Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Unbroken ❯ Defeat ( Chapter 1 )

Unbroken

 

Chapter 1 - Defeat

 

I am stripped of all clothing. My body is beaten. My flesh is burned.

 

The ki binding my wrists above my head dissipates, and so my body drops to the ground. I do not bother trying to get up. I do not even have enough energy left to lift my eyelids, let alone lift myself out of my crumpled position.

 

I feel liquid beneath my skin. I know it is my blood. I have lost so much that the floor must be soaked in it.

 

“A more amusing sight I cannot recall.” My mind is unable to shut out Paragus's voice. “I suppose you are hoping I have come to kill you.”

 

He comes closer to me. He drops to his knees right next to me. Though I cannot see his movements, I can feel them through his ki. He grabs my broken arm and jerks my torso angularly off the ground. My head and other arm hang loosely as he supports me. “You know, I may still consider finally putting you out of your misery. I mean, stripped of your power and title, you really mean nothing to me any longer. In fact, you are mostly just wasting space in my detention facility. So I am going to be the magnanimous,” his voice drips with superiority, “soon-to-be King that I am, and allow you one last chance to end your torment. Tell me where the bitch is.”

 

When I offer no response, he backhands me across my face, and then drops me back to the ground. A part of me wishes the blow will be enough to tip my pain threshold past the point of no return, and I will finally sink into unconsciousness.

 

I do not.

 

“Why do you still protect her? The whore would sell you out in a minute in exchange for her own safety.” Even after all of these months of torturing me, the thought clearly has still yet to cross Paragus' mind that I truly do not know where she is. Although, I suppose that is largely my fault. I goaded him into believing I was hiding her from him, that she was tucked away in a place he would never find her. I had done it just for the perverse pleasure of knowing that when I died the bastard would believe that I had bested him in something, that I had prevented him from exacting revenge from one of his son's killers. It was a delicious cruelty, but a lie. I have no more of an idea where the woman is than he does.

 

“I suppose it is really no matter. If she is still alive, I will find her. You can be certain of that.” I am not, and I do not believe he is either. If she had escaped within the last few months, the chances of finding her were unlikely, but possible. However, she has been gone for six years. The chances of his finding her, if she is even still alive, are practically nonexistent.

 

“That makes you completely irrelevant. However, your fool-hearted arrogance in the face of defeat does not earn you the blissful release of death. No, I think it is much more fitting that I allow you to live. That is if you define slavery as living.” He chuckles maliciously. “Yes, I much prefer the idea of you becoming some peasant's bitch rather than you rioting too early in hell.”

 

He calls for two guards. They join us in the cell. Both men pick me up by my broken arms. “I want him transported to the nearest planet that is a part of the intergalactic slave market. Give him to the traders. Refuse to accept any fee. Tell them he's a gift from the Saiya-jin Elite Empire for their longtime support.”

 

“Yes, sir.” The lackeys announce in unison. They drag me out of the room. As I am pulled away, I can still hear Paragus's snide voice. “Do enjoy the rest of your life of degradation, Vegeta. I promise to enjoy the rest of my life as the new Saiya-jin king.”

 

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“I don't like this place.” I fold my arms across my chest. My hands quickly brush up and down my biceps as if to warm myself, even though I am not cold—at least not on the outside. “This planet quarters a foul bread of people.”

 

“There is no need to worry.” My companion reaches across the dining table where we are seated. He grasps one of my trembling hands and pulls it into his. “By sunset we should have all of the fe-do we collected through planetary security. We will take off as soon as that is finished.”

 

I frown as I am reminded of our reason for being here. “I wish another—any other world grew the fe-do root. I just cannot believe something that could be so beneficial would only exist on this hellhole of a planet.”

 

“You know I feel the same way.” He squeezes my hand gently. “But as long as it is here, so must we from time to time. Or at least I must. I have told you many times before than you need not come. I can handle the excavation myself.”

 

“No, you can't,” I refute as I gently pull my hand away. “No offense, Que, but you are just the financer in this arrangement. I am the one that knows this plant, how to find it, and whether or not a sample is viable. You may be able to pay thousands of workers to dig and pick them, but only I know whether what is found is of any use—and thereby worth your money.”

 

“I do not care about the money. All I care about is what this herb may do for my daughter.”

 

“Hopefully, it will able to do much. If this plant can cure her, I promise you, Que, I will find a way to make it so. I am going immediately back to my lab once we return home, and I will take all of the samples we have acquired and get right to work.”

 

“I know you will. No one is as devoted to her work as you are. In fact, sometimes I think you are too devoted, to the point where you forsake any life outside of that lab of yours.”

 

“I do not need a life outside of my lab. What I do in there, the results and hope I bring to people like your daughter, is enough for me.” At least that is what I have told myself for that last several years. I am helping people. I am of use. That is enough. It has to be.

 

“Maybe it shouldn't be enough for you,” Que sighs. “You are a beautiful person, Bulma. Both inside and out. You deserve more than just a satisfying career. You should have companionship, a family. If ever anyone was entitled to that, it is you.”

 

“Thank you, Que.” I force a smile. A part of me knows I deserve more out of life. I have truly believed that ever since I gained my freedom. The only problem is I have yet to make that belief reality—though not for a lack of trying.

 

I was determined to start my life anew that miraculous day six years ago when I escaped from Vegeta-sei. It was two days later that I landed on planet Bukiih. I was fortunate that the inhabitants spoke a universal language. I was able to sell some armor and a scouter that were on the ship for enough duros to buy food, clothes, and a refuel. I then set course for Wotja, a peaceful planet well outside of Saiya-jin territory. Some kind people I met on Bukiih told me Wotja was home to countless species of people, allowing me to blend in easily. They also promised that the price of living was very inexpensive, which was particularly appealing since I had no assets and few prospects.

 

Well, that proved not to be entirely true. I had one asset—the Saiya-jin ship I had stolen. I could not have been more pleased after I landed on Wotja to find a buyer for it. Apparently, Saiya-jin ships were quite a novelty in the area of the universe I was in. The buyer gave me an obscene amount of duros for it. The payout was enough to purchase a transport vehicle, and a moderate sized fully furnished county home that I stocked with both food and clothes. After that, I had only a little savings left, so it quickly became apparent that I would need to find some kind of occupation.

 

As overwhelming as I recalled finding a job was on Chikyuu, on another planet the feat seemed almost impossible. But I kept reminding myself that if I could survive half a decade of captivity on Vegeta-sei, I could handle a simple task like working. So I began my search. After a few days, I learned there was a hospital only a few miles from my home. I was told by locals that is was always understaffed, so I thought that would increase my chances of being hired. It actually made my hiring a guarantee.

 

Without a background check or much introduction, I was hired on the spot and put right to work. Naively, I thought I was going to be given simple clerical work. Instead, I was immediately thrust into medicine. When I tried to explain that I had no training or experience as a doctor or nurse, the woman who had hired me, Nallia, informed me that very few people who worked at the hospital had any proper training. Apparently, the reason Wotja's cost of living was so low was because the world was trying to recover from a devastating plague that has killed more than half of its population not one year before my arrival.

 

The city of Supé, where I had taken up residence, was one of the last cities to eradicate the disease. Not three months ago, the antidote had finally made it to Supé, saving the few who were not in the final stages of the disease. Tragically, the plague had killed nearly all of the medical staff, who had been among the first exposed. The few that survived had no choice but to take the willing, like myself, and quickly train them.

 

On my first day, I treated minor external wounds. In three months, I was able to treat moderate wounds. By my one-year anniversary of living on Wotja I was versed in nearly all of the medical technology the planet had. Nallia, who had become my supervisor and dear friend, had been amazed by my progress. I chalked my success up to my natural proficiency for learning quickly, as well as my rigorous seven-day a week work schedule. At first, I had asked Nallia for all of the extra time because I needed the money, and the hospital needed the help. But the truth was, I did not want to stop moving.

 

During the days, I worked at the hospital. At night I read, researched, and practiced with medical tools and machines to better my knowledge. I made it a point never to stop. From the moment of my escape, I kept busy—formulating a plan, finding a home, a job, and then obsessively dedicating myself to that job. If I kept moving, working, if I kept myself constantly distracted, I would not have to think of the past. The more time and distance I put between myself and the past, the easier it would be for me to move on—or so I had thought.

 

For two years, I devoted all of my time to the hospital. I had no personal life. My career was everything. That was perhaps why Nallia finally forbade me from working a full week. The hospital was much recovered by then, and I certainly no longer needed a large income. My personal account was filled with savings, so much that I could afford a vacation—several, in fact.

 

“Two years is far too long to go without any relaxation,” I recall Nallia telling me. I never had the courage to admit to her that it was actually well over two years since I had a vacation. Realizing the confession would only enhance her argument, I finally agreed to take some time off, as well as shorten my schedule from an eighty-four hour workweek, to fifty.

 

With all of the extra free time, I began to realize I truly had no life outside of my career. Besides Nallia, I had made no friends. Besides medical studying, I had no hobbies. Besides traveling to the hospital and my once weekly trip to the market, I never left my home. And as far as companionship, well, the idea of it was laughable. While I had gradually taught myself to stop believing that every man I met intended to do me harm, I still could not take that next step toward a relationship.

 

It was that night, when I had sat in my sleeping chambers on my first day of forced vacation that I assessed—truly assessed my life on Wotja. That was the only night in two years, since my escape, that I allowed myself to weep.

 

Yes, I had my freedom, but it was only physical. No one owned me, controlled me, supported me, or protected me. I was truly autonomous. In that regard, I had found my freedom. But emotionally, psychologically, I had yet to break free. I still had a hard time trusting people. I kept an automatic weapon in my home and vehicle at all times. I always made a point of keeping my past vague, and what little I told was always a lie. In fact the only truth about myself I ever told anyone was my name. It had occurred to me that I should use a pseudonym for my protection, but my name was all that I had left of who I truly was. I would not relinquish it, no matter what the danger.

 

I suppose it was that same determination to regain the self I was before the Saiya-jins entered my life that allowed me to start anew on Wotja. I made a genuine effort to socialize, participate in activities, and travel more. It was slow going at first, but after another two years had passed, my life had far more in it. I had friends—females, males, couples, families. I went to parties, sporting events, theatrical shows. I tried everything at least once, and repeated everything I enjoyed. I even dated a few times. Though I never felt comfortable moving beyond holding hands and an occasional kiss, it was a start. It was a real beginning to the rest of my life.

 

And then there was my career. That too was growing by leaps and bounds. I was promoted to a high-ranking managerial position. I was also given my own division in the hospital—research and development. As a child, I loved solving puzzles and complex equations. Finding a cure for an ailment gave me the same kind of rush. I loved tinkering with different natural and simulated herbs, chemicals, supplements—anything that could be used to preserve life. Over the years, that became my calling: to help people.

 

I suppose part of my initial depression, even before I escaped from Vegeta-sei was that pesky `why' question. Why was I spared when so many others died the day Chikyuu was destroyed? Why did I meet Vegeta on that faithful night that set into effect a series of events that allowed me to be free? Chance and coincidence could not be the answer. I had to be alive for something more. And what greater calling could there be than saving lives?

 

And I have saved lives. Over the last two years, my research has provided cures for three viruses, two genetic syndromes, and I soon hope, my latest research will lead to a cure for a heart disease my dear friend Nallia has contracted. Her father, Que, contacted me seven months ago, after Nallia collapsed. She had been very tightlipped with me about what was wrong with her. I had noticed symptoms for several months prior to her collapse, but she had never confided in me. When I found Que crying outside of her hospital room, I finally learned that Nallia was dying, and had wanted no one to know. Believing there was no cure, she had hoped to live out what was left of her life as normally as possible, without anyone's pity.

 

I never offered her my pity. Instead, I unleashed my anger toward her for not telling me the truth. I felt a little guilty when she retorted, telling me I had some nerve scolding her when I had never whispered a word of my past to her. In that moment, I had wanted to tell her everything. To finally put into words a topic that I had silenced myself on for years. But I could not find the words. Even after more than five years, the past was still too raw for me to speak of. So instead, I vowed to do what I knew I was capable of. I promised to work tirelessly to find a cure for her.

 

Hence, my reason for being on this disgusting planet with Nallia's father. Thanks to his rather impressive financial prowess, I was given access to highly advanced technology and unheard of planetary support to find and obtain everything I needed to attack this vicious heart disease. I can only hope everything I do will be enough.

 

“I believe you had better go make sure our take is in fine condition,” I finally advise.

 

“I suppose you are right.” Que rises from the table, but before he leaves, he reaches into his carrying case and pulls out a small quarter-sized disc.

 

“Que, no.” I know exactly what he is offering, but I will not take it.

 

“Yes, Bulma.” He places the disc in my hand. “Take this monetary print. All of the markets here accept it. Give it to them, and they will direct debit the cost of any purchase from my account.” I part my lips to object once more, but he continues to speak loudly so I have no time to interrupt. “Now, I know exactly how much is in this particular account, well over 10 million duros if you are interested, and should I check this account tonight and find that you have not spent at least one forth of that money, I am going to be grossly offended.”

 

“I do not need, nor do I want, such an outrageous amount of money, Que.”

 

“Bulma, I am one of the ten richest men in the galaxy. That money is nothing to me, so go spend it without a heavy conscience. Besides, what you are doing for my daughter is worth infinitely more than this paltry sum of money. Now, take it and enjoy yourself for a few hours before we return home and you then spend the next several weeks locked away in your lab.”

 

Finally realizing this was not a battle I was going to win, I gave up arguing with him and accepted the disc. “Shall I meet you at the ship in five hours?”

 

“Only if you have bags of purchases with you,” he says with a quiet laugh before taking his leave.

 

Soon after, I too depart. Once I am among the public, I am followed by a bodyguard, Roki. The tall, very well built man's presence was meant to make me feel secure. And to my surprise, he actually does. Roki is a Kesjt. The Kesjt were a warrior race, who valued honor and custom above all else. They fought to protect their own—unlike another warrior race I was once much too well acquainted, who used their superior strength, speed and agility to conquer rival nations.

 

Unfortunately, Roki's people were defeated nearly a decade ago by an enemy nation. He was among the few of his kind who were not on the planet when it was destroyed. Though he is unaware of it, we both share the pain of being among a minority of survivors from our conquered planets. We also seem to have found comfort in the same cure: dedicating the rest of our lives to helping others. Thus, his vocation as a personal guard and his status for the last seven months as my protector.

 

“Hello, Roki.” I nod toward him, he nods back and then we continue toward several rows of stands with items to be purchased. Ultimately, my conscience prevents me from choosing anything. I know most of the items are booty from conquered planets. After all, that is the sole purpose of this worthless world. It allows any and all illegal acts to be committed, since it falls outside the jurisdiction of the interplanetary peace treaty.

 

Before long, my pacing takes me to an empty bench. I purchase a local beverage and sit quietly counting the minutes before I may leave this planet. It reminds me too much of the Saiya-jin homeworld.

 

“No'eer? Ey brout'm eer?” The sound of a woman speaking in a poorly pronounced interplanetary dialect captures my attention. “I no'own'd a Saya-gen be'fo. Ow much e bee'in shold fo?”

 

I blink. My thoughts must have somehow collided with the buzzing world around me. I could have sworn a mangled form of “Saiya-jin” had found its way past the woman's lips.

 

“More than you can afford, I'm certain.” A man responds to her in a much clear voice. “It's not every day a Saiya-jin goes on the block. Especially that bastard!”

 

My eyes widen as my body spins around. I had heard right. They were speaking of a Saiya-jin—one that is here, being sold into slavery.

 

Could it be true?

 

Before I realize what I am doing, I follow the man and woman whom were discussing the Saiya-jin. Shortly they lead me to this planet's version of the Seriichi. I feel the wind leave my lungs for a moment as I enter. “Rushka Bulma,” Roki uses the formal Kesjt term for a single female to address me. “This is no place for you.”

 

He is right, of course. Having been the purchaseé once, I cannot condone the buying and selling of living beings. Yet, a part of me loosens my principles as I image the roles reversed, some formerly horny Saiya-jin male being the object of submission instead of dominance. It's sick and twisted of me, but I want to see one of those bastards humbled as I was.

 

So I enter the crowded room. I keep myself well protected in the back as I attempt to listen for more details regarding this prisoner. I wonder how this Saiya-jin has come to be enslaved. Was he on the losing side of the civil war? I suddenly wish I had followed the results of the conflict. On principle, I did not want to know. When I escaped, I planned on completely leaving that part of my life behind, which meant I would not allow myself any contact with it.

 

It had been a hard decision. A part of me wanted to know whose side won. A part of me wanted to know if both sides succeeded in killing each other. And a part of me yearned to know the fate of a certain man who I have tried desperately to erase from my memories over the years.

 

On that point, I have found little success.

 

Not allowing my mind to wander any longer, I shake my head, and then refocus on the front of the room. The creature running the event pounds on his podium to quiet the room. Once it is quiet enough, I begin to hear him speak.

 

“Today we have a one of a kind purchase for you all,” the announcer declares before dramatically lifting his hand into the air and pointing toward a side entrance to the small stage. “You have all heard whispers of it for some time now, but it is a myth no more. The wait is finally over. Bidders, I give you the most novel item you will ever see for sale on this block—the defeated Saiya-jin King!”

 

Thunderous laughter and applause echo throughout the room as a beaten and bloody form is pushed out onto the stage. My hand flies over my mount to prevent a cry as I barely recognize the broken man before me.

 

“No,” I whisper in horror. “He lost.”

 

“Who lost?” my confused guard asks me.

 

With a deep breath, I whisper a name I have erased from my lips for six years—a name that has haunted me for just as long.

 

“Vegeta.”

 

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