Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Fever of Deceit ❯ Chapter 2

Bulma's eyes fluttered as she fought sleepiness, concentrating on soldering two wires together, one among a rainbowed tangle of them at her desk. The bright fluorescence bleached her face as it revealed everything in her workspace in its stark unimpressiveness. A white cubicle, tall enough to isolate her from her other co-workers. One boxy computer, set up to prohibit her from anything but her assignment and monitor her work. A few pens and pencils strewn on her desk, a small tool box and a micrometer pressed against the wall beside a gray file box.

Despite the monitoring, Bulma was moving brazenly forward on her secret project, certain her work would remain unimpeded. At least, until lunch time, which was fast approaching. Bulma hurried to finish her work, glancing once more at the blueprints for reassurance. What she was doing was against regulation and carried a severe penalty. But she couldn't get ChiChi's lined, worn face out of her minds eye, her firm but deflated reassurance that Goku had reached the legendary and that it was only time until the Kai's chose to make his appearance known. Goku was training relentlessly for a war to end all wars, and ChiChi was trying desperately to stay afloat, alone on the home front. The least she could do was give them the tools to make certain their arrival was unanticipated and as smooth as possible.

“Damn scouter,” Bulma grumbled under her breath, blinking blearily. It was bad enough the end of her world for the last eight years was coming to an explosive end soon.

She would never admit it, especially around Gohan, but she harbored a creeping fear that her old friend wouldn't be strong enough to purge the Saiyan Empire of its Elites, opening up spots for intergalactic ambassadors to stabilize and reform the Empire. She hadn't seen Goku for years, not since they had been rounded up during the invasion. Her stalwart friend was amazingly versatile and strong, but he had never seen the heart of the Empire, where Bulma labored out her days. They may be overconfident, but the Saiyans were known historically for their superior strategizing and strength in the face of adversity. Goku may be of Saiyan blood --a fact that they were all surprised to learn-- and he may have a Kai-backed passion for justice, but the Saiyans were ruthless and clever. They fought dirty, and their hearts were black. She hated the doubt that pervaded her, but Goku was going to have to be underhanded to outsmart the Elites when the time came for debts to be repaid.

And what of her life once she were free? The thought had been intoxicatingly powerful for years, and yet now that it seemed near, she was growing unbearably nervous. She didn't know if she could even really fully adjust to life outside the Saiyan Empire. Eight years of a military schedule and the threat of death like some game of Russian Roulette had sapped her of her youth and her hope. She wasn't even sure she had the stubborn perseverance that characterized her as a teenager, any more. She was starting to think she was doing all this work for Goku and the Kai's...and the Saiyan Elite who had confronted her in the garden...simply because she didn't what else to do with her life. She was a ghost of her former self, life's colors drained in this desert landscape so that the only reminder of who she was and had been was the color of her hair.

With a sigh, she tidied up the wiring of the new scouter and slipped it into her coat pocket before pulling a stack of paperwork toward her.

The Saiyan Elite....

She had received a brief, impersonal, and ambivalent message from her landlord this morning.

“I'm to forward a message onto you, number 42019,” he had informed her curtly. “Your patron is requesting a meeting with you at 2200 at the place which you agreed to the partnership.”

“Excuse me?” Bulma had asked. She had never been patronized, which she was entirely relieved about. Having a patron dictate one's work was asking for trouble. There was nothing desirable about having a power hungry, sociopathic politician spurring one to present biased results before hanging them out to dry.

“Your patron, 42019,” he reiterated with annoyance. “He instructs you to be at your assigned meeting place at 2200 tonight. He also included this personal message.”

He handed her a sealed missive carelessly and turned back to his computer. Bulma stared at the missive with bewilderment until she felt a wave of cold fear settle over her.

She drew the letter from its envelope slowly. A deep burgundy wax seal at its center, stamped with the three pronged Royal Saiyan insignia. With a mixture of horror and curiosity, she slowly ran her thumb over the wax seal, the indentation of the insignia smooth against the thick curve of her thumb. The thought of his fingers previously in the same spot overwhelmed her.

“42019.”

His bark shocked her out of her stupor. Her head snapped up and she snapped to attention, standing and bowing quick and low. Her landlord gave her an irritated once over before turning back to his computer and ignoring her.

The Elite...the Royal Elite, rather...was calling on her to fulfill her promise tonight.

Bulma slid her thumb under the seal, and with only a little resistance, it cracked open, the heavy weight letter card yawning open reluctantly. A handsome script, so at odd with his rough edges.

`Tonight. 2200.'

The thought filled her with a sullen dread.

---

The Right Hand of Darkness swept down the hall, his scarlet cape billowing behind him, the only sound preceding him the firm slap of his gold toed boots echoing against marble. Royal guards stood at attention every few meters within dark recesses in the walls of the hall. Not that they were necessary. At least, not for him. He could incinerate them and any `threat' to him with a blink of his eye. There was no one in this damned palace who could even hope to match him and his unprecedented strength, that was already becoming the stuff of legends.

The Prince of Saiyan's fine, aristocratic features furrowed, his upper lip curling in disgust. And here he was, having to parley to a bunch of aged plutocrats who wanted nothing more than to twist Royal Decree and tradition to advance the Empire's business and line their pockets. It was particularly un-Saiyan.

That kind of opportunism-before-nation had only flourished as the Prince had campaigned across the galaxies, `negotiating' for new planets to add to the Empire and striking fear into the hearts of any who opposed--or rather, the hearts of those still living, those who heard told news of the rampant destruction that always visited with a spurned Saiyan Prince.

The stories spun about the Prince terrorizing and extinguishing races with the upwards curve of a smirk, and the daunting, coercive demeanor that followed around him like a cloak enlisted many to capitulate to his demands as soon as he stepped onto dry land, who figured living with a browbeating overlord was better than dying like a bug squished under a shoe. Should they refuse, well, then, the Saiyan Prince thought that was a noble enough way to die. That was Saiyan might. That was battle, fair and square. None of this scheming that had plagued the Elites and his father's advisors for the last half century he'd been away.

The Prince's eyes flicked to the side. In the West Wing, his father lay dying, without any indication that he was going to hand over the Empire to his son prematurely. He hadn't even been declared regent! A low growl escaped the Prince's throat. Not that he felt ready to inherit an Empire. But the Empire was going to seed around him, and those left in charge were only squeezing it dry. He knew those graspy bastards were just lying in wait like wolves for the next feast, whether the Saiyans delivered it or not. That's what he had to uncover; he had to prove that which was becoming more evident to him every day he had been back planet-side. Unfortunately, he wasn't very sluethy; he was much better at search-and-destroy. Rage simmered just below the surface, the ape in him itching for release. Here he had been sent on a fool's errand for the better half of his youth, while those scavenger's reaped his due.

And he couldn't just kill them. Oh, it would be so easy. A few ki bursts as his hand swept genteelly across the meeting table, bestowing upon them a gift which would only invoke their curdling screams, and his father's advisors and Upper Elites would be nothing, more minuscule than ash. It was what they had their hands in that would haunt him should he proceed in that direction. He just knew they held some leverage, some checkmate to move against him should he act as they expected the impulsive Prince of Darkness would. That the very men and women who were divinely appointed to protect their Saiyan heritage would plot against the heir--had, most likely, kept him away for so long--made him insanely, vengefully furious.

But, against all logic, he couldn't do it. He wanted to, oh harsala-izu he wanted to, but in a strange way, he didn't want to. He wanted more to outwit and outmaneuver them. He wanted to prove he was the master strategist and Saiyan. It was risky, but, well, he wasn't known for walking on the safe side.

That's where his little spy came in. After this waste and mockery of convening with the Elite Elders, he would just be biding his time until he could shake his spy down for information later tonight. Five days had passed since they first spoke, and hopefully he could soon be done with the little snoop, slay some traitors in good fun, and take his Empire back.

The royal guards held open the doors of the meeting room, staring stoically ahead with one fist over their hearts, and he strode into the room, the chatter dying down as they bowed in the presence of the heir of Vegetasei, who glowered at them, one by one.

He wouldn't let any of them forget that one couldn't cross the Prince of all Saiyans and live.

---

The cook scooped mashed...whatever...from an enormous pan and flung it onto Bulma's plate. She grimaced as it made an unappetizing plop when it struck her cheap plastic plate. The line shuffled forward, and Bulma slid her plate down the metal counter and waited for the men in front of her to have their thumbprints scanned before straggling to their assigned seats in the cafeteria. Finally, it was Bulma's turn, and she held her hand out to the laser, which beeped shrilly, alerting everyone know that she passed inspection. She turned from the cramped line and headed out the door to the large cafeteria, the scouter bumping against her thigh, when suddenly she collided with a wall of muscle. Jerking back to save her food before her only meal toppled to the ground, she looked upwards into the face of the jerk who had been loitering outside the doorway...only to swallow with fear.

A burly, bald Saiyan sneered down at her, and to her increasing horror, a few of his friends joined him at her side.

“Well, well, well.” The Saiyan placed his fists on his terrifyingly large hips. “You weren't watching where you were going, little Earthling. Did you see something you wanted, but didn't know how to ask?”

Bulma grew pale as the other Saiyans leered at her over his shoulder.

“Go ahead and take a moment to get on your knees and beg us for mercy,” he crowed, “since you were so intent on disrespecting Saiyan warriors.”

“No, no, I--”

The already unnatural quiet of the cafeteria had thickened into palpable silence. A terrifying understanding dawned on her.

No one was going to help her. No one would protest as they hauled her off, kicking and screaming. She was just an alien, chattel, a woman, and everyone was out for themselves, to oblige their masters...

One of the Saiyans knocked her tray from her grip, and they all laughed.

“I haven't even gotten to eat yet,” one of them complained.

“We'll dine on Earthling tonight.”

The Saiyans erupted with laughter, and as if their jeering wasn't humiliating enough, one of them grabbed her hair, shaking her. Her scalp blazed with pain, her eyes watering, her field of vision compromised by the mocking faces of Saiyans jerking to and fro.

One of them pressed up behind her, his belt buckle digging into the back of her head, and he grabbed her ass through her lab coat, just inches away from the scouter, sending her spiraling further into panic.

“We'll teach you to mess with a Saiyan's pride,” one of them said, and her field of vision narrowed, a piercing deafness making it seem as if it were a chorus of them promising her death. It was an end she had had many nightmares about and yet had expected, but not like this, not in the middle of a cafeteria that smelled like sour milk and despair, with hundreds watching, not one of them brave enough or compassionate enough to interject.

“No,” she heard herself say distantly.

They were still laughing. They didn't hear her, didn't want to hear her. Just use her.

“No” she said again, more firmly. “Over my dead body!”

She wanted to throw her hand over her mouth to stop the rage from spewing that would most definitely seal her fate, but she was past alarm and into the realm of frenzy.

“There's no pride in bullying a person who can't fight back--”

One of the Saiyans slapped her across the mouth, and she fell back, catching herself painfully with her arm, jarring her, before clutching her jaw, which was already swelling. She tasted a smear of blood at her lip.

She was terrified and out of control, driven to an extreme she had been floating outside of for years. She didn't even recognize herself, as if she were on Earth again, watching someone else's drama unfold on the tv.

“I'm not afraid of you,” she babbled, her voice raw with emotion. “There's nothing to admire `bouta couple of bullies trying to prove something to people they're keeping in chains--”

The leader's face had fallen as she spoke and then screwed up until his green aura burst around him, settling in his hand.

“Shut up, Earthling bitch!”

Bulma's eyes glittered in the emerald light of his ki, her mouth parting, to protest or plead for her life, she didn't know, and the light blazed around her, encapsulating her. Right before it was suddenly extinguished.

She blinked as her eyes adjusted, brows furrowing slightly.

“She is right.”

A deep, grainy voice echoed through the cafeteria and rolled right through her, traveling up her spine and settling at her neck. She shivered.

Bulma looked towards the sound of the voice. A few feet away, he stood, gold tipped, pearly white boots which traveled up his thick calves, and upwards, his defined thighs...his tail curled around his waist, a slim white chest plate over his black suit, the Royal Saiyan Crest spread over his broad chest in red. His cape hung to his knees, affixed to its shoulders with gold pins. He was a vision of black, red and gold against the clinical lighting of the cafeteria.

To her bafflement, the Saiyans dropped to their knees and bowed their heads almost apologetically, and that's when Bulma noticed everyone else had already sunk to their knees in obeisance.

Bulma was already on her knees; all she could do was stare upwards at the Royal, licking the blood gathering at the corner of her lip.

“You are not Saiyans,” the resonant voice continued. “A Saiyan first and foremost has pride, and I do not see any in the Saiyans in front of me.”

“Your highness!” One of them cried out, earning a smack across the back of the head from his peer. He continued on recklessly. “We were trying to teach the wench a lesson in respect--”

“A real warrior does not need to flaunt his power to the weak. A Saiyan worthy of his salt seeks challenges from the most powerful. You've made yourself fools in front of an audience, and allowed a weakling to prove herself more Saiyan than you. I do not tolerate fools in my Army,” he finished dangerously.

“My Lord, I'm sorry--” they began babbling, and the Royal cut them off with a swipe of his hand.

“You bring dishonor to yourselves. Do you defy me?” He snarled.

The men began shaking their hands frantically.

“I don't tolerate fools in my Army,” the man reiterated, holding up two fingers, which lit with a mesmerizing blue fire, “but I especially do not tolerate fools.”

Before she could blink, a flash of white hot light seared out from his fingers, and the heat of its proximity warmed her face as it decapitated the Saiyans cleanly. Sickeningly, their heads toppled off the stump of their necks almost comically, bloodless and cauterized. Bulma held back rising bile.

“You shall not tolerate it either.” His voice rang out to the inhabitants of the cafeteria, shocking her from her daze as she stared in horror at the pile of limbs just a few feet away from her. The head of the Saiyan who had gripped her hair had swiveled in her direction, its lifeless, frightened eyes staring pleadingly in her direction.

For an instant, the man's eyes locked onto hers, and time stood still as his penetrative eyes regarded her. Against his bronze skin and jet black hair stood the gold braid fringe at his shoulder, denoting his royal and military status.

Bulma caught her breath.

The Prince of Saiyans.

His gaze dipped down and lingered on the drop of blood at her lip before he turned, breaking the moment between them.

Just as soon as he moved, he was gone, and Bulma kneeled on the cold cafeteria floor, a pile of recently expired Saiyans to her right, her now cold, mashed...something...smeared across the floor to her left.

It was just her luck.

---

When she stepped into her office -her stomach grumbling with hunger, since her lunch had been splattered all over the cafeteria floor-- her coworkers glanced at her uneasily, milling about and whispering to themselves. Uncertainly, she made her way to her cubicle, before being intercepted by her boss.

He gripped her arm and shook his head. “42019, we're having a visitor. A very important one. He's stopping by and wants to see the work on the Aisllee Project. Get prepared.”

“Of course, sir,” she murmured, and continued to her desk as he turned away, alerting other scientists to their visitor. Rifling through her file folder, rifling through the documents on the project and inspecting them, before joining the others standing at attention by the wall.

It wasn't routine for a patron to visit the Science Wing. Bulma wondered what made this patron and the Aisllee project so important that one would be interested in personally inquiring on it. Bulma worried the scouter in her pocket, irritated with the shake down. She had more important things to do -finishing the blueprints and prototype for ChiChi, for instance-- then stand here shaking in her boots like the others, waiting for some overgrown ape to grill her about a project that was far beyond his cognition. Her brows dipped into a little frown and she stared emptily at the wall, willing the day to be over.

As the last of the scientists joined rank, the door opened to the Wing, and a dozen Royal guards streamed in, setting up post around the office.

Bulma tried not to roll her eyes at them, when she once again came face to face with the Prince of Vegetasei, striding in behind the last Royal guard.

At first, he stared at the wall of scientists unseeing, his face a mask of indifference. Then his eyes met hers. She saw his nostrils flare, like a dog who had caught her scent, recognition clear on his face.

Bulma's heart stopped before exploding into a pitter patter of panic. Him. The Prince. He was the patron?! His scarlet cape swirled around his calves as he proceeded towards the line of scientists, the gold links and the Saiyan Royal insignia across his chest the same markings that had flashed in her vision as he flew away, that bittersweet night she had hacked the Military Wing. Was he...was he here for her? Did he know?

Her boss was explaining the project to the Prince now, clearly bootlicking, but Bulma didn't hear a word he was saying. Her adrenaline was causing her to tremble. Her boss was calling scientists out of the row one by one to give their accounts of the project, and Bulma turned her head towards the far wall to distract herself from hysteria.

The minutes passed, and he still hadn't blasted her. In fact, from her occasional, concerned glances his way, he looked quite bored and impatient, glaring at each scientist and only interacting with them by nodding curtly after they gave their reports.

Finally, her boss called her number, and Bulma took halting steps towards the Prince, feeling entirely self conscious of her gait, as though every movement was grounds to blow her into bits. She remembered the Saiyans dismembered bodies, the smell of singed hair and flesh. Her stomach rolled, and she thought she might puke. A small part of her hoped she would, just to get out of speaking to the Prince.

She finally stood in front of the Prince awkwardly, his eyes shifting from her coworker to her as her coworker departed. His cold eyes searched hers before settling, once again, on her busted lip.

Her boss was speaking. The Prince, up close, had stupidly handsome features for being so scary. His face was broad, his features angular, his nose sharply defined and aristocratic without being unappealing. His suit fit tightly over his built physique, and yet he wasn't overly bulky. In fact, he was quite cut. His tail was curled tightly around his waist, the downy hair glinting auburn in the fluorescent light, and Bulma could clearly see the muscles of his hips move as he shifted.

“42019,” her boss snapped, and she looked up at him, with the feeling that wasn't the first time he had called her identifier. “Prince Vegeta would like to hear about your work with the Aisllee.”

She cleared her throat, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. “Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat again. “My position with the Aisllee has been, um, twofold--unpacking all the code encrypted in the ship's drive, which was damaged when it crash landed, but also scrutinizing and refining the Cold technology within it...”

Her voice drifted to a stop. The Prince was giving her an odd look that was quickly becoming angry.

“Go on,” her boss snapped, and she spent less than a second wondering how he would make her pay for stuttering in front of the Prince before the Prince had a hold of her arm, his gloved grip almost painful as he drew her towards him.

He looked down into her eyes with deadly intent.

She couldn't help it.

She giggled nervously.

“I want to speak with this one in private,” he demanded.

“Oh. Yes, of course,” her boss sputtered. “There's an empty office over there--”

The Royal spun her around and marched her toward the room, pushing her in front of him at the small of her back before slamming the door shut.

His eyes never left hers, and boy, did he look furious.

“You're the little spy I made a deal with,” he hissed, pinning her to the wall by her shoulder.

“What?” She squeaked. “Nooo, not me. There must be someone else you've mistaken me for--”

“I'd recognize that scent and those blue eyes anywhere,” he snarled. “Your whining only confirmed it. You're lucky I didn't scent you in the cafeteria earlier. I would have definitely just killed you.” The pressure increased at her shoulder, and she bit her lip to distract herself from the pain. “But I'm lucky I didn't. Now I can talk to you...alone.” His lips dragged upwards slightly.

“Did they plant you here?” He issued roughly.

“Who?” She asked thinly.

“First Strike!” He snapped.

“No!” Her face flushed with anger, sweeping away any fear she had for the overbearing Prince. “I told you, I had nothing to do with them until recently. Your Army invaded my planet eight years ago, kidnapped me and forced me to push papers on your Kami-awful planet! I wouldn't be here even if you offered me all the riches in the universe!”

He glared at her murderously. “Are you reporting back to them on the project?”

“What? No. In fact, the only contact I've had with them since that night has been to hack their files. They haven't exactly kept their end of the deal,” she admitted softly.

The Saiyan Prince barked with laughter. “Well, now, isn't that cute!”

Before she knew it, her palm was slapping against the Saiyan's smooth cheek, and for just an instant, she savored his surprised expression before being drove back into the wall hard enough to daze her.

“You have crossed the line, slave--”

They both heard the doorknob jiggle, and, to her utter surprise, a look of concern passed over the Prince's face before his eyes met hers and his hand released her neck, sliding upwards to cup her face with unforeseen gentleness.

And then he kissed her.

She was too shocked to respond. The Prince's lips were soft, and his whole body seeped warmth. Distantly, she heard the door open, and the Prince's tongue dove into her mouth, pressing against hers energetically. His thumb moved over the apple of her cheek and his body pressed fractionally into hers. He smelled like sun and a deeper musk, an undercurrent of unknown spice. His mouth was hot and surprisingly delicious. Her eyelids fluttered closed, but not before seeing him watch her under hooded lids, his eyelashes a full, rich ebony.

Carefully, without understanding the need for it, she pressed her own tongue against his and matched his rhythm.

Someone cleared their throat, and his kissing casually slowed to a stop, before he pulled away leisurely, gazing at her intensely before glancing to the door.

“Yes?” His voice rumbled in his chest against her, and she found herself mindlessly leaning in to it.

“Forgive me, your highness, I heard the sounds of an altercation--”

“Leave a woman and man to their own,” the Prince ordered. Her jaw dropped.

“Yes, sir,” the guard replied before shutting the door behind him.

The Prince sighed, his warm breath hitting her in the face, and she breathed it in.

“It is not customary for the heir to speak one on one with someone below their rank. There would be suspicion I must absolutely avoid should I be caught speaking to a scientist privately. I had to make it look like I was interested in only one thing from you,” he explained, almost...bashfully.

“Then why did you pull me in here?” She asked, flabbergasted.

“Because I lost my temper,” he growled.

“I can't tell if you're a man who does or doesn't know how to control his temper,” she mused, smiling fractionally.

She didn't know what she was doing, talking to the Prince like this. Frankly she hadn't spoken to anyone on Vegetasei this much until the last year, when little Gohan arrived.

“I am a man that loses his temper but is not usually impulsive,” he warned testily. “I am not to be fucked with. Which is why we will meet tonight as planned, and you will tell me just what you meant when you said you found Cold parts on a Saiyan vessel, and about what you've found out from First Strike. Are we clear?” He hadn't pulled away yet, using his proximity to her as intimidation.

Impulsively -idiotically- her eyes narrowed at his tone. “Yes, master.”

His eyes narrowed at her in return.

“You are so very, very lucky that you are worth more to me than anyone else on this Kami-awful planet at the moment.” He stepped away and headed towards the door.

“Wait! What should I tell them you wanted of me? My boss will want to know what you inquired after so he can better kiss your ass...”

“Nothing,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Just tell them I was good--and well endowed!” He barked with laughter as he yanked the door open, but looked over his shoulder at her gravely. “Change of plans. This could work out well for me. Meet me at my quarters tonight instead.”

“What?!” She shrieked, but the door was closing between them.

“Prick,” she hissed, crossing her arms over her chest, before sliding her fingers over her lips curiously.