A/N: This was originally my entry to a very old and abandoned RPG, but I liked the beginning so much that I decided to expand upon it. Plus I'm in the mood for a good old kinky Jeice fic. Don't worry, I'm not in the habit of writing NC-17s, but if this does go beyond an R I'll post those particular parts up on the Ginyu Force shrine (which you can find the link to in my userinfo…shameless plug). No, actually this would be a shameless plug: GO TO MY GINYU FORCE & ZARBON SHRINE. Now I feel fully ashamed

Pairings: Very slight Jeice/Zarbon (I can't help it), Zarbon/femaleOC and Jeice/femaleOC
Other Notes: This is an AU fanfic, taking place in a galaxy where Frieza's Empire has spread even as far as Chikyuu. Vegetasei is gone, but what remaining Saiyans there were made home on a far-flung planet, named (originally enough) Neo Vegetasei. Vegeta is the King there and his son Trunks, who will probably feature sooner or later in this story, is the Prince.

So without further ramblings, let's get on with the story!
Jeice: It's about bloody time ¬¬

Illicit Trade
Chapter One : Deep Space

Space was cold. The sleep cots, of which the ship's reasonably sized quarters provided, were not as comfortable as they had looked and offered little heat to ease the icy chill which spread throughout the ship. Twisting and turning beneath his frail, itchy blanket, Jeice had to force his mind to keep from wandering beyond the walls, which separated his room from his female companion's. Rubbing his arms in order to generate some heat, the scarlet-skinned Ginyu pirate slowly convinced his mind to roam elsewhere.

Soon he began to wonder about the mission ahead of them. Zarbon had certainly looked concerned, although he hid it well beneath his typical superior manner. Jeice snorted, having never been fond of Frieza's General. He had always felt as though the Changeling was hiding something, especially during their last encounter. The way the General's pale-skinned hands fidgeted during the briefing had not escaped his notice. It occurred to Jeice that it would do his health good to keep his guard up.

Apart from anything else, Jeice found it odd that Frieza would wish to send as many as three of his Elite Warriors to engage in role-play in order to track down a petty thief. Wasn't that a job for intelligence? Jeice was no fool but he had little to no experience in conference. He was more a 'shoot first, ask questions later' kind of a guy. He would be leaving the more serious interrogation to Berter.

A smirk crossed his lips as he thought of the unfortunate soldiers marked as slaves on the mission. Personally, he'd found it hilarious: so much so, he had choked quite violently on his pint at the time. Zarbon on the other hand...

'No wonder the tight-ass was squirming' Jeice thought, smugly.

He knew that Zarbon particularly loathed his role of 'slave'. His Rashian world of Osirus possessed a grim history, where its two prominent races – the Akuma and the Rashia - had plunged into a terrible civil war, lasting a century, after which the Akuma reigned victorious. The leader of the Akuma was a terrible dictator, who bred the Rashia to be frivolous pleasure slaves: good only as playthings or pampered pets. It was Frieza who had 'liberated' the Rashia, and Zarbon, the descendant of Akuma's greatest foe, was sent to serve the Icejin Prince in his newly constructed Empire.

Jeice snorted, derisively. He doubted the mocking stories featuring Frieza and the General were true, but as far as he was concerned, Zarbon was still a pampered pet.

As for Sakumei, she had appeared quite indifferent about the mission; although the look of loathing she had sent him rather spoke for itself.

Both soldiers were far better suited to the role of slave anyway, Jeice thought and shuddered as he tried to imagine the Saurian, giant, Berter on a leash.

Although Sakumei had made it painfully clear that she did not enjoy sharing the same air-space as the red-skinned Ginyu, she was, for the most part, quiet around him. And Jeice, being the loud, brash, flashy poser that he was, had never taken much notice of her. Of course, now that she was lying but a few inches through a thinly constructed, durasteel wall to the right of him, the overzealous pirate could barely contain his imagination.

Jeice stretched and shot a glance at his watch. The ship was due to arrive in the Helot system in a half hour. The planet was basically a giant swamp-ball, dotted with small, villainous settlements where slave traders auctioned their 'goods' by the dozen. The thought sent a small shiver down his spine - that lives could be bought and sold like so many groceries. Not him though. He'd never be bartered for like some poor beast.

Stripping himself of his usual Ginyu attire, Jeice began rummaging through piles of clothing, which already littered the new cabin floor. Cursing and grumbling to himself, the young mercenary tried to imagine what in the Seven Hells a slave-trader would wear. He was quite clueless. Any former encounter he had made with a slave trader, his roaming green eyes had been thoroughly trained on the slaves themselves.

'Not on any fat, greasy bugger who thinks he's better than me,' Jeice snorted indignantly, recalling his last encounter with the devious slave trader Dredge Murlak: a thick-skinned, thick-headed ball of fat who had sold him an overpriced pleasure-slave. Deceiving the easily fooled Ginyu, the slave had stolen all of his belongings and returned them to the obese slaver. Jeice could hold a grudge for a long time and the bitterness still boiled inside him. The rest of the Force, on the other hand, had found the ordeal nothing short of hilarious.

'Keh, no matter. If ah do see that slobberin' ball o' grease, ah'll pound 'im good,' Jeice mused, flexing his bulging arm muscles with an arrogant smirk.

Turning over the mounds of clothes cluttering the floor, Jeice wondered what his fellow comrades would wear. Obviously his vast collection of flashy, brightly coloured Hawaiian shirts would not provide him with the intimidating image he was trying to project. Instead he picked out a pair of black, buckled boots, pants, a white shirt and, a somewhat shabby, black waistcoat to complete the outfit. He tied his shoulder-length white hair back from his face, in order to keep cool in the humid air of Helot.

Finally he strapped a heavy leather belt around his waist, making sure to flip a pair of blasters into their holsters. On a planet full of scum and villainy, no creature walked the streets unarmed. Only warriors in Frieza's Grand Army were able to control their Ki, and the last thing Jeice wanted to do was give way to any suspicion. He knew all too well how crafty slavers could be and people weren't the only items they auctioned off. Information traffickers would pay a hefty credit to learn that four of Frieza's elites were doing business in Helot.

Jeice strolled down the long winding corridors of the ship, slowly but surely making his way towards the Bridge. The longer he could hold off his mission, the better. Why didn't Frieza or the Captain assign him to an easier task that required less thinking; like levelling a city or flushing out some Rebels for example? He would have preferred sitting around in his apartment, listening to Recoome's favourite sentimental soap operas for two weeks.

'If I put my foot in it this time, an' screw this mission over… ah'm up shit creek.' He shuddered at the thought of Frieza's rumoured punishments, anxiously running a hand through his thick, roguishly unkempt hair.

Jeice paused outside the entrance to the Bridge, taking a quick, deep breath before strutting, steadily inside.

Starkiller: Like it? Loathe it? Please let me know! ; )