First meetings

I hate that bastard who calls himself my 'father'. He has been anything else than a father to me; he has been the president of CC, he has been my teacher, he has been my manager, and he is the one who has 'made love' to me repeatedly. He has 'invited' me into his bedroom several times, and then he has done things to me I would rather not remember. Really, you would think such an intelligent man had at least respect from his own flesh and blood, but since my mother has died, he has closed himself off and gradually, he became the heartless bastard he is today.

Why I didn't go to the police immediately after that first time?

I don't know. I was ashamed. I felt humiliated. I was afraid what he would do to me. I didn't want to seem weak. And who would believe me that the most important man on this planet has touched me in … private places? There are so many women out there who would gladly trade places with me if they got half of the 'special attention' I received from him.

That is why I have signed a contract with the army for three years. I had to get away from that bastard's constant supervising, molesting, and abusing. Here, he can't follow me - or at least I hope that he can't. Who knows what he could achieve by using the full weight of his title of 'Founder and President of Capsule Corporation'. The most surprising thing is that he let me leave to begin with. I really don't understand his motives, but I am glad that he is out of my life for now.

Walking over to the first bed of the many white ones that are lined up against the wall, I start checking on my patients. Private Anderson had caught a bullet in his left hip, an accident at the shooting booth. The surgery was clean and easy, and he should wake up from the anesthetics soon.

Private McCarty got a mild concussion and a broken arm when he fell off one of the climbing walls. He had managed to land head first, but luckily the wall had not been too high.

The next one, Private Furgusson, has a bad cold and a temperature of 103°. She came here only an hour ago because she collapsed during a field exercise.

Checking on every patient in the medical ward, I do the work that allows me to escape my father. I have chosen to be an army surgeon because that is one of the fields I have some experience in. They also would have accepted me as a weapons engineer (did you think the daughter of a man like my father would know nothing about technology?), but then I would have had to keep working together with that bastard. The job as a soldier was also out of consideration, because I would have never been able to make it through the harsh training on day one. So I went into the medical ward.

Work has been quite hard so far, many hours a day, very often night shift, and not a lot of money as I am not the head surgeon, but all of that is better than being with my father. Here, I am not happy, but at least I am not unhappy any more. That is more than I can say about my previous life.

The door opens, and a fellow surgeon of mine, Doctor Jack Martens, enters the ward and hurries towards me. He is a great guy that I have befriended on my first day here. I had been scared and very unsure of myself, and he had taken me under his wing immediately and showed me the ropes. His only problem is that he doesn't like to see naked women. He always gets a nosebleed then, and so I usually take his female patients.

"Bulma, please come with me to the front gate, a group of recruits on survival training has returned and a few of them are injured. I will need your help."

Nodding in acknowledgement, I follow him out of the building. On both sides of us, there are other teams of recruits doing push-ups, their morning jog, practicing how to move in lockstep, but I have gotten so used to the sight that I barely pay them any attention. We hurry towards the front gate, and there is Sergeant Miller waiting together with five more people.

Sergeant Miller is a very tough trainer, but his soldiers admire him because he is one of the best. After being a soldier himself for more than ten years, he knows what he is doing and achieves the best progresses with the recruits. Many of his old trainees swear that they never had a better instructor than him, and they would go through hell for him.

"Doctor Martens, Doctor Briefs, I have been waiting for you. Private Smith and Private Jonson need medical attention, and I believe the civilian here is also injured."

While he talks, he points to the respective people. Private Smith is a beautiful blond girl who has several bandages around her thigh and her arms, some of them soaked with blood, and her complexion is a little bit too pale for comfort. Her features show her exhaustion, and her skin has lots of small cuts and bruises, as if she had had to force her way through thick brushes. She is leaning heavily on a stick and seems to be standing by will-power alone.

Private Jonson looks even worse; he doesn't have as many cuts and bruises, but he has a make-shift cast around his right shin. Its whole front side is red with blood, and it is a miracle that he is even standing; although he is supported by two of the other recruits. Only then I realize that none of them are wearing their jackets anymore, probably cut up into pieces for the bandages.

The civilian is the strangest of them. But, what is a civilian doing here anyways? The whole area of several square miles has been fenced in with barbed wire, and nobody is allowed to enter it without authorization. I wonder why Sergeant Miller has not thrown him out already, he is not known for being kind to intruders.

He has black hair that is sticking straight up, and it is shaped like a flame. He wears something akin to a full-body spandex that reveals the fact that every inch of his body is well-muscled like the one of a bodybuilder. The armor and a fuzzy brown belt do nothing to conceal his attractiveness either, although they look strange to me. Where did he get those clothes?

He possesses a high widow's peak and very fine facial features that look almost regal. He is standing with a lot of pride, and he seems to be quite adept at hiding his emotions behind a perfectly unmoving mask that I have been trying to learn during my years with my so-called 'father'. To me, he doesn't seem as badly injured as the other two, so I address the recruits first.

"Private Jonson, please follow Doctor Martens. Private Smith, you will come with me and I'll have a look at you."

It is not far to the medical ward, and they have proven that they are capable of moving around on their own, so I don't bother calling a stretcher. They slowly walk behind me, focusing completely on that one task. Well, walking is not the right expression. Private Jonson is practically being carried by his buddies, and Private Smith is not even trying to keep up. Every step seems to cost her a lot of strength she doesn't have, but she still stops, turns around and looks at the strange civilian, whispering exhaustedly.

"Please let the doctor look at your wound … so that you can get your revenge on …"

She trails off at the sudden reaction that is scaring the hell out of me.

The man suddenly seems so much more menacing than all soldiers in this camp together; he practically is surrounded by an aura of strength that screams danger to all my senses, and his previously calm face is contorted in a hideous snarl. He almost looks like a rabid beast, but a rabid beast with intelligence reflected in its eyes. Everybody is backing away from him, and I can feel his anger, though I am not completely sure at whom or at what it is directed.

He seems to be fighting himself as fragments of emotions are slipping through his facial mask, but that is cut off when the Smith-girl is starting to faint. At first, he makes no move, just staring at her with that stony façade slipping into place again, but when she collapses, he is by her side in an instant and catches her.

One of her flailing arms accidentally hits him in the stomach, and a brief flash of pain shows on his face, then it is the stony mask again. He picks her up effortlessly and comes closer to me reluctantly as if he didn't want to get to the medical ward. I can't help but stare at his catlike grace and the soundless ease he moves with; he almost doesn't seem part of this world.

Before he reaches me though, I manage to drag my attention away from him and lead them to the medical ward. Jack takes care of Private Jonson, and I am left with Private Smith and the man who is carrying her. I don't mind because I know that Jack always gets so nervous when dealing with women. Not wasting a second, I start giving orders.

"Lay her on the table over there. How did she get those wounds, and how long ago was it?"

He seems to be taken a little bit aback by my 'business-voice', but he answers immediately with a deep, pleasant tone although it is a little bit gruff as if he wasn't used to talking a lot.

"A … bear … Yesterday. It bit her several times, but the wounds on her thigh and her right arm are the most serious."

Stepping back from the bed, he leans against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest but not actually touching a spot beneath his sternum. I immediately get to work and look at her wounds. A few of them are quite deep and I have to sow them closed, but they are all healing very well, no signs of infection. It is quite a miracle, because there are no possibilities to keep a wound sterile in a forest, but it seems as if her immune system was strong enough to overcome all of the germs.

The bandages she had were set very professionally and she had lost only a minimum amount of blood, so she should wake up soon. She probably only passed out from exhaustion and pain as her breathing and her heart-beat are strong and steady, and there are no signs of shock. Turning my attention back to the man, I inform him:

"First, I am going to take her to the other patients, then I will come back to you. Don't leave, wait here."

He growls something which I take as a 'yes', and not even five minutes later, I am back in the operating room again, seeing that he has never moved from his spot. Looking straight into his eyes, I try to forget the rest of his attractive body, and ask:

"Ok, where are you hurt?"

"Like I would tell you."

Huh? What is that supposed to mean? Why is he so defensive all of a sudden?

"If you don't tell me, I can't help you."

"I don't need your help. It will heal on its own."

He is really stubborn, but the way Private Smith has talked to him, it seemed to be something serious. What has made him react the way he does? Is he afraid of admitting that he needs help? Focusing on his eerily black pupils, I answer hotly.

"Listen here, mister. I have sworn the oath of Hippocrates which says that I have to do everything in my power to heal people. Now show me your injury!"

His previously closely guarded expression falters slightly, and a mixture of many feelings washes briefly through his coal black eyes, then they become hard again. I am sure that I saw lots of pride, but there had been a little bit of fear in the background, too. Though, what should he be afraid of?

Wearily, he removes the chest armor by just shedding it like a T-shirt, and it surprises me that it is very stretchable. He carefully lays it down on the floor, and it sounds as if it was heavy. Slowly, he gets up again, and I realize for the first time that he doesn't stretch himself to his full height but remains slightly hunched over, a sure sign of a fresh wound in the chest area.

His eyes never leaving my face as if he was checking that I won't do anything to him, he pulls down the spandex top so that it rests at his hips. A big bandage soaked with bright red blood is revealed, and from the amount of blood I can tell that it is quite serious and that he is probably in a lot of pain. It is remarkable that none of his agony shows on his face though.

"Ok, lie down here, I will have a look at it."

He still doesn't move his eyes away from my body, and I would have smacked him on his head a long time ago if it had been a stare like most men look at me, a stare as if they were undressing me in their minds. But he watches my every move wearily, as if I was going to hurt him, and his tension is almost palpable.

Slowly, always ready to bolt away, he lies down on the medical bed, keeping his dark eyes on me. I talk to him, explaining everything to him so that he can feel secure and that he can start trusting me. I wonder how he has ended up here, and how he became so weary; he seems to consider anything and everything as a potential danger.

"I am going to cut the bandage away so that I can see the wound."

He lies as still as a statue when I carefully pull the bloodied cloth away, but he never relaxes; he is constantly tense and weary. There is a big gash across his stomach, and without the pressure from the cloth, it is bleeding quite heavily. How in the world did he get such a huge cut? It looks as if it had been intentionally made with a knife, and it is big enough that a small hand could slip in without any problems.

He is watching me, watching my reaction, watching what I am doing. The constant watching is unnerving, it makes all of the small hairs on my body raise as if I was a dog. That stare feels so similar to the one of that bastard, but I can't let past memories overwhelm me, so I try to concentrate fully on the moment, to concentrate on the task at hand.

"Ok, I am going to take care of your wound now and ask questions later. But you will have to answer them, this doesn't look like an accident. First, I am going to give you something against the pain, then I will sow the wound closed."

I just want to turn around to fetch a syringe with morphine when his hand grabs my arm as fast as lightening and pulls me back. He is hurting me, his steely grip around my wrist is painfully tight, and it is reminding me of what my father has done to me so many times.

I would always try and get away from him whenever he has dragged me into his bedroom, and he has warped that into a game for him. He lets me think that I can escape, he watches my panicked attempts at flight with a sardonic smirk on his lips; but at the last moment, when I am almost out of the door, he always catches me by my wrist and drags my struggling body back to his bed.

Trembling, I try to focus my thoughts on something else, but the memories are too strong, too fresh to forget. They start conjuring horrible images in front of my eyes as they wash over me; they weaken all of my resistance, and in the end, I am caught in an endless replay of the infinitely terrifying scenes where my father has used me as his personal toy.

I am not aware anymore that I am in a hospital; I am not aware anymore that there is an injured man on the bed; I am not aware anymore that those are only memories. Instead, all reason leaves me as I blindly struggle to get out of the iron grip around my wrist, and my whole attention is centered on fleeing from my father's room, on escaping from what is sure to come.

Gasping for air, I want to scream for help, but a hard hand clamps over my mouth, hurting me, but I am so panicked that the adrenaline drowns out all pain. I am biting, I am kicking at his shins, I am thrashing around wildly, but nothing seems to have an effect on my captor. I am held so tightly that there is no chance of escape.

The horrible knowledge that he has won again is starting to invade my hazed brain while I am still struggling, and all the implications of that are starting to surface in my conscious thoughts. In a desperate effort, I gather everything I have for a last fight, but I am drained too soon without having made any remarkable progress.

Finally, I am so exhausted that I go limp in his arms, all strength having left me. I am even too weak to experience the full load of terror, so I shut my mind off, knowing very well what is going to follow. I can feel his hot, labored breath against my ear, and I shudder violently in disgust. I don't want this, please leave me alone, please have mercy on me…

At first, I think he has heard my pleas, but when he starts talking in a hoarse and strangely unfamiliar voice, all of my hopes are shattered.

"You are not going to scream when I take my hand away from your mouth. Understood?"

I don't react at all, too terrified to move, willing him to just go away, willing him to just leave me alone. But that has never happened before, he has always started letting his vile fingers trail over my body, so why should that change now? Shuddering, I draw back into my mind, shutting out the whole world expertly. I don't want to feel what he is going to do to me. The day afterwards is going to be bad enough, and that is my only chance to not go insane…

-----<<<<<>>>>>-----

I can smell her fear, it taints the whole room. What did I do? I just grabbed her by her wrist to keep her from fetching those drugs, and then she went berserk on me. Now, she is hanging limply in my arms, but she doesn't seem to have snapped out of whatever possessed her. Those humans are strange. The other female, the blond one, didn't have a reaction like this, so what is the matter with her?

Perhaps it has something to do with her strange hair color. Greenish-blue hair is perhaps the sign of some genetic defect that manifests in irrational panic-attacks. Or it could be some strange kind of disease that she has picked up somewhere, who knows what things those weak humans are susceptible to.

Slowly, I release her, always watching her for any signs of a new seizure. She is still limp, so I lay her on the bed I have just rested on a minute ago. As soon as my hands leave her body, she curls up into a tight ball and starts sobbing. Weakling. But that posture looks kind of familiar to me, as if she was hiding from something or somebody she is terrified of. Could it be possible that she is going through some nightmares or memories?

Finally fed up with wondering about her condition, I take action. I determinedly walk towards the bed and place a hand on her back, right between her shoulder blades. Immediately, she stiffens and quiets down. Yes, she is responsive to touch, which is quite a sure sign that it isn't any seizure or illness. And she is so rigid while her fear is still clouding the room. I am not sure if it is going to work on her species as the ritual I am about to initiate has been designed for Saiya-jin only, but I don't think I have anything to loose.

Concentrating, I try to remember what exactly Radditz had done for me during that special night to help me draw my thoughts away from that bastard. Gathering my energy, I let it trickle into her in a thin but steady stream as any more of my raw power would hurt her frail body. I know quite well what she is feeling right now because I have experienced the same.

I had been so scared of Radditz that I had never let him touch me, and when he did touch me, I had stiffened and laid as still as an iron bar. He had been talking to me all the time, but I never heard what he was saying, I just reacted mindlessly. Then he had placed his hand on my back and shared his energy with me. At first, I had shied away as usually, but a warm, tingling feeling that ran down my spine had finally drawn me out of my stupor. It had been so different from the cold Aisu-jin, so pleasant, so relaxing, so warm.

Returning to the present, I have to smirk. It seems to have exactly the same effect on her as it had on me because she smiles and unconsciously leans into my hand. I could do anything to her now and she would never protest, but what would I want with an example of such a pathetic race? I just want her to fix my wound.

Drawing my hand back from her skin, I address her with more chill in my voice than I originally intended, but it does its job and she is completely awake again.

"You said you were going to tend to my wound."

She opens her eyes in confusion and gasps when she sees my wound. She turns blood red in her face and stammers:

"Erh… s-sorry about that … I h-hope I didn't do anything … it's just … when you grabbed my wrist … it triggered some … memories I'd rather forget … "

I raise an eyebrow at her when she sadly looks down at her feet. So she has some bad memories? Sounds familiar to me. But if I ever want to get rid of the cut across my stomach, I need her to sow it closed before she has another relapse. And work is the best thing to keep your mind off unwanted memories. At least for me.

"I don't care, just do your job."

I didn't think she could get any redder, but she proves me wrong. Man, what is the matter now? She looks dangerously close to fainting. Could that all be from some strange emotion she has? Hurriedly, she gets up from the bed and sets to work. Drawing out some small glass-cylinder with a capped needle at one end, she addresses me:

"I am going to get the painkiller while you lay back down on the bed."

What!?! She still has not realized that I am not going to take any of those 'painkiller' those measly humans have? Do they think I am too weak to stand a little bit of stinging? I have to stop her, but how do I do that without causing her to react like she did before? Harshly, I growl:

"No!"

She turns around and looks at me in surprise.

"Why not?"

Well that is what I get from that. Couldn't she just have followed my instructions and NOT given me any of those 'painkillers'? But no, she has to know why. Finally, I decide to tell her the part of the truth that is probably the one she can accept the easiest.

"Most painkillers don't work on me, and my reaction to the other ones is dangerous."

Yes, the only ones that work on my Saiyan physiology are the ones from the space-pod, and they only knock out my conscious brain. My unconsciousness and my reflexes are still working in that state, and they would kill anybody who is not Saiyan or bonded to me and dares to touch me.

"Are you sure? Do you have an allergy?"

Allergy? What the hell is that? Some puny human disease? I don't even want to know what it is, so I just nod, not specifying which question I answered, and luckily, she seems satisfied.

"Ok, then I will try to work as fast as possible. Lie down."

She opens a drawer and pulls out a white trey with some metallic threads on it. Curiously, I watch as she places it on my lower abdomen and wipes the skin around the injury clean. She dons white see-through plastic gloves and an ugly green gown that contrasts nastily with her aqua-marine hair. Finally, she turns her attention towards me again.

"I am going to call in some men who will hold you still. I don't want to take the risk of you moving while I sow the muscles and the veins back together. Stay here."

I growl deeply in my throat as I watch her hurry out of the room. Does she think I am a weakling? None of those pathetic humans can hold me down if I don't want to. And I have been through much worse pain, so a little bit of sowing can hardly evoke any reason to hold me down. Feh, they all are weaklings.

There she comes again - with three tall human males in tow who all look pathetically soft. They have no control over their emotions whatsoever, they move with no grace at all, and they are either too well-fed or they don't get enough exercise because all of that flesh can't be muscle. I could kill them from my position with just a lift of my finger, but I don't do it as I am trying to fit in, and so far, nothing has hinted at the fact that they like somebody who kills their species.

Instead, I grudgingly let them touch my hardened and steeled body with their soft, weak fingers, pretending that they are the ones holding me down. I can practically smell their arousal at the sight of the female, and that is plainly disgusting. They are joking around and giving stupid comments while the female is working quickly, showing more brain than all three of the males together.

Finally, the small pin-pricks have stopped and she fetches some bandages to cover my wound. She is quite a good doctor, better than Radditz and myself, and the twinge of the two sides of the cut is minimal. At last, she allows the three males to release me, and I sit up immediately because I don't like being in such a submissive position. It pulls up bad memories of that bastard.

Hearing a shocked gasp behind me, I turn around to look the female into her eyes, not wanting to have to bother with her at the moment.

"What?", I snap angrily.

She has a look of horror on her face and stares at me in shock. What is it now? I've still got my tail wrapped securely around my waist, so why is she behaving like that? She starts stammering:

"W-where did you get those scars?"

Oh, so she is fussing over my scars. Yeah, I guess my back is an interesting map of welts and lines. There are the claw-marks that that Son of a bitch has left at my last beating, there are several crisscrossing scars from the hot ki-beams that bastard had used to whip me with, there are several irregular battle scars, and then there is the name of that Aisu-jin carved across my shoulder-blades.

I will always have that as a reminder of my service to him, but at least I will never forget my oath to make him suffer for that. No matter how long it is going to take, no matter how hard I have to train, that bastard is going to pay for what he has done to me, I swear, I am going to get my revenge!

-----<<<<<>>>>>-----

Man, where did he get all of those scars? There are some running straight down as if a huge beast had raked its claws through his skin, some look like burn marks, others look as if he had been whipped and beaten. I can't imagine what kind of hell he must have suffered through, it must have been at least as bad as my own private hell.

And then, there are the strange scars across his shoulders. They almost look as if something had been written on his body, but who would carve something into skin? I wonder what that could be, it looks strangely familiar, almost as if I had seen this kind of writing before…

Suddenly, I realize that he is growling lowly in his throat like an animal. His fists are clenched and he seems to be trembling from anger. I can practically feel how he is fighting with his inner demons, and somehow, I know that he is trying to overcome past memories.

Private Duncan, Private Anderson and Private Miller are backing away from him because the power he is emitting is really scary. I can't see anything, but I can feel it in the air, it is raising all the tiny hairs on my body and it is flowing around me like water. It feels similar to his reaction outside when the Smith-girl had said something about him getting revenge on somebody. Perhaps it was this somebody who had left all those scars on his body…

Shuddering, I imagine how painful it must have been. I am by no means a stranger to being hurt, but this is just unimaginable. They look so deep, it is a small miracle that he had not bled to death when he had received those wounds. How can he have suffered through that much and still be sane?

Turning my attention back towards the current situation, I realize that the three men have snuck out of the room like cowards and left me here alone. Tsk, what a brave army we have … but I have to do something soon, because it seems as if the power in the room was growing, and if it gets any stronger, it could be dangerous.

Realizing that I don't even know his name, there is only one possibility left. Drawing together all of my courage, I step closer to him. It almost feels as if I was wading through a strong current, and it takes a lot of work to go forwards. The feeling is strange, there is a light tingling at my skin because the air is heavily charged with electricity. I wonder why none of the machines here have mal-functioned so far, but that is not my top priority at the moment. Finally, I am within arm-length of him and reach out to touch him, seeing no other way to snap him out of his trance.

"Don't!"

I cringe back at his harsh, commanding voice and almost loose my balance with the strong currents pressing against me. The bed in my back stops my fall, but it hurts. Grimacing, I rub my back and want to know why not.

"Never touch me when I am charged with energy like that. You would have to be lucky to survive. Now show me a place where I can safely work out - alone."

"But you shouldn't strain yourself, the wound might open up again if you are not careful."

"If I don't get rid of this energy soon, you might wish later on that you had let me do my training. Now where can I work out?"

Shit, that has happened to him before? What the hell is he? And how does he expect to get rid of all that power by working out? Can't he just discharge it somehow, then he would not hurt himself, and my doctor's instincts would not have to complain. But I guess he knows best how to handle the situation, so I wait for him to pick up his armor and wordlessly lead him into the gym where there are many weights and other equipment. When he sees them though, he scrunches his forehead up and asks in disgust.

"What the hell is this? I wanted a place to work out, not something stuffed with such useless gadgets!"

Has he completely lost his mind? This is one of the best fitness rooms, and here you can work out wonderfully! He almost behaves as if he had never been to earth before. Fed up with his antics, I snap back:

"Then what would you like, your highness?"

At first, he is astonished, then the corners of his mouth twitch upwards in a satisfied smirk. Definitely not good. I seem to have pleased his already big ego even more.

"A big, empty room with thick walls where no one can watch me."

Don't get angry. Do NOT get angry.

I have to grit my teeth and repeat that mantra continuously in my head. His whole behavior is really infuriating, he acts as if he was the king in here. Just why do I have to get stuck with the worst pricks on this planet? Additionally, this is a military base, not a Five-star-hotel where everybody is there just to please him!

I am just about to tell him that when I see the cracks on the floor where he is standing. The linoleum looks as if somebody had painted a whole root system on it, but I know that those are no roots. In front of us, the floor is still untouched, but behind us… Shit, I don't think he was kidding! What the hell did he do? No human can have powers like those, can they?

Gulping, I lead him across several open fields to an old part of the base, an outdated hangar where there had been airplanes sheltered once. Now, the airport has been moved to another base, approximately thirty miles south of here. Nobody comes to this place anymore, so that should suit him just fine. He looks around and simply nods at me, showing me that I am dismissed. I swear, the nerve of that guy! But he doesn't seem to notice my anger, he just throws his armor he had been carrying around all the time into a corner where it lands with a heavy clank. Then, he takes a fighting stance in the middle of the room and starts some slow katas.

He hasn't put on a shirt yet, so I can see each one of his muscles ripple with the exertion. Even the bandage and the wound beneath don't seem to hinder his movements, they just flow from his body with utter grace. He is a perfect picture of esthetics; hell, he would have even made the Greek demi-god Hercule jealous. His tanned skin and his flame-like black hair give him a dark, mysterious appearance, and I have to force myself away because the powerful aura he projects is slowly dulling my conscious thoughts. Licking my dry lips, I try to sound as normal as possible, but I am embarrassed because all I manage get out is a hoarse squeak. Clearing my throat, I try it again.

"I will come and get you for supper. That is when the sun sets. Until then, I'll leave you alone. And don't you dare make your wound break open again!"

With those words, I turn around and stomp out of the hangar to save the last shreds of my dignity, but I can't avoid catching a smirk dancing around the edges of his lips. Argh, he is more than impossible!

A/N: Did you like it? For those who have not read it in my A/N at the beginning: