IMPORTANT A/N – It would be lovely to know
someone is actually coherently reading this story so a few more reviews would
be nice. It will certainly help the next chapter out a lot quicker.
Disclaimer: If I owned Dragonball I
wouldn’t sell movie rights that would end up producing a timid and frail Goku,
a brown haired Bulma, a non-existent Krillan and a Vegeta too terrifyingly
wrong to even imagine.
Survival
Chapter 3: Conspiracy
By Ariel
By the time Bulma’s damaged
body finally recovered enough for her to awaken a full week had passed.
Drifting in the familiar aqua fluid, her entire bulk a seething mass of aching
flesh and seeping welts, she wept silently.
He had shown her, alright.
Shown her exactly how worthless, useless and weak she was. Shown her that, for
all her gruff words and courageous façade, she was just a powerless insect; one
filled with dangerous ideas to be swiftly squished.
She had tried to
fight. Tooth and nail, just like he’d said. But it had been as useless and
pointless as trying to shield yourself from meteors with a frayed umbrella.
He’d just laughed at her attempts, ever mocking, and continued his barrage. The
constant snigger, eroding the atmosphere with his contemptuous, arrogant and
savage emotion, had filled her with disgust to the point of sickness. Never had
she felt such violent, damaging disgust.
The way he violated her,
damaged, destroyed her… It was beyond mere pain and degradation. It was
evil embodied. He was evil embodied. And yet for all his vile ways it
remained inconsequential to the fact that, for the first time in her life,
there was nothing she could do.
No longer could she rely on
the heroic protection of others. There was no courageous jungle boy to come to
her rescue, no dashing desert prince. Just herself, her captor and a million
hateful and vicious faces swimming in a sea of shadows, waiting fitfully to
wrench her from her life and lavish in the metallic taste of her blood.
Bulma was forced to face the
fact that she was, perhaps for the rest of her life, unequivocally alone.
And suddenly everything took
on an ever darker tone.
Before her, the liquid
crystal display flashed her vitals. She still had a little over five hours
healing time in the tank. A groan escaped her. Five immobile, inane hours with
nothing to occupy her thoughts but the savage beating and rape that she wanted
so desperately to forget.
Then again, perhaps there
were others things to consider, more comforting thoughts.
Like revenge.
Frieza’s confidence in her
inevitable submittal had been a false one. He had indeed bested her, as he had
thoroughly and brutally intended, but only in the physical arena. And while he
could pillage and plunder her body for a million years in a thousand different
and more horrifying ways she would never allow him access to her mind. And
that, as the people of Earth were well aware, was where the entirety of Bulma
Brief’s true power dwelt.
A ferocious glint in her eye,
Bulma made a heart-felt vow to God that the sadistic beast would meet his
demise at her hands. Should it take forever she would have her revenge. And
God, overcome by the intensity of her passion, shuddered in her wake.
Hell hath no fury like a
woman scorned.
+++++
On a small planet in a
distant solar system Vegeta awoke in a cold sweat.
The wheels of fate began to
turn.
+++++
Hours later, only minutes
from her eminent ejection, Bulma was torn from her schemes by a familiar blue
countenance. Frowning, she averted her gaze and awaited release.
As it so happened she had not
spent much of her precious tank time, perhaps the only moments she would be
spared from Frieza’s rancorous attentions, brooding. Instead she’d reverted to
the impartial and indifferent scientist, her genius mind working frantically
through a thousand calculated scenarios that would see Frieza’s icy blood flow.
It had seemed undeniably impossible, every silly idea and idiotic plan, until
the answer, immensely flawed but nonetheless perfect, presented itself.
Now with Zarbon’s arrival the
plot that rode on a thousand miniscule option and assumptions commenced.
The fluid drained in a
mechanical whirl and she pulled the mask from her face, stepping from the tank
with no thought to modesty. A lot could change in the space of a week.
Silent and morose, Zarbon
once again ushered her beneath familiar faucets. She barely flinched as the
chilling water surged over her. There were more important things at hand.
“So… now you understand.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Bulma replied. “May I
discuss something with you?”
“Woman, I’ve no desire to
hear about your aching body, heart or soul. I’ve heard it all before and I’m
quite uninterested in listening to it again. Whatever compassion I once
possessed was lost many years ago.”
“Actually it’s nothing like
that,” Bulma mumbled. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Then out with it. I’ve more
important things to do than listen to your foolish, weakling propositions.”
“Yes well that’s just it. It
seems you people are unaware that to judge someone by mere strength alone is
not always the wisest course of action.”
“Well of course you’d say
that. Your power level is less than that of an infant!”
“And yet I have strength far
beyond that of any physical prowess.”
“Woman, if you insist on
barraging me with fanciful imaginings then I’ll leave you to wander the halls
of this ship full of violent rapists and murderers alone.”
“What I want to talk to you
about,” Bulma urged, careful to articulate every word. “Is something very
personal. But I’m not sure this room is private enough to discuss this very
personal thing. Is there anywhere we could talk where no one would
overhear our very personal discussion?”
Zarbon tilted his head and
stared at her, utterly perplexed.
“Woman, are you serious?”
Abandoning all pretence Bulma
took his hands within her own, desperate to portray her intent through sheer
force of will.
“Dead serious.”
She held her breath and
awaited his response.
“Alright,” he muttered,
tearing his hands from hers and averting his gaze. “My room is just around the
corner. We can talk there. But make it quick, Frieza is expecting you before
the night’s out.”
Bulma moaned inwardly at his
careless revelation and they walked to his quarters in silence.
+++++
In a dark room, enveloped in
monitors that glowed like the sinister gaze of a thousand-eyed beast, a hideous
face cracked an even more hideous smile.
“What are you up to,
Zarbon?”
+++++
“You must be insane, woman.
Do you have any idea what could happen to you, what would happen to us,
if they knew we were even discussing this? Surely you of all people can
understand what he’s capable of?!”
“Yes I do. And that’s
precisely why he’s left me no choice. We have to do this.”
“We? Woman, you can
count me out of this. Such actions are folly.”
“I don’t think you completely
understand what I’m saying. I’m not just smart, I’m a genius. I can produce
technology in my sleep the likes of which you’ve never even dreamt of. I
can give you things that will make you faster, stronger and better than ever
before. Within a year you’ll be able to string him up without even breaking a
sweat.”
“No, it’s you who doesn’t
understand. I can’t kill Frieza. I won’t ever be able to. Have you any
idea just how strong he is?! And he’s not even in his most powerful form! There
are rumors that fully transformed his power level tops 1 million. At my
strongest I can reach 30 thousand, perhaps 35. Compared to him I’m nothing.
You’re plan is naught but a fools errand. No one is strong enough to defeat
him. No one ever will be.”
“You’re wrong,” she
vehemently contested. “I know I can do it. I know we can do. Don’t you
get it? We’d not just be killing a tyrant; we’d be saving the universe. We’d be
heroes.”
“I’ve no desire to be a hero.
I just want to stay alive. It may not be much, but it’s all I have.”
“To merely survive under
these horrendous terms, is it really worth it? You yourself said that the only
blessing to be had here is death. Should we fail what greater death than to die
fighting for what’s right?”
“And what then? Can I really
expect to receive a hero’s welcome to the afterlife after all I’ve done? I’m
not conceited enough to believe one good deed makes up for a lifetime of sin.
Any horror faced here is insurmountable to what awaits.”
“But… shouldn’t… shouldn’t
you at least try?” Bulma stammered, thrown by his comments. “No one lives
forever, Zarbon. This may be your last chance. Your last shot at salvation. If
you’re that terrified of what awaits, shouldn’t you at least give it a go? For
your sake? For the sake of your soul? For your loved ones who await you?”
“No one awaits me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you should woman.
Someone who’s done what I’ve done, committed such atrocities and horrors…
Someone like that doesn’t deserve love. The only thing that waits for me is a
burning flame of eternal pain and suffering ready to engulf me in entirety.
Such are the gifts of a life spent serving Frieza.”
Frustrated, angry, miserable
tears fell down Bulma’s cheeks. She struck the desk, breaking her wrist with
the intensity of her emotion.
“Someone like you doesn’t
deserve saving! Refusing to even attempt to do what’s right. Why did I
even bother?! Obviously, I was just projecting my own illusions onto you.
You’re nothing but a coward and a weak fool. I’m sorry I thought I saw
otherwise.”
Staring at the ground,
unwilling to meet her accusing gaze, Zarbon frowned.
“… So am I,” he whispered,
too soft for her to hear.
“Hurry up and take me to
Frieza,” Bulma seethed, her face flushed red in anger and pain. “At least he
isn’t afraid to face his own shadow!”
“As you wish…” he said,
leading Bulma down the monotonous steel halls to where her tormentor awaited.
Reaching the familiar dark
entryway a violent chill ran down her spine. Steeling herself Bulma grabbed the
handle and thrust the door open, storming into the room with all the bravado
she could master. Zarbon balked at her confidence before scurrying off.
Lounging on the bed the
monster grinned, his ferocious teeth glinting sadistically in the pale star
light.
“So we meet again.”
Bulma stalked up to the foot
of the oversized bed, her head held high like a proud dignitary. Waves of
arrogance and superiority radiated off her small form and Frieza’s confident
smirk wavered in her wake.
“I may be powerless against
you Frieza but, mark my words, I will have my revenge.”
And she spat savagely at his
feet.
In a flurried haze of torn
clothes and furious intent Bulma was pinned, now naked and bruised, beneath her
captor’s heaving form. His reptilian tongue snaked across her cheekbone, his
wicked red eyes glowing in malicious fury.
“You’re nothing but a frail
and wretched toy I choose to keep around for my own amusement. Nothing you do
can harm me. How do you intend of attaining this vengeance? Talking me to
death?”
His hollow laughter did
nothing to sway her. Renewed by a sense of purpose and imbued by the power of
her dark design Bulma’s mind was now fortified; an unreachable, unattainable fortress
of steel will. She still feared him but she was no longer owned by that fear.
And any real power he had over her was lost.
Her mocking laughter,
menacingly melodious in its terrible wrongness, did not go ignored.
Snarling like a rabid dog, he
pummeled all laugher and consciousness from her.
Her head lolling lifelessly
off the bed, Frieza had his way, over and over, with her insentient form.
And once again, naught more
than a bag of brutalized flesh, an unrecognizable Bulma was dragged to the
tanks.
+++++
Life continued that way for
months. To Bulma, who remained conscious and aware barely once a week, it still
seemed closer to years. Years that, despite her previous rock-solid confidence,
were slowly eroding her.
The thought that kept
scratching at the back of her mind, the unwelcome notion she did everything to
ignore and discredit, was becoming increasing more riotous. Because she still
couldn’t find a co-conspirator to bring about the demise of the dark devil. And
without one all was moot.
Zarbon had made it very clear
he wasn’t willing. Though he always received Bulma from the tank they hadn’t
spoken a word since their fight in his quarters. After that furious
confrontation she had abandoned all hope of persuading him. He was simply too
weak, too cowardly and too set in his ways to challenge the man whom had
forgiven his sins and offered him a place where there was no judgment to be
found. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Frieza had been
responsible for tainting his soul in the first place.
But, without Zarbon, her plan
took on an almost impossible to bear weight.
At her luckiest she’d be
granted a single day of conscious tank time before she was dragged off to her
tormentor’s sinister abode. She could think, plan, scheme but she couldn’t
network. Floating silently in the thick healing fluid she’d eye the brawny
warriors stalking passed her unable to do anything but stare longingly at their
retreating forms.
She had been thrilled almost
to tears when a passing soldier, eyeing her heavenly floating form, had made a
move to release her. Her excitement had been palpable as his fingers flew
across the tank’s control panel in his eagerness, his eyes scanning hungrily
over her form. And then he had noticed her bracelet. Blanching, his deep purple
skin waning to a sickly pink, he scurried off with his literal tail between his
craven legs.
And that had been it. Her
only tangible contact with anyone other than Zarbon or Frieza. Twice, when left
alone in Frieza’s quarters to await her inevitable midnight trysts, she’d
managed to escape in the hopes of finding a suitable collaborator only to run
smack bang into Zarbon who promptly returned her. After her second attempt
Zarbon was placed outside her door to prevent her escape until the rapist
arrived. He was like her nurse maid. A sadistic nurse maid who cared little for
its charge’s wellbeing. Every waking moment he would follow her around, never
letting her out of his site, never allowing her even the slightest freedom. This
made her plan, and her life, all the more difficult. She had a nagging
suspicion that the reason for his constant company had something to do with her
mutinous proposition. Perhaps he had told Frieza everything. And now, armed
with the knowledge she’d thought taken for granted, he wasn’t letting her out
of his sight.
Sitting in Frieza’s room
before the giant wall window her only apparent duty was to anxiously await the
inevitable.
She grunted, casually tracing
childish words onto the cool glass as she stared at the heavenly beings
twinkling strikingly in the blanket of space. There had to be a way out of
this. Had to. She couldn’t let Frieza and his Pretty Pet Prince outsmart her.
She had to think. She had to-
Bounding from the floor Bulma
sprinted to the room’s locking mechanism, grabbing several intergalactic bauds
and trinkets on the way.
“I can’t hurt him, huh? We’ll
see about that.”
Her savage grin twinkled
menacingly in the heavy shadows.
+++++
Countless hours later Bulma
reclined on the lavish bedspread, trying her best to remain nonchalant as the
steel door slid open.
“Well, what have we here?”
Frieza rasped, the ghost of a smirk gracing his features. “Submission at last.
I must say I was beginning to think such a thing impossible.”
“Well as they say,” Bulma
purred, crawling seductively closer to his static form in silent invitation.
“If you can’t beat them… join them.”
“Indeed,” Frieza muttered,
his trepidation clear. His devilish eyes scanned her scantily clad form but it
was hardly the simply attentions of a lusty admirer. He was searching… And he
knew! A part of him had understood the second he entered the room that his prey
was no longer defenseless. And he wasn’t coming any closer until he understood
precisely what she was planning.
But Bulma refused to give up.
No longer could she continue this diabolically defeating life and do nothing.
Come head or high water she would be triumphant.
Raising herself to his eye
level, a fake smirk in place, Bulma began to undress in agonizingly slow
movements. Her small hands slid erotically over her luscious curves as she
pulled the sheer night dress over her head. Shaking out her long, aqua locks
she pouted, every inch the smoldering sex goddess. She fingered the delicate
material of her aqua bra, her forefinger running enticingly down the incline of
her breast. With a cheeky snap it fell open, her creamy mounds bouncing out in
all their exquisite glory. She liked her lips, her eyes remaining glued to him
as her right hand encircled her breast. She pinched her erect nipple, moaning
deliciously as she massaged the ripe mound, slowly pleasuring herself.
Abandoning all apprehension
Frieza shuffled forward, mesmerized by her devious dance of seduction. His eyes
remained glued, unable to think of anything but the delectable deity slowly
satisfying herself. She moaned louder, one hand trailing enticingly downward.
Just a littler closer.
Just a little-
BANG!
The violent explosion ripped
through the room, dissolving the opposite wall in an eruption of smoke, ash and
twisted metal. Bulma grinned in savage victory, the make-shift cannon nuzzling
comfortably between her thighs like some malicious lover. Overcome by foolish
lust Frieza had failed to notice the deadly device hidden beneath the cool silk
sheets until it was too late. And now, she was free. Everyone was free.
And she was a hero. She was a-
Bulma’s victory was short
lived. Her face blanched when the clammy hands of her contemptuous captor
snaked from the clearing dust and wrapped themselves around her delicate neck.
“I should snap you in half!”
he snarled, the whites of his eyes turned crimson in the wake of his bottomless
rage. “Or let my men rape you to death. Either one would be more than a fucking
disgusting whore such as you deserves.”
Bulma took time to notice the
‘invincible’ leader had several cuts and bruises scattering his cool carcass,
along with a significant chuck missing from his right calf. His shattered
composure and damaged form filled her with ruthless pleasure. She grinned
maliciously.
His choke hold tightened, merciless
anger radiating off him in black waves.
“BITCH!!!” he spat, throwing
her body to ground and ruthlessly attacking her in a frantic haze of bloodied
limbs and broken bones.
He would have killed her had
Zarbon, only seconds before the point of no return, not made himself known.
The blue skinned beauty
cleared his throat loudly.
“Sire, begging your pardon,”
he muttered. “But I think it a good idea to leave this place and find a private
and secure place to heal before word gets out of the explosion and every man on
the ship arrives to see for themselves what happened here.”
Frieza turned on his second
command, snarling like a savage animal as he slammed him against the wall.
“And what exactly do
you think happened here?” he hissed, still a hostage to the rage that consumed
his being.
“W-well, S-s-sire,” Zarbon
stuttered, not for the first terrified of his crazed Master. “I-I… I-It… I
mean, o-obviously, you just exerted yourself a little t-too much playing with
your new toy. U-understandable reaction, of c-course.”
Taking a deep breath Frieza
lowered Zarbon’s captive form, his sharp anger evaporating.
“Yes you’re quite right
Zarbon,” he answered, reverted to his cool and collected glory. “I indeed
exerted myself a little too much. I think I’ll depart to my private tank before
someone other than you arrives and gets the wrong idea.”
“Yes, sire. A fine idea.”
Frieza stalked arrogantly out
the gaping hole, once a wall, spitefully adding:
“And take her to be healed.
She’s not getting away from me that easily. She shall have to punished for her
contempt!”
The sadistic promise in his
words sent a cool chill down Zarbon’s spine.
He gingerly gathered her
inert form in his broad arms, a genuine smile inadvertently transforming his
cool features to something softer, kinder and unquestionably beautiful.
“You truly are amazing…”
+++++
Bulma’s insides had been
ground to pulverized tatters. She had been naught but an unrecognizable blob of
ugly purple bruises, deep cuts and a seemingly endless river of crimson life
blood. Zarbon had speed down the listless corridors, barely a blip on the
radar, fazing past gawking soldiers faster than the blink of an eye. And still
it had almost been too late. Due to the extensive nature of her injuries
preparatory surgery had been required before tank time. With the delicate moves
of an over-protective parent he placed her small body on the operating tables.
The arrogant lab surgeons barely fluttered an eyelid as they chattering
mindlessly about themselves and the benefits of their own trumped up position.
The injured blue haired whore, so insignificant in the wake of their self
proclaimed importance, simply didn’t registered. Zarbon had scowled, his darker
side coming to the fore. Interrupting their gratuitous conversation he had
grabbed an emerald skinned surgeon by the collar and shook him violently.
“I have a woman here who
needs urgent attention,” he’d snarled. “So why don’t you shut your fool mouths
and do your job.”
The colour drained from their
faces as they were instantly humbled and shamed by the second strongest man in
the fleet. Dropping all pretence they’d shuffled over to the injured woman
lying prone. Ten minutes later, the tiny particles of bone piercing several of
her vital organs removed, she’d been placed in the tank for her most extensive healing
session.
A week and several operations
later she was still showing little outward signs of recovery. Floating like a
corpse the whole left side of her face remained a terrible cacophony of ugly
scar tissue. A huge puckered wound marred her entire left side, running from
the rise of her breast to her jutting hip bone. The rest of her torso and face
was a cruel assortment of purple, yellow and brown bruises. Internally, though,
she was nearing recovery. And that was a start.
“Crocus, over here,” Zarbon
beckoned. After a spat within his own tank Frieza had demanded Zarbon stay by
the woman’s side. He didn’t want his little toy getting out of her punishment
that easily. Feigning irritation and feeling relief, Zarbon had complied. But
with little to occupy his time but her torturously slow progress he had
eventually succumbed to mindless chatter of his own.
“What is it, Zarbon?” Crocus
asked softly. Shortly after Bulma’s first operation Zarbon had been introduced
to the purple skinned humanoid alien. A galaxy class surgeon and all around
nice guy it had become almost immediately apparent that this being, his eyes
large green pools of endless wisdom and un-contemplatable sorrow, was
mercifully absent of the pride and arrogance plaguing his colleagues. He had
shook Zarbon’s hand, his small hand rough and calloused from years of hard
work, and muttered: “I’ll be in charge of this case now. She’ll be fine.”
So far, he’d been true to him
word.
“What’s her condition?”
Zarbon muttered, eyeing her form and frowning.
“It’s looking up. At the
start it was touch and go. She was too inherently weak to have healed from such
immense trauma. Every sign pointed to heart simply stopping. But it didn’t.
Despite her obvious weakness this woman has the strongest will I’ve ever seen.
She simply wouldn’t let herself die. And, as far as I can see, that’s
the sole reason she’d didn’t. It’s quite amazing really. The read outs say her
internal injuries are all but healed. Once I’m convinced there’s nothing left
to fix on the inside we’ll focus on her external issues. By tomorrow or the
next I should be able to revert the tank and get to work on those nasty scars.”
“So she’ll be fully healed.”
“Well, yes… and no. As you
know I was forced to reconfigure the tank due to her extensive injuries to give
her a fighting chance. Now, considering the age of her external injuries, it’s
doubtful they’ll all be fully healed.”
“… Will she’ll be terribly
marred?” Zarbon questioned, feeling an unwelcome and unfamiliar pang within his
heart.
“Oh no! Her face should be
fine. The bruising there looks a lot worse than it is. Most of the cuts were
shallow and, as such, are easily healed. Tank technology has come a long way.
However that gash on her side… It’s so deep and brutal it’s unlikely the skin
there will ever completely recover. It will fade but she’ll have that scar for
the rest of her life.”
“But apart from that…” Zarbon
trailed off.
“Apart from that, she’ll be
good as new. Until he gets his hands on her again that is.”
They both nodded solemnly,
turning to watch the floating fallen angel who lay completely oblivious of the
horror that surrounded her.
“Someone needs to stop him,”
Crocus muttered. Zarbon felt none of the shock or anger he should have but was
instead overcome by vast respect for the solemn surgeon. To even think rebellious
thoughts earned a death sentence yet he had outwardly contemplated Frieza’s
death as though discussing the weather. Such cosmic courage Zarbon admired
deeply.
And though he said nothing,
the repressing result of a lifetime’s cruel and vicious beatings, he silently
agreed.
Frieza did need to be
stopped. And soon.
Without realizing it, he was
pushed across a threshold he thought never to traverse.
Five days later Bulma woke.
+++++
Her eyelids fluttered open
and burning memories accosted her. The damaged flesh crawled and pulsed like a
living thing; a mass of sharp, throbbing pain. Every inch of her itched, ached
and stung. She understood, in a vague and far off way, that she had very nearly
died. Surprisingly, the thought filled her with little comfort.
She had been so stupid, so
conceited and sure, in her arrogance and idiocy, that her foolish toy would
mean Frieza’s demise. But small scratches and cuts, even a gaping leg wound,
couldn’t be considered any real victory. She was playing against the devil. And
he played for keeps.
She mentally barraged
herself. Zarbon had been right. Frieza was so strong, stronger than any one
being should be, and maybe there really was nothing she could do.
Her dejected gaze flickered
to the foot of the tank and her self-pitying thoughts ceased. Laying there, his
normally flawless emerald hair spilling unkempt around his face, his uniform
scruffy and soiled, Zarbon lay sleeping.
Bulma’s breath caught in her
throat. For one moment, staring at his rumpled form, a worried scowl on his
face, she indulged the fact that, despite his apparent indifference, he
actually cared. Then reality struck her, hard and fast. He was just her body
guard. And her nurse maid. Nothing more. He had made it clear on more than one
occasion that he despised her and his position. He was here because of Frieza.
Bulma sighed. Was there
really no one in this wide world who would help her? Left out in the cold, like an abandoned
kitten in a world full of pit bulls, no hero in sight, what was a girl to do?
She was swiftly losing options. Perhaps she’d never really had any to begin
with. Was it time to simply admit defeat and give in?
Tears fell, unbidden and
relentless.
Zarbon was torn from sleep by
a dull aching in his chest. He raised his head, inspecting his ward’s progress.
Watching her tears fall, silent and desperate, wrenched his soul. He raised a
gloved hand, delicately tracing the outline of her broken features, and
mouthed:
“I’m sorry.”
The tinkle of tears turned
into a flood and Zarbon was worried he’d said the wrong thing until she flashed
him a genuine, heart-felt smile. Her first since entering Frieza’s service. His
wrenched features spelled her future and it was once more beautiful.
Unbeknownst to himself,
Zarbon smiled back.
That stayed that way for an
hour.
Bulma fell asleep, crying
with joy for hope, so close to death, renewed.
+++++
Two days later, fifteen
minutes from expulsion, Bulma woke again. She locked eyes with Zarbon and a
silent understanding passed between them. Delight overwhelmed her.
When she stepped from the
tank he wrapped her in a towel with the care of a man handling a precious jewel.
He did not, as usual, usher her towards the shower. Instead, encompassing her
tiny hand within his own, he pulled her down the hall towards his quarters. Not
a word passed between them until he shut the door.
“I’m sorry for dragging you
here wet and sticky,” he mumbled, his head bowed as he secured the door closed.
“It’s just; I thought your might like a real shower. Not one where you’re
exposed to everyone who cares to look. The bathroom is that door over to the
right. Take as much time as you like.”
Head still bowed, he walked
in the direction of his kitchenette. Bulma grabbed his wrist, halting his
departure.
“Wait! I still not sure
exactly what’s going on here. Why are you being so kind? I want to believe I
know but I just can’t get my hopes up again. I don’t think I could handle the
rejection this time. I really don’t.”
Zarbon took a deep breath,
raising his head to stare into the eyes of the woman whom had proven to hold a
power beyond contemplation.
“I practiced what I’d say to
you. I must have come up with a hundred different scenarios, different things I
wanted to say, different ideas I needed to portray. It all disappeared the
second you stepped out of that tank. I’m trying, so desperately, to get
these thoughts in order. But it’s hard and… and, you were right, because I am a
coward. I need more time. So, please, go have a shower and give me it. When you
get out I promise, on my life, that I’ll put in to words these feelings I’m
only beginning to understand.”
Taking both his hands within
her own Bulma stood up on her tip toes and lightly kissed his cheek.
Pulling back she muttered:
“You better,” and departed
into the bathroom.
Zarbon let out the breath
he’d been holding and went to pour the night cap he so desperately needed.
The large bathroom was
equipped with both a giant glass shower and a huge, pool like bath. Taking the
swifter route she stepped onto the crimson marble of the shower floor, turning
the taps and closing her eyes as peace engulfed her.
The warm water cascading down
her tender muscles soothed her. She sighed in ecstasy. Never would she have
imagined that the simple act of showering could offer such divine delight. Each
drop took with it a separate worry, fear and doubt until she was once again
immaculate; imbued with nothing but a cleansed soul and pure mind. Such was the
simple miracle of unsoiled skin.
For the first time in a long
time she grinned simply for the sake of it.
Losing herself in the
shower’s tranquil charm she was unaware of time, space or anything but the
smooth, exquisite feel of the water running its healing hands over her naked
form. It was her lover, she it’s willing slave.
Almost an hour passed before
a tentative knock at the door jarred her from the private world she’d created.
“Woman, are you alright?”
Bulma rolled her eyes,
begrudgingly turning the shower off and stepping out. Her body cried in agony
from the separation of the curative cascade. A part of her wanted to stay there
forever, washed away in a sea of peace where nothing hurt, nothing was lost and
nothing except the most primal of experiences mattered. That part was silenced.
She was so close to revenge she couldn’t all most taste it and nothing, nothing,
was going to stand in her way.
“Yes, I’ll only be a moment.
And its Bulma, not woman!” she replied, begrudgingly.
She peeked in the mirror, the
sight of her reflection jarring her to a standstill. She’d not realized the
damage months of malnutrition and abuse had done. The dark bags beneath her eyes
conflicted harshly with her too pale countenance. Her face looked like some
nightmarish skull. Her luscious curves, once so prized and adored, had all but
vanished to be replaced by bones that jutted awkwardly from her skin. The
radiance and shine from her once beautiful locks was gone. And, to top it off,
an ugly puckered scar ran down her entire left side, marring her skin
inexcusable.
In a word, she looked like
hell.
She turned away. If anything
this only strengthened her resolve. Someone had to be held accountable for the
damage heaped upon her and countless others. Someone had to pay.
She looked around for a
towel, spotting two against the wall, hanging inconveniently from the ceiling.
She pulled them down, wrapping her body and hair in the silky material.
Bulma exited the room, a
scowl on her face.
Zarbon took one look at her
and grinned despite himself.
Her scowl deepened.
“What’s exactly is so funny,
mister?”
“Do you realize,” he said,
trying and failing to keep the humor from his voice. “That you’re wearing the
curtains?”
“Excuse me?” Bulma muttered,
eyeing her blue-skinned companion. “Curtains?”
“Yes,” he muttered, grabbing
her immobile form and dragging her back to the bathroom.
“This,” he said, pointing to
a cupboard off to the side of the shower. “Is the Insta-Tech dryer. Just jump
in, press the big red button and in 5.6 seconds you’re dry from head to toe.”
“So… this isn’t a towel,”
Bulma picked at the crimson sheet draping her naked form.
“No.”
“But there’s no window…”
“There is. It’s just no on.”
“Not… on?”
“No, it’s veiled by an
electrometric shield that can block the view if you change the setting. I’ve
had it turned off since I took this room.”
“So… hang on. Does every room
have one of these?”
“Most have several.”
“And if you have it turned on
what’s on the other side?”
“The hallway.””
“The hallway?!”
“Yes.”
“And can the people in the
hallway see inside?”
“Only if it’s turned on?”
“But… hang on…” Bulma
muttered, utterly baffled. “Why would anyone want to shower with the window
open for the whole world to see?”
“I suppose for the same
reason the soldiers find it funny to rape harem whores to death… or beat mothers
with the limbs of their children… or eat the flesh of their victims.”
“T-they… they do that?”
Bulma stuttered, horrified.
“Yes,” Zarbon bluntly
responded.
“Do… Do you?”
“I don’t pretend to be
perfect, woman. But no, I’ve never participated in such things.”
“I told you to call me
Bulma.” she whispered without conviction.
He grabbed her shoulders,
forcing her to look him in the eye.
“I will if you’ll hear me
out.”
Bulma looked to the floor.
“Let me dry myself off. Then
we’ll talk.”
“Deal,” he agreed, handing
her a small paper package he’d been holding. “I got you some clean clothes.
They’re nothing much but it’s all I could do.”
She took it from him,
grabbing his hand and squeezing it briefly.
“Thanks.”
And he left.
She stepped into the ‘dryer’,
pressed the red button and was accosted by a frantic gale. She barely had time
to register the intense feeling before it was removed. ‘Complete’ the machine
stated with robotic coldness. She fingered her hair. Completely dry. Ah, the
wonders of the mechanical era!
Stepping out of the
claustrophobic cupboard, glad it had only lasted as long as it did; she opened
the small brown package. A pair of plain white panties and a loud orange dress
that suffocated her in a sea of material but was still indecently low. It
wasn’t perfect but, considering the only alternative was air, it would have to
do.
This time, she didn’t bother
with the mirror.
She stepped out.
Zarbon’s smug smirk was still
set firmly in place.
“What is it this time?” she
grumbled. “Don’t tell me that I’m accidentally wearing your toilet paper.”
“No, wom-No Bulma. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
Her question met only
silence.
“Come on, out with it!” she
seethed.
“You look ridiculous.”
Bulma scowled, falling face
down onto the couch.
“Tell me something I don’t
know,” she muttered through a mouthful of leather.
“Well, I don’t think I’ve
ever seen such an ugly outfit.”
Bulma looked up, frowning.
“That wasn’t a literal
request, you know?”
“Pardon?”
Her head fell back into the
sofa.
“… Never mind.”
“Anyway there are things we
need to discuss. To be specific: your proposition.”
She was on her feet in a
second, her demeanor suddenly seriousness.
“What about it?” she asked
breathlessly.
“Originally I thought you
were nothing but talk. Many people come here sprouting nonsense about
overthrowing Frieza. They build up their own merits to get people on side only
to fail miserably when it turns out that their strength or intelligence or
sometimes simply their endurance is nothing like they claimed. Then they’re
punished for their mutinous ways. And, without fail, they drag every singly
person who thought to help down into the seething pit of their lies. When I
first met you I was sure you were like that. You had no reputation, no strength
and were sprouting claims that seemed unlikely at best. It seemed to me that
within a week, maybe two, you’d be yet another broken, brutalized whore who’d
sell her soul for a cigarette. But I was wrong. I watched you suffer
continuously and lose nothing of that spark or fire that seems to consume your
very being. And I began to wonder. When I walked in on you and he that day,
when I saw the damage you’d done, something changed within me. Something I’d
thought long dead sparked back to life. With one action you’ve single handedly
reignited my hope. Suddenly it seemed that maybe, with your help, I really
could beat him. We really could beat him. The idea which
had for so long seemed impossible suddenly took on new dimensions becoming not
just plausible but possible. Did you know that he had to take two days off to
heal? Two whole days where not one single person on the fleet heard word of
him. Because of you. You, a woman with a power level lower than a gnat, damaged
a seemingly impenetrable warrior! And, if that wasn’t enough, he transformed.
When he finally showed up he was in a different from. So threatened was he by
you, you, that he felt the need to become stronger.
We could really do this. You
and me. And all this pain, all the terrible things he’s done, it would end.
I feel like I’ve finally
woken from a dream. A dream where I was alive but not living. I walked around
like a witless Zombie, taking orders, doing abhorrent things and completely
oblivious to all the pain and anguish surrounding me. And then you came. And I
awoke. Suddenly everything is so much clearer, so much more real. Because you
were right, this has to end. And who better than you and I, those who’ve felt
the full force of Frieza‘s evil, to end it.”
“So, you’re in? You‘ll help
me?” she whispered in breathless anticipation.
“Bulma, it would be an
honour.”
Chapter 4