Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Requiem in Blue ❯ Chapter Nine: Ka'hakazah ( Chapter 9 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Bulma was running, and she did not care where. She clutched the shredded remains of her dress close to her shivering body and prayed to any god who would listen that no one would see her--least of all Brolli.  Kami-gami--!  If he saw her like this he’d laugh in her face before he made her admit that he’d been right all along.  Bulma squeezed out a few spare tears that crept their way out of her eyes. It would not do to be seen crying either. She needed to make it to her chambers and prepare.  After tonight’s fiasco, there was no doubt left in her mind as to the direction she needed to turn next.
Vejiita-sei was gone. Though the news had not brought any great sadness to her heart, Bulma was hard-pressed to believe that such a thing had actually come to pass. It was simply too difficult to believe; Vejiita-sei dwarfed most other planets by hundreds of thousands of miles in circumference and by billions in population. Its perimeter was guarded constantly by surveillance and guard pods. And what those bloody monkeys lacked in tech-base they certainly made up for in brute strength and ki manipulation. Furiza was either a closet, certified genius or had gone completely insane. Bulma guessed that the Aisu-jin ruler had more up his sleeve than just those options, however.
Gods, she was still furious. Even as she thought of him, the Monkey Prince made her desire to rip a small animal in half greater by the second. How dare he?!  It had been the first time in a very long while that one of those beasts had even come close to opening her heart and looking inside. And she certainly would not allow that to happen, not ever!  It was not something she could afford. Especially now…
When Bulma reached the doors to her chamber, she punched in the lock code and slid inside.  Brolli was nowhere to be found, thank the gods.  Bulma heaved until her breath began to calm, and she turned to face her mattress of feathers and down.  She sighed in childlike relief and dropped her crimson cloak to the ground.
And her dress was ruined, curse that beast! Bulma fingered the frayed edges of it and felt damnable tears well in the confines of her eyes.  Damn him…damn him, damn him!! It was more than fabric that had been torn, she thought.
The wall was welcoming as she leaned against it, exhausted and aggravated to the point of devastating sleep. But even if she had tried now, she knew sleep would never come. His voice would come back to her, as it was now in the most horrifying tone she’d ever heard.  I think you want a man to make love to every inch of you until you can’t bloody stand it anymore…!  Bulma growled and slid to a crouching position near the wall. It didn’t matter if his words were true or not, she’d surmised. That was not possible, none of it was possible!  And so it would not do to dwell on such things.
The ignorance of his comments made pain well in her chest until she thought that perhaps someone may be stabbing her.  Bulma bent her neck and sobbed once. The harsh noise was infuriating to her. It sounded as though someone had beaten her. The racking sobs came spewing forth finally, and coarsely, as vomit does. Her fists were clenched into tight little balls of fury and desperation. Because, she realized, no matter how hard she wished for it--no matter how much she wanted those things the Monkey Prince had spoken of, it made no difference at all. She would never have them.
And so, Bulma thought as she rose to her feet and sniffled, this was the way she had made for herself. In order to travel down this path, she must use the tools at her disposal. Her heart did not matter, she knew. Gods, it had been so long since she’d cried over such things that the feeling felt foreign.  It felt unnatural and wrong. Bulma swiped a hand across her soaking wet face and snarled as she made her way across the chamber.
Her communicator had been placed daintily by her bedside when she’d changed earlier on her way to see the Prince. All the gods, he’d pay for this. All of them would pay. She’d do as she had done for the past two years--play both sides of the table. Only this time, her revenge would be palatable.  Kami!  She could almost taste it now.
Hurriedly, Bulma snatched up the communicator and touched the buttons needed to receive Iriyon. His voice was tired and confused, she thought.  But then, it was the middle of the night and no one had yet been notified of the evening’s events.
“Iriyon!” She hissed into the com unit. “It’s Bulma!”
He seemed to spring into recognition at the sound of his own language as she whispered it.  His voice was more urgent when he spoke again.
“Shaji Bulma, what is it?!”
“Urgent news, darling,” she continued in Mizukago, “you must contact His Majesty Emperor Furiza. Tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible!”
“Shaji--?  Lady Bulma?” He seemed puzzled by her request.
“Do it, Iriyon.  The time for talk has long since passed.”
“Of--of course, Shaji Bulma!”
She clicked off the com unit and tossed it onto her bed. With haste, Bulma crossed the room and threw open her wardrobe. Leafing through various ornate gowns and headdresses, she finally found what she’d been looking for. Bulma cursed when the outfit hooked onto the buttons of another, and she tore it from the closet. Quickly, she peeled the remains of her gown from her still shaking body and tossed it carelessly over the floor. She hoped Brolli would come and find it like that…  Maybe the poor little monkey would be worried for her and go on a killing spree.  Or maybe the Monkey Prince would find it there and assume the worst; that Bulma had gone mad with her grief over him and jumped out her balcony window. Gods, there were days when that seemed like the best option.
Yet now, in this late and unholy hour of the night, Bulma could not even concede to the idea. She knew what she had to do as she slid the loose, silk pants over her legs. Their blood red material seemed fitting for the occasion, Bulma mused.  She buttoned the shirt, caressing the fine embroidery that adorned the breast of it. The sight of it was like a million pieces of memory--a million, fine white lines of familiarity. The kanji danced in her eyes like real beauty. She had not seen this for some time.
Bulma traced the Japanese kanji with her finger.  Hitotsu kaku--one stroke…  Futatsu kaku--two strokes…  Chikara. The symbol of strength would have to be her guiding light now, for nothing else could be. No one else could be. Okaachan, gomen ne…
Mama, forgive me, won’t you? These are things I never meant for you to see.

“So you see, Your Majesty, I have no other options. The Saiya-jin political monsters have swallowed me whole as it were, and I am too close to them now to attempt real betrayal. I will have to work from the inside out until you have secured your position within Mizukashi and made your move.”
Bulma pressed one thumb against the other and waited. The air on Furiza’s ship was cold; colder than most winters on Hokkaido and colder than the most vicious snowstorm at Vejiita-sei’s pole. And the air was wet:  humid almost but a cool, eerie and altogether clammy kind of humid. About as sultry as a serpent’s tongue. Furiza was watching her from his throne. A throne carved completely from icy deposits of tungsten. A great, white vein of frozen mercury gleamed down the center of it, curling around until it reached the legs of the throne and appeared as a spear in dawn shadow.  The great wealth of Yuki-sei lay it its precious minerals and elements, mined and sold to the highest bidder.  But in the years since its invasion, well, the highest bidder was the Saiya-jin king.  And Furiza had been forced into a sovereign status, his title a mere symbol of his former power.
The tapered end of the Aisu-jin’s pale white tail flicked. The Emperor narrowed his gleaming eyes for a moment and studied her expression. Bulma forced herself to remain unaffected, though it seemed as if those beady little black eyes were piercing her soul.
“I see,” he said finally, the smooth and elegant tones of his voice speaking Mizukago with little accent. She could hear the roll of his tongue though, the slight but blunt guttural edge to each syllable. Bulma did not speak Aisugo, but had determined on her way to his celestial throne room that she would learn how.
It could not be any more difficult than Saiyago, she thought. Or Mizukago for that matter. Both did not use her native alphabet, nor did they bear any resemblance to Japanese. She thought that perhaps Aisugo would be much the same way, for she could see the symbols all over the ship already. It would be difficult, but not impossible…
“You must understand, Lady Bulma,” Furiza spoke again, “I’m not sure I can afford a fence sitter at this time. How can I be sure that you will uhhh--?”  He paused, grinned evilly at her and looked as though he was searching for the right word. “How can I be sure of your loyalty?”
Bulma inhaled deeply, and tried desperately to appear unaffected by his cold stare and colder countenance
“You can’t,” she said then, plainly and flatly, so he knew that she did not lie. The icy creature before her raised an eyebrow.  “There are no guarantees in a situation like this, I’m afraid. But I can tell you that my word is final. I will aid you. I have no reason to help the Saiya-jin.”
Furiza’s mouth twitched indecisively, though he looked a bit amused.
“I suppose,” he paused and picked up a glass of liquid, “you’re right, Lady Bulma.” She observed carefully as Furiza lifted a finger to one of his subordinates and pointed towards the soldier by his main computer. The other lizard-like creature approached her slowly and lifted his hand. A small chip sat in the center of his smooth, colorless skin.
Bulma hesitated, but Furiza was quick to respond.
“It’s a communicator, Lady Bulma,” he assured her, “our scientists have developed a very new kind of technology to make less--?”  He cleared his throat, and spit some words in Aisugo to the soldier at his right.  “Kallak…  Shall we say, ‘conspicuous’ forms of communication possible. Consider this my gift to you. Our gift of acceptance. I expect the best though, Chikyuu-jin. And I will not tolerate failure.”
“I should get used to it if I were you, Majesty,” Bulma said viciously.  “Though I can promise you my best, the Saiya-jin are not to be underestimated. You may have taken them by surprise, but there are more of them on neighboring sovereign worlds. They will not be without support.”
The soldier next to her held the chip closer to her face and muttered something that she did not understand.  The disgust was plain in his tone, though. This infuriated her, but only until she promised herself that it would not be long before she could understand every damn word the lizard had just uttered.
“Take the chip, Lady Bulma,” Furiza assured her, “if you remember my words, then perhaps I shall remember yours.”
Bulma paused, then nodded once and reached out towards the soldier’s hand.  For a moment it seemed as though he would smile at her.  But instead, he shook the end of his thick tail and bowed to Furiza.  The Emperor dismissed him.  Bulma examined the chip. Its design was flawless, she observed. It was nearly the size of a microchip and yet it was smooth, with rounded edges and a stylish outer shell. Such things could not be found in this galaxy, she thought. She wondered how the Aisu-jin had come across such advanced technology, and how in Kami’s name they had harnessed it.
Furiza was standing, handing his glass of reddish liquid to a nearby attendant. He watched her for another moment, as though he were sizing her up for the kill. Go on and look, lizard-king. I have plans for you, too. All of you intergalactic, genocidal maniacs will get what you deserve…  Just watch and see.
The corridor outside Furiza’s throne room was just as cold, if not more so than the rest of the ship. She was greeted by Iriyon and a few other of her Mizuka-jin comrades as she entered the main docking area. Iriyon looked apprehensive.
“You were treated well, Shaji?” He asked in his native tongue. She was quite sure that no one else on this ship would understand them except Furiza.
“Of course, Iriyon,” she replied slowly, and softly just in case, “the Aisu-jin, while not known for their very tremendous strength, have earned a reputation for being quite lovely hosts.”  She looked up at him for a moment, into his fish-like, dark eyes. His face, so different from her own, still looked rather unsure. She touched his arm. “Stop worrying, Iriyon. We will see what we deserve to see--what we have waited too long to see.”
“I hope you are right, Shaji.”  He replied, the heavy lids of his eyes blinking once. She noted that he was looking at his vid screen. “We will have to hurry. I have heard the Aisu-jin talking, Shaji. They intend on de-cloaking once we’ve returned to the dock on Mizukashi. The Saiya-jin will see them. And Vejiita-Zarshon will not wait long before he launches the first attack.”
Bulma huffed.
“True, it does not take much to provoke those war-mongers into battle mode--!”  She stopped and looked up at Iriyon once more. He was looking all around them. She shifted the tails of her tunic and said, “Iriyon…do you understand them?”
The amphipod looked down at her, and his gilled nostrils flared.
“Of course, Shaji,” he said. “I studied several foreign tongues in technical institutions. It is imperative, you know. Why, you can understand, Shaji Bulma. You yourself can speak three.”
She laughed softly.
“Yes, but one is my own.”  She paused and gripped his sleeve a bit. “Iriyon, will you teach me Aisugo?”
He watched her curiously and then quirked his large mouth.
“Of course, Shaji.  It is much easier than Saiyago, you know. There are only six intonations and two fourteen-character syllabaries. It can be learned within a week. But the problem is pronunciation, Shaji. It may be difficult for you. Their vocal chords are quite different from yours, or even ours.”
Bulma nodded, confident now.
“Very well, we can begin later.” The taller alien nodded, his wide eyes pleased at least for the moment.
The short ride back to Mizukashi’s docking area was filled with apprehension. Bulma blinked as she watched the capsule touch down in dock # 13. Now, the games would begin, she thought. Now, she would have to travel a most perilous path. But she was ready.  She would have to be.

The torn fabric was sliding like water through his fingers, catching on a few of the heavy rings that hung in between his powerful digits. It was a cool violet, woven with the utmost of care on a planet far from here with fabric that was not native to this world. And here it was, lying in a heap on the floor, torn to ribbons. The Kassha’hal fingered the material for a bit longer before letting it fall to the plush, royal blue carpet beneath his boots. Its sparkling remains sat there now, staring up at him in lifeless solemnity.
Why in all the gods’ names did it matter now? Now, after all he had accomplished and all he had attained, the one thing he wanted more than anything else in this gods-forsaken universe was slipping through his hands just like the watery fabric. And gods, it was a bitch to admit it. In fact, every bloody time he thought of it the very idea made his stomach burn with fury.
She had been right.  The entire time she’d been right! And now, here he was, the Kassha’hal, the Chosen One, Brolli, sitting on the bed and wondering how to retrieve the affections of a woman. A fucking Chikyuu-jin female, no less! Perhaps that was the aspect of it that stung most of all.  Or maybe it was the scent wafting from the torn dress like the air of burning flesh.
Brolli’s nose wrinkled as he sniffed the air again. Bulma’s torn dress stunk of Vejiita-Zarshi and not only of his scent, but the musky odor of arousal.  He could not tell from the scent now whether or not they had mated. And now, with the imminence of war hanging on everyone’s conscience like a dead weight, the realization of her infidelity was even more devastating.
Gods, and he couldn’t believe now referred to her liaison as infidelity! She had spoken the truth after all, she did not belong to him.  Nor did he belong to her. In fact, it would be to his benefit if he found a willing female and boned her brains out until the sun rose. But even that prospect did not seem half so appealing as it should.  Frankly, the idea made him half ill.  No, the sad truth of it was that he wanted to find her. Even now, when the world was falling down around him, and the Aisu-jin were breathing down their necks…  Even now he wanted her.
The air came to life around him as the signature of her jal’a caught his attention. Brolli stood from the plush cushions he’d been seated on and stepped over the heap of violet gown. Weak as her physical energy was, he could feel the subtle nuances of it whenever she was near. Brolli’s mind flew for a few seconds as he pondered his next move. Did he wait here for her? Or would he hide until she came looking for him? Would she come looking for him? Gods, did any question really matter anymore? Brolli wondered if any outcome would be suitable. And so, for lack of a better plan, he snatched the torn dress from the floor and leaned against the wall next to the doorframe.
The door slid open, and she came in with the rush of air. Her body was clad in a shiny and blood red material, her cerulean hair gathered on her head in a tousle. She looked rather different, he thought. Not the usual provocative air about her…
Bulma had not seen him yet, and she yawned, stretching like a feline. A communicator was clutched in her fist, and she pressed the call button.
“Iriyon,” she was speaking into it as it greeted her, “meet with me tomorrow morning and we’ll talk more about capsulation of the items. I suppose we should get moving, before the monkeys get restless…!”
Brolli’s shoulders tensed, not only from her use of such a derogatory reference but also her use of the Mizuka-jin language. He had seen her half-hearted acceptance of the King’s request for aid. But hearing it out rightly was quite another thing. It made him less hopeful than he had been before she’d arrived.
When Bulma flicked off the communicator, she sat with her back to him on the bed of cushions. She reached up to slide a wooden stick from her hair and let the waterfall of blue tumble down her graceful shoulders. She was thinking, and Brolli realized that he would die to know just about what. There had been talk, he’d noticed of late, and question of Bulma’s real loyalty to the Empire.  He knew she despised every single one of them, but when he’d offered her citizenship she had taken oath for her own good more than anything else.  More for her protection--her guaranteed freedom.  He had hoped, years ago, that giving Bulma her freedom would have opened her heart to him.  But that had not been possible, Brolli knew that now, just as Raditsu had discovered.  He was a pawn to her, just as every other Saiya-jin. But now was the time to make her a pawn. The real challenge was to do so while catching her unaware.
Slowly, his senses noted a shift in the atmosphere. Bulma sniffled in the quiet atmosphere and swiped a few fingers across her delicate face. She was crying.  It was a shame that Bulma did not allow herself the luxury very often, he thought. For he often saw the look of desperation and sad reminiscence in her eyes. But, more often than not, it was gone before one could really catch a true glimpse of it. He almost felt sorry for her in that moment…almost. For he remembered that their last encounter had not been a particularly pleasant one.
Bulma was looking up now, studying the floor before her with sudden and real intensity. Brolli wanted to smirk. She noticed that the dress was gone. What a keen little observant thing she was, really! The blue-haired vixen swiveled around on the bed and looked right at him. Her eyes were piercing with what looked like annoyance and fear all at once.
She stood from the cushions and straightened her back, neck proud and extended like a snake ready to strike. The rims of her bright blue eyes were a pinkish red. Brolli thought that she had never looked so truly beautiful, for like this she was as real and true as she’d ever been. It was something he had never witnessed in her presence.
He fingered the soft dress in his hand again and smiled recklessly.
“I rather thought this was one of your favorites.”  He said and lifted his hand, displaying the torn garment. Bulma’s body shifted in place a bit. “Are you angry with me, larushinta?”
All traces of sadness or sympathy had gone from her face now, and her mouth was a firm set line of determination. She stepped away from the bed and headed towards her bath chamber.
“Leave me, Brolli,” she said, “I’ve no patience for your guilt trips this night.”
Anger forced his hand out until he was gripping her forearm tightly. She stopped walking. Perhaps she would be a bit more wise this time around.
“Where have you been, Lady Bulma?” He asked her. “You smell like Mizuka-jin.”
Bulma’s pretty little eyes narrowed, and she lifted her chin.
“I have been in the lab with Iriyon,” she said matter-of-factly, “finding ways to help you win this war.  Though exactly why I am sure I don’t know.”
Brolli clicked his tongue and let the dress drop to the floor. Alright then, if it was a game she wanted to play, he would play along.
“For shame.  I thought you’d grown rather fond of us—or at least of me.”
The blue-haired beauty before him looked even more suspicious than before.
“Whatever gave you that idea, Kassha’hal?”
Brolli contemplated his next move. He shrugged at her.
“I rather thought you enjoyed my company, since you’ve been joy-riding my generous heart and my cock for the past two years.”
That earned him a lovely little slap on the face. It stung, but he wondered if she knew how little it really hurt compared to the burning sensation in his chest.
“I said leave me,” she snapped, “I’m in no mood to play this game of cat and mouse with you!”
“It is a game that you, nevertheless, began, Shal’ba,” Brolli told her, “you like to play games, don’t you? But you’ve never got quite enough gusto to finish them off. You thought you’d gotten it all under control this time, didn’t you?”
Brolli was aware that every word slipping from his lips could earn him another slap. But once again, he did not bother to check himself. What was the point, indeed, after so long?  Besides, the stinging sensation of her little hand made his cock jump.
“You thought I’d be as easy to push over as Raditsu, but since I’m not you’ve nearly given up.”
His words faded into the thick atmosphere of the room. Bulma was staring at him, wide-eyed with fury or fear, he could not tell which. Brolli began to realize that a thin film of glistening wetness had settled in the corners of her eyes. She shifted, and her whole body was facing him, parallel.
“I do not give up.”
Her mouth was steady and full of passion. Its full lines resonated with a kind of determination that he had never seen in any one creature, Saiya-jin or no.  For a moment, Brolli was stunned, and his lungs were void of any and all oxygen. But recover he must, or all was lost in this maze of emotion. Brolli squinted in the dim light of her chamber and lifted a hand to her cheek. He ran a finger down the satin like surface of her skin. Blue locks of watery hair caressed his digits.
“I know that, shall’la…”
Perhaps more loving terms would work better at this moment. He leaned into her and brushed his nose up against hers. She was unmoving; a brick wall that he must fight to bring down. Only then would her surrender be that much sweeter.
“But you’d like to…wouldn’t you?” Brolli whispered the words against her mouth.
“Don’t touch me.”  Her whisper deteriorated into quite a handsome and deadly sort of growl.  Brolli clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“Hokah oran,” he scoffed, “such anger…  I only meant to comfort you.”
Bulma’s lip curled on her upper teeth.
“Your definition of ‘comfort’ is grossly skewed, Brolli.”
She stepped away from him and moved gracefully through the chamber until her body disappeared beyond the bath chamber. The scent of her livid arousal hung pungent and thick in the air. Brolli inhaled deeply, half of a snarl creeping onto his lips. She would not get the better of him. He had done it before, and gods be damned, he would do it again. Brolli pushed himself away from the doorway and followed her into the bath chamber.
She was slipping the shiny tunic from her shoulders and letting steamy water flow into the tub before her. Perfect timing, he supposed. A halter made of the same material graced her feminine shoulders and back. Her bare skin was glowing with aura in the dimly lit bath chamber.  Golden; it was like a second skin of gold had been woven into her body. Keeping her last comment in mind, he stepped towards her. She knew he was close, he could smell her apprehension. It was a musky mix of something akin to frightened desire.
So, even now she still wanted him. But there was something holding her back.  Yes, something hard and thick like a wall of alabaster stone. Perhaps he could melt it with his fingertips, if he tried.
Bulma’s back stiffened when he drew the tip of his finger down the center of it. She stood straight and confident in the wake of his advance, and clenched her fists at her sides. Brolli stroked her back for a moment, with the slightest and tiniest tips of his fingers, until gooseflesh began to rise on her glowing skin. She was breathing, shallow and shaky. By the bloody gods, he wanted her. His body had begun to stir moments ago with a kind of primitive desire that only she was capable of evoking in him.
Brolli slid both hands inside the shiny halter and around to the front of her midsection. She was inhaling deeply. Trying to control herself perhaps? Oh, he hoped so. Her breasts were soft and bare beneath the material. And, gods save her, they were already swollen and waiting for his touch. Bulma’s hands were moving now, and he wondered if she was going to try and stop him. Better to take initiative first, he thought. And so, he reached forward to pinch at her lovely nipples until her body tensed with the slightest bit of pain.
“I know, shall’la…  You still smell like him, after all. Even underneath the fish-people, I can smell Vejiita-Zarshi on your skin. Did he disappoint you, Lady?”
Bulma shifted in his arms and lifted her chin when his mouth descended to the dip in her shoulder.
“Hardly, Shakan,” she said breathlessly. “If you smell him then you must know that I mated with him. How does it make your ego feel?” Her identification of his self-worth did not faze him, but it was amusing, he thought. Not to mention her little fib…
“Did you?” Brolli murmured against her.
She shuddered, and was nearly successful at containing it. But not quite. Bulma was nodding. He slid his fingers lower until they were tucked inside the waistband of her equally shiny pants. Placing one palm flat upon her belly and one deeper between her legs, he pressed his lips against her ear.
“That’s funny, darling.”  He slid a finger inside her, and she was gasping. A few more thrusts would have done it, he thought. She was so very tight and aroused. The Prince must have left her desperately wanting.  He had to admit it was clever, in light of the Lady Bulma’s self-exalted power over men.
Instead, Brolli waited until her breath was coming in short pants and slid his hand back up and out from between her legs. He thought he caught the slightest of a growl coming from her throat, so he kissed it. To prove his point, Brolli drew his hand up towards her mouth.
Drawing a light trace around her upper lip, he said, “I don’t smell him inside you, Bulma. Perhaps you were mistaken.” He gripped her waist and spun her around so she was facing him. The wall was near to them, and so he pushed her against it with the entire length of his body so that she could feel the heat of his arousal and nothing else.
“Do you think it would matter to me if you did?” He whispered against her cheek. Bulma’s eyes were glistening with a kind of contempt. He wondered if it was directed at him. She lifted her chin and glared at him through half-lidded eyes.
“It should,” she said suddenly, lowering her chin until she was eye-level with him. “He asked me to be his mate, you know? Doesn’t it tickle you, Brolli?  You and Raditsu, you gave me this power.  Once I was your slave, but come next Shak’ala you’ll be kissing my feet and calling me ‘majesty’.”
Brolli tightened his fingers about her waist until she gasped in pain.
“You’re a fool…” he growled, deeply until he felt the ki in his chest begin to burn. “If you think Vejiita-Zarshi wants anything more from you than a good fuck doll!”
“Damn you--!” She cried, tearing into the skin on his shoulders with her fingernails. “All you bloody monkeys can do is hurt! Hurt, kill and destroy! You’re not capable of anything else, damn you! I hate you--!” Her voice was deteriorating into a sob, and tears were streaming down onto the now pale and sickly surface of her cheeks.
“Do you?” Brolli wanted to tear her in half…gods how good would it feel? If only she could feel half of the searing heat that made his pain each time she blocked out his affections. “Good.” He snarled. Blue tinted jal’a was rising from his feet, and there was nothing he could do to stop it now.
“Good! Hate me, Bulma.  Despise me until it hurts! You think pain is all we’re capable of because you’ve never stopped to try and believe anything else!  You approach like a cat with its claws out and you get scratched back. But maybe if you tried understanding us--knowing us--the pain would go away. I’ve spent two years trying to understand you. I’m no farther along than when I started--!” With a shove, he pushed away from her, aware suddenly that he’d never spoken such words to anyone in his life.
Brolli’s heart pounded, and he watched as more energy exploded from his feet like the reversal of a waterfall. Purple-black spikes of his thick hair were waving about his face and preparing for transformation. Trying desperately to control his power level, Brolli clenched his fists until it hurt. The tendons stretched and snapped, overextending until he thought every bone in his body would break. Bulma was staring at him, cheeks swollen and glistening with tears. For a moment, she did not blink. Her chest heaved powerfully. It was then, unbearably, the only sound in the room save the swirling energy of his energy.
Bulma blinked, licking her upper lip daintily as though it would fall off. Pushing herself away from the wall slowly, she opened her mouth.
“Brolli…?” Her voice was soft and small, searching for an answer in the depths of thick silence that surrounded them.
Brolli’s fists fell open from the pressure exuding out of his fingers. The blue energy around him shifted, turning a gold-like hue before his eyes. If he didn’t back away now, the storm would surely burn the soft skin he had moments ago been so drawn to touch. For it was unstoppable now--the emotion welling inside of him had broken through the hard barrier of his body. And now it had found the only outlet available. He doubled over from the pain this time, as it was more intense than ever before.
“Brolli--?!” Bulma’s voice rose, but it was muffled now underneath the haze of his fury. Brolli stumbled out the bath chamber door backwards until he could do nothing more but raise his arms and spread his fingers, allowing the energy to pulse through his body like red hot plasma beams.
In less than a second, the pain seared through his throat like fire. And all he could do was scream. His voice rose and rose, tearing through the filaments of his vocal chords until he was growling like an animal, polyphonic tones erupting from his mouth into the electric air around him.
She was still calling his name, watching him from outside the circle of high density energy surrounding his body. She was pleading with him, begging him to stop. His shall’la…larushinta…nakaga… ….. ..
Words of prayer his mother had taught him as a child floated through his mind. Chanting, pleading with the gods to let him live through this--as he had lived through his first transformation, though his body had almost broken in half.  
“Don’t--DON’T--!” Words burst forth from his lips, spitting at her. “Don’t--come near me!”
Bulma cowered by the bath chamber door, clutching at it like it would save her. Brolli’s feet rose from the ground. Bolts of energy struck about his body like fire in the sky. A tremendous pull tore at his scalp until he was sure that every hair on his head had been torn from it. He screamed again, praying that it would stop the pain. And with one last breath, he inhaled. The sharp heat of his jal’a came into his throat, burning and burning there…like someone thrusting flames down his gullet.
Brolli was aware then, that the storm had stopped. His throat, raw and torn from his own voice, was open and inhaling air in great, heaving gulps. Sobs of pain entered and left, while tears of effort and strain poured from the corners of his burning eyes. A memory stirred, filling him with the image of his first transformation.
A body shaking and bleeding with burns; a mother sobbing desperately, trying to revive the consciousness of her half-dead son.  And then his body was falling, down…  Down until his knees hit the floor with a great thud, cracking the tile beneath him. Above the harsh sound of his breathing, he heard the gasping sobs of his mother.
Bulma was by his side then, as close as her body would allow to the cylinder of aura that still surrounded him.
“Brolli--?!  Brolli!  What have you done…!”  Her words were foreign after that, surely the drivel of whatever primitive language her people had spoken.
Her hands were reaching out: trembling fingers that he would have given anything to touch the planes of his body moments ago. Brolli lifted his head, straining the thickness of his neck until he thought it would break. Eyes that he knew to be a glowing cerulean narrowed at the sight of her.
“Vash’halla! Keep away from me--!”  He snarled, pushing his wobbly body up. Bulma backed away, slinking by her bed and clutching on to the lacy sheets for a lifeline.
His legs were heavy beyond measure but he made his way towards the chamber door, slamming his palm down so heavily on the ID pad that it sparked and snapped. The door slid open, opening the way into the massive hallways of his palace:  this place where he had never truly felt at home, but had come to all because of her. Brolli tensed his arms and placed two fingers between his eyes.
The sensation of his body flickering out of focus made a sort of twisted orgasm in each synapse. He growled deeply in his throat when he reappeared, right outside of Vejiita-Zarshi’s open chamber door.  The prince was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over a broad chest and staring into the floor.
“The sting of your ki woke me out of a sound sleep moments ago, Kassha’hal.  What in all the gods’ good names happened to you?”
“Look at me, Vejiita-Zarshi--!” Brolli growled, the haze of his fury and pain so blurry that he could scarce see a thing.
The Prince lifted an eyebrow, gazing in his direction. Commendably, he was able to keep the surprise in his expression minimal.
“For shame, Brolli. Letting a female affect you in such a way--!”
Brolli’s arm extended, as though it were not truly part of his body but a separate being acting of its own will. His hand was around the Prince’s neck before he could gain control of it, squeezing and squeezing the life out of the smaller man like a snake would constrict its prey. Vejiita-Zarshi’s eyes never left his. “Tell me, Zarshi-kalan.  Tell me!  Did you ask her to be your mate? Tell me now so I can kill you--!”
Underneath his grip, the Prince swallowed and opened his mouth. And gods be damned, but there was a smirk growing on his lips. He was chuckling; it was a choked, wretched noise.
“Did I? Yes, Kassha’hal, I did.”
Brolli roared, unable to stop the hideous noise from coming out of his throat. His fiery fingers tightened, and Vejiita-Zarshi was choking admirably this time.
“You will pay for trying to take what is rightfully mine!!”
The Prince was sneering again, and he gripped Brolli’s hand with both of his.
“Foolish monkey,” the other man mocked, “can’t you see--she is no one’s!”
“No!  Can’t you see?!  She is mine!!” Brolli’s voice rose to a thunderous, raging cloud of sound.
Vejiita-Zarshi was clawing at Brolli’s fingers now.
“Let me go, damn you! This is what she wanted all along!! You--thrashing about like an untamed animal for her sake! Let me--go! I can show you how we can both turn the--tables! How we can both bring her to her knees--!”
Brolli’s teeth ground together, and his clouded, stormy mind slowed to a swirling wind. He released Vejiita-Zarshi’s throat and thrust him up against the wall with one arm. The sight, the sound of everything around him was suddenly more palatable, as though he had just been born.
“She thinks we are animals, yes, Kassha’hal?” Vejiita-Zarshi was panting, resisting the grip quite splendidly, Brolli thought. “We’ll show her we’re anything but.” A few seconds of silence passed before the Prince’s eyes became narrow little slits of amusement. “She knows more than she should know where that shit-eater Furiza is concerned.  We can bleed her dry, Kassha’hal. She’ll realize too late that she fucked with the wrong ‘monkeys’.”
Brolli’s aura softened and his throat breathed fire into the atmosphere. A noise rumbled deep in his chest until he let go of Vejiita-Zarshi’s neck. Brolli lifted a finger to his Prince’s throat, letting a tiny ki ball rest at the tip.  It fizzled there just a few centimeters from Vejiita-Zarshi’s skin.
“I’m listening…”