Kings, Tyrants, and Demons

Special thanks to Pixelgoddess for betaing

A/N:

Reports of my death have been somewhat exagerated. I appologize for the delay. Notice I didn't write "I appologise for the delay, BUT (insert exscuse here). Let's chalk it up to real life. I'm very sorry if I worried any of you. I've gotten a few e-mails from some (Pic's Pixie a big 'forgive me' goes out to you) worried about how I was doing, which I couldn't respond to (computer problems).

Anyway I'll quit scraping and get to the update.

My heartfelt thanks to you guys for sticking with me.


Chapter Sixteen: Searching for Empire


“If I fill it, will you come back to me?...I’ll fill it with blood, with bone, with flesh, I’ll set it alight and start all over again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll kill them all just for you…”

“My Lord?”

Piccolo glanced up in surprise at the short Namek standing anxiously next to him. He had phased out…again. He growled angrily. The hostile gesture was aimed at himself, however his companion took a step back at the sound of it.

“Send a ground crew to the surface and have them raze the outlying area.”

“But sir,” Lyre protested, “Vorosu hasn’t even finished negotiations with the—”

“Quiet, Lyre. I don’t play bargaining games. The Catimins should have been satisfied with the initial offer. They will learn the hard way the Rijux no longer panders to the wants of cheapskate clients.” He tapped the heel of his boot against the metallic base of his chair in annoyance; the hollow sound resulting rang dully in the room. “Tell Vorosu to get his ass up here if he doesn’t want to be fried along with the rest of those ungrateful maggots.”

“Yes sir.”

Piccolo didn’t watch as his plump lieutenant scurried off to carry out his commands.
Instead, he glared at the red planet rotating on the large screen before him; the P.A.C casting various population, weather, and commodities stats at intervals. From what he gathered Catimus was a rather wealthy planet. Of course, in retrospect it had to be considering their intent to purchase a larger neighboring planet his crew had recently subdued.

According to the P.A.C. Catimus was once part of Frieza’s Planet Trade, as was the planet up for bids. Apparently past politics prevented Catimus from purchasing any planet, let alone its neighbor. Piccolo didn’t know the reason behind the Trade-imposed ban from purchasing nor did he really give a damn. The only thing he was concerned with was getting the transaction taken care of and quickly. He had three other planets on his agenda and considering it was only his sixth week he felt mildly overworked. But that could be contributed to lack of sleep.

Slumber wasn’t something he looked forward to. Figures from the past haunted him; even in his waking hours he could feel the presence of the Saiyan Prince. The older man he had come to hate was as palatable and real to him as if he were standing only inches behind him. Unconsciously he rubbed his wrist in memory. It was a nervous and annoying habit he had picked up on Namek and, like many of the other frustrations in his life, it was all Vegeta’s fault.

Ever since that horrible dream he could feel the ghost tail tightening around his lower right arm several times a day. The tingling sensation was maddening and only seemed to worsen with time. At first he chalked it up to nerves, as he had been under no small amount of stress, but the relentless dreams and memories of his mate that followed pointed to something much more problematic.

He tried to block out their bond by staying busy; he trained, worked, researched, and schemed for hours and even days without sleep in an attempt to evade the ever-growing madness of their ailing bond. So far it wasn’t working; Vegeta might as well have been leaning over his shoulder scrutinizing his every move. In his thoughts he could hear him, sneering at every order he gave, mocking every decision, laughing when he flew into a rage because something went awry. Anger boiled in him; if he could only silence him. In time, if he was lucky, he might in fact discover some way to sever the reviled connection. For the time being he would have to cope, if ‘cope’ was a word he could use to describe how he currently lived.

But it wasn’t his former mate alone who plagued his thoughts. Gohan and Trunks too were in his dreams, the former especially. His protégé’s face, something he once found so hopeful and full of innocent adoration in youth became twisted into something he loathed and despised in adulthood. The traitorous brat resembled his father all too much, in looks and in personality. As for Trunks; his mating with that ridiculous monkey poisoned any fond memory he may have once had of the boy. And then there was Goku himself. What the Demon King—as now was his utilized title—felt for Earth’s hero could not be put into words. He had every intention of annihilating his blood enemy once he secured his empire; which from the looks of things wouldn’t take much longer.

Six weeks ago upon Vorosu’s not-so-subtle urging he swept down upon the Rijux’s former leader, Boq. Admittedly Boq was a raging idiot; however his power was just enough to keep his subordinates in line. To be honest, Piccolo was shocked at how easy it was to kill him. Living on Earth with so many powerful warriors and having faced so many dangerous adversaries he had come to assume there were many beings with high ki levels in the universe. It appeared his assumptions were wrong. Boq, though despised, was respected as an exceptional warrior, even though he wasn’t half as powerful as Frieza had been. It took only one ki beam…one and Piccolo was now in command of ten ships, two command stations, and over 10,000 soldiers.

So far he had done well. In six weeks he had secured and sold twice what his predecessor had in an entire year. Despite this success the transition had not come easy. He had known next to nothing about living and prospering in space. What he did know he had learned from Vegeta and that information was over twenty years old. Due to these circumstances Vorosu and Lyre had become critical to him, a fact he was rather put off by. He hated being dependent on the other Nameks, but for the time being there was no way around it. After feeding Lyre a bunk story involving Morie’s and his followers’ death on New Namek (they attacked first, honestly) Piccolo bestowed the distraught stodgy man with a higher title, a raise, and more responsibility, to which Lyre appeared grateful.

However it was the other Namek he was wary of. He promoted Vorosu to second-in-command out of necessity; still he watched the man like a hawk. Vorosu was shrewd and, as Piccolo had come to learn, evil in his own right, plotting and delighting in the destruction of others. The Demon Lord admired this to a degree; however the faintest hint of betrayal or trickery and the lanky warrior would find himself little more than a smoldering smear on the deck’s floor. So far, however, Vorosu seemed more than satisfied with the promotion and freedom Boq’s demise granted him. He happily and patiently walked Piccolo through the Rijux’s history, the current state of affairs, and taught him how to use the various technologies on the ship.

Piccolo was an incredibly fast learner, so it didn’t take him long to figure out the absolute disorganized shit-state Boq had left the Rijux in. Looking over past logs of the Rijux’s previous transactions he was dismayed to find gaping holes in the records, errors in the provisions logs, no sense of political alliances, and worse still massive miscalculations involving incoming and outgoing funds. These had been fixed with some effort; however Boq’s idiocy and ineptness had created a less than flattering image of the Rijux to potential clients.

Vorosu had informed him that even before Frieza’s death the Rijux were not taken seriously; only the poorest buyers would do business with them and even then they were reluctant. Piccolo could see why; the Planet Trade had been everything the Rijux was not. While Boq’s crew, ships, and stations were sizable it was merely a pirate ring; Frieza had an entire Empire.

He wanted that Empire.

And from looking through his personal entries, Boq had wanted it too. It appeared the former leader of the Rijux was obsessed in finding Frieza’s reserves, which according to Lyre was reputed to contain everything from elite battle cruisers and wealth to documents containing information that could bring several influential systems to their knees. As incompetent a leader as Boq may have been, his knowledge of how the Planet Trade worked was admirable and very useful. And although Boq didn’t have the brains to reproduce the same results, Piccolo suspected he may have once been a former employee of the Trade himself. But if so, why did Frieza let him live?

It was one of many questions the new leader had. Ironically, when Piccolo first landed on Old Namek he had no idea who Frieza was, only that he had to help defeat him and save Gohan. Now after weeks of attaining information from both Lyre and Vorosu in addition to what he had learned from the P.A.C. and Boq’s notes he desperately wished the tyrant was alive, simply so he could learn his secrets before returning the bastard to hell.

Despite these obstacles Piccolo felt he had little room to complain. As much as his dreams tortured him, he was surprised to find how much he enjoyed this new line of work. The Rijux kept him busy, gave him a purpose, and aided in distracting him from his constant companion of despair. More so, this new role of leadership was worthy of him…almost.

He was the Demon Lord, he deserved to be respected, feared…worshipped. In order to gain that level of esteem he needed an Empire of his own. The Rijux, he decided, would merely be a stepping stone, training if you would. After he felt he was competent in running things sufficiently on his own he would strip away the Rijux’s name and make his own.

He was already taking small steps towards this realization; he weeded out the weak and lazy of his soldiers, laid down new regulations, organized the ground parties, and set up administrators to sort out the financial mess Boq had left them in. He even did away with the tacky red and green uniforms which he had found out had been synonymous among clients as third class.

This would not do. Their biggest dilemma had been connecting with clientele. Vorosu was right; there was a huge potential market with the Planet Trade long gone. Still, there was a lack of enthusiasm when the Rijux appeared to fill the gap. They needed to reinvent themselves, one step at a time. Piccolo started with the basics. To help bolster a new image, he had the wide shoulder padded breastplate replaced with a sleek vest of grey armor over a black bodysuit. Initially his soldiers complained that there was lack of protection with these new suits. Their new commander had countered that this would provide more incentive for them to work on their speed in battle and suggested they start training and stop whining like whelps. As for the color he originally wanted to go for white and black but apparently that was one of the Planet Trade’s old color schemes and his men, although they would relent to less protection, would not wear the colors of their rivals, despite that said rival had disbanded twenty years ago.

At least the scum were loyal.

“What the hell!” Vorosu swore, storming onto the deck and breaking Piccolo from his thoughts.

Piccolo raised a brow.

“What the hell, sir?” Vorosu repeated, emphasizing the title of respect with little décorum. “We nearly had them up to 400, if you would have given me just a little time—”

But the tall Namek never got to finish his tirade as just then they received an incoming signal from Garvis, leader of the Catimins.

“Lord Daimaou, I demand that you cease this insult at once and pull your men from the surface. Burning our villages will NOT sway our negotiations. How DARE YOU treat a client like this? Boq would have never—”

With little more than disgusted grunt leaving his lips, Piccolo ended the transmission and leisurely left the room. His crew dumbly stared after him, unsure of what was going on or what they should be doing. They graced each other with anxious and bewildered looks until the mystery was solved precisely two minutes and seven seconds later. Catimus, floating serenely on the main screen, suddenly burst into a cataclysmic explosion of blinding light and debris; the shockwaves from which rocked the ship and knocked the monitors off-line.

The Demon Lord returned moments later as casually as he left. Amidst the shocked silence he seated himself in his previous place and reached for a bottle that had fallen from its perch beside his chair.

“Vorosu,” he addressed in a low voice as he un-plugged the decanter and poured its contents into a glass, “to address your earlier concern; the initial agreement for the selling planet was 700, the Catimins refused to honor that contract. I sent a kind reminder of said agreement but the Catimins remained stubborn. You will learn that in these circumstances I only give one warning, and then only when I’m feeling generous.”

The thin Namek gaped at him, trembling slightly in his place. Finally, he managed to find his voice, albeit weak.

“Y…yes, sire.”

Piccolo’s mouth twitched at the sound of what could only be fear in the other man’s tenor. “I’m glad that you understand. Now see to the preparation for our next stop. Catimus was a loss of funding but we still have the opportunity to make it up elsewhere.”

“Yes sir, at once.”

He turned to leave.

“Oh and Vorosu,”

“Yes, sire?”

The blasts shot through the air straight into the second-in-command’s right shoulder and knee cap severing the connecting appendages. An ear-splitting screech filled the room and the other crew scattered away from the Namek’s mangled frame crashing to the ground.

“If you ever question or address me with anything less than the utmost respect again,” Piccolo said coolly, “I’ll aim for your head next time.” He smiled cruelly then turned to the guards, “Take him to his quarters. He can bleed there instead of my floor.”

His officers quickly reacted, dragging the fallen man towards the door but not before Vorosu lifted his head to look at his attacker. His eyes glittered strangely but he was through the threshold before Piccolo could decipher the look as rebellious.

He dismissed it and turned back to his crew.

“Get these damn screens back on-line.”

He shut his eyes as his soldiers did as commanded and leaned back in his chair. His earlier feeling of glee at destroying Catimus and mauling Vorosu drained from him, drowning in the sound of dark mocking laughter echoing in his head.

‘Shut up, Vegeta.’