Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ tHe DeStInY oF ChAlLeNgE ❯ Ellimination's Final Queue... ( Chapter 20 )

~Author's Note- A belated chapter, yet a chapter none-the-less. I gave myself numerous headaches trying to find how I wished to proceed with this story, needless to say, my worst writer's block as of yet! Sorry guys, it didn't take this long because I was holding out for more reviews, I was trying to word the story correctly and get the events in order. Do not despair, for I've organized my scattered thoughts. Evidence enough, this chapter, and those to shortly follow it. I WILL FINISH THIS STORY! … I'm doing it for you guys, readers, reviewers, flamers, and all. I already finished the story within my head, now I just need to quote my thoughts, nay?

Chapter 20~ Elimination's Final Queue…

She had been framed.

Of this she was certain, the sadistic gleam glittering within Lady Nakilia's coal depths proof enough. Glancing at her shackled wrists, she knew there was no hope in freeing herself, her ki absorbed into the chasms within the metal links. Growling with the frustration and growing rage of being reduced to some inadequate slave, a foreign object that illegally existed within the Saiyan society, Bulma glared at the young guard that hesitantly attempted to lead her to an unknown destination. Her steel azure eyes locked onto Nakilia, her bitter malice evident within the glare she offered as compensation for accusing her of being a Tihilma-ta, a slave that was illegally transported into Vegeta-sei to serve as a spy. She was being accused of espionage!

They all knew. Not one Saiyan present in the large courtyard of Lord Zaladar's estate, the same place Bulma once considered home, actually believed the Lady's claims. Bulma was no spy. No foreign species. Bulma was a Saiyan, through and through. Yet, they dare not openly oppose the Lady Nakilia, who, suspected by many, would soon become the Queen, dutifully besides the rising of the Saiyan no Ouji. Nakilia flaunted that power, the knowledge that she would one day rule her homelands giving her power beyond that of her courtly status. Who dare accuse the Ouji-sama's mate? The prince's title loomed over everyone's conscience as the guard took hold of Bulma, his eyes weary of the fire that danced within her azure eyes.

Time seemed frozen, Bulma's gaze flickering about her, meeting the eyes of the people that had betrayed her. Her people. When disaster struck she was alone, the people that had once held her mutual respect and love, were suddenly content to demoralize her name to save their own hides. Bulma could hear Chi Chi's wails, the young woman that had for years been her best friend fighting to reach her, making futile attempts against a guard to come to aid her. Bulma offered a weary smile at her friend, trying to sooth Chi Chi's conscience, the acceptance of her fate reflected in her eyes. Oh, how she wished that Chi Chi alone could rescue her! But it wasn't enough, she had been abandoned, and abandoned she would remain. Casting a hopeful glance to Lord Zaladar, the man she had once prided herself in accepting as a father figure, simply gazed at her, making no attempt to intervene the scene that was slowly being manipulated by the Lady Nakilia. He offered her only a remorseful gaze; full of pity of what Bulma would soon endure. She could see the hidden plea in his eyes, hoping that she understand his motives to preserve his family. Yet she would never forgive him. Did he not see that he was her family? Her eyes burned with unshed tears, the waves of pain echoing throughout her body creating a tremendous weight of the shameful rivulets to rest behind her eyes. Frowning, she averted her gaze to his youngest daughter, Halie, standing by his side. The audacious little wench could barely hide her glee, smothering her grin with an attempt at a frown. Bulma sneered at her, showing all the disgust she felt for the young woman within the vehement expression. For years she had wanted to make the spoiled brat cower!

It didn't make Bulma as pleased as she had thought it would.

With forced resignation, she brought her hateful glare to Nakilia. Bulma withheld no pretenses, letting the hatred that coiled her insides shine through her sapphire eyes, clouded to a cobalt blue from her unkempt anger. Nakilia simply shunned the attempt to make her cower, instead she approached Bulma, her stride purposeful, as if the power she held could be seen through her aura. A power that in reality was non-existent.

"By the crown of Vegeta-sei you are exiled! You have deceived the Saiyan no Ouji and therefore shall burn in hell," Nakilia declared forcefully, taking precaution that all hear her claim, "I, luckily, saw beyond your façade, and therefore has saw to your sentence as it should have been long before." She needed witnesses, after all.

A guard coughed with surprise. Did the woman have no restraint? Did she not realize that she had all at once claimed the power of the crown and offended the prince by suggesting he was unable to discern a spy?

Bulma's knuckles turned white from the pressure she fisted her hands, barely able to restrain acting rashly.

"Do you not plead innocence," Nakilia inquired, feigning shock.

"I wont give you the satisfaction," Bulma spat, completely irate with the audacity the damn woman had.

"Oh," Nakilia drawled, boredom lacing her impatient tone.

"Unlike you, Nakilia, I'm a true Saiyan, I don't crumble under pressure. Desperation isn't my style," Bulma asserted roughly, a taunting underline to her words, "What's the matter, Nakilia? Couldn't handle the man you swore was yours?"

"You're-" Nakilia began, anger swarming within her coal black depths.

"I wouldn't," Bulma chastised, "You don't want to show your spite for me, it just might raise suspicions of your claim."

"Don't be ridiculous," Nakilia huffed in response, "A lady of my class never lies."

"Dare I ask what class you could be associated with," Bulma's asked tartly.

"Far beyond your comprehension."

"I suppose," Bulma sighed. At seeing Nakilia's shocked expression, Bulma continued in a haughty tone, "For I refrain from delving into things inferior to myself."

Unwilling to allow her nemesis escape her deceit unscathed, Bulma raised her restrained hands. With only her brute strength, her ki lost to the cuffs, she pummeled both her fisted hands and the assistance of the metal restraints into the unmarred flesh of Nakilia's face. Or at least unmarred until the force of Bulma's attack penetrated the smooth skin. The swift execution of the blow successfully broke Nakilia's cheekbone and displaced her jaw. Bruises already began to discolor her pale skin, blood slowly cascading from her lips.

"Take her away," Nakilia bit out, her voice a weak croak, "NOW!"

"Aye, milady," a guard conceded quickly, as he pulled at Bulma, leading her past the courtyard.

"Leave her be! She's no spy," someone's scream erupted, "and you all know it!"

Bulma didn't even have to turn to know it was her ever-faithful-Chi Chi. The protest soon died, recognized as another futile effort. Her life was now lost to the clutches of a cruel fate, and without a heroine, never to be resurrected. But she didn't pity herself. No, she was a proud woman. A proud warrior.

Was there a point to fight?

She thought not. What for? A love lost to deceit? What came after love, anyhow? With the past 24 hours in her memory, Bulma already knew. Her heart belonged to only one. There was no life after love, only a void felt deep within. He had ripped her heart out, leaving her to bleed alone, and that she had.

There was no light in the darkness that encompassed her body and soul, the darkness she now embraced close to her bosom, to fill the loss of her once pristine heart. These thoughts tore at her, shredding past hope, converting it to the same darkness.

She wouldn't fight.

Before she put any conscious thought to her actions, she had walked valiantly into the awaiting transportation, her shoulders squared, without any indication of her inner turmoil. She could sense the numerous stares, some pitiful, others regretful, one pleased, and yet another maliciously filled with accomplishment. She looked at none of them, keeping her gaze distantly focused on the innards of the jail like carriage. Her sapphire eyes gleamed defiantly at the spheres of crystal that served to contain her, letting little light to enter her newly established prison.

A malicious whisper penetrated her concentration of nothingness,

"Perhaps you could bewitch the royals in Sepo-sei," the voice goaded, "as a sex slave!"

`Count on Nakilia to put it crudely,' Bulma thought ruefully, no humor found within her lax state of mental being.

Though Nakilia was disappointed her words received no rise out of Bulma, she continued with the prophetic voice of morbid news.

"Just you try! Though I'm sure whatever concoction you used on the Prince is no longer useable!"

"Really now, milady, you needn't use formality when referring about Vegeta to me," Bulma chided with a bland voice, the mock within her words even more prominent, "We are far beyond such ill-intimacy, trust me."

Although her words successfully ended Nakilia's tirade, it did little to ease the still open wound of her heart. Rather it doused the weakened flesh with salt, making the pain enflame her once again, burning the back of her eyes all the more. Oh, how she wished Vegeta were near, within reach of her eager hands… IF ONLY SHE COULD JUST THROTTLE THE MAN!

****************

Yamcha's eyes dilated to the extent that darkness devoured nearly the entire jovial brown orbs. With shudders stroking his rigid spine, he watched in terror as Bulma disappeared from sight. His one true love was gone. He had done nothing. Not one move to stop the morbid reality that had just become his world. Yet, he was powerless, and he knew it.

He had to save Bulma!

Sepo-sei wasn't feared for unjust reason, the red tint of the planets endless sands more than just natural pigment. No, `tis the veins of blood that run as rivers deep within the core of its earth, fueled by the bloodshed that wreaks havoc of the inhabitants vicious bloodlust. A bloodlust that reigned supreme.

Valiantly accepting his coming position in rescuing his beloved, Yamcha took to the sky, in trail of the slave trade.

He would be her heroine.

*********************

"Where is she," a rough voice ground out, fatigued by restless nights and converted by a broken jaw.

"Your majesty," Aegean, a mid-aged woman, who served as a lady-in-waiting of the Queen, asked conspiratorially. It was an innuendo of sorts, meant to rattle his already pitched temper, as it mocked both his intelligence and identity.

"Don't play games with me," the King grumbled impatiently.

"Yes, Your Majesty," she responded demurely, hedging from the subject with her submission.

"Where?"

"Her placing escapes me at the moment," the woman bit out scathingly, transformed from obedient servant to willful Saiyan, "Such is a casualty of being a woman, and a consequence of you dealing with them."

So, she knew. "You owe me your allegiances," he snapped, "and it would serve you best to remember." But of course she knew, she was his mate's best friend, after all. Damn them all!

"My soul allegiance is to the Queen, sire."

Ouch. Already to sire, and only a few minutes prior he was `Your Majesty'. Grumbling curses he sent the woman a reproachful look before turning to storm out of the room in a fury of billowing crimson, the color of his royal cape.

With a satisfied smirk, Aegean turned back to her duties, checking through the invitation list to be sure of the number to attend the royal ball occurring that very night. One of which she would be attending, though more importantly, the purpose of the gathering was the ascension of the young prince, and the crowning of his mate.

She could only hope he made the right choice.

******************

A cold sheen of perspiration trickled off his brow as he entered another succession of deadly movements, his invisible opponent killed a thousand times over. He was over doing it. He knew it. He relished in it, strived to breach all previous inabilities, all limits, amplifying both his skills and pain. His muscles ached with a vengeance, straining to perform his minds will. Splinters of pain shot through his veins instead of blood, making his entire body feel the pain that each movement produced. Each thought focused to his body's pain, immersing himself within it, he continued to cynically tear his opponents apart, but never satisfied. Nothing could compare to the pain that would be his downfall, comparable to the fact that no compensation would do. Faint traces of lavender still assaulted his nostrils, sensations of pleasure still echoed through his vulnerable flesh, just as images of deceitful sirens haunted his vision. Why could he not defeat the adversaries within, the confusing emotions and unwanted attachments? No matter the deadly precision he executed each blow they always avoided his wrath, taunting him with their supreme skills. They always survived. But it didn't matter, not anymore.

Kakarott's words still stung at his mind...

"Vegeta, she's gone," he had whispered forlornly.

"What, who," was the short reply, eager to see the guard on his way.

"Bulma, she-"

"I don't want to hear it."

"But you're going to," the guard growled menacingly, surprising Vegeta at his audacity. "She was accused of espionage, and sent to the slave trade as sentence. She is to be transported to Sepo-sei."

"A-are you sure?"

"I saw the whole thing."

"Who accused?"

"Nakilia."

"Sentenced?"

"Nakilia."

... Grinding his teeth at the mere reminder of the conversation, Vegeta entered yet another round of self-inflicted pain, blood dripping from his hands, as his nails dug deep into his palms.

He couldn't feel her ki anymore.

She was gone. In all senses of the word she was gone. Vanished from his world, his rule, his reach, his life, and very possibly from the living realm. Most devastating of all, very soon, she would be gone from his heart. She was no longer his burden. He bared no responsibility of her.

He would forfeit his pride for no woman.

*********************

Blood, mud, and, to his mortification, feces soiled both his tattered clothes and the damp cell floor. His sight was impaired by the swelling of his eyelids and cheeks, his lungs labored by the mere task of extricating oxygen from the sullied air. Moans from the excruciating pain escaped his lips, all in a voice he recognized not as his own. His limbs were restrained by cold chains, offering no slack to allow movement of such proportions as sitting up. He'd learned far too early not to attempt such actions, a broken wrist and displaced shoulder a ready reminder to his mistake.

Crusted blood smothered his face, only few gashes still bleeding from his rendezvous with the slave traders. In short, they hadn't approved of his heroine act, expressing their chagrin extensively with their fists and superior strength. Though Yamcha preferred to look it as an advantage from their toughened natures, only minor casualties served as evidence of Yamcha's counterattack to the burly Saiyans.

Yet, nothing weighed heavier than the fact that he'd failed. Except this time, it wasn't only him who had been left with uncertain fate, he'd failed Bulma. He never knew true shame until this moment, trapped within a cage, noise seldom heard, his spirit broken, and his strength stretched. He wished to fall into an endless darkness, never to wake again. That was a glorifying moment he awaited for as the seconds drifted... but he couldn't. Not when Bulma was as stake. His very sanity rested on her welfare, as a life, if only a moment of acknowledging that he had failed her, would surely condemn him to lunacy in that eternity of darkness. One well deserved, but undesired none the less.

He had to escape, had to continue his quest, if only in another approach. For he knew only one that could save her.

***********************

This was a day he had long awaited, at much times impatiently. The previous blue of his armor was replaced with black, the white with silver, and the golden lining, tracing his well defined muscles, all new. The colors of a warrior. The mark of a King. Standing amongst the thousands present, donned in the royal armor that suited the occasion, Vegeta made required greetings with the aristocracy of Vegeta-sei. Though he detested such menial things, he endured them with a mask that he often wore, detaching himself from everything that surrounded him. Dowager mama's eagerly paraded their daughters in front of him, hoping to sway any decisions made by their beauty. He was nonplussed. Young dandies attempted to befriend him in hopes to ensure their placing in the parliament of lords. He paid no attention. Family's sought his acquaintance. He did so dismissively. Debutantes tried to impress him with their virginal ways, swishing about in their white gowns. He avoided them. Youthful widows approached him with disreputable propositions, receiving scathing looks from prudent woman. He rejected them non-committal words.

Some misread his detachment as uncertainty, exchanging words once more, but receiving only a sharp look. His blood boiled and his heart pumped his heated blood to every inch of his body. No one dare impose on him longer than necessary, and for good reason, as his face blackened when the grand hall doors opened ominously. Padded footsteps echoed down the hall, reaching his ears within the ballroom like diamonds cutting through glass. Breaths caught in throats, the aristocracy watched the staircase expectantly, eager to see who had deemed to arrive later. A collective sigh passed the room as a servant entered the room, everyone expressing exaggerated relief that no one of importance was late.

But the tension was high. Both the King and Queen were absent. Though others were sure to conclude marital activities detained them, Vegeta derived that they most likely were on opposite ends the palace, his mother seething and the King pitying. Damn his blood, that man was not his father. That notion had long since died, along with his weak emotions and heart. That had been the only thing Frieza had done that was acceptable to his pride, he had made him a hard warrior.

"You wear the colors well," a feminine voice assured, "and shall bare the crown with a just hand."

All present were surprised to see the Queen, especially since none had taken notice to her entrance, nor her approach of her son. But Vegeta was most of all surprised, knowing that his mother didn't approve of the old man's antics, as he had altered the ascension date to ensure that Vegeta would be unable to disappear on crazy whims... and into the arms of a slave.

"Mother," he greeted with a self-assured smirk, making the women in the room sigh audibly, "You grace us with your presence."

"Quite so, though it shall be hindered shortly by a looming shadow," she informed sweetly.

"So, the old man is due soon, I gather," he snorted.

"The armor suits you well, even makes you look charming."

"That, it does not."

"Do you speak of it suiting you or making you look charming?"

"Suiting," Vegeta said dismissively, but Loralie was not to be dissuaded.

"How so," she asked, quirking an eyebrow at her son.

Stopping mid-stride, he turned to his mother, another devilish smirk curving his burgundy lips, traced with devious meaning as his eyes glinted in the chandeliers light. "It isn't rebellious."

"You can tell me your scheme right now, young m-" she started warningly, just as a gasp spread throughout the room, distracting her momentarily.

Vegeta followed the gazes of his peers to find himself looking into two porcelain orbs of onyx steel, filled with tempting promises of fulfillment...

It was Nakilia. And it was time... to claim what was rightfully his.