Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Fixation ❯ Chapter Twenty ( Chapter 20 )

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A/N: I'm searching for a beta(s) for some original fictions I will be working on. The first will be a supernatural romance with original characters. For those of you who enjoy my writing style you might want to select author update as I will be posting that story. I will also be writing a hardcore bdsm and require a mature beta for this project. I will not be posting that story here. I am looking for a beta(s) that have excellent grammar skills, as mine are lacking, and are accomplished at dialogue as that is my weakest skill. Also I need a beta(s) who will be a harsh taskmaster. Someone who will push me to complete chapters on a deadline and will be honest and concise in their critiques. If you are interested you can find my email on the homepage. Thanks bunches, and happy reading!!

Fixation

Chapter Twenty

The smell of sea salt was thick in the heavy late afternoon heat. Gulls shrieked, frightened by the invading shadow overhead. Bulma and Vegeta hovered over the squat buildings, Bulma clinging to his broad back for dear life. Below her dangling feet she could see the black tar roofs of warehouses splattered with white and gray smears of bird shit.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the vertigo that made her eyes water and her stomach heave. Breathing deeply she steadied her gaze and searched the area. There were several two story buildings scattered amid the shorter warehouses. Vegeta was methodically circling them, searching for the window she had glanced through only once. The last building was closest to the waterfront, overlooking the harbor. Bulma didn't have to tell Vegeta when she saw it. He could feel it in the tightening of her body on his, in the tremor of her muscles, and in the frightened rise and fall of her chest that vibrated through his spine and into his innards.

The large bay window was bare of any treatments allowing the occupant an unimpeded view of the seascape. On a small polished table there was a crystal vase, its gold trim sparkling in the sunlight. It was filled with slender calla lilies, their waxy petals a pale reflection in the glass.

It was a pretty picture obliterated into a thousand shards by Vegeta's ki blast. They landed in the loft with a crunch. Bulma looked down as she slid off Vegeta's back. The Asian bamboo floor was littered with glittering diamonds of glass and slivers of blonde wood. By her foot was a single unmarred lily, docilely posing as an innocent amongst the carnage. She mercilessly crushed it under the thick tread of her tan hiking boot as she stepped around Vegeta to scan the rest of the room.

She tugged nervously on the elegant black glove that was drawn to her elbow as she curled her hand into a fist. She could feel the feeble surge of ki cascade down her arm to dance across her knuckles in an electrical arch. The room was exactly as she remembered. Trendy stainless steel furniture padded with black leather and expensive art on the walls decorated the loft. On the far side of the room the Monet caught her eye; the watercolor blurring even more through the lens of her tears. Trance-like she crossed the room, pulling the painting of the wall and with a shimmer of sudden rage she plunged it over the crown of a spiraling floor sculpture, shredding the priceless canvas.

Breathing heavily through her nose from the sudden surge of adrenaline she turned to the now bare wall. She spread her trembling fingers across the surface feeling only the slight imperfections of wood grain.

“What is it?”

Bulma jumped, not having realized that Vegeta had prowled up behind her. Her nerves were strung so tight it felt as if her skin would split right off her bones.

“Here, behind this wall. His trophy room.”

She tapped the wall, remembering the day he had brought her upstairs to meet `his girls.' Vegeta nudged her aside, his arm extended, his palm sparking with blue fire.

“No!” Bulma leaned on his arm forcing him to close his fist to extinguish the flame. “Don't hurt them.” She dropped her eyes, cheeks flushed with a mixture of fear and embarrassment.

Her heart pounded as he brushed her off to square his stance and with a blow of inhuman strength he drove his fist past the splintering wood, burying it deep in the vault door beneath. The metal folded around his hand like gray molding putty as he clawed and hacked his way to the other side.

The door lay in chunks around their feet by the time Vegeta made an entrance large enough for them to pass through. The room beyond was pristine in all of its worshiped glory. The walls were lined with floating polished shelves of silver, gold plaques centered carefully beneath each unique urn. The labels were simple; names like Tammy or Leanne with a corresponding date engraved on each. There were five lighted pedestals in the middle of the room; his `favorites' he called them. The center one was bare, her name emblazoned on the plaque, the date scrubbed clean.

Her body lurched to the side, her heart and lungs constricting until she could barely breathe. Something horrible churned in her stomach as she shoved past Vegeta, her hand clamped over her mouth. She made it to the shattered window, one hand braced on the broken frame as her stomach contents splattered on the pavement two stories below.

Her shirt pulled tight across her chest as Vegeta gathered a fistful of material between her shoulder blades to prevent her from falling face first. She was wiping her mouth on the back of her arm when the downstairs door opened. Sweet cologne and Irish spring soap wafted around her. He had been downstairs this entire time. How could she have forgotten the soundproof room beneath their feet? Memories rushed over her, threatening to buckle her with their horrendous weight. She remembered everything. His long fingers, his thin blonde hair. How he always came to her freshly showered and impeccably groomed, like an eager suitor on a first date.

“What do you think you are doing? How dare you destroy my home!”

Bulma closed her eyes against the assault of the familiar voice. Its imperious tones slicing down her spine. She rocked forward and Vegeta's grip tightened.

“I demand that you leave immediately before I call the authorities.”

Demand. He never began with demands. He always spoke to her in soft simpering tones as he attempted to coax a smile, an utterance of devotion, a kiss from her lips. The demands came later after she refused to play his game. Along with the recriminations that she didn't love him enough. This tone was the one he used when his patience snapped and he `demanded' his way usually in the most painful method possible.

Bulma took a deep breath, filling her lungs with sea air. She tasted freedom and felt the reassuring heat of Vegeta at her back. For the first time in months she felt a whisper of peace, and she knew that complete emancipation was only a fistful of courage away.

She braced herself, shaking off Vegeta's grip so she could step around him. For the first time since her death she gazed upon the face that even her nightmares were reluctant to reveal to her.

“We both know you aren't going to call anyone.” She was proud that her voice didn't tremble and it gave her more strength.

Bulma watched as the blonde man's pallid features become florid at the sight of her. The brilliant smile that weaseled out beneath his pencil mustache turned her blood cold. In a whoosh of insanity he seemingly forgot all his previous anger at their intrusion as he crossed the room, his arms outstretched in welcome as if to greet her like a long lost lover. Panic surged through her body. Terrified, she was pinned to the spot, helpless to stop his approach. His fingers came within a fraction of her bared arms above her gloves before he was crushed to his knees by Vegeta's grip on his throat. His already flaming cheeks became alarmingly flushed as he gurgled and clawed at Vegeta's hand. Bulma released her pent up breath, realizing her lungs had begun to burn with the need to breath. Vegeta had made a promise that her `monster' wouldn't touch her, and he kept it. She tried to remember the last time a man kept a promise to her, but all she could summon up was Yamcha's remorseful countenance. She shifted to the side so she might better see the terror on Genzo's face. She searched her soul for remorse or pity, but all she felt was elation.

Genzo's watery blue eyes darted towards her, silently pleading for mercy. Thin red lines were snaking through his corneas, unconscious tears streaming down his cheeks. She cocked her head to the side, studying him like she would the innards of a new mechanical project. For the first time she felt a sensation of disconnect. This wasn't a monster. It was a man. An evil, horrible man who had done things to her that she would never have the strength to repeat. He had destroyed her piece, by bitter, painful piece, and now he was in her complete and utter control. Slowly, lovingly, she swiped her thumb over his cheek, wiping away his tears. Her black gloves were stark against his flagrant cheeks---as cold and as dark as the hole in her soul.

“How does it feel to be held down? Helpless?” she whispered to him, her memories feeding the growing darkness inside her. He struggled against Vegeta's hold, his pale eyes flashing with the temper she knew so well. He wanted to punish her, just as he had done so many times in the past.

“No, no, my dearest,” she cooed, his endearment for her rolling from her tongue. How many times had her called her `my dearest' as he ran his knife over her skin? When he invaded her body? Her hand slid over his cheek, her thumb catching on his lower lip and pealing it away so she could see his white teeth and pink gums. “Not today. Today is my day.” Her hand dropped away, leaving behind desolate realization behind in Genzo's eyes.

Vegeta's dark damning eyes lifted from Genzo to settle on her. She could feel their weight as clearly as she could a down comforter wrapped warmly around her in the middle of winter. She met his gaze, a tiny hungry smile curving on her lips.

“Show me how to make a fist.” His husky demand made her heart flip, and for the tiniest moment she forgot Genzo. She raised her arm, her small hand curling into a tight fist. She felt a rush of energy down her arm and blue lightning arced across the scaled plates over her knuckles.

Vegeta's smile was evil as he looked down at the struggling man at his feet. Bulma followed his gaze, her smile just as wicked. On its own accord her other hand fisted at her side.

“Aim for the eye,” Vegeta coached.

Bulma widened her awkward stance, indecision flooding her. She had never struck anyone in her life. There had always been someone there to protect her; Goku or Yamcha, until the day they weren't and she died. Now there was Vegeta. She chewed her lower lip, her fists loosening.

“I won't do your dirty work, woman. If you want him punished, then you need to be the one to do it.”

Pride made her obstinate. She refused to look at him for reassurance. She drew her fist back and swung. Her blow glanced across Genzo's jaw. It was weak, but his head still snapped to the side--more from shock than anything she guessed. Blood rushed to his chin, darkening in the beginnings of a bruise. Seeing physical evidence of the pain she inflicted upon him was euphoric. Her lip curled over her white teeth in a mockery of a smile as she struck him again and again. Harder. Fiercer. Wilder.

She dug her hand into his short hair, angling his face towards her. She saw smears red blood over too pale skin nearly overshadowed by wide horrified eyes. The sight of his terror thrilled her. She felt powerful. His suffering made her invincible. It made her a God. The rush of it was addicting.

“Does it hurt enough, my dearest? Should I get the knives?” Her voice was a sickly sweet snarl, a mockery of his when he had leaned over her. She remembered his face then, so different from now. Clean shaven, his pale pink lips pursed in concern as she begged for him to stop. How shameful she had been in the end. How utterly willing to be his slave. That was when it all changed. When she was no longer interesting. When she started to beg instead of cursing him. After he broke her, after she had become compliant in every act that he wanted, that was when the end began. And how thankful she had been for that. For the end to her suffering.

She struck him until her hand felt broken and her arm burned with exertion. She switched stances and beat him down with her other fist. She beat him until Vegeta no longer had to hold him still. He collapsed onto the floor, both eyes swollen, his jaw askew, his thin petulant lips shredded.

When it became too hard to bend over to beat him, she drew back her booted foot and kicked. Something cracked and her smile grew.

“Beg for me to stop like I did,” she screamed. “Promise me anything I want. Get on your hands and knees and tell me that you'll do anything to make the pain stop.” He curled up like a dying dog, but she kept kicking, circling like a wolf searching for a prime opening. She kicked until she heard a tiny, insignificant sound she could barely make out over her harsh panting breathes. She paused, wiping the sweat from her brow and listened.

Genzo was praying. His lips barely moved, the nearly inarticulate words bubbling with blood. She had begged, but she had never prayed. Too what purpose she had wondered as she lay bleeding in the dark? God was an alien on a watchtower in the sky. He couldn't hear her. He couldn't help her. She leaned closer and he cringed away like a frightened animal. He wasn't just a horrible, evil man. He was a human being. Someone who believed in a God. Who thought he had a soul that could be saved. A sick feeling slithered in her belly. She covered her mouth with her gloved hand and tasted blood. Genzo's blood.

She wheeling back from the massacre. She felt bile swell in her throat, burning as she swallowed it down.

“Finish him.” Vegeta stood aside, cold and formidable. He had been silent through the entire event, neither encouraging nor disapproving. Now he addressed her with cold-blooded practicality. “If you don't, you will never be free.”

Bulma stared at the huddled bloody mass; at the remains of the man who tortured her until she asked for death. She sunk to her knees, peeling off her gloves with a slick snap. She lifted her ghostly white hands to her face. She wiped away warm droplets of blood from her cheeks with trembling fingers.

“No.” Her whisper was barely heard over Genzo's broken whimpers.

“Do it.” Vegeta moved to tower over her, and she had to steel herself not to shrink away. She infused that steel with conviction as she glared up at him with tear-bright eyes.

“I'm not a monster, Vegeta. I'm not him.”

She held his gaze for long moments, until it felt like the air was being squeezed from her lungs. Far away, passed the crashing of the waves and the screeching of gulls, sirens wailed. Vegeta broke away, his hands fisted as he approached Genzo. Bulma scrambled to her feet, using her crouched position to leap onto his back. He stiffened beneath her, his fingers prying at her wrists woven around his neck.

“You mustn't,” she begged.

“Someone must,” he bit out. Bulma heard something she couldn't recognize behind his words and she had to wonder at his resolution. The sirens were a shriek in the wind, a banshee foretelling death.

“The police are coming. He's done for.”

He roughly shook her off, but he did not turn to face her. She stared at the width of his shoulders and thought of all the suffering he must have endured to be so strong.

“Imprisonment is hardly a fitting punishment for his crimes.”

“It is what I choose.”

Vegeta turned and she felt small under the intensity of his gaze.

“As long as he lives, you won't feel safe.”

Bulma placed her delicate hand on his chest, soaking in his innate warmth through the thin layer of his clothing. Beneath her palm she knew he still felt the death blow dealt to him by Frieza.

“It will have to be enough to heal my wounds.” The sirens were closing in and fear shimmied down her spine. “I've committed a crime here.” She lifted her gaze from her hand to his implacable features. “Take me away while you still can.”

He held her gaze for a heart beat before swiping up her bloody gloves from the floor and gathering her up against his side. As they flew out the window the fresh air rushed over her, washing away the scent of blood and lilies, leaving only the crisp taste of freedom on her tongue.