So That's How it is Then

By Arlia'Devi

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball Z. All rights go to Akira Toriyama and all associates.

Author's note: So, This isn't your typical romance. Of course, this isn't your typical couple. This fanfiction does contain sexual scenes, but they are in line with the guidelines of this website. Eighteen is probably my favourite Dragon Ball Z character ever, and I've never really wrote anything about her, so here it is. Forgive me that this story focuses more on Eighteen than Krillin, but you know, Krillin is maybe a little bit… well, boring. I also haven't written anything for Dragon Ball Z in so long it's really such a shame because I love the character so much! Anyway, I really hope you enjoy because I spent a lot of time on this little number.

I:

Free

The sun set over Kame House, glittering across the vast ocean. It was a beautiful sight, save for the dilapidated old rose-pink weatherboard shack she was to call home. She imagined it completely redone – maybe painted in a soft blue or crisp white with a garden dotted with tropical plants. And she'd be on the beach, relaxing on that white sand with a cocktail in her hand with not a care in the world, and no one to answer to, no one who could tell her what to do. There wouldn't be a human soul in sight and it would be perfect.

But that wasn't this house. This was a collective share house of misfits – unwanted and strange things – an elderly pervert, a talking pig, a monk, a turtle, and now it included her. A formally sociopathic murdering android set on destroying the world, now apparently reformed, domesticated, and coming to live at Kame House. Eighteen huffed. This had better be worth it.

Two Years Ago

It was jarring how quickly everything was gone. A single summoning up on Dende's lookout, a few wishes and everything was over. And Goku wasn't coming back, not that she cared. But neither was her brother, and she cared about that.

They'd debated over what to do with the final wish and then he'd piped up about taking the bombs out of their bodies, about letting her lead a normal life despite everything she'd done.

Eighteen had frowned at first – how dare he? She'd given him a kiss on the cheek, and now he was apparently in love with her, or so the scarred man said. What sort of authority did he think he had over her? She wasn't a woman to be claimed or be owned, nor did she owe anything to him. She'd never asked him to save her life, she'd never asked him to use that wish on her.

Still, it was kind of nice of him.

She'd told him that and flown off, even if she hadn't known where she was going at first.

In the desert, the towns were few and far between, the people even more so. The land was dry and the day was hot, but Eighteen couldn't feel traditional pain, let alone heat. She walked the dusty path, hitching when the odd truck came past, flying when she grew bored of taking it slow. But for once in her life, there was no rush to get anywhere.

Late in the afternoon, an old but popular tavern came into view. Though it seemed to be sitting in the middle of nowhere, it was heavily packed. A group of older men whistled as she stepped on the verendah and shouldered her way through the shutters.

The tavern was dimly lit with a long wooden bench and bar and a number of cow hides on the floor. There was car memorabilia – rusted number plates, decorative hubcaps – adorning the wall. Seventeen would love this place, Eighteen thought grimly, sliding into the seat by the bar. It was the first time she'd thought of her brother since he'd disappeared, and it would be the last.

The barman, an elderly man with a bushy ginger-grey beard approached her.

"What can I get for you, little lady?" he asked warmly. "You all by yourself?"

"Yes," she said sweetly, adding an eyelash flutter just to top it off. "And a bourbon would be great."

"Well, sure," he said, taking a short tumbler and filling a fingers-width full before sliding it in her direction. "Here we go."

Eighteen sipped the drink slowly and looked around the bar. There were a few men huddled around a table, writing on a scoresheet. Two men were wallowing over a stein of beer each, and then a few others betting on a horse race by a television. All in all, a dull affair. Eighteen knocked back her drink, not caring for the taste too much, and leaned towards the bartender.

"What are they doing?" pointing to the three men organising a scoresheet.

"Darts comp," he said. "Every Tuesday night. You play?"

"A little," she replied. "Not very well. Is there a prize?"

"Prize money is ten thousand zeni."

Eighteen cut her eyes towards the bartender. "How much to enter?"

"One drink at the bar," he grinned. "Go see 'em. Some of them might not have much skill talking to a lady, but they'd be happy to have a new challenge."

Eighteen slid off her seat effortlessly and sauntered over to the group of men, who had now moved from the desk and began setting up the scoresheet on the chalkboard near the well-worn darts board. She adjusted her denim jacket as she slid into a seat by the darts board.

Getting a bullseye was a simple calculation. Angle and force. There was no drag, nothing to hinder the dart getting her a high score. Eighteen grinned as Jun, a thick man with a deep voice and a round belly, wrote up her name on the chalkboard in bad calligraphy.

"Lazuli," supplied Eighteen, batting her eyelashes and swinging her legs. "Thank you mighty much for letting me play."

"Well, we don't know how much a competition it'll be," said Sisso, who had a long but thin moustache across his top lip and resembled a gangly tree. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

"Gosh," said Eighteen. "Now I don't know about that. So, should we play?"

"We'll do a few practice shots," suggested Jun, handing Eighteen three darts.

Futo, a man who was the bar's reigning champion, stepped away from writing up the scoreboard, dusting his hands of the residue chalk. Eighteen stepped up to the line, making sure to spend time adjusting her feet. In her mind, her eyes made the right measurements and drew up the angles to get a bullseye, told her how much strength she'd need to send the dart flying. But Eighteen blinked the information away, opened her eyes, clear of analysis, and threw the dart with poor force. It didn't even reach the board. It flew from Eighteen's hand, hit the brick to the far left of the target and clattered on the floor.

"Oops!" she laughed. Sisso pursed his lips. Futo laughed a little.

She set up the next shot. This one hit 3 points, but then fell out and hit the floor.

"Better," said Sisso. "Try and really keep your hand steady. And aim with both eyes."

The final practice shot hit the 19 and stayed in strong. Eighteen clapped and whooped for joy.

"Great job!" Sisso clapped. Futo ordered another round with a wave to the bartender.

Eighteen collected her darts and handed then to Jun, who pushed them away.

"We don't need practice," he said. "We'll start the game. You know how to play darts right?"

"01, right?" Eighteen said, sipping on her beer. "First to zero wins."

"Sure, we'll start at 201. We usually do 301, but since you're a beginner, we'll make it a little fairer. Futo here is going to turn pro."

"Thinking about it," Futo corrected with modest shrug.

"No, no," said Eighteen, "Please, don't change on account of me. We'll do 301."

"Alright," said Jun, sauntering his way over to the board, darts in hand. He positioned his feet evenly, held the dart in line with his eyebrow and flicked it once. It flew like a straight arrow, unwavering, and lodged deeply into double eighteen – thirty six points.

Futo then grabbed the chalk and swiped thirty-six off of Jun's 301 score.

"Nice," said Sisso.

Jun scored a nine, and then a triple five after that. Then he handed the darts to Futo. Futo quickly racked up a solid score of fifty-seven, just missing the triple nineteen. Sisso scored terribly. One dart missed the board completely and fell to the floor, making Futo roar with laughter.

"Here," he said dejectedly to Eighteen. "Good luck."

"What's the best score?" she said. "Should I aim for the bullseye? How much will that give me?"

"The green part it'll give you 25. But you really wanna aim for the red bullseye. You'll get 50 points per dart there," said Futo over the lip of his beer.

"So I'd only have to get the red bullseye six times to win."

Sisso scoffed, "And have the best record of anyone in the bar ever. Futo's only ever got three bullseye a game."

"There's no way," Futo said, his hands perched on his hips and a sneer that wasn't so well meaning.

Eighteen flicked her wrist. The dart flew strong and fast and embedded itself into the outside of the bullseye – 25 points.

"Wow!" said Jun, his hand flying up to his forehead. "Great shot!"

"Beginners luck," muttered Futo.

The next dart hit triple 20 and Eighteen clapped and laughed. On her final throw, she scored the double 19.

"That was good, right?" she said, turning around to notice that she'd caught the attention of the whole bar.

"Great," said Sisso. "Wow, I think you may just be a natural!"

"No, no," said Eighteen, taking her seat. "It must be beginner's luck like Futo said."

Futo eyed her. "Where'd you say you were from again, Lazuli?"

"West City."

Jun turned from where he was updating the scores, slashing through Eighteen's old score and doing some quick math. "And what you doing all the way out here?"

She finished her beer and swiped her tongue across her lips. "Tryin' to escape a breakup," she said, smiling coyly. "And you?"

Futo cleared his throat. "Born and bred, ma'am."

Eighteen was tempted to beat Futo's bar record, but that would be a feat for another day. The players would already be suspicious of her having won the competition, let alone if she broke the bar record all in the one go. No, Eighteen would settle for the darts competition now, and maybe she'd play again next week, buy a "round" with the zeni she'd won.

"That was some fine playing, little lady," said the bartender as Eighteen counted her wrinkled winnings. It wasn't anything like she'd been used to getting – sure she could rob a bank and have all the money she wanted, but she'd earned this. She'd won it fair and square. Well. A little. It wasn't like there were any signs that said "no androids allowed".

"Thanks," said Eighteen.

"What'd you say your name was again?"

"Eig-Lazuli," she cleared her throat. "Um, my name's Lazuli. Could I pardon you for a glass of water?"

The bartender reached for a glass, filling it with ice.

"Got somewhere to stay, Lazuli?"

Eighteen shifted. "No." She'd intended sleeping under the stars, far away from where anyone could bother her. Somewhere nice and quiet.

"Desert can get awfully cold out," said the bartender. "We got a room here. Ain't much but it's a room. Could have it."

"How much?" she said.

"Free," said the bartender, handing her a glass of water. "Well, I don't want to say free. How about a few shifts here. They seem to like you here – hell, half of the blokes put bets on you winning tonight. I haven't made so much money on bar for a long time. We're real quiet, you see. You liven things up a bit."

"I'd need money," Eighteen said. "I ain't gonna do it for free."

"You stay in the room, and I'll give you twenty thousand zeni per hour."

Eighteen pursed her lips. She watched the water residue run down the frosted glass and stain the bottom of the paper coaster. Then she shook her head.

"Can't do it," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Well, sure," said the bartender, sighing so heavily his beard fluttered in the exhale. "But maybe we'll see you around. We got darts Tuesday and Sunday nights. Poker on Mondays. Karaoke on Fridays. No one much turns up for the Karaoke."

"Prize money?"

"Ten thousand zeni, just like before."

Eighteen rocked her now-empty glass back and forth. "Might be interesting."

"So you're one of those people huh?" the Bartender said, then he shrugged. "I don't mind really. Make money anyway you can. Long as you don't cheat. And you're good for the bar. If you know what I mean."

Eighteen stood upl. It was late though she'd never noticed how empty the bar suddenly was, how the people slowly trickled out the door and into the cold desert night. There were only a few people on the electronic pokies in the other room. The rest of the bar was dim and quiet. Eighteen dusted off her shirt and jacket.

"I should go," she said. "Thanks for tonight."

"Sure, see you around," said the bartender, drying another glass.

Eighteen nodded, shouldering her way through the door. "See you."

Outside, the night was clear and dark and Eighteen could see everything perfectly. From foxes hunting the rabbit far across the plain, to the approaching headlights of a car. She turned to the bar, but the door had already been bolted shut on her departure.

Running her hand through her hair, Eighteen sighed and began walking down the dusty dirt road again. Only now she was just a little bit richer.

Two months later, bar was bustling. Eighteen sauntered through the door to the usual crowd. Her memory registered every face automatically - no new patrons. The people out here never strayed too far, they were predictable to a fault, they were pathetic in every kind of way. And they were easy to play. A nibble on her lip was enough to get Crist to send her to the bar with too much for just one round of beers, letting her pocket the rest. Yano only wanted you to pull the knob of his poker machine – blondes are good luck, he'd repeat time-and-time again – and she'd leave with a little more.

Poker was the easiest for Eighteen. Counting cards was like an algorithm she could apply to every game. Did she drop a hand or fold early to keep it believable – of course, she wasn't an idiot. But soon Jun gave up playing with her, and she attracted poker players from taverns close by – winnings went from a ten thousand zeni to a hundred thousand zeni, maybe a little more, and soon she was making big money playing these fools and beating them at their own game. Did she feel bad? No. They came back red-face, angry at being beaten by a girl, with a thicker wad of cash and a angry, dumber mind. These men were fools and she owed them nothing. Soon she'd enough for her to find an apartment somewhere. Something stable.

It was only Tex, the bartender, who she felt any thing close to friendship with. At the end of the night, she'd tip him well for a fingerful of bourbon and she'd drink it with one gulp. It rang up far off memories, hazy like a dream, of her sneaking out and going out on the town with her girlfriends - that buzz from drinking a few cocktails, how she'd laugh in the street late at night and them sneak home, trying not to wake her brother or her parents. Eighteen looked down at the empty tumbler. Those days were gone now. Her parents had died years ago - she'd looked it up. Old, in chronic pain, heartbroken at the loss of their twin children, one with heart problems, they'd barely made eighty. Still, she and her brother still looked youthful and young, barely twenty-one. That was a bitter taste in the back of her throat.

"Lights out, L," said Tex, turning of the bar lights. "Time to hit the hay."

Eighteen slid out of her seat and grabbed her jacket. "Same time tomorrow."

"You play those men too hard," he said. "They're good men, family men."

Eighteen shrugged into her jacket. "They come back angrier and dumber every time. See you."

In the light of the moon, Eighteen counted her winnings on the way to her home - a small cave carved into the side of a stone. In it, a pillow, a blanket, a fashion magazine and a six pack of water bottles. And a small hole which, in a cotton bag, held her winnings. There was no bed, no fridge, and no comforts of home. Eighteen rarely slept on account of the whole unlimited energy thing. She didn't require food to live, only a supply of water to stay hydrated. There was no need for a television - save she or her brother appear on it, nor a shower as she used the shower in the bar, Tex's spare room. There were a few sets of new clothing, folded back into the packaging to keep them clean. Eighteen had her eye on a white lace dress, but in the red desert, it was a bad idea. But still, she could afford these things now. Almost three hundred thousand zeni. Almost enough to buy an apartment. And it was all hers. Clean cash she'd made canvasing bars throughout this godforsaken desert.

She saw the flash of the torch before she saw them, heard the crunch of two sets of boots on the dusty trail away from the bar. Eighteen continued to walk forward, her eyes level and shoulder's straight.

She turned into the bushland that led to her makeshift home and noticed the torchlight follow her into the scrub. She kept her pace and walked off the track, far enough that no one would find them too quickly. Except maybe the coyotes.

She whirled into the torchlight, startling her stalkers.

"Is there some reason you're following me?" Eighteen hissed

Futo sniggered down the barrel of the torch. His shit-eating-grin was plastered across his face. His eyes shined with mischief in the moonlight. "Just got curious. You seem to come in from nowhere, you know. No real story. No real answers. So where you going tonight, Lazuli?"

"Home," she replied.

"There's nothing out here for miles," Jun replied. "No one for miles. Now, we'll be real nice first off. You humiliated us. We know how much you won tonight. Give it to us and we won't leave you here all bloodied up."

"Shame to ruin such a fuckable face," agreed Futo. "You ain't a sweet lass at all. I can tell by your eyes. All calculating and sneaky-like. Like a rat's. Give us the money."

Jun lunged forward for Eighteen, dropping his torch but she dodged him easily, elbowing him in the back and sending him to the ground coughing. Futo grabbed Eighteen by the arms and squeezed tightly, but she kicked upward in a classic ball-shot, making him buckle over in agony. Eighteen took the opportunity to slog him in his shit-eating face.

On the ground, Jun groaned, struggling to get to his feet. Eighteen took him by the scruff of his collar and pulled him close to her face.

"You...bitch," he coughed, wiping at the blood coming from his mouth. "I knew... you were..."

Eighteen brought him close, so it was intimate when she whispered, "I have killed thousands of men the world over with just one hand. What would another two matter? And who would find you before the coyotes did? As you said, there's no one for miles."

Jun shook in fear in her arms. This felt different from before, Eighteen thought. She'd never killed someone who was so helpless against her, and never so close as this. Normally, she wiped clean cities and fields, leaving the earth scarred and barren. But here was a human trembling and sobbing and squirming in her grasp. "

Please, please, we're sorry," Jun sobbed. "Just let us go. We've got families."

"Thought you were going to leave me bloodied," she hissed. A finger lit up with Ki as she dragged it across the sensitive skin of his neck, letting him feel his skin burn and simmer. The smell was sickening.

"Please, please!" Jun said.

"Fourteen Apricot Street, Turnover Town," Eighteen gritted.

"M-my address," Jun muttered, his eyes wide.

"Sweet wife," Eighteen grinned and pulled back her finger. "Get out of here," she said, throwing him into the dirt. "Come back and I will kill you. No one will ever find you."

Jun scuttled to his feet and stumbled over to where a forgotten flashlight was rolling in the dirt. Grabbing it, he turned back to Eighteen, back to where his friend was still trembling on the ground, but she was gone. She was gone and the desert was quiet and still. Falling into the bushes, Jun threw up as Futo got to his feet. He stumbled over to his friend and helped him to his feet before they slowly and sorely made their way back to the bar. Eighteen never went back to that bar, or any others in that dreadful desert. She took her money out of the hole and fled her makeshift home, not knowing where she was going but knowing she needed to get away. But she needed to stay low - they had recognised her, or she was sure they had anyway. It didn't matter. She would stay low. She'd change her name. Eighteen, for the first time in a long time, was free. And she'd be damned if she wasn't going to stay that way.

Timeline notes: This story begins at the end of the Cell Games, when Krillin wishes out the bombs from the android's bodies. At the end of the games, Trunks is six months old. This is pretty obvious, I hope, but I kinda want to make sure the timeline is right. Also I get confused with the Japanese Yen values, as Toriyama likened the zeni to the same value as the yen, so please forgive any inaccuracies regarding that.

Please take the time to review this chapter before you leave! This story has been completed and just needs a few edits and tweaks, so I'll be updating this on a regular/semi regular basis, so please hit that follow button.

Thanks guys, and see you again soon!

~ Arlia'Devi