ANOTHER UPDATE WHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT.

ALSO: revieeeeeeeeeeeew! i crave your tasty-praise-words.

[DISCLAIMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER!]

epilogue THE SECOND

Vegeta shrugs out of his armor, catching it easily under the shoulder strap with a finger as he approaches the nav-con, and keys in the command to check his flight progress -now a matter of rote, following every meal and training session. It's a compulsion borne of something dangerously akin to awe, because somehow, between each four or five hour interval he spends training or sleeping or eating, he tears through whole sectors of space, two or three planetary systems large -and sometimes even more than that, if he doesn't run afoul of any of the myriad forms of interstellar turbulence.

A week into his trip, and he's already deep into Cold Space, closing in even now on his destination, Ohmi-sei*, a desolate, raging giant of an exoplanet locked in a binary system along the Northern perimeter of the Empire.

Ohmi's vast astronomical distance from the star that shares its orbit, and its relative proximity to a handful of smaller -yet gravitationally-compelling- neighboring planets has pushed the massive celestial body into an eccentric orbital pattern. As a result, Ohmi's atmospherics are unpredictable at best, and sometimes outright lethal, especially to life-forms of the carbon-based variety. Consequently, sustaining any manner of permanent settlement on the planet is impossible for all but the most adaptable or extremophilic species, and even they undertake great risk lingering on the planet for the weeks leading up to and immediately following the twice-a-turn 'seasonal shift,' when anything top-side is subjected to a relentless onslaught of cataclysmically violent and variable weather phenomena. This, on top of the always-imminent threat of gamma-radiation death from a star on the verge of supernova collapse a few systems over, and it's little wonder that Ohmi functions less as a homeworld for any single species than it does as an emergency Imperial outpost, a last-ditch way-station for soldiers of the Emporium, in desperate need of fuel or supplies or medical attention on their way to or from purging missions at the Northern limits of Freeza's realm. (Or, Vegeta reminds himself with a moment's measure of indulgent schadenfreude, what used to be Freeza's realm.)

Apart from the obvious advantages afforded an outlaw guilty of treason against one of Cold's brats on such a sequestered planet -the unlikeliness that anyone much beyond the neutral-minded skeleton staff manning the base will even be there chief among them, Ohmi is also the closest official relay point to the space Namek once occupied. Further, the outpost will (probably) have all the latest scouting reports for the sector (assuming there are still scouting reports coming in, and that Freeza's sizable portion of the Empire hasn't instead begun its inevitable implosion), detailing which planets are known to contain sentient species, which are not, which planets have the potential for terraforming or occupation, which've been marked for clearing, etc, making it the ideal place to start his search for Kakarrot.

Eyeing the data on the console, seeing that he's put yet another entire solar system behind him in the time that'd elapsed since his last check-in (just under five hours, according to the chronometer at the upper-left margin of the screen), he gives a small, disbelieving shake of the head -another compulsive habit he's recently picked up- and closes the read-out.

This trip, which would've taken months in the fastest, most advanced craft the Emporium has to offer, has instead taken him days. Even with his inherited disdain for the sciences, and a lifetime of cultivated indifference toward the manifold 'marvels' of technology, Vegeta would have to be in possession of willful, Nappa-grade ignorance not to recognize the galactic enormity of this feat.

Isolated as they are on Chikyuu, the woman and her father would have no way of knowing that this machine's space-flight capabilities -and their capsule technology, which he can't help but assume operates in wholesale defiance of the more fundamental precepts upon which scientific reality is predicated; and their gravity technology, which the woman's father allegedly dreamed up and then brought to life in a matter of weeks- have no equal he knows of in all the nine galaxies. It strains one's capacity for belief, that so appallingly moronic a species could have spawned such prodigious ingenuity.

And there's something else, isn't there? He remembers, holding the armor out for his inspection.

The material is -different; the weight of it's all wrong, and it's too thin and too clingy. It doesn't feel solid enough to bear the brunt of any blow -let alone a ki blast- delivered by the level of opponent he's now in a league to challenge. Also, it chafes in places, and it's constantly pinching at the base of his spine, where it habitually rides over the stump -all that remains- of his tail, which he considers an infuriating, unforgivable oversight on Bulma's part; if she'd been paying any gods-be-damned attention to the measurements of the original piece, this wouldn't have happened. (Unless she had been paying attention, and the design flaw's intentional. The spiteful little female has certainly demonstrated herself both capable of and willing to exact petty vengeance.)

Grievances aside, however, he's forced to acknowledge that the woman had, in just a few, short days, actually engineered a respectable replication of the Imperial armor he'd been wearing when he was revived on Namek. And somehow, though it doesn't seem nearly substantial enough to manage it, the woman's armor has already proved itself remarkably durable. In the first place, it's clearly been optimized to accommodate the extreme gravitational forces under which he's training. Standard plate in the Emorium's manufactured to withstand a range of gravity stresses, but only up to around 20 G -and even that's a largely superfluous feature, since most species' gravitational tolerances (even among Freeza's Elite Guards) top out somewhere between 5-10 G. Where Imperial armor would almost certainly've been subject to stress fracturing and precipitate breakage under the constant, crushing pressure of one hundred times normal gravity, thus far the only damage Bulma's 'mock-up' has sustained has been some mild charring from the impact of countless self-inflicted ki blasts.

And that's the other thing, really; considering the deliberate abuse he's subjected the armor to over the past week (not the least of which includes an intensive, relentless ki training regimen) it's held up incredibly well, and -he concedes, unhappily- would likely hold up just as admirably in an actual combat scenario. Further, for all his irritation at the unfamiliar texturization of the thing, there's no denying that the armor's lighter composition makes it more flexible, enabling a greater and more facile range of motion. Overall, in spite of superficial deficiencies, Bulma's prototype is an astonishing product -not, of course, that he'd ever intimate as much to her.

Appraising the armor as he is, it's hard not to fixate on the Capsule Corporation logo, stamped unobtrusively in black where the left shoulder strap terminates at the chest plate. Precisely where the blood-red crest of the House of Vejiitasei had once been emblazoned onto his father's armor. Where he himself had all-too-recently been mortally wounded.

Without premeditation, face blank, he runs a gloved finger over the unremarkable little symbol, the modesty of its design belying the ostentatious derangement of the father-daughter pair it's meant to represent. Unbidden, he remembers the enraptured glide of Bulma's much more delicate fingers across the battle-riven landscape of his old armor, eyes bright and skin flush with a ravening exuberance for which -at the time- he could identify no point of origin, her lower lip drawn between her teeth just so...

An unsettling sequitur compels him to wonder what that clever, reckless female on her quaint, ridiculous world might've meant for Vejiitasei if the Saiyan Empire were still intact, and he, yet Crown Prince or perhaps by now even King of so unstoppable and expansive a cosmic force -what lengths might he have gone, he wonders, to secure exclusive proprietary rights to such revolutionary technological effects? How might said effects have shaped his reign? One may well have wholly reconfigured the distribution of intergalactic power with unfettered access to the Briefs family.

The implacably obstinate President of Capsule Corporation would undoubtedly've constituted a formidable challenge in such an undertaking, he muses, mouth tipping up into a smirk in spite of himself. Her pacifistic Earther inclinations would have induced her to resist any and all attempts to treat with him, no matter how practicable or advantageous the proffered terms. Negotiations would, naturally, have entailed a protracted and fraught battle of wills, though he would just as certainly have overcome her intransigence and forced her capitulation -or her precious-pathetic planet would have paid the ultimate price. Regardless of the outcome, however, it would surely have been a worthwhile contest...

-in an act of calculated terror, he breaches the walls of her inner-sanctum, while she -inconceivably- stands her ground as her lab devolves into screaming chaos all around her, castigating poison on her lips and savage, incendiary violence inscribed into her very being, and in a moment of dumb shock he forgets: the substance of his complaint, that the woman is no warrior and commands no ki, even himself, briefly, because for all that he wills otherwise she is striking, incandescent in her fury-

Shaking his head to dispel the (irritatingly prosaic) reflection, he dismisses the episode outright; whatever discomfiting effect she'd had on him on Chikyuu, he's rid of her now, far removed from her too-incisive aspersions and her too-alarming habit of crawling under his skin and -once, literally- stealing into his mind -and not a moment too soon, it would seem.

He'd have preferred to end her on his way out, of course, as she has already shown herself to be a dangerous adversary, and he is duly wary of leaving such a loose end untended. She and her planet yet survive based purely on an economical decision: Chikyuu is Kakarrot's home port, and that sentimental fool is bound to return eventually; destroying that accursed planet might make it impossible for him to ever find the traitorous peasant, in the event that his current search ultimately proves fruitless.

Vegeta catches himself, replaying the 'already' in his mind. There's an underlying proposition there, he realizes, an insidious supposition that he'll have further dealings with Bulma in the future, perhaps even of a more lasting nature.

Scoffing, wanting nothing to do with such a preposterous notion, he uncurls his finger and lets the armor clatter noisily to the floor, sparing it no further thought as he moves to exit the room for a shower below deck.

Though they've never actually laid out a formal training schedule, Piccolo's grown accustomed enough to the near-daily, 'impromptu' appearances of his protege at Capsule Corp that it feels like an unsanctioned breach of obligation when the kid fails to report in for a full week. At first, he figures Gohan's probably just on some kinda scholastic lockdown, courtesy of an over-compensatory reaction by his mom to Goku's unexplained refusal to come back to Earth. His assumptions are ostensibly confirmed when, after the third day with no word, Piccolo goes to check in on the kid and finds him in his bedroom, at the desk nearest the room's only window, poring over some book or other, furiously jotting down notes as he goes. Had the boy's mother not been posted diligently at his side, fielding his questions and keeping him on task, Piccolo would've ducked in to try and coax Gohan into sneaking out for a sparring session.

It isn't until a few days later, when Dende -whose routine has also been disrupted by his Heir's truancy- sullenly asks if Gohan's upset, that it even occurs to Piccolo there might be some other explanation for the kid's extended absence.

That very afternoon, he sets out for the Sons' modest cottage, determined to get to the bottom of this, even if it means he has to pull a Demon King and abduct the kid all over again to spring him from his academic prison.

Instead, when Piccolo arrives, just as daylight's beginnin' to fade, he finds Gohan wanderin' the woods near his house, cutting an apparently aimless, meandering trail, head occasionally swivelling about as though searching for something. For the most part, though, the boy just stares vacantly forward, movements listless, almost insensible. Doesn't take a shrink to see there's definitely something more on his mind than his grueling study schedule. Brow furrowing -kid's gettin' careless- Piccolo decides Gohan needs a quick refresher on the importance of keeping his guard up at all times, since his enemies won't give two wet shits what manner o' emotional turmoil he's going through; they'll just fry him.

Piccolo doesn't bother to power up (the point's to snap his student out of his daze, not to accidentally incinerate the boy); he simply aims a two-fingered blast into the forest below. It's a thin, precision burst of ki concentrated exclusively on Gohan, a silent, lethal ribbon of energy that whispers neatly through the foliage and, to his pleasant surprise, fails to pierce through the flesh of his protege's shoulder, instead hitting the invisible contours of the kid's ki shield and fanning outward in a fine, gilded spray, wreathing Gohan's form in light for an instant before the threads of ki thin to nothing and vanish without a trace.

The Demon King smirks, impressed.

Suddenly, Gohan turns and stares straight up through the canopy, immediately honing in on his present location. Glad to discover the kid's not nearly as unaware as he'd seemed, Piccolo snaps his cape out behind him (less out of a sense for theater than for the practical purpose of making sure the expansive fabric doesn't fly up and smack him in the face), and drops out of the sky.

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"Hey, Mr. Piccolo." Gohan says, and cheerfully enough at that. Briefly, he wonders if he isn't becoming as needlessly paranoid about the kid's emotional fortitude as the boy's dam.

"Runt's been worried." He announces tersely, covering for his own discomfort at the idea that he might have anything in common with Goku's authoritarian taskmaster of a wife. (The irony that he himself yet aspires to the role of Supreme Authoritarian Taskmaster over all of Earth somehow escapes him.) Gohan pauses, mid-bow, and twists his head up, fixing his sensei with an unwavering stare that rips right through to the unspoken truth of the matter, which is that Piccolo himself has been every bit as much -or more- affected by his absence as Dende. The kid grins at whatever he perceives in his aura, though it's a shade or six shy of the huge, uninhibited smile he usually gets, and renews his sense of unease.

Gohan completes his respectful greeting and stoops to retrieve a basket filled with herbs and wildflowers from the forest floor -which Piccolo hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. Who's the careless one now?, chides an internal voice he ignores.

"I'm sorry I haven't been to visit this week. Mom says I have a lot of homework to catch up on, and she's needed me a lot around the house, too." His pupil brushes away stray dirt and pine needles clinging to the basket, and then sets off again, reaching up to catch the arm Piccolo automatically swings to one side as he falls into step beside the boy; the hand that grasps his own is too small to wrap comfortably around more than two of his fingers at a time, but the grip is firm, attesting to a self-awareness -and a power level- well beyond his years.

As they walk, Gohan regales him with the various alimentary properties of the various plants he's spent the afternoon collecting, sporadically breaking off his speech only long enough to snag another specimen, then picking it right back up again.

It's fully dark by the time they make it back to the path leading to the kid's house. It's the first time in somewhere close to a month that he's seen the night sky away from the light pollution of Capsule Corporation and the surrounding city. 'Course, there's still a shit-ton of moon debris up there (orbiting harmlessly around the earth instead of raining down upon it in an apocalyptic fire storm by Kami's will alone), preventing a complete, unobstructed view of space, but the stretch of stars above that is visible is a sight to behold. Reminds him why he's (mostly) eager to be rid of the other Namekians -and, more importantly, rid of the fierce sense of responsibility he feels toward them, keeping him bound to the Briefs' compound in West City. He can't wait to return to the quiet freedom of the wilderness.

It isn't 'til they cross the line of trees delineating the forest from the clearing where the Sons' cottage is located that Piccolo realizes Gohan hasn't said anything for several minutes now. The silence is comfortable, albeit also...heavy.

Tentatively, and as discreetly as possible, he probes at the kid's mind, looking for hints that might reveal to him the source of his Heir's come-and-go melancholy. Predictably, Gohan detects the intrusion immediately, and startles slightly, glances up at him in mild surprise from beneath bangs gone half-wild again already, only a week after his mother had cut them short for Goku's homecoming.

Goku's homecoming.

Piccolo curses himself for a blind fool for missing the excruciatingly obvious -he'd seen hide-nor-hair of the kid for the better part of a week not because of a more intensive study schedule, but because this week was meant to've been the first week he spent with his father after more than a year apart. Goku's supposed to be home, on Earth, with his family, because the fighting's over (at least for now), because he won the day and miraculously survived the destruction of Namek, because -though Piccolo's loathe to admit it- Earth is where that over-powerful idiot belongs. Looking down into his student's face, he acquires yet another reason to hate the boy's father, and blackly muses that that's just the cherry on the fuckin' cake.

Suddenly, "I'm okay, Mr. Piccolo." His expression is one of open skepticism. Gohan smiles warmly. "Really." And then, philosophically, "I love Daddy, no matter what. He's just got a different way of showing he cares than a lot of people -just like you." Piccolo arches a brow at this assessment. "I've been thinking a lot about it this week -about why Daddy wouldn't come home, and I...I keep remembering the way he looked on Namek, before we were all wished back to Earth. The way he felt. It was...it was all wrong." The kid's eyes are unfocused, distant, like he's working out a riddle in his head. "I know he must have a really good reason for staying away -that he wouldn't stay away unless he...didn't have a choice, unless he's trying to protect us, unless he thought it wouldn't be safe-" Gohan's breath hitches, and fat tears shimmer at the corners of his eyes. Piccolo waits, resignedly, for the kid to dissolve into a blubbering mess.

But the anticipated fall-out never comes.

Holding fast to the taloned digits in his child-chubby palm, Gohan closes his eyes and breathes, establishing a deep, quiet rhythm that centers and calms him.

Finally, "I understand, Mr. Piccolo. And I'm okay, I promise. I'm just sad I can't see him is all." After a meditative pause, "Mom's sad, too." His Heir's eyes are on the cottage now, unbrooking resolve shifting the grief aside, and just like that, Piccolo divines the real reason the kid hasn't come by for training: his dam. "I have to be here for Mom right now." Gohan says, and his tone indicates a statement of fact. He ain't askin' for permission. Piccolo grins, pleased.

"Yeah, yeah, I got'cha, kid." He gently pulls himself free of Gohan's grip and tousles the boy's hair as whips his cape out behind him and pivots coolly on his heel, brushing past and situating himself in a seated hover just beyond the tree line. His student stares after him. "Still, there's no excuse for shirking your training." He crosses his arms over his chest. "So, for the next few weeks, 'til you feel comfortable skippin' out again, I'll come to you and we can train out here instead, so you can stay close." Gohan silently nods his assent. "Tomorrow, dawn: meet me here." The kid nods again, more vigorously this time, a slow smile spreading across his mouth.

"You're staying the night?"

"Obviously." He says, sourly. Gohan's whole face lights up, and it looks like he's gearing up to say something obnoxiously sentimental, so Piccolo clips out an interjecting command- "Run along, kid. Your mom's waiting." -which, anyway, is true; even as he says it, Chi Chi appears at the front door, bathed in the light from the house, casting her inferior human sight as far into the darkness as it will go, searching for her son.

Obediently, Gohan's off in a flash, with naught but a huge grin and a parting wave -and the brief touch of his mind, leavened with gratitude and something...else, pure and profound and unequivocal. Something precious and unimaginable, for one such as he, former scourge of the Earth.

The Demon King feels humble, speechless awe.

*ohmi(ja) - a thick-pulpy, yummy-citrusy tea muy populario in korea...and possibly elsewhere, but i can only speak with any authority on its popularity in k-town.

ALSO, for those of you who've previously read and/or actually care about krillin's deadman-wonderland-adventure-times: i've stitched on a wee addendum to the last little bit of his Revival Story, for the sake of clarifying the whole 'memory wipe' thing, which i realize may've been a smidge confusing before...

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next chapter: vegeta returns to his much-esteemed Kill Everything ways, bulma and yamcha get hot n' heavy, bulma and vegeta have kinky phone sex.