The Third Bond

Bulma watched, smiling, as Trunks ran off, shouting and waving as the time machine flickered and disappeared into the temporal mists. She´d never seen him so excited; however much he might miss Tabion, the brave warrior´s gift of the sword would keep her son happy for weeks. For a moment she worried that her son might hurt himself with the sword, then she caught herself. She always made the mistake of seeing Trunks as an ordinary little boy; having bathed him and diapered him and tended his skinned knees for years, it was easy to forget that her child had the power to destroy Earth. She sighed, and wondered again what her life would have been like if she´d just hung around ordinary people.

In the distance, Trunks stopped waving and stood straight, looking into the sky after the time machine, and Bulma suddenly frowned, watching him. A light breeze was blowing, stirring the child´s hair, and for a moment she saw not her small, excitable son, but a taller, quiet young man . . . she blinked, and the vision passed, but the epiphany remained. She gasped, then tried to dismiss it. It had probably been the sword that had triggered the resemblance . . . But she frowned, and looked more closely at her son. Trunks had grown a bit lately; she´d have to take him shopping again soon. Already he was a miniature version of his father in build . . . he was growing up so fast, too fast. It seemed like only yesterday that she´d looked into his tiny, angry newborn face and felt his little tail curl around her wrist . . . she sighed. His childhood had passed, it seemed, in the blink of an eye. He would not be her little boy for much longer.

Unhappily, she turned away---and looked into the enigmatic gaze of Vejiita. She started; he was sitting a few meters away atop a pile of rubble, watching her. She hadn’t realized that he was there. He was so distant, sometimes, that she forgot he was even around . . . annoyed by his stare, she turned away. He’d never let her hear the end of it if he caught her being sentimental. He seemed to be in good shape, though, in spite of the battle he’d just been in; of course, if he had been hurt, he wouldn’t have told her. She’d know if he was hurt if she found him unconscious somewhere later, half-dead from some injury he hadn’t told her about. Over the years she’d learned enough about him to know that he could take care of himself. And if he couldn’t, well, fate---or perhaps Dende---would do it for him. *Fools and children,* she thought irritably, *fools and children.*

Except that Vejiita was no fool. She felt his eyes on her as she turned and made her way back toward the ruin of the Capsule Corporation, climbing over the rubble as she went. She ignored his scrutiny; she was almost used to his moods and his stares by now. If he had anything important to say, he’d say it; if not, she needn’t bother even asking. Vejiita dealt with things when *he* was ready.

And she had more important things to worry about. Her home was in ruins, and with the rest of the city as badly damaged, the Capsule facility wasn’t likely to be high on the priority list for rebuilding. Which meant that she’d have more luck if she took care of the problem herself. Most of the servo-bots had been destroyed with the building, but if there were enough at the Capsule warehouse, perhaps they could take care of the repairs themselves . . .

As she climbed up a fallen slab to reach the second level of the half-demolished building, she hazarded a glance back and saw with a certain amount of surprise that Vejiita had stopped staring at her and had turned his gaze to Trunks. Now *that* was interesting; even though he had, subtly, begun to show more attention to his son of late, he still tended to ignore the boy when he had no business with him. And the look on his face . . . his eyes were narrower than usual, and lost in thought. So what was going through his warrior’s mind?

She hoped he wasn’t about to take Trunks off for more training; their son was always a little strange after a few days alone with his father. *Vejiita brings out the Saiyan in him,* she thought, uncomfortably. He’d explained to her that it was necessary---that without a healthy outlet for his natural warrior instincts, Trunks risked losing control of his power someday in a moment of stress. But what he hadn’t said, which she’d guessed, was that Vejiita needed the outlet as much as Trunks did, if not more. Even before Trunks´ birth, he’d had a habit of disappearing for days; where he went and what he did there, she had no idea. He still did it from time to time, most of the time not taking Trunks with him; whenever he came back, he was no different, but she could sense a calmness in him, as if his savage demons had been put to rest again, or at least for a while.

So perhaps this whole event had been beneficial after all, she mused as she made her way through the rubble-strewn corridors in the still-standing part of the building. Their house had been utterly destroyed, but at least Vejiita and Trunks had both gotten the chance to fight again. So maybe they’d both relax, for a while.

Not, she thought angrily, like they had a place to relax *in*. She took out the empty capsule she’d brought with her as she got into her bedroom, and expanded it to reveal a wide storage chest. Until the repairs were complete, they were homeless. Not that it was a problem materially---she *was* a billionaire, after all; she’d just rent a hotel for a while---but it still hurt. She’d lived in this building her whole life. Her father had built the place; her son had been born here . . . she sighed and paused in her packing of the chest, picking up a framed photograph from the floor. The glass had cracked, but she simply brushed aside the rubble that had cracked it; it was a picture that her mother had taken of herself and Trunks, with Vejiita looking thoroughly annoyed in the background. She smiled, remembering the day the picture had been taken. Vejiita had just taken Trunks to the amusement park---she *still* couldn’t believe he’d done that---and her mother had, with her irrefutable charm, convinced Vejiita to hold still long enough for her to photograph him with Bulma and Trunks in front. Typically, his back was to the camera. She sighed and shook her head in rueful amusement. Only Vejiita.

She finished packing their clothing and irreplaceable from her bedroom, and after getting the last of Trunks´ clothes from his room, she picked up the photograph again. It would be a shame if something happened to this, especially given that she’d probably never get Vejiita to take a family portrait again . . . but if he saw it, he’d laugh at her. And with good reason; she *was* getting sentimental. Mourning the loss of her son’s childhood and her house, reminiscing about the past; that wasn’t like her at all. Maybe it was just the stresses of the day.

But . . . surreptitiously, she moved a few items aside in the storage crate, and placed the photo in between some clothes near the bottom, where it wouldn’t be seen. It did no harm to keep something as simple as that.

At that moment, however, she heard a sound and started violently, hastily shoving the clothes back into place over the picture. She looked up, guiltily, to see Vejiita glaring at her from the doorway.

Vejiita watched his son as the boy unsheathed the sword on his back and mock-brandished it, laughing as he swung it about to attack imaginary monsters and shadows, and tried to ignore the strange presentiment that had come over him. What was it, he wondered, about Trunks that now, in two separate timelines, the boy had a predilection for the sword? Not that he minded---if he recalled correctly, many Saiyan felt an instinctive pull toward a particular weapon at some point in their lives, and there was no dishonor in using one. At least Trunks´ sword was a more elegant weapon than Kakaroto´s stupid bow staff. Much more befitting a son of his blood. Well, it mattered little, anyhow. If the boy was drawn to the sword---and even in this most recent battle, he’d been effective enough with it---Vejiita wouldn’t stop him.

But as much as it pleased him that Trunks had reached a new stage of his development as a warrior, something else distracted him. He hadn’t missed the look on Bulma´s face when the woman had turned away from Trunks a moment ago. So she was unhappy to see her son growing up, was she? He smiled to himself in amusement. She could be so like a Saiyan female at times, but she was still Human, and he couldn’t forget it; the whole race had a penchant for sentimentality. They were such weak creatures that he supposed it was natural for them to get attached to things as they were; the inevitability of fate seemed to bother them. Children grew up; that was the nature of things. Bulma had even been prepared for it; she´d had a preview of what her son would look like as a young man, and still she persisted in wanting Trunks to remain a child. Kakaroto´s silly wife was the same way about their sons and Kakaroto shared his confusion about the issue; he wondered if all Human females were that way about their children, or whether he and Kakaroto had found the two least-sane females on the planet. He often thought so---but at least, his was prettier.

He shifted atop his pile of rubble, and tried to puzzle out his strange feeling. It was more than the usual post-battle crash; and when he thought about it, he realized that the feeling had been present for several days, growing slowly in the back of his mind. It hadn’t been the battle that had triggered his awareness of the sensation. . . it had been something else. Something more recent, more subtle. And he couldn’t pin it down no matter how hard he tried.

He sighed in irritation and focused the devastation around him; he had more important considerations than vague presentiments and nebulous phantasms. He could care less about the rest of the city, but had that damned monster *had* to destroy *his* home? As much as he resented Kakaroto for finishing the creature off, he had to admit that the other Saiyan had certainly done it in a satisfying way. It was fitting that the monster suffered a bit before it died, after what it had done. It would be some time before the Capsule Corporation was livable again---and, he noted in annoyance, his gravity room had been in the portion of the house that had been damaged. That annoyed him more than anything else. That, and the destruction of the kitchen; he was hungry.

Grinding his teeth in annoyance, he stood and jumped down from the heap of rubble, brushing himself off fastidiously. Trunks paused in his assault on a fallen tree, noticing his movement, and ran over to him, sheathing the sword as he ran. Vejiita almost smiled, seeing that the boy had already learned to sheathe it without looking. "Papa! Did you see me cut off that monster’s tail?"

The boy nodded eagerly, his eyes bright, and Vejiita frowned, noting the telltale signs. Yes, the child was in the beginning throes of another growth spurt. At ten years old, he was early for it, but then, Human children seemed to sprout overnight, and Trunks was half Human. For a moment he scowled in annoyance. That was the trouble with meeting a grown son from a future timeline---he knew already that the boy wouldn't be much taller than him. Damn. Oh, well. Then it occurred to him that Bulma must have seen the same signs in their son. *Ah. So perhaps she has reason to be upset.*

Trunks was prattling on beside him about Tabion, and Vejiita half-listened, not caring in the slightest about the strange-looking man that Trunks had become so attached to for a brief time; as a warrior, Tabion had been brave, but laughable. Of more concern to him was Bulma. It happened rarely, but if she was about to slide into another of her periodic depressions, he’d have to endure her silence and moping for days. Perhaps that had been the reason for his odd feeling. He didn’t understand her problem; so what if her son was growing up and her house destroyed? He sighed in exasperation, and folded his arms. Humans. Women.

"Mama’s upset, isn’t she?" the boy asked. Vejiita blinked at him; Trunks rattled on so much that it was easy to forget that he had a keen mind and excellent powers of observation for a child his age. Just as it should be, of course; he *was* Vejiita´s son, after all. He shrugged in answer to the boy’s question.

"But it’s different this time, isn’t it? I mean, she’s not just upset about the house. It’s something else."

"How should I know?" Vejiita replied, annoyed; the boy was as persistent as his mother. "We probably won’t get fed today, that’s for certain."

It was a sign of Trunks´ concern that the prospect of hunger didn’t disturb him for the moment. He looked after his mother thoughtfully, folding his arms in unconscious imitation of Vejiita. "I think she’s lonely," he declared. "Not like most people get lonely, but still… I don’t know."

Lonely? Vejiita frowned at Trunks´ choice of words. How could she be lonely? Trunks was always underfoot, and Vejiita was around these days a lot more than he had once been ... it was another senseless Human thing, he decided. They were all cracked. "She’ll get over it," he replied, not wanting Trunks to sense his uncertainty.

Trunks sighed, and stretched his arms over his head, smiling as his arm bumped the hilt of his new sword. "Maybe so. *I’m* not lonely anymore, at least---I have Oniichan. Goten was right; it’s nice to have a brother." He skipped off, drawing the sword again and shouting at the top of his lungs as he brandished it. Vejiita winced; no wonder Saiyan shipped their children off-world. The brats could wear on anyone’s nerves.

A familiar flare of approaching ki caught his attention, and he glanced up to see Kakaroto dropping from the sky. "Yo, Vejiita," greeted the other Saiyan, and he favored Kakaroto with a grunt of reply.

Kakaroto---Vejiita hated the other warrior’s idiotic-sounding Human name, Goku---looked around in amazement at the ruin of the Capsule Corporation, putting his hands on his hips and whistling. "Wow, Vejiita. Your house is all wrecked!"

On second thought, the name applied. An idiotic name for an idiot. What the hell was he doing here, anyhow---he should be exhausted after their battle with that monster… “Thank you for pointing that out, you idiot. What do you want?"

"Well, Chichi said that with your place messed up, you and your family had no place to live. So I thought I’d offer---you’re welcome to stay with us until everything’s fixed here."

Vejiita glared at him in answer, and abruptly something in the other’s mind seemed to connect, as he recalled to whom he was talking. He laughed sheepishly, and put one hand behind his head. "Oh. Uh . . . I guess not. Just thought I’d ask."

Kakaroto turned to frown at him, puzzled. "You can tell where I am all the time, but not your wife?"

Vejiita folded his arms and glared at him again. "That’s different. You and I have fought together."

"Really? Well, okay . . ." Kakaroto stretched a bit, then winced as a bruised muscle pained him. "Ouch! --- Well, I’m going home, now that everything’s wrapped up here. Chichi should be putting dinner on, soon." The other Saiyan’s stomach rumbled loudly as if in agreement, and Vejiita felt his own clench sympathetically, although he said nothing.

At that moment, Trunks ran over, his eyes wide as he spied his two idols standing together. "Goku-ojisan!"

Kakaroto chuckled and tousled the boy’s hair; Vejiita stifled annoyance. That a son of the royal house of Vejiita should be treated in such an undignified manner . . . but Trunks clearly enjoyed it, so he held his tongue. "Trunks, you and Goten did well today," Kakaroto said, and the boy’s chest swelled with pride.

"Gohan took him home. He was still a little shaky from the fight." Trunks´ smile faded and his eyes grew wide with concern.

Kakaroto eyed him as well. "You know, if you and Bulma don’t want to stay, he’s welcome."

Trunks jumped up and down, thanked Vejiita, and immediately took off toward the Son house. Kakaroto chuckled and watched him dwindle into the distance for a moment, then frowned, turning back to him. "He can stay as long as he wants, you know that. But where are you and Bulma going to stay?"

"That’s none of your concern." Scowling, he looked the other warrior over; Kakaroto seemed battered, but otherwise unhurt. "I take it you didn’t overdo it this time with level three."

Kakaroto grinned at him, and Vejiita smiled back in spite of himself, knowing that the other warrior was also remembering their struggles against Majin Buu. "Well, take care of yourself," Kakaroto said, rising into the air slowly to leave. "You’re the only Prince of the Saiyan we’ve got." He grinned, and waved.

Vejiita nodded back and watched as the other Saiyan turned and shot off, heading back toward his home; perhaps Kakaroto had some intelligence after all.

Turning away, he looked out toward the city, noting that most of the fires left over from their battle seemed to have been put out. They might be a race of weaklings, but these Humans could be incredibly industrious when they chose. They’d probably have the entire city back to normal within weeks. It was a shame that they weren’t all like Bulma; if so, they’d have had things fixed within days.

But that thought stirred the strange feeling again, and he frowned to himself. Bulma, then, was the source of his feeling. And abruptly he realized that Kakaroto had provided him with an explanation. He scowled; leave it to Kakaroto to pry into matters that were none of his concern . . . but the other warrior had a point. He’d shared battles with Kakaroto---but he shared a home and a son with Bulma. And yet his bond with his former rival was stronger.

He sighed, understanding finally exactly what was wrong. He should have known---but he’d known for years, and he’d been avoiding it the whole while. And it had taken the clueless ramblings of a low-class warrior to make him face it. Damn.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Was he ready for this? Could he do it? He’d faced down and defeated some of the greatest menaces in the galaxy . . . he’d even faced death, twice over. And none of that had disturbed him as much as this.

But . . . he opened his eyes. He’d have no peace until he dealt with it. And he’d be damned if he’d let Kakaroto surpass him in this, too.

So . . . where was Bulma? He lifted himself up to the level that he’d seen her climb to, and frowned as he looked around; the building was much more unstable than he’d thought. This level looked like it would collapse any second. Had she just not noticed the damage? No, he knew her. She’d seen it, all right---and she’d probably dismissed it. Damn her---for a non-warrior, the woman positively thrived on danger.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Vejiita went to find her. She was, as he’d expected, in her bedroom, gathering items that she probably thought were irreplaceable. He scowled, watching her in silence for a moment; there was nothing in that storage chest that couldn’t be replaced. But she didn’t even notice him standing there; she seemed absorbed in something that she held in her hands. He narrowed his eyes; it was that damned picture that he hated, the one that Bulma´s mother had talked him into taking. Posing for that picture had been the only way he could shut the woman up. But Bulma held it now as if it meant something to her . . .

Abruptly she bent to put the picture away, tucking it away as if hiding it, and he scowled again. Her sentimentality would get her killed.

"What are you doing in here?" Vejiita demanded. Bulma stilled her pounding heart.

"You scared the hell out of me, Vejiita," she snapped, to cover her discomfort; had he seen her with the picture?

"This whole building is ready to fall apart any second, and you came back in for what--" he strode into the room and looked into the crate, picking up an odd-looking contraption "---some clothes, and useless trinkets? Are you insane?"

She snatched it back from him, angrily. "They’re not trinkets. This is my first invention."

Vejiita frowned at it the way he frowned at anything that confused him---like he wanted to destroy it. Protectively, she held the device to her breast, then shoved it into the side of the crate furthest from him. He sighed in irritation and turned to the crate, peremptorily pressing the button to encapsulate it; she gasped in fury. "I wasn’t done…"

"You are now." And he picked her up, tossing her over one shoulder in spite of her protests, holding her there firmly with one hand and picking up the capsule in the other before turning to fly out of the building with her. Once outside, he put her down and pressed the capsule into her hand.

She clenched that hand into a fist, and considered hitting him with it before dismissing the notion; she’d hit him before and done nothing but hurt her fingers. "How dare you…"

At that moment, behind them, there was a low rumble, like thunder before a storm---but there were no storm clouds in the sky. Vejiita only folded his arms and looked at her; she looked around and suddenly realized that the sound was coming from what was left of her house. As she watched in horror, the last standing portion of the Capsule Corporation shuddered and collapsed almost lazily to the ground.

Bulma stared at the rising cloud of dust and felt her stomach clench in realization: I was in there just a second ago. I could have been killed………

And, guiltily, she glanced at Vejiita. But thankfully, he said nothing, although an "I-told-you-so" would certainly have been in order.

"How long will it be before they can rebuild?" he asked, turning to look at the wreckage and ignoring her consternation.

"Um . . . the insurance company said that it would have contractors start tomorrow. They should be finished in about a week. One of the perks of a million- yen insurance policy."

He nodded, as if he cared. "Fine. That will do." He turned back to her, and she frowned at his cryptic statement, then looked around.

"Bulma, how often has the boy spent the night over at their house? He’s got his own toothbrush there---he’ll be fine. Now come on."

He sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes. "We can’t very well stay here, can we? So I’m taking you someplace else."

She stared at him. Someplace else--- did he mean the mysterious place that he disappeared to whenever he wasn’t around the Capsule Corporation? He was actually going to take her there? But as much as her curiosity was immediately aroused, she sighed and folded her arms. "Vejiita, I need to stay here. I’ve got to oversee the rebuilding---"

"Which is completely used to you going off for days at a time on random adventures. They can run things while you’re gone just fine."

"Woman, there is absolutely no logical reason for you to stay here. Now come on!" And at that, he swung her up into his arms again, not bothering to wait for her assent. She had only enough time to tuck the capsule into her pocket and throw an arm around his shoulder before he took off. He was so damned impatient…………

And she was even more curious than before. There was something odd about Vejiita´s behavior; he was rarely so insistent with her about anything. It was much more his style to offer something once, then never again if she refused---in fact, it wasn’t in his usual style to make an offer. But his announcement of his intentions had been more of a demand than a request . . . so he’d intended to take her off with him anyway. That was very odd ……he was up to something. But what?

She looked at him in profile as he flew with her, and as usual could tell nothing from his expression; he looked angry, but then he always looked angry. She ground her teeth and made herself relax, knowing that there was nothing she could do to sway him once he’d made up his mind about something; it was so strange, living with a man that she didn’t really know, even after ten years. Oh, she knew his habits and something of his thoughts . . . but he’d never allowed her to see the *real* Vejiita, the one that she’d caught glimpses of from time to time, and which he never let show for more than an instant when his guard was down. The real Vejiita, she knew, was what had brought him to live with her again after the terrible fight against Cell, what had kept him with her for the last ten years even though he seemed perpetually annoyed with her. The real Vejiita was what had kept her from throwing him out and finding someone else a dozen times over. She sighed and settled herself more comfortably in his arms. She supposed that it was good that he still intrigued her; after ten years she might have gotten bored with another man. Life with Vejiita was anything but boring, at least.

She rested her head on his shoulder and looked around; she loved flying with him, and although she never asked, she took full advantage of the occasional opportunities that she got. It was enough to blow away the last of the irritation she felt at him, as she looked down at the earth streaking by below; she wriggled to get a better view as they over flew a city in seconds. The wind rushed past them, only slightly buffered by his aura, and she laughed as they shot through a valley, mountains rushing by so fast that they flickered on her vision and then were gone. This had to be another reason that she stayed with him; what ordinary man could have given her this?

He glanced at her, and abruptly she felt him slow a bit as he shifted her; a moment later she dangled below him, held only under her arms. She gasped, but his grip was firm; she knew he wouldn’t let her go. And then he smiled down at her in that wicked way of his---and took off. Really take off. She squealed as they blasted through the sky, their momentum so great that her body straightened out; she laughed and put her arms out as if she, too, was flying. And when she looked down, the illusion was complete; she could imagine that it was her power that drove them over farmland so fast that it was only a checkerboard flicker on her vision; over forests in the blink of an eye; she whooped out loud when they broke the sound barrier and she heard the powerful concussion of a sonic boom around them. And then they were out over the ocean, with the sea blasting up in twin walls around them as their passage whipped it into a fury, great waves curving up and around them in a partial tunnel. He banked, and she almost closed her eyes as a wave large enough to capsize a supertanker whipped toward them---close, so close! And as she’d known it would, the wave curved over them altogether, completing the tunnel and echoing the roar of their passage back at them before they blasted free, just as the tunnel began to collapse. She shouted in triumph, and they continued on.

She glanced up at him after a while, when a bit of the excitement had worn off; it was completely unlike him to do something like this. He was almost being …… nice. But she frowned and shook her head; she couldn’t recall the last time he’d been nice. If ever. Even his behavior now probably had some ulterior motive---and she smiled, suddenly suspecting the answer. "Show-off!"

He smiled again without looking at her, and transferred her to his back, slowing just a bit while she settled her grip around his neck, then streaking off again. It was good timing; she’d begun to tire a bit, and she rested gratefully against him as he flew on. "Where are we going?" she asked him at last.

She tried to look, but his eyes were so much better than hers that she gave up when she could see nothing but water. They’d get there presently. She sighed. Only Dende knew where he was taking her; at least she had the capsule, with all of her clothes and most of her necessities. And as exhilarating as this flight had been . . . His body was warm and strong beneath hers. She grinned to herself and wondered if she’d be able to convince him to play a different sort of game with her later ……

And then she frowned, narrowing her eyes as she was finally able to make out something on the horizon. He banked in a wide circle as they neared it, and she realized that it was an island: large on one end with the collapsed cone of an old volcano, it would have been forbidding had they come by sea rather than air; it was surrounded on all sides by great jagged stones that jutted up from the sea, and the island itself was bordered by high, sheer cliffs of shiny black volcanic stone. But as he slowed and circled lower for a landing, she got a good look at it and realized that past the cliffs, it was a surprisingly lovely little place, covered in a dense, verdant forest and threaded with tiny streams and waterfalls that ran from the lake that had collected in the old cone. And it was completely isolated, from what she could tell; of course, it was a developer’s nightmare, so it didn’t look as if anyone would be setting up tourist residences any time soon.

Vejiita drifted to a halt and lowered them to the ground on the outer edge of the great cone, beside a small sub-lake that had formed on a kind of natural terrace. She gasped, stepping away from him to marvel at the view; she could see the entire island from here, stretching away for several miles in every direction. On the terrace where they stood, the volcanic stone had worn into a narrow "beach" of black sand, shaded by the massive palms that bent slowly in the breeze and the thick fronds of the plants that dipped their leaves into the clear water; further up the mountainside, the stream that fed the lake ran down in a staggered waterfall. The wind blew again, carrying with it the scent of the ocean and the perfume of a thousand kinds of flowers; she closed her eyes and breathed in the air, shivering in pleasure. She’d never smelled anything so sweet in her life.

She started at a sound behind her, and turned to see that Vejiita had turned away and was walking up a set of narrow stairs that she hadn’t noticed before, cut neatly into the obsidian stone; he disappeared into the vegetation that obscured the stairway as she stared. She started to call out to him, suddenly unsure of herself in this strange place, but held back out of pride; she’d explore on her own, then. But ……he was acting strangely, even for Vejiita, and her curiosity had been piqued. She couldn’t help but feel like there was something ……not quite right ……

He listened as Bulma moved to follow him up the stairs, and sighed in resignation. The decision had already been made---he’d made it years ago. He just had to acknowledge it. But . . . he sighed. His father hadn’t been able to take this final step, nor his father before him---but he snorted. His father had been a coward and a fool; that didn’t count. Kakaroto might have done it . . . but Kakaroto wasn’t remotely a proper Saiyan. With his Human ways, it might even be easy for him . . . Vejiita sighed in irritation. The most difficult step a true warrior could take, and that fool had probably breezed through it. Damn him.

He pushed the thought aside; better to concentrate on the here and now. He reached the entrance of the cavern and sighed, relaxing as he passed through the archway; however much he liked the Capsule Corporation, this place was much closer to the idea of "home" for him, as Bulma had explained the concept. He wondered how she would like it---and then he scowled. Since when had the feelings of this female become so important to him? But he already knew the answer to that. Her feelings had mattered to him for much longer than he’d ever admitted; it was time to face the truth in more ways than one.

So he listened intently as Bulma entered behind him and gasped in amazement. He allowed himself a bit of smugness at her reaction; he’d known she would like it. He’d put a lot of work into this place over the years, and had finally gotten it into suitable condition; it was at last worthy of being called his residence. The high, vaulted cavern had been perfect when he’d found this island, and although he’d at first felt awkward… manual labor was beneath him, but there had been no one else to do it---he’d later found that he enjoyed coming here. It was his special place; he’d never had any interest in bringing anyone else, not even Trunks, to it, until now.

He went over to one of the cabinets and browsed through the store of capsules there, the only things in his place that he hadn’t made with his own hands, and selected one; when it expanded, he shoved the small refrigerator into place with a toe and turned to watch her. She was wandering around touching things as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes; he smiled to himself as she ran her hands over the cabinets he’d made, walked up the steps he’d built to the second level, looked through the windows he’d carved into the rock. She came back down and examined the futon; while the plant fibers he’d found to fill it might not be as soft as she was used to, he thought it would serve quite well.

At last she turned to him, and he was amused to see that he’d completely thrown her. "This . . . you . . ." she fell silent, and chuckled a bit. "I guess I’m a bit speechless."

"The day that you are struck speechless is truly a miraculous day for Humanity," he drawled, folding his arms and turning to stride back toward the entrance. "There’s food in the fridge; I’ll be back in a while. I’m going hunting."

"Hunting?" She sounded surprised but not unduly so; she was used to his periodic hunts, although she still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the prospect. "But . . . are there dangerous animals, here?"

He could hear the confusion in her voice, and he smiled to himself; she didn’t understand why he was going to hunt when there was food available. It was interesting; her kind hadn’t always been so pastoral themselves . . . but she should be glad; he was already altering the ritual enough as it was, to suit her more delicate Human sensibilities. "There are, but they don’t come up the mountain this far," he replied. "You should be safe if you don’t go below the lake." And then he turned to leave. As he went down the steps, he noted that the sun was setting, and that a full moon had already risen in the evening sky. Good; that, too, was part of the ritual, although he no longer had his tail. It seemed that everything was falling into place perfectly . . . proof, he decided, that he’d made the right decision.

He passed into the cool shadows of the forest, and pushed aside such thoughts. If she refused, she refused. He’d just have to deal with it. But now was not the time to worry about such things; he was Saiyan, and the hunt was on.

I just can’t believe it, Bulma thought as she completed her exploration of Vejiita´s cavern. That he could build a place like this, with his own hands---that he could choose such a beautiful island on which to build it---and that he would bring me here ……

She stood in the entrance of the cavern, fingering the almost polished smoothness of the rough stone; he must have widened the archway at some point with his power. The place was primitive, compared to what he was surely used to---but it had all of the comforts that an ascetic like Vejiita would want. It was enough for her, at least; she’d lived rougher than this, back in her days of Dragonball-hunting. In fact, it was luxurious compared to some of the places she’d rested her head over the years . . . This was all too strange. This couldn’t be her Vejiita---the man who had ignored his own son until the child was old enough to fight with him. The man who routinely ignored her unless he wanted something . . . this was almost a different person. But . . . no. It would be completely foolish of her to try to read anything into his odd behavior. He was up to something, she knew---but what, she didn’t know, and couldn’t even begin to fathom. And it was probably a waste of time for her to try.

And anyhow, there was this whole beautiful island to explore. She took out the capsule she’d used to pack her belongings from the house, and expanded it to find something more comfortable to wear. To her delight, she’d packed her bikini, and she immediately wriggled into it and grabbed a towel. That lake had simply been too pretty to pass up, and it had been a long, strange day; a swim would help to take her mind off of this strangest turn of events.

The lake was clear and shallow; she could see all the way to the bottom when she got there, and so she jumped right in. It was just as cool and invigorating as she’d expected, and she frolicked like she hadn’t in years, swimming until she was exhausted and then simply floating on her back, letting the sun warm her.

She hadn’t realized that she’d drifted near the shore until a shadow fell over her; startled, she opened her eyes to see that Vejiita had returned, and was standing at the lake’s edge. How long he’d been there, watching her silently, she had no clue, but it didn’t bother her. She rather liked it, actually, the way he often stared at her, saying nothing, sometimes for hours. As long as he never stared at another woman the same way, she would never mind. She squinted up at him where he stood, silhouetted by the sunlight; he was sweaty and dirty and splattered all over with dark flecks of mud---but when she saw his hand, she realized that it probably wasn’t mud that she saw. He was dragging behind him something that she couldn’t identify, save to note that it was large and furry and just recently dead . . . She gulped uneasily. So his hunt had been successful.

His face was expressionless as he gazed down at her; after a moment, he dropped the thing and turned away. She watched, curious, as he stripped, dropping his gloves and boots to the ground, and then stepped into the water himself, clothes and all. He immediately went under and surfaced a moment later, rubbing at the dirt and blood on his skin and clothing.

She saw an opportunity, and grinned to herself. Idly, putting her hands behind her head, she let herself drift over to where he was washing, as if by accident. He’d already gotten most of the grime and flecks off when she floated past him, putting an innocent---but inviting---look on her face.

He glanced down, his hands pausing in their scrubbing, and she put a point on her private scorecard when his eyes drifted down her body. Whatever it was that had first drawn him to her ten years ago, she still had it. She kicked herself upright, standing up in the chest-deep water, and put her hands behind her back to smile into his face, flirting shamelessly.

He lowered his hands. Looked into her eyes. And turned away, swimming back toward the shore, leaving her standing alone in the water. She stared in disbelief as he got out of the water and went back up the steps to the cavern, dragging his "catch" behind him.

She stared after him for a long moment, and then spat out a distinctly unladylike curse. She should have known. Trust a Saiyan to choose food over sex.

Irritably she got out of the water and dried herself off, almost scraping her skin raw with the towel as she seethed . . . but in spite of her anger, she was also concerned. It wasn’t like him to turn down such an obvious invitation, especially not at a time like this; in the past, he’d always been even more amorous than usual after a fight or a successful hunt, and he’d had both today. Maybe something was wrong . . . No. She was worrying unnecessarily. He’d been acting oddly all day, but then it had been a strange day.

The sun had just gone down; wrapping the towel around herself, she returned up the steps to find the cavern-chamber aglow with a warm golden light---Vejiita had lit the torches she’d noticed earlier hanging in the wall-sconces. To her surprise, the flickering firelight gave the chamber a remarkably cozy atmosphere; she never would have thought of anything associated with Vejiita as "cozy." He was just kneeling beside the creature as she went over to the bed and sat down, watching him.

Whatever was wrong with him, it obviously hadn’t affected his appetite. Still miffed at his rejection, she drew her knees up to her chest and asked irritably, "You’re not going to butcher that in here, are you?"

His only reply was to glance at her and raise his hand, manifesting and shaping a portion of his ki around it to form a sharp cutting edge, and then gut his kill in a few quick motions. She swallowed as her gorge rose in disgust, and she deliberately turned over on the futon, keeping her back to him. If he thought he was going to come to bed with her all bloody, he had another think coming . . .

He shifted behind her; she heard a low hum and felt the familiar prickle on the back of her neck as he manipulated his ki energies again, and then silence for a moment. And then she started as the light from the nearest of the torches was blotted out. She turned over in surprise to see him standing over the futon. With something dark and dripping lying on a small wooden plate in his hand. She turned her head away, revolted.

He only continued to look down at her, and she frowned up at him again in surprise; a strange expression that she couldn’t interpret was on his face, and it alerted her immediately. There was something very odd about the way he was looking at her, something significant . . .

He crouched abruptly, took the object off of the plate, and held his hand out to her. "This is for you."

She stared at him, then at his hand; he held out to her a slab of meat that was still steaming from its previous owner, barely dead. Then back at him. His face was partly in shadow, but she could see his eyes clearly; he was watching her intently, as if it was the most important thing in the world that she accept his offering . . .

". . . Vejiita . . ." she stammered, looking again at the meat. His hand didn’t waver, and he said nothing.

She swallowed again. For once, she wished that he would stop acting so strangely and go back to being his usual cold, distant self. She understood that Vejiita knew how to deal with him, could even anticipate his reactions, sometimes. They’d forged an understanding, of sorts, over the years, and she had grown comfortable within the boundaries that they’d set for each other. This new, intense Vejiita, who created things instead of destroying them and actually seemed to want her around---she didn’t understand him at all. He was crossing too many of those boundaries, and she wasn’t ready for that.

But . . . she looked up at him again, and shivered. The look on his face was so different from his usual cold glare or smirk . . . This wasn’t another of his mind-games. But what did it mean . . .? She was reminded of the times she’d caught him, every once in a while, watching her with a different sort of look; a look that was at once softer and more intense, much like the way he was looking at her now . . . and she flushed, inexplicably. He was so much easier to deal with when he was being an arrogant ass. He didn’t demand anything of her that she wasn’t ready or willing to give. But when he was like this, she could feel him battering away at the walls that she’d erected around herself. Without those walls, she was vulnerable---and only he, warrior that he was, knew how to breach them. He’d never done it before; she’d thought that he never would. And perhaps she’d never wanted him to; she’d always feared the possibility. She’d always feared him, in this one way.

And yet . . . as much as the prospect frightened her, it also intrigued her, as he always had. There had always been a part of her, whispering whenever she let her guard down, that had wondered what would happen if Vejiita ever decided to reveal himself to her. Would they settle into a normal, dull relationship? She knew better. But would it be the opposite extreme? Vejiita, she knew, didn’t choose, he laid claim. Until now, he hadn’t laid claim upon her---and she’d always thought that she didn’t want him to.

But she’d seen enough glimpses of the soul inside the mile-thick shell, that in spite of herself, she wanted to see more . . .

And all she had to do, she realized, was accept what he was offering. Which was much more than a piece of bloody meat.

Laughing a little to cover her nervousness, she sat up, steeling herself as she looked at his hand. "I don’t suppose it tastes like chicken, huh?"

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile, and he lifted his hand for her. She leaned over and bit delicately, trying hard not to think about what she was eating, and trying harder not to see the way he was looking at her. She swallowed as quickly as she could, not bothering to chew, but in spite of her efforts she couldn’t help but notice the warmth of the meat, the sharp, salty tang of the blood . . .

He took his hand away as soon as she’d eaten her piece, absently biting off a chunk himself before putting the slab back on the plate beside the bed, chewing and watching her in silence the whole while. When she’d swallowed, she looked up---to see that he was smiling faintly at her. "So?"

"Ah. Perhaps so." She looked at him again; he had lowered his eyes, and seemed to be struggling to speak. Vejiita? Struggling to speak?

She decided to give him an opening. "So. You want to tell me what that was all about?"

He looked up at her, frowning, and then he sighed. "I suppose I have no choice." He lowered his head again. "It was . . . important that you accept what I was offering. Sharing a kill is part of the ritual. Actually, you were supposed to help me kill it, but I bent the rules a bit."

She shuddered, but pushed the thought aside. "Ritual? What ritual? What are you talking about?"

"It’s . . ." he sighed, then began again. "You once told me that it seemed strange to you that the Saiyan shipped their children off to other worlds as soon as they were born. I explained to you then that blood-ties weren’t that important to us. But that doesn’t mean that there weren’t any ties that we respected. There are . . . three bonds that a Saiyan warrior can make in his or her life. Most warriors make one of these, or sometimes two, but all three---that’s rare. VERY, rare."

He darted a glance at her, as if to make sure that she was listening. She was, with both ears; she had the feeling that this was important, and he never repeated himself. Satisfied, he looked down again.

"The first is the bond with the enemy. In the battle or in the hunt, the enemy is everything to a true warrior---the standard against which he tests himself, the goal that gives his life meaning. I made that first bond so early that I can’t remember the first enemy I killed; I was only a boy. But I remember the feeling . . . it was so powerful that I spent the rest of my life looking for it again. And again. There can be many enemy-bonds; one is broken every time a battle is won." He smiled. "Kakaroto was the most powerful of the enemy-bonds I made. Which is ironic, all things considered."

"Because the second bond is the one of comrades---those who share a battle, fighting on the same side. Most Saiyan found that bond with the other members of their assigned combat teams---the team became family and friend, all in one. I thought I’d found that bond with Nappa, long ago, but Nappa meant nothing to me. I didn’t really find it until much later. The first time was with Trunks."

Trunks . . . he couldn’t mean the ten-year old boy they’d raised. "Oh. That rather sweet boy from the future . . ."

Vejiita snorted. "He wasn’t that damned sweet. You didn’t know him that well. --Anyway, he was the first. Kakaroto was the second. I never expected to bond with HIM. But when we fought against Buu . . . Kakaroto is a fool, but I would trust no other by my side in battle." He scowled at her. "And if you ever tell him that, I’ll give him more pictures of you for that little sukebe collection he keeps."

She glared at him. "You just try it, and you’ll be hungry and sleeping on the couch for a month."

He only smiled, and she started again; this smile seemed almost affectionate. She had to be seeing things.

Bulma stiffened, staring at him. He looked back, his face expressionless---but his eyes were fixed on hers with a fierceness that shocked her to her core. "There’s much more to it than just living with someone or even having a child with them," he continued. "MUCH more."

Did this mean what she thought it meant? Did he mean it? "Vejiita . . ." she gasped in amazement.

He reached out and took her hands---gripped them, so that she couldn’t pull away. "This is what I was offering you," he told her intently, his black eyes smoldering like coal. "And this is what you accepted."

And abruptly, his mind touched hers. She gasped---she’d forgotten about the Saiyan´s telepathic abilities, latent except in certain moments . . . but that was the least of her concerns. Because at that moment he opened himself completely----no more walls, no facades, nothing---and she was almost overwhelmed with the essence of him. THIS was the real Vejiita that she had always caught only glimpses of, smoldering and dark and roiling like the smoke from a furnace, not so much opening to her as exploding. He was dark and terrible and beautiful and overwhelming---pride and anger and violence and bloodlust and a thousand other emotions that surged past her so quickly that she couldn’t name them, could just experience them and for a moment, experience him and all that he was. But he was more, so much more, than these surface things---she dug past them and found what he’d hidden from even himself for years. His secrets . . . Shielded for most of his life by his pride, he’d faced them at last, and dealt with them. His fear of weakness, of inadequacy . . . his terror of being unimportant. He needed to be needed, more than anything else. And he needed all of the things that other people needed, companionship and trust and a place to call home. And he needed her. It was as deep and powerful an impulse as all of the others, without reason or logic but simply there, and inescapable, irrefutable. He needed her. So he offered her in exchange . . . himself.

So she offered herself back, shyly, and he immediately accepted her. She was a match for him in so many ways; her own fears and uncertainties were covered by a pride almost as great as his, and her greatest fear---of losing her independence, of being weak---was something that he understood, completely. She felt herself as he saw her, cool clear light that shone against his darkness, not destroying or competing with it but completing it, strengthening it by contrast. As he---to her complete and total surprise---strengthened her. She needed that strength. She needed him.

When she returned to herself, she was disoriented, shaking, and he was doubled over beside her, gasping for breath. The whole sensation of sharing his mind was gone, as if it had never been . . . but she could feel something else, deep and subtle and unbreakable, between them. This was what he had offered her, and what she had accepted. The third bond.

She was his now, without dispute, chained to him for life. It would have frightened her, if he’d explained it beforehand, but now that it was in place, she understood why he hadn’t. She was his . . . but he was also hers. She marveled for a moment, that with his pride he had allowed himself to be bound in this way, but then she smiled, turning her head to look at him. His eyes were shut tightly and his brow furrowed and beaded with sweat, as if forging the link between them had taken all of his strength---and it probably had. She couldn’t even imagine what an effort of will it must have taken for him to completely open himself like that. But she understood what it meant.

She reached out and touched his face lightly with her fingers, and he opened his eyes, warily. "You know, you could have just told me, and saved yourself a lot of effort," she teased.

His brows drew together in the familiar scowl, and he sat up, reaching again for the plate beside the bed. "Words mean nothing," he replied carelessly around a mouthful. "You Humans rely on words too much."

She heard what he wasn’t saying, and smiled. Everything had changed between them, now---and yet nothing had really changed at all. Abruptly, however, she found herself staring at the meat in his hand. And remembering the taste of it, salt-sweet on her tongue . . .

On impulse, she reached up and pulled his hand back to her, daintily taking the last piece and finishing it off. He stared at her as she licked his fingers, and she blinked at him in surprise.

He stared for a moment longer, and then a slow smile spread across his face. "You can’t even eat right, woman. There’s blood all over your lips."

"Wait. I’ll get it." And before she could react, he bent and brushed her lips with his own, just enough to wipe away whatever trace of blood he’d seen there. She started, involuntarily; he’d never kissed her like this before---slowly and with relish, as if he was tasting her mouth with his own . . . when he pulled away, she was blushing like a girl.

"There’s one more thing we have to do before the ritual’s done," he told her softly, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "You think we should complete it now?"

She grinned back, and licked her lips. So this was what he’d been waiting on. "Yes, I think so. And if this is what the taste of blood does to you, there might be something to this raw meat thing after all."

Vejiita looked out over his island as dawn approached, and allowed himself a generous measure of self-satisfaction. The feeling that had plagued him---that something was wrong, incomplete---was gone, and all was well again. In fact, he felt more at peace with himself than he ever had in his life. Everything had changed . . . and yet, nothing at all. He closed his eyes as a breeze blew through the cavern entrance, bearing with it the smell of sea-salt and the forest. And prey. He smiled, glancing back at the sleeping figure on the futon behind him. He wondered if he’d be able to get her to hunt with him, now.

He stepped over to the futon and crouched beside her, resting his head on one hand to gaze at her for a moment. It was amazing, really, the power that this weak little Human female had over him. In truth, with the bond now in place, it was no different than the power she’d always had over him . . . but now she knew about it, and could use that power as she saw fit. The prospect didn’t disturb him nearly as much as he’d thought it would. After all, he had the same power over her. And, he thought, smiling to himself wickedly, he had no problem at all with using it.

Of course, he’d have to use it fairly soon. She wouldn’t be very pleased when she figured out that he’d made her pregnant again. No; he amended that. She’d be pleased, all right---that was why he’d done it, as a gift to her---but she wouldn’t act pleased. She’d probably stop cooking for him and sleeping with him for days. He accepted that. She had her pride, after all.

But until she figured it out, he’d keep his mouth shut. He had bound himself to her, but he wasn’t stupid.

Standing again, he went over to the storage chest she’d brought with her, and reached into it to pull out the photograph she’d hidden at the bottom. Silly, sentimental woman. He pulled the picture out of its frame and concentrated for a moment, using his power to melt and re-fuse the cracked glass so that the frame was whole again. Then he replaced the picture and put the photograph out on the center of the table in the middle of the room.