A short oneshot, depicting what would happen if you took away the daughter of the Prince of Saiyans.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Song Prompt: Citizen/Soldier ~ 3 Doors Down.
Give Her Back.
"Give her back."
"Look pal," the guy said, looking annoyed, "I ain't got any idea what you're talking about. I ain't got anybody here. Beat it."
The dark, cold eyes that glared at him were enough to make the man shiver. "Give her to me, now."
"Who the hell do you want?" the man, 34 years of age, with mousy brown hair and brown eyes, spread his arms widely, as if offering the intruder whoever it was he was searching for.
The intruder's eyes narrowed further, if that was possible. His fists clenched, and just as suddenly, loosened, and he smiled.
"You don't know who I am, do you?"
The man frowned.
His name was Scott Kenedy, but the intruder didn't know that. He was a little over average height, not really fat and not really skinny. Kenedy stood guard in a small rundown apartment complex, one that seemed suspiciously deserted. Two rusty cars with no tires, missing doors, or cracked windows sat in the yard, paint peeling and leather seats busted and spewing cotton. Kenedey had stared at those stupid cars for hours on end, wishing he had the money to fix them up so you'd never guess that they were once worthless. He had fingered the pistol in his coat pocket with an itching trigger finger for what seemed like an incredibly long time, bored out of his mind and wondering why Saunders couldn't stay and watch for suspicious passersby. His jacket wasn't anything fancy, just a black Colombia running jacket that was nylon on the outside and soft cloth on the inside, and he wore baggy jeans and big, heavy brown boots, a faded red baseball cap on top of his head.
Kenedy didn't look like anything special.
This intruder was different. He was short, and from the chin that was just visible under the hood he wore, had tan skin and a very heavy scowl. He also wore a black jacket, though the material seemed to be made of something much sleeker. It was halfway unzipped, revealing a dark blue shirt that looked to be constructed of thick spandex, which clung tightly to an obviously muscular body. Kenedy immediately deducted that this guy was a work-out-aholic, but that didn't frighten him. No human being could stand up to a bullet at point blank range.
The intruder's pants were blue jeans, worn out and faded, but that told Kenedy nothing. Anybody could put on some old blue jeans, he decided. Anybody could put on white boots with gold trim, too. Capsule Corp had made a surprisingly large amount of money when those boots were put on the market.
The sleek white gloves should have tipped him off, though.
"No, buddy, I haven't got a damn clue. What the hell do you want?"
"I want her back."
"I done told you, I ain't got any -"
Kenedy's sentence cut off abruptly. He tasted something metallic, and felt a sharp, agonizing pain in his stomach.
No one would find the body.
Lucas Saunders used to be a good man. He used to have kids, and a wife. But he also used to be a drug addict. Still was, actually. That's why he needed this job so bad. His cocaine addiction only worsened after the car crash that only he survived. He was desperate.
His boss wasn't really the brightest guy, in his opinion. Saunders had almost quit when he heard that particular assignment, but reconsidered after a gun had been pointed to his head. Knowing that information, they couldn't just let him go. Still, he couldn't help thinking that going after the daughter of Bulma Briefs was not a smart decision. He'd heard rumors about strange things that happened at her house, heard about how strong some of her friends were. Freaks, the lot of them.
Suddenly, Saunders looked up. Footsteps echoed on the staircase, and whoever they belonged to was making not attempt to hide them. He drew his gun and pointed it, his index finger hovering over the trigger.
It's probably just Scott. It's Scott, that's all. I'm being paranoid -
A man wearing a black hoodie and blue shirt appeared in the stairway. Saunders fired, and didn't really have time to wonder why the intruder could catch a bullet in his fingertips before the mystery man flicked it back with the tip of his thumb.
No one would find that body, either.
Lars Mandela didn't look like a kidnapper. But then, kidnappers rarely do seem as though they are. He was tall, about 6'4, with thick, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. He had a small nose and straight teeth, and for a long time had worn glasses. Now, of course, he wore contacts, but he never told anybody that. Right now, he wore a soft gray sweatshirt and some fitting jeans, worn boots on his feet that really needed to be thrown in the trash, and had a black toboggan hat on top of his head. He was skinny at first glance, though muscled underneath his baggy clothes, with slightly oversized, slim hands and too-long fingernails.
Lars was a calculating man. He was not cold, as many assumed a calculating person must be, but was rather warm and friendly, especially outside of business. He had a lot of friends who didn't know a thing about his organization; Lars Mandela worked two jobs; his office job, and his illegal job. He was skilled at covering his tracks, and nobody had ever traced a disappearing child back to him. He only killed his victims about half the time; this was when he hadn't felt like wearing a mask on a particular day or hadn't gone to the trouble of blindfolding his captive. Unfortunately for his most recent target, he had not done either of these.
"My Papa is gunna to kill you so fast you won't even see it comin," the little girl said confidently, with folded arms. "He'll probably snap your neck right in two, or put his fist through your stomach. I saw him to that to a deer once. Papa likes venison."
Lars Mandela looked at her, his temple throbbing and his left eye twitching. "'Papa' isn't going to find you, you little brat."
His captive was about six years old, with big blue eyes and strange blue hair that was done in a short, almost spikey little ponytail atop her head. Right now she wore a rather cute yellow dress that lost quite a bit of its adorableness thanks to the blood red jacket she wore, which she had told him many times was her "most favorite jacket in the whole universe". The child had been annoyingly chipper for a good long time; when she threw insults at him, she did so with a smile. When she threatened him, she did so with a happy grin. When she mentioned her "wonderful Papa", her big eyes would light up as though the man was a god…and when she did so, she often followed it with some freakishly vivid description of how her father was going to kill him.
He'd had her for only a few hours, perhaps ten, and even though he had not been in the room with her for possibly no more than two, she had already managed to drive him nearly insane. After the little brat had managed to snap the ropes and (Kami only knows how) broken the handcuffs, (not the chain, but the actually cuff), he'd resorted to putting her in a thick-barred, steel dog cage. He scowled at her, and she scowled right back (this was the only times when the smile would diverge from her face) and stuck her tongue out at him a minute later. Lars rolled his eyes and turned back to his magazine –
"Mister Roshi reads those," the little girl said suddenly.
Lars's head shot up from the page he was reading, a very dark blush appearing on his cheeks. "Why the hell do you know what this is, you little brat?" he demanded. He could have sworn he'd had the cover turned away from her.
"Cuz Master Roshi comes over with Goku-san and Kuririn-san all the time, and he always has at least one," she said innocently.
He flipped another page, drawing one leg closer to his chair from lack of comfort. His boot scraped on the ground, and the chair squeaked. The girl drummed her fingers against the floor of her cage, humming. Lars flipped a page. Cleared his throat. The girl abandoned drumming her fingers and started patting a sloppy beat on her legs. She still hummed. Loudly.
When she was humming so loudly that she was practically screaming with her lips closed, Lars snapped his magazine shut and sat up abruptly, yelling, "WOULD YOU STOP THAT?!"
She looked at him with big, innocent eyes again. "Stop what?"
"Stop that humming!"
"Hm…Okay." She paused, then cried, "Oh!" and folded her legs the way a ninja might, laced her fingers together palm side up, and closed her eyes as she suddenly took on a concentrating look.
Lars raised an eyebrow, wondering if the kid had to pee or something. "Um…what are you doing?"
She cracked open one eye and smiled at him. "Meditating!" she said cheerfully.
"Meditating?" Lars as incredulously. "You're six. What do you know about mediation?" He didn't know anything about mediation.
"Papa taught me," she said proudly.
"I see," Lars said dryly, raising his magazine again.
"Papa said that if I concentrate hard enough, then I can raise my Ki!" she explained, as though he was still a part of the conversation. "He said that he can find me anywhere if I can raise my Ki, but I have to mediate first because I'm a little girl –"
Lars looked up again and snapped, "What did you say?"
"I hafta meditate first because I'm little –"
"No! About your dad finding you!"
"Oh, that," she nodded. "Well, Papa is really strong, you know, so he can sense Ki really well! So if I raise mine, he can find me!"
"What the hell is Ki?" Lars demanded.
"Ki is energy," she said, raising a slightly thick blue eyebrow. "Everybody knows that."
"Not me," Lars said, figuring the kid was delusional.
"Look!" the girl said, holding out her hands. "See?"
Lars watched in awe and horror as a pale blue light appeared as if by magic in her hands. "What is…" he said aloud.
"I guess I could throw this at you and burn you up," the little girl said casually, "but Mama and Papa said not to do that, because humans are weaker than Saiyans are."
Before Lars could ask what a Saiyan was, he felt breath on his neck.
"Close your eyes, Bra," a dark male voice said softly, sounding almost apologetic.
The girl smiled adoringly at the figure behind Lars, nodding at the command. "Hi, Papa," was all she said, and she buried her face in her hands.
*Ten minutes later*
The piercing screams that had rung in the air and echoed in the empty space were slowly beginning to fade. Bra Briefs had removed her hands from her eyes and put them over her ears, but the horrifying sounds still chilled her to the bone. She had just barely heard a soft rip, and the screams faded to gurgles, though the sounds of heavy blows still reached her. She wondered briefly if that was what a person sounded like when their tongue was ripped out. The blows were quick and precise, as only her Papa's and Goku-san's could be, and she wondered if she should feel bad for Lars, or if she should think he deserved it. Finally, she felt her father's furious Ki being leveled, as it did when he was using an energy attack, and a bright light flashed behind her eyelids.
The door of her cage was suddenly yanked off the hinges, and Bra opened her eyes. "You can come out now, Bra," Vegeta said gently.
Bra leapt into his arms and buried her face in his strong, corded neck. She knew his dark eyes were watching her curiously as he tucked his nose into her hair, searching her scent anything that didn't belong. She noticed that his jacket and his gloves were discarded in a heap on the floor, but she didn't much pay attention to the dark, soaked patches that covered them. Bra smiled warmly when she felt a deep, rumbling vibration in her father's chest, and giggled when he breathed on her face.
"That tickles, Papa," she laughed.
"Hn. Are you hurt?" Vegeta asked.
"No," Bra said. She reached up and patted his upswept hair, and giggled again when it stood back up, as it always did.
Vegeta ignored her antics, pulling back to look her over with dark, narrowed eyes reminiscent of an angry alpha wolf. "Were you frightened?" he asked.
"Nope!" Bra said happily.
He raised a thick black eyebrow, one that Bra had partially inherited. "Why not?"
"Because I knew you'd come to get me. Why should I be afraid of any scrawny human, anyway?"
Vegeta chuckled and pushed her head back into his neck with his oversized hand (which Bra noticed was much more manly than Lars's hand had been) and Bra breathed in the musky scent that was her father's soap. She smelled faint blood and a sort of electric scent that enveloped him after he'd fought a battle with Ki or had trained particularly hard; it was a scent that she had grown accustomed to, and always immediately recognized as Papa.
Chase Michaels, a novelist writer that lived in downtown West City, opened the curtain in his living room, staring at the dark, abandoned house across the street. He reached up and scratched his dark hair, his green eyes staring at the window that he often swore he saw something moving by. Chase had always been rather suspicious of that house; something about it always made him nervous. He normally took extra care not to look at it as much as possible, but today was different. Today he had heard separated gunshots, and after a while, a long, nearly inhuman scream. He peeked from behind the curtain, and was shocked to see someone walking out of the building.
It was a man. He was short, shorter than Chase, anyway, with dark, coal black hair that was swept up into a spikey flame and heavily though naturally tanned skin. He wore a tight, solid blue shirt and old jeans, and white Capsule Corp. boots. In his arms, there was a small yellow and red bundle, with a crown of blue hair. A little girl, Chase realized. He couldn't see her face, as it was buried into the man's neck, but he still caught the hint of a smile on the little girl's lips. The man held her tightly, but Chase noticed that the man's harsh features looked just a tiny bit softened with barely hidden affection.
He would ponder about them for the longest time, long after the man had continued with his eerily calm pace down the street and disappeared around the corner. He never saw them again.