green glass of the visor. Seeing each person coming close to him, and preparing for a fight. He knew none of them meant harm, but he couldn't help it. Crowds, they scared him just a little. Too long out on his own in the depths of space.

The terminal gave a sharp sound, reminding him of his question and telling him that it had been answered. He looked down, the screen was displaying a map with sections of the city – Alpha City, it was called – coloured and marked. He ordered it to download directly to his visor, and after a moment, it did so. Finding the computer stored in the chest piece. Map now displayed in the corner of his eye, he moved off.

This place was so big, he could be searching for weeks or months before he found what he was after. He'd known before, of course, but seeing it was so different from just reading about the size. Now it was real.

Real enough to be dangerous, he thought to himself, as he caught a blond man in the corner of his eye. The man seemed to be looking at him strangely, and Roran braced, but there was a moment of tense anticipation, and the man walked away.

Just nothing. The Tuffle told himself with a sigh. I'm getting jumpy in my old age.

While he knew what he wanted, it was unlikely to be listed on the map he'd just been given. At least, he could use the map to mark out places where it probably wouldn't be. The auto-bay, for instance. That was the name of the part of the city dedicated to vehicles of all kinds. He decided it was unlikely to be there, and marked it as such. The banking sector was also marked off, as was the mining sector. That still left so many, though…

Well, he knew that he would probably be here for a while when he arrived.

Over the next few days, he made his inquiries. Sleeping on board the Wanderer each night, he spent the days trailing across sectors of the city he had marked as promising. Eating at different vendors or restaurants, and putting out word of his search to those who would listen. He paid locals, and those who were good at finding things to try and track down what he was looking for, but even so, it was long and hark work. He returned each day to his bed, peeling off his armour in an exhausted haze. He hadn't walked for so long in ages, and each morning, he rose and donned the armour ready to try again.

About a week passed in this manner, before he got the first inkling that he had come to the right place. He was standing in a street that looked just like any other in the city. Traders swamped the area, chattering and talking amongst themselves. He did his best to tune them out, but enough got through that he was on edge despite himself. He was doing his best to hold a conversation with the man behind the trading kiosk piled high with miscellaneous pieces of metal and junk.

Roran handed him an item, a rough woollen bag about the size of of a closed fist. The trader – an Arkosian with four arms – held it thoughtfully, and seemed to be weighing it.

"Dangerous thing." It said at last. Insect mouth chattering as it spoke. "You want rid of? Will cost you."

"No." Roran replied. "I don't want rid of it. I want to know who made it. I am confident that it was from this station. The previous owner told me as such."

"Hard." The giant insect said, palm still closed around the bag. "No distinguishing features… You sure it came from here?"

"As sure as can be. The last guy was very certain."

"You know what it is?"

"It's a bag." Roran shrugged, trying to play off the question. "The last person who owned it said that it might be magical, but I don't believe in things like that."

"Yet, you want to know where it came from?"

"The person who owned it tried to kill me. Call it settling a score."

"Hmm. It's a curse bag. Very powerful. Very dark. Old magic. Not the kind that's used often off-world."

"Your people have such a thing?"

"Legends, rumours. Most don't think magic exists. We know. We also know to fear it. Someone tried to kill you with it, yes?"

Roran didn't answer, and that, for the insect, was answer enough.

"Yes, and they almost succeeded didn't they?"

Again, silence.

"Very dangerous magic. Tendency to backfire. Know how to destroy, know how to mitigate, how to track? That's beyond me."

"I'll have it back then." Roran said, holding out his hand. After a moment, the insect dropped it back into his palm, and his fingers folded over the rough cloth.

"Rather you than me…" the creature muttered. "Magic such as that doesn't rest easily, even when it is in your hands.

"Is there anyone on this station who can help with this? I've been looking for a long time now."

"Better than me? No." The insect let out a wheezing laugh through its clicking mandibles. "If you search for magic here, you search in the wrong place. Maybe the bag came from here, but if so, I know not who could have made it. You have come searching in vain."

"Is there not anyone?" Roran pressed. "If you know a little, perhaps there are others? Someone must have made it, and I know that someone was here. Tell me of those who practice your arts that dwell on the station."

"I couldn't, I don't know enough." The creature laughed. "But I suppose I can try to find something if I look hard enough."

"Let me guess, you want paid for it?"

"Of course." The creature laughed again, the sound was grating, cutting above even the chattering of the crowd. Roran did his best not to flinch. "You're asking me to put in no small amount of work, just to find someone that I do not even know is even here. Compensation isn't much to ask now, is it?"

"That depends entirely on how much."

"Three thousand credits, up front."

"You could buy a ship for that!"

"Only a bad one. It isn't too much to ask for, is it?"

"What do you think?! The amount you're asking for is absurd!"

"You will find no one else on this station with the capability to do as you ask, but if you like, take your money and search. I will be waiting for you here when you return - and the price will have tripled!"

Roran bit down a retort, forcing himself to breath deeply the recycled air of the space station, he was clothed in his power armour, but the visor was raised so that he could observe things with his own eyes, and taste the bitter oxygen pumped by the massive air filters hidden under the floor and titanic walls.

In truth, he had the money. More than that, in fact. A life time of bounty hunting had ensured that he had plenty to bring to the table now. He didn't spend much on himself, only what was required to repair his equipment, and maintain the Wanderer. He was good at his job too, sometimes he wondered if he was too good. Roran did his best to ensure that his marks each deserved the death he set upon them, but he wasn't fool enough to think that he had always succeeded in this. Innocent blood had been shed by his hands. Only the hope of this current quest kept him going, had pulled him from the death-spiral of his life before.

Put like that, what was three thousand? Three kay credits against the chance to save his world and people? It was nothing. Nothing at all. Problem was, the alien was watching him. Roran wasn't good at reading Arkosians. They were insectoids, not mammals or reptiles like most forms of sapient life. He couldn't read them well at all, but even so, he was sure he saw the glimmering green in those compound eyes.

"Can you really find what I want? Or are you just playing me for the money?"

"I like money." The creature admitted happily. "But I also know when I see someone who should not be trifled with. That armour, is Tuffle, correct? An elite set?"

"You know?" Roran blinked. "I didn't think anyone would recognise it here. It didn't leave homeworld often."

"Seen its like before." The alien said. "Only once. Smuggled off Planet Vegeta during the reign of the Saiyans. Good piece. Sold for well over ten thousand credits. Always wanted to get another. But that piece was broken, for a museum, not suitable for a warriors. Yours is different. To have it and wear it, you must know how to fight. And you called Planet Vegeta ''Homeworld''' not often I meet a Tuffle like you. I thought you were all dead. Now I see why you wanted to know of the mystic arts. But what you desire is impossible. It cannot be done. There is no force that can revive a world."

"My goal doesn't matter." Roran snapped, with a bit more bite than he had intended, but the insect's words had struck deep, stabbing into his deepest fears. The possibility of failure. "You know who I am, and you know what I want. You know what I would give to get it, and you know what I would do to protect that goal. Is that why you say that I can trust you?"

The insect clicked its mandibles a few times.

"Yes." It replied. "Money good. Being alive to spend money is better. Tuffles died long ago, to have lasted so long, you must be a fighter. That class of armour marks you as elite… royal guard, perhaps? In either case, you're good at killing, and I don't want to find out that I am good at dying. Three thousand, and I find what you want. But be careful warrior, I'll warn you now one more time. There is no mystical force that can do what you wish. If you continue on this path, you'll simply throw your own life away."

"I can't throw away something that has such little value to it anyway." Roran returned. "I['m a man without a people, without a cause or a purpose. I should have children by now, and they should have children. Instead, I'm alone. I've not truly lived since my world was destroyed… do what I ask you, and I'll pay your price."

The Arkosian nodded.

"Very well. Three thousand credits. And a contact number as well. This may take a few days."

He didn't always dream of Oozaru. Though, this was the most common dream, he had others as well. Most of them unpleasant, though few quite as bad as the dream of the death of his world. He'd lived a long life. Serving as a bounty hunter thanks to the capabilities of his suit. It was not an honourable trade, but he needed to survive. Driven on by an urge he didn't quite understand. He was the last Tuffle, and so, so long as he lived, the Tuffles weren't dead. Not fully. He owed it to them to live for as long as possible.

So, he had many dreams. Some pleasant, but most not. But tonight, however, he dreamed of one of his most critical moments. The day when things had changed. The time when he had gone from hopeless to filled with purpose.

The day he had felt like a Tuffle once more.

The rough ground of Melvor crumbled under the armoured plating of his boot. The wind screamed, driven through the canyons and rock-formations by the force of its own momentum. Sounding like the cries of a dying world. But if this was the case, then Melvor had been dying for hundreds of years.

In truth, he was already dead. There was no life on Melvor. The place was a wasteland, burned to the ground by the Saiyans long ago, and too badly damaged for anyone to want to buy. It was home now only to those who had nowhere else to go, those who wanted to hide.

Trumpa lay panting on the ground before him. Blood oozing from the deep cut which ran diagonally down his chest. The odd alien, of a species that Roran didn't recognise, was clamping his arm to the wound, but that didn't stop the copious flow of the red liquid. His other arm had been torn away in their clash. Roran's armour was hardly damage free itself. Silent warnings flashed softly before his eyes. Noting overheated weapons, broken servos, cracked armour, and burned out circuits.

It had been the hardest fight he'd had in years, and he could taste blood in the back of his throat, his helmet's visor had been shattered, but by some miracle, his eyes had been spared.

"Trumpa." He said, his voice was tired, and shouting above the ever-present wind was a pain, but he forced himself to continue. Everything had to be by the book, after all. "You're being detained. I have a bounty for your capture, signed by the heads of several worlds including Nova Prime, where you planted a bomb to destroy a city section. Thousands of people died. They paid eighty percent of your bounty. I should mention that while the preference is to have you alive, a body is also acceptable. Don't make me end this battle now."

The alien glared up at him. Trumpa was of an unknown race, his skin a vivid shade of green. His clothes were loose, flowing, easily discarded in battle to allow him to strike swiftly and with power. His eyes were not beaten, there was defiance in them still.

"You can't take me." He growled. His voice full of pain. "I won't let you take me in like this!"

He sprang forward suddenly, single hand twisting into a claw as it struck for his exposed face. Roran ducked, the arm swept overhead, and he slammed a blow into Trumpa's open chest. He felt flesh deform, and what he was sure were bones crack. Whirring servos in his suit increased the power of his blow, magnifying it so that the desperate fugitive was flung back to the earth, spitting and spluttering blood, gasping for air.

"Please don't do that again. I said I don't want to kill you, but I will if you make this difficult."

"You…" The alien gasped and spat blood, trying to stagger up right, but only managing to bring himself crashing back to the ground, his attempt to support himself with his arm failed when he chose the arm that he didn't actually have anymore, and he fell, striking his head on the ground. Trumpa groaned, and rolled, still glaring at him.

"Kill me if you must, hunter." He groaned. "The fate that I would have at the hands of Nova Prime is nothing less. I see no reason to parade myself like a trophy to the executioner's block."

"The consequences of your actions are on you. If you had not killed those people, I doubt we would be here now."

"I had to kill them!" The alien snarled. "I had no choice at all! I needed something from them, their youth!"

"You killed them for their youth?"

"Yes." Trumpa growled. "As each soul flew free, I gathered a little of its power. An old ritual, a magic invented by my father long ago. Sadly, it killed him, but I refined and perfected it! That way, I would never be old again. Never wither, never die. Always be young and strong. Yes, I killed them, but can you really say that it was not for a good cause?"

"Thousands of lives for one isn't a good trade, even if magic was real."

"Bah. What do you know? Your stupid little man in your stupid little armour. Have you felt the cold claws of death closing about your body? Do you know the horror of your power shrinking day by day? The growing knowledge that you have only a little time left? Have you ever had the cold realisation that your life was measured in weeks and months, not years and decades? I have. My father has. I remember both times. What I did, I did for a good purpose. For the best purpose that there was. My own survival! I was old and fragile, now I am young and strong! Can you not see the difference?"

"Yes." Roran admitted. "It made identifying you problematic. I suspected that you had employed some kind of regenerative technology, or this was an ability of your people. You're telling me that you used magic to make yourself younger?"

"Absolutely!" You see before you absolute proof of the existence of magic. Can you still cling to your silly technology now?"

"Considering that silly technology beat you black and blue? I think I'll hold onto it, thanks. Now get up, you're coming with me."

He reached down, and gripped Trumpa by the arm, hauling him to his feet. The green-skinned alien groaned in pain, and his eyes flashed with anger. "Do you know something else, bounty-hunter?"

"No, but I'm sure that I'm about to."

"The ritual. The one I conducted. It was flawed as well. You see, it limited me, for a little while. As I assimilated the power I took. My true strength was chained. You came at a good time, because my power was not even a third of what it should be."

"How impressive. By the time it matters, you'll dead be dead."

"Yes…" Trumpa groaned. "But there's one thing thing related to it. Just as the ritual sealed my power for a time, the youth I gained in return unsealed abilities I thought long lost to me. You see, when I was old, I became inflexible. Unable to make use of my natural powers. Now, I'm healed. I can use those abilities again."

"So you're going to spit acid at me, then?"

"No, that's not a power my kind have. Namekians can do something else, though."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"We regenerate."

At those words, the stump of Trumpa's severed arm begin to bubble, flesh writhing before his eyes. Roran saw it, and froze shock as a shower of blood erupted from the wound, and a new arm fully formed, followed it. Fingers still dripping with gore now posed right above his shattered visor.

"So." Trumpa said. "Shall we see who can kill who first this time?"

His hands filled with energy, and in desperation, Roran threw him, kicking away as the ground beneath him exploded.

That had been the first time. The first time that he had come into contact with magic. It had been subtle, a name - the Namekians - and a supposed ritual to restore youth. It had seemed utterly ridiculous, and yet, Roran had been intrigued. Intrigued enough that later, he did some research on their species. Discovering that there was very little to do with the Namekians that was recorded anywhere at all.

It was as though someone had tried to erase them.

But he had found out about their origins, their powers, even if no one knew where they were now.

He also learned of what they were said to be able to do.

He learned about the Dragon Balls.

That was the day he stopped floating helplessly in the tide, and started to fight back. For the first time in years, he had hope again.

He'd be damned before he let it slip away this time.

Roran woke up with a start, sweat beaded his naked body, and he threw the blankets off himself, struggling in the darkness before he remembered to turn on the light. He was sitting in bed, and something had woken him up. A soft beeping sound. Coming from the communicator on his bedside table. He reached over for it, and flipped it on, pressing it to his ear.

"I don't know who this is, but it better be good."

"It is." Replied a voice, the voice of the Arkosian from before. "I have found what you want! I have the location of the one who made the curse-bag! All you need to do is to come down and meet them yourself."