Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership over any of the characters created by the makers of Dragon Ball Z or Dragon Ball GT. I claim property of the OCs of the story only, who were made for the sole purpose of this work.

Set: Some time after the Buu Saga. May take place later during GT saga as well.

Chapter One

Been There, Done That

He didn't remember much.

He remembered darkness and silence; a void where his senses should have been in which he floated empty and bodiless, for the first time without motive or drive. For the first time in what seemed like a long time where he hadn't felt the need to follow an order or command, or seek out a purpose even he did not understand.

And then he awoke, as if this emptiness had been a blessed dream and reality sucked him back with a greedy vengeance. He knelt there on the kai blasted warzone where he had fought the Z Fighters and Cell, feeling the broken earth on his knees through the worn holes in his jeans. His fingers curled in his shredded gloves, sinking into the soft, parched dirt.

Why?

After all he had done; after all of the pain he had caused, was his punishment to experience the bliss of peace, only to be returned to this place where the memories of his past could haunt him?

Desolate as the landscape that surrounded him; empty as the tundra he occupied. No Dr. Gero; No Dr. Myuu; No Number Eighteen.

Number Seventeen gathered himself to his feet, and his gaze swept over the place that had been home to his last days as a slave to a mastermind of Hell.

Taji knelt by the bed roll, laying the damp towel gently on his sister's forehead to cool the heat that seemed to make her head throb beneath his touch. The light from the single swaying bulb overhead flickered on and off as it struggled to add some warmth to her pale lips.

"Taji," she breathed, her trembling fingers closing on his. "It's okay. You need to get to work now." His blue eyes closed for a moment, and he brushed a lock of her golden brown hair behind her ear. It was matted from sweat and dirt, and stuck to her head where he pushed it.

"Fine, but be safe while I'm gone, alright?" Taji pulled the ragged quilt over her shuddering chest to cover the rising goose bumps on her naked arms. "I'll be back soon." She nodded, and the movement made the graying quilt shudder like the down feathers of a gosling.

He stood and slipped out through the curtain that was strung in the frame of their front door. It was raining in the city, the deep gray clouds grumbling overhead, and the foul smelling water that collected in the potholes of the street soaked through the holes in his sneakers and made his socks squelch with each step.

"Hey, man!" Arnold caught sight of him from where he stood across the street by a broken light post, and he gave a quick wave for him to join. Taji glanced across the roadway before jogging across, his yellow hair bouncing with his footsteps as he splashed through what was left of the asphalt street and exchanged a clap on the shoulder with Arnold. "What's up, Taj?"

"I'm running low on cash. Gotta make a round soon," Taji offered, hunching his shoulders against the rain as he pushed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Ellie doesn't still think that you work at the Laundromat, does she?" Arnold asked, squinting suspiciously at his lighter skinned comrade. Taji winced, and Arnold's expression darkened. "Man! You've got to tell her. She's gunna find out sooner or later."

"Yah, I know." Taji clapped his hand over the lump in his back pocket, feeling the warmth of the metal hand gun against his skin—a savage sort of heat. He had told Ellie that he carried it for protection, and she had believed him; had believed that their money came from an honest five dollar an hour job at the broken down laundry building amongst the spin cycles and the washed out clothing. "I should go."

"Ain't no way you're ever going to find a schmuck dumb enough to walk in the rain at night, Taj." Taji waved Arnold away as he set off down the street.

"It's just a mist. There'll be someone," Taji offered.

"Well, don't forget the meeting place tonight. The Collectors are coming this time, so be there!" Arnold called. Taji winced at his raised voice, but it didn't seem to matter if the neighborhood heard him anyways. There wasn't a soul in the forgotten section of the city that wasn't under the thumb of The Collectors or a target for them.

"Whatever," Taji mumbled, and tried his best to lose himself in the winding streets of the city.

"Stop right there, mister."

Number Seventeen stopped in his tracks, though certainly not because the command was an effective one. The voice was young, and certainly not harsh enough to carry much threat. A youth with a shock of golden hair narrowed his blue eyes at the cyborg, and for a moment Seventeen thought that perhaps he had stumbled across one of the infamous Saiyans that he sought.

"Fancy rifle you got there," quipped the young man. He held a hand gun level at Seventeen, but the experience with which he shouldered the small weapon left the target unfazed. This was no Saiyan. Saiyans did not carry guns.

"So it is," Seventeen offered, setting the butt of the rifle on the asphalt and leaning recklessly on the muzzle.

"Drop it and kick it over here," the boy demanded. The cyborg hesitated a moment, then curiously tilted his hand, and his gloved fingers retracted from the barrel. It clattered noisily onto the uneven pavement of the small alleyway, making the young thug squint at him. Seventeen tapped the muzzle of the gun with his shoe, sending it spinning lightly towards him. "Now hand over what you've got."

"I don't have anything," he answered. The cyborg pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans, lifting back the blue coat comfortably. He shrugged helplessly, and the boy jerked his gun hand at him angrily.

"Look, I'm not kidding. Hand over what you have and I won't shoot," the kid snapped. He took a step forward, as though this would help to enunciate his point. Seventeen lingered in his spot, the cold blue of his eyes sweeping over the boy, sizing him up.

"You wouldn't find anything on me if you shot anymore than if I handed it over willingly." Seventeen paused, and a smile touched his lips. "Though it could be interesting to argue how I would hand over 'nothing'," he offered.

"Oh, shut up," the boy groaned, leaning down to swipe up the rifle. "Just stay there until I'm gone, alright?" He took a few steps back, holstering the handgun in his back pocket, before turning away and darting out of the alleyway. Seventeen's smile slipped away.

"I like that gun," he murmured. He powered up just enough to float up from the alleyway and land gently atop the roof of one of the dilapidated buildings, and watched from where he stood as the boy slipped through the intricate network of structures.

Taji put his weight against the soggy door and pushed it open. The top hinge was long since rusted out, and the cracked wooden bottom ground against the dirty cement floor as he shoved it shut behind him. The peeling wooden panel rattled at it shook with the force of the wind outside

The dank house smelled of mold and cigarette smoke, and the soft drip of water echoed in the room from where it leaked through a collapsed section of the roof. The poor patch job barely held up to the rain, and the blue tarp sagged beneath a collection of water.

Taji shuffled through the debris and pushed through a moth eaten curtain into what had once been a living room. The carpet had been torn up to leave only bare cement where spider webs of cracks interlaced the concrete. A handful of men sat at a table, drinking and smoking, gambling and handling their guns.

He ignored these men, just as these men thankfully ignored him, and knocked lightly on the door to the bedroom before slipping inside.

The bedroom was poorly lit, just like the rest of the house, but here was where the gathering was taking place. Arnold glanced up from the far side of the room, tipping his chin up at him in greeting before looking back to the man who stood in the center of a semicircle of worn out folks, the glowing tip of the boss's cigarette like a molten eye in the muted lighting.

"You're late," the boss Geno griped, pulling his cigarette out from between his lips. He blew the smoke out in a slow grey curl, not bothering to turn his head so that it clouded the faces of the men surrounding him.

"Sorry, sir," Taji offered. The end of the boss's cigarette was worn where he chewed on it. Taji found himself looking at this, because he couldn't manage to look Geno in the eye.

"We're almost done here, anyways. Just a little more business to wrap up," the boss growled. He crushed the tip of his cigarette onto the table that separated him and the small crowd. The rest of the wooden surface was loaded with an assortment of stuff: jewelry, money, coats, but the pull tonight was painfully sad. "What did you bring, Taji?"

He swallowed and stepped forward, laying the rifle on the table carefully before taking a step back. The boss stared at it for a moment before snatching it from the table and lifting it up.

"This?" The boss's dark eyes swept up to Taji. "This is a hunting rifle, Taji. What the fuck are you trying to pull here? This is worthless." He slammed it back down on the table, making the gathering jump, as though they expected it would fire at one of them. Geno made his way around the table. "Who do you think you are, you worthless piece of-"

The door slammed open behind Taji, the noisy clattering swallowing whatever the boss had been saying. Geno's dark eyes glinted in the light that came through the doorway, and his nose wrinkled as his lips pulled back in a sneer. "Who are you?" he snapped.

"I was just cruising the neighborhood. Thought this looked like a fine place to stop."

The boss narrowed his eyes, and the look was dangerous on him—an animal ready to leap. Somehow the voice sounded familiar—amused by the situation in a way that it shouldn't be—but Taji could not tear his eyes away from the image of boss Geno, raising his chin to bare his throat threateningly to the stranger in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" The boss asked, his voice dropped to a hoarse growl.. Taji managed to turn, stepping aside so that he no longer stood between the tension mounting between the two speakers. And there he stood—the man he had robbed—leaning casually on the door frame, his cold blue eyes alive in the darkness.

"I came to get my gun back," he said.

Note: I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! If you liked it or have any comments, please leave a review!