Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Survival ❯ Conspiracy ( Chapter 3 )

IMPORTANT A/N - It would be lovely to know someone is actually coherently reading this story so a few more reviews would be nice. It will certainly help the next chapter out a lot quicker.

 

 

Disclaimer: If I owned Dragonball I wouldn't sell movie rights that would end up producing a timid and frail Goku, a brown haired Bulma, a non-existent Krillan and a Vegeta too terrifyingly wrong to even imagine.

 

 

Survival

Chapter 3: Conspiracy

By Ariel

 

 

 

By the time Bulma's damaged body finally recovered enough for her to awaken a full week had passed. Drifting in the familiar aqua fluid, her entire bulk a seething mass of aching flesh and seeping welts, she wept silently.

 

He had shown her, alright. Shown her exactly how worthless, useless and weak she was. Shown her that, for all her gruff words and courageous façade, she was just a powerless insect; one filled with dangerous ideas to be swiftly squished.

 

She had tried to fight. Tooth and nail, just like he'd said. But it had been as useless and pointless as trying to shield yourself from meteors with a frayed umbrella. He'd just laughed at her attempts, ever mocking, and continued his barrage. The constant snigger, eroding the atmosphere with his contemptuous, arrogant and savage emotion, had filled her with disgust to the point of sickness. Never had she felt such violent, damaging disgust.

 

The way he violated her, damaged, destroyed her… It was beyond mere pain and degradation. It was evil embodied. He was evil embodied. And yet for all his vile ways it remained inconsequential to the fact that, for the first time in her life, there was nothing she could do.

 

No longer could she rely on the heroic protection of others. There was no courageous jungle boy to come to her rescue, no dashing desert prince. Just herself, her captor and a million hateful and vicious faces swimming in a sea of shadows, waiting fitfully to wrench her from her life and lavish in the metallic taste of her blood.

 

Bulma was forced to face the fact that she was, perhaps for the rest of her life, unequivocally alone.

 

And suddenly everything took on an ever darker tone.

 

Before her, the liquid crystal display flashed her vitals. She still had a little over five hours healing time in the tank. A groan escaped her. Five immobile, inane hours with nothing to occupy her thoughts but the savage beating and rape that she wanted so desperately to forget.

 

Then again, perhaps there were others things to consider, more comforting thoughts.

 

Like revenge.

 

Frieza's confidence in her inevitable submittal had been a false one. He had indeed bested her, as he had thoroughly and brutally intended, but only in the physical arena. And while he could pillage and plunder her body for a million years in a thousand different and more horrifying ways she would never allow him access to her mind. And that, as the people of Earth were well aware, was where the entirety of Bulma Brief's true power dwelt.

 

A ferocious glint in her eye, Bulma made a heart-felt vow to God that the sadistic beast would meet his demise at her hands. Should it take forever she would have her revenge. And God, overcome by the intensity of her passion, shuddered in her wake.

 

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

 

 

+++++

 

 

On a small planet in a distant solar system Vegeta awoke in a cold sweat.

 

The wheels of fate began to turn.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Hours later, only minutes from her eminent ejection, Bulma was torn from her schemes by a familiar blue countenance. Frowning, she averted her gaze and awaited release.

 

As it so happened she had not spent much of her precious tank time, perhaps the only moments she would be spared from Frieza's rancorous attentions, brooding. Instead she'd reverted to the impartial and indifferent scientist, her genius mind working frantically through a thousand calculated scenarios that would see Frieza's icy blood flow. It had seemed undeniably impossible, every silly idea and idiotic plan, until the answer, immensely flawed but nonetheless perfect, presented itself.

 

Now with Zarbon's arrival the plot that rode on a thousand miniscule option and assumptions commenced.

 

The fluid drained in a mechanical whirl and she pulled the mask from her face, stepping from the tank with no thought to modesty. A lot could change in the space of a week.

 

Silent and morose, Zarbon once again ushered her beneath familiar faucets. She barely flinched as the chilling water surged over her. There were more important things at hand.

 

“So… now you understand.”

 

It wasn't a question.

 

“Yes,” Bulma replied. “May I discuss something with you?”

 

“Woman, I've no desire to hear about your aching body, heart or soul. I've heard it all before and I'm quite uninterested in listening to it again. Whatever compassion I once possessed was lost many years ago.”

 

“Actually it's nothing like that,” Bulma mumbled. “I have a proposition for you.”

 

“Then out with it. I've more important things to do than listen to your foolish, weakling propositions.”

 

“Yes well that's just it. It seems you people are unaware that to judge someone by mere strength alone is not always the wisest course of action.”

 

“Well of course you'd say that. Your power level is less than that of an infant!”

 

“And yet I have strength far beyond that of any physical prowess.”

 

“Woman, if you insist on barraging me with fanciful imaginings then I'll leave you to wander the halls of this ship full of violent rapists and murderers alone.”

 

“What I want to talk to you about,” Bulma urged, careful to articulate every word. “Is something very personal. But I'm not sure this room is private enough to discuss this very personal thing. Is there anywhere we could talk where no one would overhear our very personal discussion?”

 

Zarbon tilted his head and stared at her, utterly perplexed.

 

“Woman, are you serious?”

 

Abandoning all pretence Bulma took his hands within her own, desperate to portray her intent through sheer force of will.

 

“Dead serious.”

 

She held her breath and awaited his response.

 

“Alright,” he muttered, tearing his hands from hers and averting his gaze. “My room is just around the corner. We can talk there. But make it quick, Frieza is expecting you before the night's out.”

 

Bulma moaned inwardly at his careless revelation and they walked to his quarters in silence.

 

 

+++++

 

 

In a dark room, enveloped in monitors that glowed like the sinister gaze of a thousand-eyed beast, a hideous face cracked an even more hideous smile.

 

“What are you up to, Zarbon?”

 

 

+++++

 

 

“You must be insane, woman. Do you have any idea what could happen to you, what would happen to us, if they knew we were even discussing this? Surely you of all people can understand what he's capable of?!”

 

“Yes I do. And that's precisely why he's left me no choice. We have to do this.”

 

“We? Woman, you can count me out of this. Such actions are folly.”

 

“I don't think you completely understand what I'm saying. I'm not just smart, I'm a genius. I can produce technology in my sleep the likes of which you've never even dreamt of. I can give you things that will make you faster, stronger and better than ever before. Within a year you'll be able to string him up without even breaking a sweat.”

 

“No, it's you who doesn't understand. I can't kill Frieza. I won't ever be able to. Have you any idea just how strong he is?! And he's not even in his most powerful form! There are rumors that fully transformed his power level tops 1 million. At my strongest I can reach 30 thousand, perhaps 35. Compared to him I'm nothing. You're plan is naught but a fools errand. No one is strong enough to defeat him. No one ever will be.”

 

“You're wrong,” she vehemently contested. “I know I can do it. I know we can do. Don't you get it? We'd not just be killing a tyrant; we'd be saving the universe. We'd be heroes.”

 

“I've no desire to be a hero. I just want to stay alive. It may not be much, but it's all I have.”

 

“To merely survive under these horrendous terms, is it really worth it? You yourself said that the only blessing to be had here is death. Should we fail what greater death than to die fighting for what's right?”

 

“And what then? Can I really expect to receive a hero's welcome to the afterlife after all I've done? I'm not conceited enough to believe one good deed makes up for a lifetime of sin. Any horror faced here is insurmountable to what awaits.”

 

“But… shouldn't… shouldn't you at least try?” Bulma stammered, thrown by his comments. “No one lives forever, Zarbon. This may be your last chance. Your last shot at salvation. If you're that terrified of what awaits, shouldn't you at least give it a go? For your sake? For the sake of your soul? For your loved ones who await you?”

 

“No one awaits me.”

 

“I don't believe you.”

 

“Well, you should woman. Someone who's done what I've done, committed such atrocities and horrors… Someone like that doesn't deserve love. The only thing that waits for me is a burning flame of eternal pain and suffering ready to engulf me in entirety. Such are the gifts of a life spent serving Frieza.”

 

Frustrated, angry, miserable tears fell down Bulma's cheeks. She struck the desk, breaking her wrist with the intensity of her emotion.

 

“Someone like you doesn't deserve saving! Refusing to even attempt to do what's right. Why did I even bother?! Obviously, I was just projecting my own illusions onto you. You're nothing but a coward and a weak fool. I'm sorry I thought I saw otherwise.”

 

Staring at the ground, unwilling to meet her accusing gaze, Zarbon frowned.

 

“… So am I,” he whispered, too soft for her to hear.

 

“Hurry up and take me to Frieza,” Bulma seethed, her face flushed red in anger and pain. “At least he isn't afraid to face his own shadow!”

 

“As you wish…” he said, leading Bulma down the monotonous steel halls to where her tormentor awaited.

 

Reaching the familiar dark entryway a violent chill ran down her spine. Steeling herself Bulma grabbed the handle and thrust the door open, storming into the room with all the bravado she could master. Zarbon balked at her confidence before scurrying off.

 

Lounging on the bed the monster grinned, his ferocious teeth glinting sadistically in the pale star light.

 

“So we meet again.”

 

Bulma stalked up to the foot of the oversized bed, her head held high like a proud dignitary. Waves of arrogance and superiority radiated off her small form and Frieza's confident smirk wavered in her wake.

 

“I may be powerless against you Frieza but, mark my words, I will have my revenge.”

 

And she spat savagely at his feet.

 

In a flurried haze of torn clothes and furious intent Bulma was pinned, now naked and bruised, beneath her captor's heaving form. His reptilian tongue snaked across her cheekbone, his wicked red eyes glowing in malicious fury.

 

“You're nothing but a frail and wretched toy I choose to keep around for my own amusement. Nothing you do can harm me. How do you intend of attaining this vengeance? Talking me to death?”

 

His hollow laughter did nothing to sway her. Renewed by a sense of purpose and imbued by the power of her dark design Bulma's mind was now fortified; an unreachable, unattainable fortress of steel will. She still feared him but she was no longer owned by that fear. And any real power he had over her was lost.

 

Her mocking laughter, menacingly melodious in its terrible wrongness, did not go ignored.

 

Snarling like a rabid dog, he pummeled all laugher and consciousness from her.

 

Her head lolling lifelessly off the bed, Frieza had his way, over and over, with her insentient form.

 

And once again, naught more than a bag of brutalized flesh, an unrecognizable Bulma was dragged to the tanks.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Life continued that way for months. To Bulma, who remained conscious and aware barely once a week, it still seemed closer to years. Years that, despite her previous rock-solid confidence, were slowly eroding her.

 

The thought that kept scratching at the back of her mind, the unwelcome notion she did everything to ignore and discredit, was becoming increasing more riotous. Because she still couldn't find a co-conspirator to bring about the demise of the dark devil. And without one all was moot.

 

Zarbon had made it very clear he wasn't willing. Though he always received Bulma from the tank they hadn't spoken a word since their fight in his quarters. After that furious confrontation she had abandoned all hope of persuading him. He was simply too weak, too cowardly and too set in his ways to challenge the man whom had forgiven his sins and offered him a place where there was no judgment to be found. He seemed completely oblivious to the fact that Frieza had been responsible for tainting his soul in the first place.

 

But, without Zarbon, her plan took on an almost impossible to bear weight.

 

At her luckiest she'd be granted a single day of conscious tank time before she was dragged off to her tormentor's sinister abode. She could think, plan, scheme but she couldn't network. Floating silently in the thick healing fluid she'd eye the brawny warriors stalking passed her unable to do anything but stare longingly at their retreating forms.

 

She had been thrilled almost to tears when a passing soldier, eyeing her heavenly floating form, had made a move to release her. Her excitement had been palpable as his fingers flew across the tank's control panel in his eagerness, his eyes scanning hungrily over her form. And then he had noticed her bracelet. Blanching, his deep purple skin waning to a sickly pink, he scurried off with his literal tail between his craven legs.

 

And that had been it. Her only tangible contact with anyone other than Zarbon or Frieza. Twice, when left alone in Frieza's quarters to await her inevitable midnight trysts, she'd managed to escape in the hopes of finding a suitable collaborator only to run smack bang into Zarbon who promptly returned her. After her second attempt Zarbon was placed outside her door to prevent her escape until the rapist arrived. He was like her nurse maid. A sadistic nurse maid who cared little for its charge's wellbeing. Every waking moment he would follow her around, never letting her out of his site, never allowing her even the slightest freedom. This made her plan, and her life, all the more difficult. She had a nagging suspicion that the reason for his constant company had something to do with her mutinous proposition. Perhaps he had told Frieza everything. And now, armed with the knowledge she'd thought taken for granted, he wasn't letting her out of his sight.

 

Sitting in Frieza's room before the giant wall window her only apparent duty was to anxiously await the inevitable.

 

She grunted, casually tracing childish words onto the cool glass as she stared at the heavenly beings twinkling strikingly in the blanket of space. There had to be a way out of this. Had to. She couldn't let Frieza and his Pretty Pet Prince outsmart her. She had to think. She had to-

 

Bounding from the floor Bulma sprinted to the room's locking mechanism, grabbing several intergalactic bauds and trinkets on the way.

 

“I can't hurt him, huh? We'll see about that.”

 

Her savage grin twinkled menacingly in the heavy shadows.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Countless hours later Bulma reclined on the lavish bedspread, trying her best to remain nonchalant as the steel door slid open.

 

“Well, what have we here?” Frieza rasped, the ghost of a smirk gracing his features. “Submission at last. I must say I was beginning to think such a thing impossible.”

 

“Well as they say,” Bulma purred, crawling seductively closer to his static form in silent invitation. “If you can't beat them… join them.”

 

“Indeed,” Frieza muttered, his trepidation clear. His devilish eyes scanned her scantily clad form but it was hardly the simply attentions of a lusty admirer. He was searching… And he knew! A part of him had understood the second he entered the room that his prey was no longer defenseless. And he wasn't coming any closer until he understood precisely what she was planning.

 

But Bulma refused to give up. No longer could she continue this diabolically defeating life and do nothing. Come head or high water she would be triumphant.

 

Raising herself to his eye level, a fake smirk in place, Bulma began to undress in agonizingly slow movements. Her small hands slid erotically over her luscious curves as she pulled the sheer night dress over her head. Shaking out her long, aqua locks she pouted, every inch the smoldering sex goddess. She fingered the delicate material of her aqua bra, her forefinger running enticingly down the incline of her breast. With a cheeky snap it fell open, her creamy mounds bouncing out in all their exquisite glory. She liked her lips, her eyes remaining glued to him as her right hand encircled her breast. She pinched her erect nipple, moaning deliciously as she massaged the ripe mound, slowly pleasuring herself.

 

Abandoning all apprehension Frieza shuffled forward, mesmerized by her devious dance of seduction. His eyes remained glued, unable to think of anything but the delectable deity slowly satisfying herself. She moaned louder, one hand trailing enticingly downward.

 

Just a littler closer. Just a little-

 

BANG!

 

The violent explosion ripped through the room, dissolving the opposite wall in an eruption of smoke, ash and twisted metal. Bulma grinned in savage victory, the make-shift cannon nuzzling comfortably between her thighs like some malicious lover. Overcome by foolish lust Frieza had failed to notice the deadly device hidden beneath the cool silk sheets until it was too late. And now, she was free. Everyone was free. And she was a hero. She was a-

 

Bulma's victory was short lived. Her face blanched when the clammy hands of her contemptuous captor snaked from the clearing dust and wrapped themselves around her delicate neck.

 

“I should snap you in half!” he snarled, the whites of his eyes turned crimson in the wake of his bottomless rage. “Or let my men rape you to death. Either one would be more than a fucking disgusting whore such as you deserves.”

 

Bulma took time to notice the `invincible' leader had several cuts and bruises scattering his cool carcass, along with a significant chuck missing from his right calf. His shattered composure and damaged form filled her with ruthless pleasure. She grinned maliciously.

 

His choke hold tightened, merciless anger radiating off him in black waves.

 

“BITCH!!!” he spat, throwing her body to ground and ruthlessly attacking her in a frantic haze of bloodied limbs and broken bones.

 

He would have killed her had Zarbon, only seconds before the point of no return, not made himself known.

 

The blue skinned beauty cleared his throat loudly.

 

“Sire, begging your pardon,” he muttered. “But I think it a good idea to leave this place and find a private and secure place to heal before word gets out of the explosion and every man on the ship arrives to see for themselves what happened here.”

 

Frieza turned on his second command, snarling like a savage animal as he slammed him against the wall.

 

“And what exactly do you think happened here?” he hissed, still a hostage to the rage that consumed his being.

 

“W-well, S-s-sire,” Zarbon stuttered, not for the first terrified of his crazed Master. “I-I… I-It… I mean, o-obviously, you just exerted yourself a little t-too much playing with your new toy. U-understandable reaction, of c-course.”

 

Taking a deep breath Frieza lowered Zarbon's captive form, his sharp anger evaporating.

 

“Yes you're quite right Zarbon,” he answered, reverted to his cool and collected glory. “I indeed exerted myself a little too much. I think I'll depart to my private tank before someone other than you arrives and gets the wrong idea.”

 

“Yes, sire. A fine idea.”

 

Frieza stalked arrogantly out the gaping hole, once a wall, spitefully adding:

 

“And take her to be healed. She's not getting away from me that easily. She shall have to punished for her contempt!”

 

The sadistic promise in his words sent a cool chill down Zarbon's spine.

 

He gingerly gathered her inert form in his broad arms, a genuine smile inadvertently transforming his cool features to something softer, kinder and unquestionably beautiful.

 

“You truly are amazing…”

 

 

+++++

 

 

Bulma's insides had been ground to pulverized tatters. She had been naught but an unrecognizable blob of ugly purple bruises, deep cuts and a seemingly endless river of crimson life blood. Zarbon had speed down the listless corridors, barely a blip on the radar, fazing past gawking soldiers faster than the blink of an eye. And still it had almost been too late. Due to the extensive nature of her injuries preparatory surgery had been required before tank time. With the delicate moves of an over-protective parent he placed her small body on the operating tables. The arrogant lab surgeons barely fluttered an eyelid as they chattering mindlessly about themselves and the benefits of their own trumped up position. The injured blue haired whore, so insignificant in the wake of their self proclaimed importance, simply didn't registered. Zarbon had scowled, his darker side coming to the fore. Interrupting their gratuitous conversation he had grabbed an emerald skinned surgeon by the collar and shook him violently.

 

“I have a woman here who needs urgent attention,” he'd snarled. “So why don't you shut your fool mouths and do your job.”

 

The colour drained from their faces as they were instantly humbled and shamed by the second strongest man in the fleet. Dropping all pretence they'd shuffled over to the injured woman lying prone. Ten minutes later, the tiny particles of bone piercing several of her vital organs removed, she'd been placed in the tank for her most extensive healing session.

 

A week and several operations later she was still showing little outward signs of recovery. Floating like a corpse the whole left side of her face remained a terrible cacophony of ugly scar tissue. A huge puckered wound marred her entire left side, running from the rise of her breast to her jutting hip bone. The rest of her torso and face was a cruel assortment of purple, yellow and brown bruises. Internally, though, she was nearing recovery. And that was a start.

 

“Crocus, over here,” Zarbon beckoned. After a spat within his own tank Frieza had demanded Zarbon stay by the woman's side. He didn't want his little toy getting out of her punishment that easily. Feigning irritation and feeling relief, Zarbon had complied. But with little to occupy his time but her torturously slow progress he had eventually succumbed to mindless chatter of his own.

 

“What is it, Zarbon?” Crocus asked softly. Shortly after Bulma's first operation Zarbon had been introduced to the purple skinned humanoid alien. A galaxy class surgeon and all around nice guy it had become almost immediately apparent that this being, his eyes large green pools of endless wisdom and un-contemplatable sorrow, was mercifully absent of the pride and arrogance plaguing his colleagues. He had shook Zarbon's hand, his small hand rough and calloused from years of hard work, and muttered: “I'll be in charge of this case now. She'll be fine.”

 

So far, he'd been true to him word.

 

“What's her condition?” Zarbon muttered, eyeing her form and frowning.

 

“It's looking up. At the start it was touch and go. She was too inherently weak to have healed from such immense trauma. Every sign pointed to heart simply stopping. But it didn't. Despite her obvious weakness this woman has the strongest will I've ever seen. She simply wouldn't let herself die. And, as far as I can see, that's the sole reason she'd didn't. It's quite amazing really. The read outs say her internal injuries are all but healed. Once I'm convinced there's nothing left to fix on the inside we'll focus on her external issues. By tomorrow or the next I should be able to revert the tank and get to work on those nasty scars.”

 

“So she'll be fully healed.”

 

“Well, yes… and no. As you know I was forced to reconfigure the tank due to her extensive injuries to give her a fighting chance. Now, considering the age of her external injuries, it's doubtful they'll all be fully healed.”

 

“… Will she'll be terribly marred?” Zarbon questioned, feeling an unwelcome and unfamiliar pang within his heart.

 

“Oh no! Her face should be fine. The bruising there looks a lot worse than it is. Most of the cuts were shallow and, as such, are easily healed. Tank technology has come a long way. However that gash on her side… It's so deep and brutal it's unlikely the skin there will ever completely recover. It will fade but she'll have that scar for the rest of her life.”

 

“But apart from that…” Zarbon trailed off.

 

“Apart from that, she'll be good as new. Until he gets his hands on her again that is.”

 

They both nodded solemnly, turning to watch the floating fallen angel who lay completely oblivious of the horror that surrounded her.

 

“Someone needs to stop him,” Crocus muttered. Zarbon felt none of the shock or anger he should have but was instead overcome by vast respect for the solemn surgeon. To even think rebellious thoughts earned a death sentence yet he had outwardly contemplated Frieza's death as though discussing the weather. Such cosmic courage Zarbon admired deeply.

 

And though he said nothing, the repressing result of a lifetime's cruel and vicious beatings, he silently agreed.

 

Frieza did need to be stopped. And soon.

 

Without realizing it, he was pushed across a threshold he thought never to traverse.

 

Five days later Bulma woke.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Her eyelids fluttered open and burning memories accosted her. The damaged flesh crawled and pulsed like a living thing; a mass of sharp, throbbing pain. Every inch of her itched, ached and stung. She understood, in a vague and far off way, that she had very nearly died. Surprisingly, the thought filled her with little comfort.

 

She had been so stupid, so conceited and sure, in her arrogance and idiocy, that her foolish toy would mean Frieza's demise. But small scratches and cuts, even a gaping leg wound, couldn't be considered any real victory. She was playing against the devil. And he played for keeps.

 

She mentally barraged herself. Zarbon had been right. Frieza was so strong, stronger than any one being should be, and maybe there really was nothing she could do.

 

Her dejected gaze flickered to the foot of the tank and her self-pitying thoughts ceased. Laying there, his normally flawless emerald hair spilling unkempt around his face, his uniform scruffy and soiled, Zarbon lay sleeping.

 

Bulma's breath caught in her throat. For one moment, staring at his rumpled form, a worried scowl on his face, she indulged the fact that, despite his apparent indifference, he actually cared. Then reality struck her, hard and fast. He was just her body guard. And her nurse maid. Nothing more. He had made it clear on more than one occasion that he despised her and his position. He was here because of Frieza.

 

Bulma sighed. Was there really no one in this wide world who would help her? Left out in the cold, like an abandoned kitten in a world full of pit bulls, no hero in sight, what was a girl to do? She was swiftly losing options. Perhaps she'd never really had any to begin with. Was it time to simply admit defeat and give in?

 

Tears fell, unbidden and relentless.

 

Zarbon was torn from sleep by a dull aching in his chest. He raised his head, inspecting his ward's progress. Watching her tears fall, silent and desperate, wrenched his soul. He raised a gloved hand, delicately tracing the outline of her broken features, and mouthed:

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

The tinkle of tears turned into a flood and Zarbon was worried he'd said the wrong thing until she flashed him a genuine, heart-felt smile. Her first since entering Frieza's service. His wrenched features spelled her future and it was once more beautiful.

 

Unbeknownst to himself, Zarbon smiled back.

 

That stayed that way for an hour.

 

Bulma fell asleep, crying with joy for hope, so close to death, renewed.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Two days later, fifteen minutes from expulsion, Bulma woke again. She locked eyes with Zarbon and a silent understanding passed between them. Delight overwhelmed her.

 

When she stepped from the tank he wrapped her in a towel with the care of a man handling a precious jewel. He did not, as usual, usher her towards the shower. Instead, encompassing her tiny hand within his own, he pulled her down the hall towards his quarters. Not a word passed between them until he shut the door.

 

“I'm sorry for dragging you here wet and sticky,” he mumbled, his head bowed as he secured the door closed. “It's just; I thought your might like a real shower. Not one where you're exposed to everyone who cares to look. The bathroom is that door over to the right. Take as much time as you like.”

 

Head still bowed, he walked in the direction of his kitchenette. Bulma grabbed his wrist, halting his departure.

 

“Wait! I still not sure exactly what's going on here. Why are you being so kind? I want to believe I know but I just can't get my hopes up again. I don't think I could handle the rejection this time. I really don't.”

 

Zarbon took a deep breath, raising his head to stare into the eyes of the woman whom had proven to hold a power beyond contemplation.

 

“I practiced what I'd say to you. I must have come up with a hundred different scenarios, different things I wanted to say, different ideas I needed to portray. It all disappeared the second you stepped out of that tank. I'm trying, so desperately, to get these thoughts in order. But it's hard and… and, you were right, because I am a coward. I need more time. So, please, go have a shower and give me it. When you get out I promise, on my life, that I'll put in to words these feelings I'm only beginning to understand.”

 

Taking both his hands within her own Bulma stood up on her tip toes and lightly kissed his cheek.

 

Pulling back she muttered:

 

“You better,” and departed into the bathroom.

 

Zarbon let out the breath he'd been holding and went to pour the night cap he so desperately needed.

 

The large bathroom was equipped with both a giant glass shower and a huge, pool like bath. Taking the swifter route she stepped onto the crimson marble of the shower floor, turning the taps and closing her eyes as peace engulfed her.

 

The warm water cascading down her tender muscles soothed her. She sighed in ecstasy. Never would she have imagined that the simple act of showering could offer such divine delight. Each drop took with it a separate worry, fear and doubt until she was once again immaculate; imbued with nothing but a cleansed soul and pure mind. Such was the simple miracle of unsoiled skin.

 

For the first time in a long time she grinned simply for the sake of it.

 

Losing herself in the shower's tranquil charm she was unaware of time, space or anything but the smooth, exquisite feel of the water running its healing hands over her naked form. It was her lover, she it's willing slave.

 

Almost an hour passed before a tentative knock at the door jarred her from the private world she'd created.

 

“Woman, are you alright?”

 

Bulma rolled her eyes, begrudgingly turning the shower off and stepping out. Her body cried in agony from the separation of the curative cascade. A part of her wanted to stay there forever, washed away in a sea of peace where nothing hurt, nothing was lost and nothing except the most primal of experiences mattered. That part was silenced. She was so close to revenge she couldn't all most taste it and nothing, nothing, was going to stand in her way.

 

“Yes, I'll only be a moment. And its Bulma, not woman!” she replied, begrudgingly.

 

She peeked in the mirror, the sight of her reflection jarring her to a standstill. She'd not realized the damage months of malnutrition and abuse had done. The dark bags beneath her eyes conflicted harshly with her too pale countenance. Her face looked like some nightmarish skull. Her luscious curves, once so prized and adored, had all but vanished to be replaced by bones that jutted awkwardly from her skin. The radiance and shine from her once beautiful locks was gone. And, to top it off, an ugly puckered scar ran down her entire left side, marring her skin inexcusable.

 

In a word, she looked like hell.

 

She turned away. If anything this only strengthened her resolve. Someone had to be held accountable for the damage heaped upon her and countless others. Someone had to pay.

 

She looked around for a towel, spotting two against the wall, hanging inconveniently from the ceiling. She pulled them down, wrapping her body and hair in the silky material.

 

Bulma exited the room, a scowl on her face.

 

Zarbon took one look at her and grinned despite himself.

 

Her scowl deepened.

 

“What's exactly is so funny, mister?”

 

“Do you realize,” he said, trying and failing to keep the humor from his voice. “That you're wearing the curtains?”

 

“Excuse me?” Bulma muttered, eyeing her blue-skinned companion. “Curtains?”

 

“Yes,” he muttered, grabbing her immobile form and dragging her back to the bathroom.

 

“This,” he said, pointing to a cupboard off to the side of the shower. “Is the Insta-Tech dryer. Just jump in, press the big red button and in 5.6 seconds you're dry from head to toe.”

 

“So… this isn't a towel,” Bulma picked at the crimson sheet draping her naked form.

 

“No.”

 

“But there's no window…”

 

“There is. It's just no on.”

 

“Not… on?”

 

“No, it's veiled by an electrometric shield that can block the view if you change the setting. I've had it turned off since I took this room.”

 

“So… hang on. Does every room have one of these?”

 

“Most have several.”

 

“And if you have it turned on what's on the other side?”

 

“The hallway.””

 

“The hallway?!”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And can the people in the hallway see inside?”

 

“Only if it's turned on?”

 

“But… hang on…” Bulma muttered, utterly baffled. “Why would anyone want to shower with the window open for the whole world to see?”

 

“I suppose for the same reason the soldiers find it funny to rape harem whores to death… or beat mothers with the limbs of their children… or eat the flesh of their victims.”

 

“T-they… they do that?” Bulma stuttered, horrified.

 

“Yes,” Zarbon bluntly responded.

 

“Do… Do you?”

 

“I don't pretend to be perfect, woman. But no, I've never participated in such things.”

 

“I told you to call me Bulma.” she whispered without conviction.

 

He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye.

 

“I will if you'll hear me out.”

 

Bulma looked to the floor.

 

“Let me dry myself off. Then we'll talk.”

 

“Deal,” he agreed, handing her a small paper package he'd been holding. “I got you some clean clothes. They're nothing much but it's all I could do.”

 

She took it from him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it briefly.

 

“Thanks.”

 

And he left.

 

She stepped into the `dryer', pressed the red button and was accosted by a frantic gale. She barely had time to register the intense feeling before it was removed. `Complete' the machine stated with robotic coldness. She fingered her hair. Completely dry. Ah, the wonders of the mechanical era!

 

Stepping out of the claustrophobic cupboard, glad it had only lasted as long as it did; she opened the small brown package. A pair of plain white panties and a loud orange dress that suffocated her in a sea of material but was still indecently low. It wasn't perfect but, considering the only alternative was air, it would have to do.

 

This time, she didn't bother with the mirror.

 

She stepped out.

 

Zarbon's smug smirk was still set firmly in place.

 

“What is it this time?” she grumbled. “Don't tell me that I'm accidentally wearing your toilet paper.”

 

“No, wom-No Bulma. It's just…”

 

“Just what?”

 

Her question met only silence.

 

“Come on, out with it!” she seethed.

 

“You look ridiculous.”

 

Bulma scowled, falling face down onto the couch.

 

“Tell me something I don't know,” she muttered through a mouthful of leather.

 

“Well, I don't think I've ever seen such an ugly outfit.”

 

Bulma looked up, frowning.

 

“That wasn't a literal request, you know?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

Her head fell back into the sofa.

 

“… Never mind.”

 

“Anyway there are things we need to discuss. To be specific: your proposition.”

 

She was on her feet in a second, her demeanor suddenly seriousness.

 

“What about it?” she asked breathlessly.

 

“Originally I thought you were nothing but talk. Many people come here sprouting nonsense about overthrowing Frieza. They build up their own merits to get people on side only to fail miserably when it turns out that their strength or intelligence or sometimes simply their endurance is nothing like they claimed. Then they're punished for their mutinous ways. And, without fail, they drag every singly person who thought to help down into the seething pit of their lies. When I first met you I was sure you were like that. You had no reputation, no strength and were sprouting claims that seemed unlikely at best. It seemed to me that within a week, maybe two, you'd be yet another broken, brutalized whore who'd sell her soul for a cigarette. But I was wrong. I watched you suffer continuously and lose nothing of that spark or fire that seems to consume your very being. And I began to wonder. When I walked in on you and he that day, when I saw the damage you'd done, something changed within me. Something I'd thought long dead sparked back to life. With one action you've single handedly reignited my hope. Suddenly it seemed that maybe, with your help, I really could beat him. We really could beat him. The idea which had for so long seemed impossible suddenly took on new dimensions becoming not just plausible but possible. Did you know that he had to take two days off to heal? Two whole days where not one single person on the fleet heard word of him. Because of you. You, a woman with a power level lower than a gnat, damaged a seemingly impenetrable warrior! And, if that wasn't enough, he transformed. When he finally showed up he was in a different from. So threatened was he by you, you, that he felt the need to become stronger.

 

We could really do this. You and me. And all this pain, all the terrible things he's done, it would end.

 

I feel like I've finally woken from a dream. A dream where I was alive but not living. I walked around like a witless Zombie, taking orders, doing abhorrent things and completely oblivious to all the pain and anguish surrounding me. And then you came. And I awoke. Suddenly everything is so much clearer, so much more real. Because you were right, this has to end. And who better than you and I, those who've felt the full force of Frieza`s evil, to end it.”

 

“So, you're in? You`ll help me?” she whispered in breathless anticipation.

 

“Bulma, it would be an honour.”