Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Fixation ❯ Chapter Two ( Chapter 2 )

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from Dragon Ball Z

 

Fixation

 

Chapter Two

Vegeta stood with his back braced against the white, wooden building, carelessly trampling the pink azaleas that had been lovingly planted around the base of the house. His arms were crossed as he scanned the loose gathering of people on the neatly manicured lawn. His dark eyes flitted over the Briefs without resting on them. The soul-deep loss on their faces only served as a reminder of a life he was trying to forget, and he had no desire to relive the memories their sorrow evoked.

The failure of a security guard was there, but why he was still employed by the Briefs, Vegeta had no idea. His men had lost track of their only asset, a tiny slip of a girl, who was as dangerous as a wet Chihuahua, and ten times less slippery. If Vegeta had failed so resoundingly in a job, he wouldn't be there today. He'd be feasting on the flesh of the damned in Hell, after Frieza fried his ass for failure. He shook his head, methodically cataloging the next group. The Fatso, the Pig, and the Pervert were there, milling about like well-fed cattle. They looked sheepishly out of place, as if they wanted to be any place rather than there trying to make small talk with the bereaved parents. The Weakling was there as well. His dark eyes were dull, and he moved as if walking through a gravity well. To everyone else it looked like sorrow, but Vegeta could smell guilt on him.

The Banshee, and the Half-Breed Brat were the most well dressed pair there. The Banshee was keeping a stern hand on the Brat, ordering him about like a battle-field general. Vegeta almost felt sorry for the kid. Even though he was a slave most of his life, he had been able to escape the heavy hand of his masters occasionally, but by the miserable look on the kid's face, he wasn't so lucky.

Of course, wherever they were, the Third Class could be found. He was arranging the golden Dragon Balls in the center of the lawn, his back unwisely presented to Vegeta. The Third Class had no sense of survival or any common sense. There wasn't a useful one in the bunch of them, except for the dead woman they were about to resurrect. At least she had served the purpose of maintaining his gravity room before she had gotten herself murdered. How the idiot girl managed to do that on such a tame world was beyond him. It just reinforced Vegeta's theory that there was a piece of shit lurking everywhere you went. It didn't matter if it was in the middle of space or on some back water planet. There was always an asshole waiting to fuck with you.

Vegeta had erroneously thought the old man would be up to the task of keeping his training gear in order, but like the others he had proven useless after his daughter's death. His work had stopped all together in fact. Now, all he did was sit in the garden, staring off into space while his lit cigarette burnt itself to ash between his limp fingers. The Ditz had lost some of her shine as well. She no longer cooked the extravagant meals Vegeta was used too. More often than not he had to scavenge his own food. Vegeta barely knew the woman they were all mourning. Other than having her around to make repairs he wasn't interested in her return. He had only arrived back to Earth a few short weeks before the revelation of the Androids would be arriving in three years. He had since spent his time training, determined to become stronger than the Third Class so he might regain some shred of honor. He hadn't been out to make friends, and as a result he barely acknowledged the woman outside of the fact of being aware of how attractive she was.

The woman wasn't why he was there. He wanted to see the Eternal Dragon. It was guaranteed to be an awesome sight. Besides it might be beneficial to know the summoning ritual for the dragon for the future. Since being murdered on Namek, Vegeta lost his natural fear of dying. He no longer wanted immortality. The thought of living for eternity with nothing to fight for was horrifying. Now that Frieza was dead he had no purpose in life, no meaning. His people were avenged, not by him, but at least by one of their race. Now Vegeta only had one goal. To defeat the Third Class in battle, and that was hardly something he would wish for. He would earn the privilege of crushing his rival on his own.

Vegeta was deeply disappointed at the lack of ritual. The Third Class merely grouped the golden balls together, stepping back as masses of dark clouds gathered overhead. Bright golden light burst out of the balls, forming the green serpentine body of Shenlong. It wasn't as large as the Namekian Dragon, but it was equally intimidating as its voice boomed loud enough to shake the windows of the house.

The Third Class was speaking, but Vegeta wasn't paying him much mind. His attention was solely for the dragon. Vegeta was assessing the pros and cons of having one wish available when a shrill, piercing scream cut through the air.

Vegeta's arms tightened across his chest, and he dipped his chin as he leaned further into the shadows. Fear rippled through the humans who were huddled on the lawn, blocking his view of the source of the horrendous sound, shivering together like a cat in the shadow of a huge hound. They had never heard such a sound, but Vegeta knew exactly what it was. He had heard enough screaming in his life to be able to tell the difference between the types. There were battle yells, shrieks of fright, and bellows of anger. But the most gut-wrenching, the most unforgettable, was the death howl.

Sometimes in death a person gasped or softly sighed, but Vegeta rarely heard such things. He was more intimately familiar with violent death throes. The continuous screaming that was tearing across the lawn was a product of a horrible death. It was a combination of fear, rage, despair and pain. It was all the wretched emotions a person could feel escalating into one terrifying outburst before death. It was something Vegeta had hoped never to hear again.

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Bunny Briefs sat on the bed next to her daughter, running her fingers through her child's greasy hair. Bulma was curled away, her thin arms wrapped around a thick feather down pillow. She had been resurrected almost a day ago, but it had taken her hours to calm down. She had screamed until her voice was raw, eventually degenerating into wounded, choking, sobs that burned through Bunny like acid. Bunny had never heard such awful sounds coming any human being, but hearing horrible gut-wrenching ones from her baby had nearly broken her.

Finally she was able to calm Bulma enough to get her changed out of the bloody remnants of her clothes and wash her face, but Bulma refused to be exposed long enough to take a shower, and she shrank away from anyone's' touch. Even now Bunny could see streaks of blood disappearing into Bulma's hairline, rusty brown stains against her translucent white skin. She was rusting away into nothing, like one of her forgotten robots in her lab. Her usually bright blue eyes were darkening, dimming and sinking back into her skull. It was frightening, and Bunny didn't know how to stop it from happening.

A pair of detectives tried to question Bulma about the man who took her, but she was uncommunicative, nearly catatonic in the way she stared at them sightlessly. Although it was well-known in the department that Bulma had been dead, the public all thought she had been an extended holiday. It was the consensus of the family and police to keep the situation quiet. The idea of resurrection was amazing, and if it became known as a possibility it would throw the public into chaos. The elite would demand it as their due and the poor would riot at the idea that the rich were receiving such an amazing, supernatural benefit.

Finally, Bunny couldn't stand the presence of the two well-meaning detectives any longer, snapping at them to leave in a shrill voice that was truly unlike her. She prided herself on her hostess skills and her charming personality. It had always been her highest priority that she made all guests in her home as comfortable as possible, but she couldn't stand to see her child in pain. The pain those barbarian detectives were causing her with their thoughtless, insensitive questions. Her baby needed her mother, not a hostess, and so she had thrown them out, tossing their tea cups out after them. Her husband had been appalled, but she hadn't cared. For once she was doing her duty as a mother, not a wife.

Bunny rubbed her thumb over a smooth blue curl, her usually full lips curled down in a deep frown. She couldn't see Bulma's face, just the tangled mass of her long hair.

“Would you like me to run you a bath, darling? I can wash your hair.” Bunny asked gently, leaning closer to see her daughter's face. At her movement, Bulma hunched her shoulders, and shifted away. Bunny grimaced as a shaft of regret speared her through her heart.

As a child, whenever Bulma had been upset she would lay her head in Bunny's lap. She would never cry, Bulma had never been one of those children, but she had craved the touch and attention of her mother. Bulma wanted her mother's gentle fingers running through her hair, but Bunny had become a mother at a very young age. There was always something else that needed her attention. A party that needed planning or shopping that needed to be done. Bunny had a restless energy that bubbled inside her, keeping her going at all hours. She always ended up pushing Bulma away before her daughter was ready, and now that Bunny was older and more mature, she regretted her actions. Her daughter needed someone to cling too, someone to hold her, but Bunny had failed her when she was a child, and as a result when she needed comfort the most, she turned away from her only source.

Bunny swallowed hard at the raw burn of tears behind her eyes. She never felt more like a failure than she did at that moment. She had always loved her daughter. There was never any doubt of that. She just hadn't realized how valuable her time was. She had squandered it on useless, meaningless things, instead of being there when her child needed her.

“Are you hungry? I can make you grilled cheese. I know it's your favorite.”

Bulma didn't answer, and Bunny was at a loss of what to do. She wasn't prepared for this. She didn't have the proper skills. Her area of expertise was more along the lines of napkin folding and menu design. She couldn't tell what her daughter needed from her, but she didn't know that Bulma must be hungry and she knew how to cook. Food was something she did very well.

“I'm going to make you a big tray of food, full of all your favorites. You just sit tight, baby. I'll take care of you. I promise.” She smoothed her hand one last time over Bulma's skull, before sliding out of the bed and scurrying out of the room with a new sense of purpose and energy.

Bulma sat motionless on the bed for a long time after the door clicked shut. Sunlight was streaming in from the bank of French doors leading out to her wide stone balcony. The floor to ceiling doors and windows had always been her favorite feature in her room. She usually kept the doors open so she could feel the airy breeze as she moved about the room. The doors were closed now, the thin drapes drawn tight, but she still felt immensely exposed. The curtains were sheer enough to see through, and glass was so breakable. If someone wanted to they could just smash their way in. It wasn't safe. Not safe at all.

Bulma flipped over to face the other direction. Her far wall was composed entirely of walk in closets. Although they came to almost eight hundred square feet, she still had to clean them out once a year to make room for all her new purchases. Though her mother had ribbed her endlessly about her taste, Bulma had replaced the regular doors with sliding mirrors. She loved being able to see herself at every possible angle. She wanted to be able to make sure her ass looked good at the same time she was checking her hair. Bulma wasn't vain. She just liked things to be perfect. Always perfect.

The pale green blankets were heaped up on the bed, covering her up to her chin. She could see her ashen reflection of the mirrors. Her eyes looked dark and sunken, her lips colorless. Her mother had washed her face with a warm cloth, but there were remnants of her water-proof mascara under her eyes. She looked terrible. So terrible that it prompted her to get out of bed and slowly make her way to the vanity. The dark purple sweats she was wearing sagged off her butt, and she had to fold them at the waist to keep them on. Her rumbled white t-shirt faded her pale skin even more, making her look like walking death.

She slumped in front of the mirror, staring grimly at herself. Her hair was darkened with sweat and hung down her back in smooth lanky clumps. He liked her hair. He told her it was her blue hair that captured his attention. She shivered at the images flashing across her mind. The dark room. The wooden table. The leather straps.

She couldn't remember his face, but she remembered his hands. Long and slender. So graceful as he slid his fingers through her hair. He had beautiful hands, except for the thin line of gray dirt beneath his neatly clipped nails. She had spent an inordinate amount of time wondering what sort of dirt he could be mucking around in that was gray.

The detectives asked her again and again about her time with him. She was with him for weeks they said. Much longer than anyone else, but she couldn't remember the details, just his hands. His soft graceful hands.

Her eyes dropped to focus on her neck. As soon as she was resurrected, her mother had taken her to the master bathroom to clean her up. The gorgeous rose and mauve room's most elaborate feature was the full length mirror trimmed in gold filigree. It was beautiful as it was devious. The mirror revealed everything, even that which you didn't want to see.

When resurrected the body is returned to its uninjured perfect state, even old scars disappeared, but the old, dried blood was left behind. And she had been covered in it. All over her face and body, dried into her hair. She was still coated in it. It was hidden beneath her clothes, and the dark shine of her hair. Bunny had scrubbed her relentlessly, begging her to shower, but Bulma couldn't bear to be exposed for any length of time.

It had taken a long time to calm Bulma down. Not because of her memories or residual terror. Bulma wasn't afraid of what had happened, because she couldn't remember. She was afraid, because no matter how much her mother scrubbed the blood still kept coming.

Silently she stared at her reflection in the vanity, watching as a thin line of blood seeped from her skin, ringing her pale neck. A single crimson droplet welled up and slid down the column of her throat.

It had taken her almost and hour to realize she was the only one who could see the blood.

She remembered his pale hands holding the long knife, how the blade glinted in the light. Being engulfed in darkness, drowning in it. His apologetic voice telling her how wonderful their time together had been, but how he had met someone else. How he didn't want to hurt her, but it just wasn't going to work out. How much he loved her hair. His hands, the knife, the pain.

Bulma picked up a heavy jar of face cream and hurled it into the mirror. Her reflection shattered into a thousand fragments, every single one of them covered in blood. She pulled open the bottom drawer of the vanity with rough, jerky movements. She riffled around, finally withdrawing a pair of sliver barber scissors. Her mouth set in a grim line; she grabbed a length of hair and sheared it off close to her skull, cutting it all off so it was boy short.

She bolted up from the vanity, fear and anger making her erratic as she raced into the bathroom. She dropped to her knees in front of the sink, opening the cabinet doors. She dug through the lotions and bubble bath, tossing bottles behind her as she searched for the lightweight box long forgotten in the back.

In high school, she and a girlfriend had gotten the brilliant idea of dying their hair. Bulma had chickened out, knowing her hair was a beautiful, exotic shade and she didn't want to hide it, but now all she wanted was to hide.

She pulled on the cheap plastic gloves and squirted the black cream into her palm. She didn't care about the proper directions, neither was she worried about drips. She quickly rubbed the dye into her hair, before pulling on the plastic cap.

Her hair dealt with, and still in the grips of panic, she raced from her room. She had her own suite, complete with kitchen, living area, and a guest room with bath, since she was a girl. She passed through the sunken living area to exit the suite. Once outside the safety of her rooms her dread intensified. She hadn't realized how inefficient the locks were in her rooms. They were nothing more than cheap interior door locks. They wouldn't keep out a stiff breeze, much less an intruder. As she moved through the house she noted the lack of cameras and latches on the windows. Capsule Corporation was supposed to be a protected fortress, not open to the public as it so clearly advertised with its shoddy security. Lack of protection was how he got her. Her security hadn't been watching her. They turned their back for a second and he swooped in, stealing her before she could gather the breath to scream. He could be out there now, watching, waiting.

She jerked open the backdoor and her heart seized in her chest. She couldn't seem to catch her breath as she stared out across open lawn that butted up against a thick corpse of woods, so thick that anyone could be hiding there. Hiding and watching. Watching her. She swiped her trembling fingers across her brow, staining them with sweat and dark dye.

Taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to leave the shelter of the doorway. Walking fast, like a child in the dark trying to reach the light switch before the monster pulled them under the bed; she made her way to the storage shed. Single-mindedly she riffled though the tools and old broken pieces of furniture until she finally found several gallons of old paint. She tried gathering them up, but there were too many. She knew she wouldn't be able to force herself to come back, so she looped the thin wire handles over her forearms. They bit into her skin, bruising her all the way to the bone, but she refused to leave them behind.

Terrified now, she sped back into the house. Her arms were dragged down by the heavy cans she was carrying, and shoulders burned at the sockets. As she trudged up the stairs she could barely draw in the breath she needed, but she was too afraid to stop. He could be right behind her. Right there at the foot of the stairs. Reaching for her with his sweet smelling rag. Breathing down her neck. With a burst of energy she loped up the last few steps, leaning heavily against the banister. She raced to her room, locking herself in. She dumped the heavy cans onto the floor at her feet, before darting into the kitchen to grab a ladder-back chair. She braced it under the door handle, kicking it in tight. Bulma pressed her ear against the thin wood, listening for any sign that he was following her. For the longest time all she could hear was her labored breathing and her heartbeat behind her ears.

She swallowed a couple of times, trying to drum up enough spit to sooth her raw throat. Satisfied that he couldn't get her, she turned back to the paint cans. In her panic she had forgotten mixing sticks and paint brushes, but Bulma was so pumped full of adrenaline she didn't care. She shook the cans hard, using a butter knife to pry the lids off. The first can was black and nearly full, making Bulma smile at the perfection. Picking up the can she splashed the inky paint on her closet doors, uncaring that it splattered the cream carpet.

She used her bare hand to spread it around, leaving finger streaks in the paint. There was so much surface space it took purple and yellow paint to cover all the mirrored doors. The largest of the mirrors dealt with, she searched through the rest of her rooms, either taking down hanging mirrors or painting them in. She hadn't realized how many she had. She never put up art, only mirrors. Her beauty had always been art enough for any room.

Scoffing to herself, she went into the master bathroom last. She took one last look at herself, her short wet black hair covered in a clear cap, sunken eyes and the every present ring of blood. Triumphantly she splashed red paint on the mirror, obscuring herself entirely. She spread the paint with her hand, streaking black into the red, leaving a single palm print in the middle.

Finally she was safe. At least for the moment. Now that she was completely obscured she could clean off the remaining traces of him from her skin. She turned on the shower, taking off her plastic cap, and throwing it into the small garbage pail beside the sink. Still dressed, she stepped under the hot spray. The water soaked her to the skin, making her sweats so heavy they nearly sagged off her hips. She held them on with one hand as she washed her skin under her clothes, too afraid to undress even to clean herself.