Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ VeNdEtTa Of ThE hEaRt ❯ Chapter 5 ( Chapter 5 )

Passion's Lecherous Ways...

~Dedicated to all my reviewers, you simply don't know how much your opinions mean to me. My writing wouldn't exist if it wasn't for you and so I write this chapter in your honor. I appreciate everyone's perspective, for there is no inferior opinion, and so I ask of you all to share them with me. Regardless of what some may think, I, just as any other author, am lost without the support of reviewers.

**Special note to ToonFreak617: I never tire of your reviews; actually I'm quite fond of them. For a while I was in doubt of Passion's Lecherous Ways because you hadn't responded to it lol. I always look forward to reading what you have to say and I hope you continue to read my stories. In all, I simply would like to thank you, for you always inspire me to write more with your kind reviews. **

HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!!!

Despite the noise that ricocheted off the walls of the bedroom, nothing greeted its fervor caller. Yamcha continued pounding his fists against the door, the one barrier that remained separating him from dire knowledge.

Whether his wife was alive, or not.

With renewed energy, Yamcha struck the door, his hope flickering with the single fact she could be saved. Anger swarmed his mind, for he could only wish that he hadn't bought a door so damn thick! It proved to be a nuisance, as well as a constant reminder that he wasn't strong enough to break it down. Agitation on his part would be an understatement, though he vowed he wouldn't fail Bulma. Five minutes had passed, but any notification that his beloved was in the living, had yet to present itself.

He pounded harder.

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The incessant pounding vibrated within her ears, consistent with the throb pulsating in her temples. Pain pierced her flesh like splinters of bitter poison, rendering her body immobile. A groan of displeasure permeated the disrupted silence, as anger tainted her thoughts, urging her eyes to open. She winced in her discomfort, the rays of light that caressed her face causing her to squint. She blinked several times before her eyes had adjusted to the new settings, making her uneasy with guilt.

"They were just thoughts," she defended to herself, as she hoisted her body up.

`Damn dirty ones,' a voice countered within her head, making her squirm in remembrance of those very thoughts. Pacifically the dream she should have never had, the very one she would never forget. Frowning at herself, she dismissed the erotic dream as physical attraction. Fatal attraction as she would soon discover.

The door was still being berated by offending fists, but she was reluctant to rise from her bed. With a low growl she pushed the sheets from her overheated body, making her hiss as the cold morning air licked at her exposed flesh. Mumbling a few choice curses she stalked to the door. Once unlocking it with damp fingers, she swung it open. A glower contorted her face, her vibrant blue hair disheveled from her sleep, and an angry flame glittering within her deep azure eyes.

"What in the name of hell do you want," she roared in an unladylike fashion.

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Yamcha was near giddiness as the door was opened. After using an expired credit card, he had finally succeeded in opening the door of Bulma's and his sleeping chambers. Though the feat seemed small, it had proved to be harder than said. With searching eyes, Yamcha peered into the room, the possibility that the intruder was still present keeping him from entering.

"Bulma," he choked out.

Gathering his wits, Yamcha stepped into the room, his eyes darting about the area, searching frantically for her. As he came into view of the bed, a gasp escaped his lips.

She was gone.

Dashing to the bedside, Yamcha cried out in shock, his hands gripping at the mangled sheets in his desperation. Never had he considered the possibility of truly loosing the woman he loved; yet here he was now, a man abandoned within the dark void of depression. His cinnamon brown eyes glazed with unshed tears, as the womanly scent of his wife assaulted his nostrils. A soft whimper escaped his parted lips, the sight of the evident struggle that had taken place making his heart freeze with guilt. Why hadn't he saved her?

A single letter, bound by thick black wax, holding a promise of untold misfortune, lay atop a cream colored pillow. The plush cushion was indented by weight that previously pressured its soft padding, a form he was sure was Bulma's head. With a shaky hand, he reached out to it, the slender digits of his hand gripping it gently, as if it held Bulma's very life within its folds. Upon breaking the seal, the italic words defined the revenge that was sought by his adversary, and put a new meaning to Yamcha's worst fears.

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Bulma's anger immediately deflated as she stared into the emerald green eyes of a young boy. She stared at him in shock, her eyes finally taking notice to the unknown surroundings she stood in.

"Where am I," Bulma's voice was soft, her tone a desperate plea to have the boy assure that all was as it should be. That she was home, that all was simply a dream.

"I'm not very good with English, Madame," the boy responded, a thick accent lacing his young voice.

"Oh," Bulma whispered, her concentration stolen by her rampant thoughts.

Had last night been real? Was the vivid dream a reality that had gone to nightmarish subtleties?

"Very well, would you like brunch," the maturing voice of the boy inquired, disrupting Bulma's daze.

"I thought you said you couldn't speak English," Bulma accused.

"I never said anything of the sort," he said, exasperation evident within his tone.

" `I'm not good with English'," Bulma quoted indignantly, "Those were your very words."

"Yes, and I don't take them back either," he snapped derisively.

"Well, aren't you the charlatan," Bulma huffed scornfully.

"I spoke the truth," he assured, a haughty smirk curving his fine lips, "I don't understand English all to well," he reiterated with a sneer. "Do you comprehend now?"

"All to well," Bulma growled, the bright flush of her face furthering supporting her words.

"Finally," the young boy taunted, his dark emerald eyes rolling mockingly.

"Yes."

"What," he questioned suspiciously.

"Yes, as in, I would like brunch," Bulma returned mockingly, mirroring the condescending smirk.

"Very well," the boy chuckled, amused by her witty attitude. "But might I acquire your name," he requested in the low timber of his maturing voice, the taunting smirk replaced by a charming smile.

"Bond," Bulma said with a flattering smile, "James Bond."

She could be tolerant of his flirtations, but only for the benefit of befriending someone who could help in escaping. The boy was most likely fifteen, Bulma figured, for his deep voice was aged far beyond his years. His face was finely carved, holding an angular sharpness, with smooth refinement; a young handsome quality. His hair was jet-black, slicked back into sharp spikes, peculiarly resembling a hairstyle she had seen before.

"You enjoy spy movies?"

"Perhaps."

"So, now you wish to be mysterious," he inquired loftily.

"Perhaps."

"When will I receive a full answer?"

"As soon as you tell me where I am," Bulma countered, a low warning in her tone.

"You, Madame," he drawled, "are within the Palace di Sogni Tessuti."

From the provocative way he gazed at her, Bulma knew whatever he had said was suggestive one way or another.

"Oh, and who, dare I ask, owns this `Palace'," Bulma inquired skeptically.

"Why, the Viscount, of course," he informed, a taunting smirk gracing his lips.

"Naturally," Bulma sighed, "I wish to speak to him," she informed forcefully.

"You mustn't," he declared.

"I didn't intend it as a request," Bulma clarified haughtily.

"As I am not obligated to conceded to your demands, I refuse," he countered, eyebrows peaking challengingly.

"How quaint," Bulma snarled, as she abruptly slammed the door in his face, leaving the man in absolute shock.

"That was uncalled for," his voice floated through the door.

"In your opinion, perhaps, but where I come from, it was completely suited to your behavior."

"Where do you come from?"

"Well that all depends on where I am now, asshole," Bulma rebuked, refusing to open the door once more.

"You may call me Damien," his voice corrected, annoyance tickling his words.

"I prefer asshole, if you don't mind," Bulma persisted stubbornly.

"Well, for my benefit, you can refer to me as Damien," he insisted, "Ouji, if you must, but `asshole' simply won't do."

The door swung open suddenly, revealing Bulma with an expression of surprise. Her sapphire eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion, curiously eyeing the boy. He didn't look to much like Vegeta, or least she tried to convince herself otherwise...

"You're related to him," Bulma's inquiry was skeptical, and Damien was not foolish enough not to notice.

"Who?"

"You know very well who I speak of," Bulma huffed.

"Perhaps," Damien offered, "but you'll have to be specific."

"Vegeta," Bulma hissed coyly.

"Yes, we are of relations."

"You don't resemble him," she said blatantly.

"Oh," he said flippantly, though bitterness traced his tone.

"Don't favor the man," Bulma ventured, "Neither do I."

"I never said such," he defended.

"Of course," she assured.

"But?"

"But you could be the hero and rescue me, and take me home," Bulma attempted, playing off the prospect of him having some qualms over Vegeta, "I'll give you as much money you like."

"Riches of coins do not interest me," Damien said, "though I'm sure you have other- things to offer."

"Yes," she agreed, although she had no intention of offering such things. She simply had to figure a way out of whatever mess she was in.

"But, I'm no hero," he said in finality, before promptly retreating back into the hall and walking away without another word.

"Damn Ouji's," Bulma growled, as she took off in the opposite direction, traveling down the hall to the left.

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~I suppose at the moment you believe yourself a ruined man? Have you already fallen; failed? Despite my opinion, there is chance you'll persevere. Hence, why you find yourself reading this note at the moment. As a being of the work force, you pride yourself on your status, am I right?

As of now, you are left with only that, the pride I've always doubted you for. If you fail to comprehend my words, you might do yourself justice and check your accounts. But, you always can check the job listings...

As a man, you find comfort within usual surroundings, find sanctuary and peace within common grounds, yes?

As of now, all possessions you found comforting are lost to the black market. Care to try and win them back? Perhaps the experience will benefit you, for being disemboweled by your own kind would be interesting, would it not? Of course, there is always possibility you'll obtain vital bearings within reality...

You should be seeing a trend by now. No matter what misfortunes befall you, there is always chance , the simple odds that you may survive. In favor of my cause, that simply isn't the purpose, and so I'm left with little choice, except to overturn everything you've ever counted on, everything that's stable in your life and claim it as my own. Despite what you may believe, everything you deemed strong, everything you could hold onto when you struggle, will be lost.

I promise you won't survive.

As a being of life, your greatest fear is to be alone, to be lost within a bleak void that my doings will surely condemn you to. Death is an easy escape, just as enduring physical pain won't suffice, but do you think you can handle your mental barriers to be broken, shattered into useless, obsolete tatters of shredded hope?

As of now, you're precious wife is alive, and safe from untimely demise, but find no relief in this, for I'm far from finished with the wench. You see, dear cousin, I've found vengeance to be dull, a bore. I thought a challenge would be in order, do you agree?

She will be jaded- tainted by my touch alone. I will take from you her love, her passion, and her lust. She shall no longer love you.

And do not doubt this, for I shall obtain her love, she shall forsake her vows to you, and you will find yourself alone...

Or shall you bring me my possessions in time?

Though I would enjoy obliging your fears and detailing her seduction more, I have a corruption to attend to, and so I must bid you farewell.

,.o,.o,.o,.o,.o,.o

No matter how many times Yamcha read over the words that promised his downfall would his fears quail. He should know that Bulma would never forsake his love, or her binding vows- right? That was precisely what he feared most, for Vegeta was no amateur in the arts of seduction. Knowledge of such was when his hatred for his cousin first began. No matter whom Yamcha had become smitten over in his younger years, Vegeta had always won them over, simply to leave them stranded with mere hopes and dreams to claim the man as their own. He was no fool, he knew there was chance Bulma would fall prey to Vegeta's charms, no matter if they were simply a facade to ensnare her attentions.

Anger coursing through his veins, Yamcha began preparing for his grand entrance. He would return to his home country, he would endanger himself to save her. To save their love. Gathering different necessities he began packing them in a large brown suitcase. A dark scowl contorted his face as he drew in a sharp breath.

He never had foreseen returning to Italy.