Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Not for your ears ❯ Chapter 4 ( Chapter 4 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
A/N - Hello faithful readers. It seems a few of you have some questions about the story and, as I don’t believe they’ll be answered within, I thought it best to take this opportunity to do so. For those of you that weren’t quite sure this is primarily a story about Bulma and Vegeta, though, considering the twist, I imagine it will be far from conventional. In other words, and in answer to wenanim’s question, it is going to be extremely dark. The reason I’ve chosen to post the story both on Fanfiction.net and Mediaminer is because later chapters, likely from the next one onwards, will have to be edited due to their extremely mature content. If this is indeed the case I will inform fanfiction.net readers so that, if they so choose, they can read the unabridged version. As SuperSaiyanGal ‘s question about ages, Bulma’s theft of Oolong’s wish is during her first hunt for the Dragonballs, making her sixteen, Vegeta seventeen, Radditz presumably in his mid-twenties and Nappa anywhere from thirty to fifty years old. For the time being I believe that’s all your questions answered. If you have any more please relay them in comments and I will do my best to answer. In the meantime, I hope you continue to enjoy the story as much as I’m enjoying creating it.





Chapter 4

Bulma Briefs was a genius. There was no denying this readily apparent fact. When it came to science, mathematics, history and politics she excelled. At dinner parties, charity balls, even amongst friends she radiated intelligence and wit with a casual ease that stunned most, alienated some and enraged plenty. Through a combination of good breeding, hard work and luck she knew practically everything there was to know. Anything she didn’t could and was easily and swiftly absorbed into her significant mental memory banks of raw, instantly accessible data. However, knowing most things does by no means equate to knowing everything.

Bulma Briefs had one gaping, potentially deadly flaw: she was not now, nor had she ever been, a people person. As most people know humanity is a quandary which holds to few universal facts and figures. But to Bulma, who worshipped science and mathematics above all else, rigid and uncomplicated rules dictated everything. Logic was king. Therefore, when it came to dealing with other people, Bulma had a tendency to oversimplify, stereotype and label. She stuck with the figures and facts, forgetting, or perhaps failing to recognize, that not everything was dictated by such. Breezing through her existence in most ways made her oblivious to the fact that she was utterly failing in one. Perhaps this accounted for why her one and only friend (now dead) was a bumbling, tailed oaf who seemed to think rarely, if at all, and certainly cared little about Bulma’s intellect or her opinion of him. Nonetheless, until now her lack of social skills had provided no boundary that her ravishing beauty, quick wit or superb intellect could not combat. On that warm June day, however, awash among a sea of rotten human beings, this considerable flaw proved dangerous indeed. Though, in the end, it wasn’t so much the fact that she didn’t understand human beings, though she most decidedly did not, it was that she was convinced, as with most things, that she did. Overconfidence and ignorance are a deadly pair.

Her first mistake was her cultured deference for courtesy. She would have been better to wet herself; several of the men had done so the day before when accosted by the vicious hulking alien. Most stunk of piss, shit, sweat; some simple uncleanliness. These Pirates of the New World apparently didn’t believe in bathing; some, judging from the buildup of dirt and grime encompassing them, never had. The addition of one more bad smell among a sea of unpleasantness would have gone entirely unnoticed. The quiet retreat of one Bulma Briefs did not.

Her second mistake was leaving the way she did. After the tailed man had made his demands and abandoned the rag-tag group of deadly misfits they had split into several smaller groups. For reasons unbeknownst to her she had managed to land herself squat among the very worst. Marco, the perspiring mass of spongy flesh who joked about the numerous women he had raped before, and after, the alien upheaval. Hideki, utterly silent and entirely naked but for a bright orange beret that sat perfectly positioned upon his bald pate. The twins, Sam and Sammy, currently in the process of cutting rudimentary pictures of naked women into each other’s backsides with shards of broken glass. And Jeremy, who had already culled the group (eviscerating a brooding, bespectacled man whose name Bulma had not had the displeasure of learning) because he thought seven an unlucky number. These were men who joked about violent crime, laughed at death, took pleasure in pain. Slinking into the bushes, silent and without fanfare, was in many ways equivalent to an open admission of her abject unease.

Her third mistake was panicking. She was squatting uncomfortably behind an innocuous shrub, her pants around her ankles, when a firm hand gripped her shoulder. Despite the fact that the intruder, Hideki, hadn’t noticed Bulma’s disparate anatomy, despite the fact that he likely wouldn’t have cared, or commented, she panicked. She hadn’t planned to, didn’t mean to, but one thing on top of the other simply proved too much for her overburdened mind. She screamed shrilly, the voice synthesizer she wore unable to adjust adequately to the significant and sudden rise in volume. Then she ran. Like a deer in headlights, terrified and tactless, she ran.

Considering the new Bulma, jaded, suspicious and shrewd, her reaction made no sense. Or maybe it made all the sense in the world. Goku’s death had only been the start of her torment. She had followed the Dragonballs without even thinking, never considering the implications of her actions. For those first few days after the tailed man’s touchdown she had put her body and soul into the retrieval of the wish granting orbs, entirely ignoring the signs of destruction, devastation and chaos that greeted her in rapidly increasingly intervals. If she could just find them, she thought over and over again, everything would be made right and she could consider the violent reality that accosted her daily as little more than a past pipe dream of her over vexed psyche. It only occurred to her later, too late to do anything about it, that her flight of fancy had deprived her of so many opportunities; none more devastating than a simple, eternally underrated, farewell.

Four days may seem short but in that time, the time it had taken to finally accept the brutal reality surrounding her and the implications of such, Earth had undergone a cataclysmic make-over: most of the major cities destroyed, landmarks turned to dust and ash, the population decimated beyond repair. The sight of her home had nearly killed her. Certainly, a part of her died in the process of sifting through the demolished ruins, searching desperately for the remains of her inevitably deceased parents; searching for something, anything, that would connect her to the place she had once called home but now seemed more alien with each, heart-wrenching second. She had walked the deathly silent underground tombs for two whole days before she was convinced that, though it boasted, unharmed, much of the equipment it always had there were no signs of life. She had nearly cracked. And then, rather than crying and screaming, rather than curling into a ball and waiting for a savor that would never come, she searched, with a steady hand and a cool head, for anything that could be of use to her in the trying days ahead. It was due to this calculated aloofness that she had been able to infiltrate the group of shady dealers, utilizing one of the many indispensible capsules she now had on hand and the plethora of goodies that lay within. That warm summer day she had held on, taping together what she could of her fractured soul, trying desperately to remain in control of the life that was spinning ever downwards.

Today, however, each vexing moment, piled one on top of the other, became simply too much to bare. Hideki’s hand, cold, clammy and invasive, was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

And so she panicked, her cracked façade breaking open and spewing forth every negative emotion she had tried so desperately and frantically to suppress. She panicked, she screamed, she ran.

When she made her decision, conscious or otherwise, she sealed her fate. There was never a question as to whether or not they would catch her. The twins had been track runners in their youth and Bulma, who was more accustomed to heels than sneakers, was exhausted from her weeks on the run. The question was what they would do when they did. Her mind running a hundred miles a minute, her feet doing significantly less, she embraced the fact that she was caught and played her mental trump card. Bad men, indeed, but terrified men all the same. Men who would take the orders they were given, men who would do what they were told, men who would hand her willingly over in an attempt to save their own skins. And so, in a way, she was safe. At least, until the flame-haired boy and his goons got their hands on her. Perhaps that was why, despite the part of her that fought so desperately to find the bright side in each and every situation, she was still running.

Then Bulma made her third, final and most cataclysmic mistake. She had to submit, to resign herself to the fact that, in this instance, there was nothing she could do. But she didn’t want to. However, she couldn’t, for the life of her, see what else she could do. She was without option. And she was too busy thinking to watch where she was going.

Bulma stopped paying attention, stumbled and failed to notice the jutting rock only meters ahead of her. She tripped and went flying. And then she was falling. There was a dull thud and an intense jolt of pain, as she came plummeting back to the Earth landing head first on a hard outcropping of stone. Then there was no more to think about, no more to contemplate, no more to evade because everything went suddenly, mercilessly blank.




The first thing she thought was that the heater must be broken because she was freezing. Her house was never this cold. Her mother always kept it warm, cozy and sparkling clean. Her mother, who always smiled, always flirted, was always there with a warm cocoa and a shoulder to cry on. Her mother… who was dead. As it had every morning since that first grief-stricken one reality struck her, hard and fast, and everything came flooding back.

She didn’t open her eyes. She refused to. Life had beaten her again and she was sick and tired; sick of reality, tired of rude awakenings, violent happenings and harsh, cruel surroundings. This new world, so alien, so soon, sickened and terrified her. Earth, littered with a plethora of merciless monsters, both human and otherwise, had never been perfect. But it had never been this. This place was unrecognizable. Where once terror had been a happenstance, it was now every day, unavoidable, incessant. She had tried so hard, so hard, to be brave like Goku had been brave. She had tried so hard, fighting desperately, tooth and nail, just to survive. But why and for what?! What was there to live for, to fight for, now?

She knew why she was cold, knew all too well, and it had little to do with the unseasonable weather.

So she closed her eyes, she stemmed her thoughts and she wished for nothingness to consume her. All things considered, that seemed the best of her infinitesimal options.




As soon as he glimpsed her visage – so young, pink and pure - he’d determined to have her for himself. Since he’d been shot square in the forehead, years ago during a botched robbery, his memory had been frail at best. He had already forgotten his request to use the girl and the alien’s subsequent denial. Indeed he remembered only fragments of why and for whom they were supposed to find her in the first place (if not for his fellow criminals he would likely have forgotten that too). When it came to things such as these, places he needed to be, things that must be done or were expected of him, his mind was a sieve. However, he had not forgotten her. He always remembered a pretty face.

He needed no memento nor souvenir of his many conquests; from the first (his childhood nanny who forced herself on him only to find the roles reversed) to his most recent (a short, squat blonde girl, thirteen if she was a day, who he lured into his van with promises of ice creams and teddy bears). In vivid detail, belaying his otherwise poor cognizance, he remembered each and every one.

His member had swelled, stiff and erect, from the moment he first heard her beautiful, terror-drenched screams. Like music to his ears it instantly awoke the beast within. Even now he throbbed painfully, hungrily as he eagerly awaited his inevitable release.

He had watched as the twins pelted after her, anxious to root out the traitor in their midst. They needn’t have bothered, like a gift from the very heavens themselves, she had tripped and fallen, knocking herself unconscious, offering herself to them like a lamb to the slaughter. The others, baring perhaps Hideki who remained eternally oblivious, had been shocked by the revelation that hidden within their midst was the very creature they had been sent to find. Marco, on the other hand, was not at all surprised. From the moment he heard her luscious siren song he knew. It was manifest destiny’s finest hour.

It was the twins also who had stripped her, ever so carefully cutting the clothes from her body with their gleaming array of knives. But it was Jeremy who had carried her motionless form to the clearing, Jeremy who had created a make-shift but sturdy pyre to which she had been affixed, Jeremy who had warned them all, with his eyes and his voice not to touch.

Marco had seen it all and yet remembered nothing. Even if he had he wouldn’t have cared. As far as he was concerned she was his and had been from the very beginning. That was all that mattered.

He gazed at her under the cover of the moon, her bare skin luminous in its ivory perfection, her long azure hair falling like a nun’s veil, obscuring her virginal body, a thick lock of curls further concealing the nether regions he so longed to touch, suckle, maim. A thin trail of drool fell from his mouth and he licked his lips in sick anticipation.

Marco unbuckled his pants, abandoning them as they fell in a pile at his feet. His small penis jutted furiously upward, desperate to bury itself within the folds of its waiting prey. He reached out, with shaking hands, inches away from the perfect, flawless ivory of her pert breasts.

A bang.

And then he screamed.

It took Marco a minute to fully comprehend what he was seeing. Where once there had been an appendage, conqueror and destroyer of so many, there was now only a steady, thick stream of dark, hot blood and gore.

Another bang, recognizable as a gunshot this time, rang hollowly throughout the clearing.

The last thing Marco saw was his still rigid member, lying to attention in the bloodied grass. Then the world, like so many memories, was lost to him in a sea of eternal darkness and despair.




Bulma, still desperately clinging to her notion of abandonment, pretended not to have felt the man’s heavy breath on her cheek. Nor had she heard the gunshots or his piercing, tormented scream. Her eyes remained clamp shut on the world. She was not the only one shrouded within her own imagined reality.

His smile gleamed in the moonlight.

“You know the funny thing,” a man, it sounded like Jeremy, said. His voice was too collected, too soft, too calm. “Ten minutes earlier and he would have had his way with you. Ten minutes early and you would have been utterly ruined and I may have been forced to hand you over to the alien brutes. Ten minutes and I would still have been lying apt in the grass over yonder waiting for the right moment, the perfect moment, to strike. What a difference ten minutes can make, hmm?”

Bulma didn’t reply. She couldn’t hear, she was an island, it was all nothing. A pretender to the last.

The man violently kicked the lifeless corpse at Bulma’s feet and, despite herself, she shuddered as the dull thud reverberated throughout her entire body, as though it was she he had kicked and not the would-be rapist sitting dead at her feet.

“Yes, perhaps it’s better if you keep your eyes closed, though I suspect it’ll make little difference in the long run,” and now Bulma could not ignore the fierce blaze of light that even through her eyelids she could see. Wanting, no needing, to know she opened herself up to the scene before her. The man, it was Jeremy, was bent over, fiddling with the sticks and logs of the make-shift pyre to which she was attached, setting pieces of kindling alight with a small box of matches and shoving them here and then in a determined manner. He was humming softly, set about his work, and it occurred to Bulma (how could she have missed it?!) that Jeremy wasn’t evil or demented. Rather he was entirely and absolutely instance. Yet another victim of the alien’s evil deeds.

“You’re a virgin right?” he asked cheerfully, ignoring her terror-stricken face. “No, don’t bother answering that. You’ll only lie. Woman always lie. People always lie. That’s not why they want you, of course. Oh no, no, no. They want you for your magic, so you can conquer up more of your ‘inventions’ and bring more sin and pestilence into this world. But I know their game. Oh yes, oh yes. The apocalypse is not nigh, it is come and you, Bulma Briefs, servant of the devil, mean to finish this world, to help the horseman bring forth everlasting doom. But I shall smite you with the very weapon you sought to destroy us with, using you or, to be more specific, your bodily purity to destroy the corruption of your mind. Destroying all your evil with the cleansing power of the flame. I will stop the final seal from breaking. You shall burn and in your ashes the world will be born anew. I shall be the savior of all… Little Jimmy’s death… Katherine’s death… once I do this, they will no longer have been in vein.”

Bulma didn’t say anything. Her heels had begun to blister and bleed as the suckling flames grew more furious below her. Sweat wept from her pores and her entire body ached. Nonetheless she stayed utterly rigid, completely silent. Jeremy was insane, driven mad clearly by the death of his loved ones, but he was not exactly incorrect. None of this, the deaths, the destruction, the apocalypse, would have happened if not for her. Perhaps he was indeed a massager of God; for surely on this Earth none was more deserving of death than she, the very harbinger of death herself. At least, this way, she would be able to see her parents, her comrades and Goku once more. A few moments of anguish and then all the pain, all the suffering, all the guilt would finally, mercilessly be washed away.

A small part of her, the part that would have stayed with Goku despite the risk, the part that had kept her going these past weeks, clawed, tooth and nail, to fight, to endure, to survive. She shouldn’t give up; she simply could not allow all the deaths and sacrifices to have been for naught. The fact that it was her fault was all the more reason for her to live, to put right all that she had done. Some stupid, insane man wouldn’t be the end of her, he couldn’t! She would not submit, would not surrender. She simply would not!

Bulma’s warring self struggled to rectify itself. Her head swam. The only option was no option at all. Even if she wanted to fight how could she?! She wept, she screamed, she forgot to breath. Her head swam. Her world blurred at the edges. She didn’t want to die, not really, not now, not ever.

Bulma did not see Jeremy obliterate into nothingness as a bright flash of all-encompassing light encircled his tranquil form. Nor did she see the arrival of the tall, mustachioed man; her would-be hunter and apparent savior. She did not feel his callous, but gentle, hands as he ripped her free of the thick ropes encasing her body, pulling her from the fire that would have otherwise consumed her. She did not hear the words, softly spoken and weighed with a considerable helping of begrudged admiration and respect, as he slowly cradled her in his arms and flew towards the slowly rising sun.

It all went un-witnessed because Bulma Briefs, for the second time in as many hours, had fallen into the thick, dark swath of unconsciousness.

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