Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vigilantes ❯ Pt. 3 ( Chapter 3 )

All the same disclaimers and cautions apply.

Pt. III

“Out Of The Frying Pan, Into The Fire”

Yamcha Matsumoto waltzed through the throng of well dressed contributors of the Red Ribbon banquet, shaking hands, nodding at business acquaintances and voicing his thanks with unadulterated confidence. There was no doubt that this banquet would rack up the zennis required to fund his latest venture, never mind the racketeering that he had stirred up among the investors of his former baseball team, convincing them to dump their life savings into Red Ribbon stock. He reviewed the crowd with glee and resisted the urge to laugh in their faces. He was moving to sit on top of the world once Red rewarded him with the vice presidents chair and office in the old Capsule Corp building. Fame, women, wealth...what more could a man want?

As the mayor -who was in his pocket, as well- encouraged them to raise their glass in a salute to the continued success of West City, Yamcha brought the flute of champagne to his lips, and the clusters of insulated wealthy in front of him parted, slowly revealing a sylph-like blue haired beauty sitting in a svelte gold dress at the bar, sipping delicately at a glass of wine.

Yamcha, to his own surprise, did a double take.

Her dress glittered elegantly in the soft glow of the bar lights and complimented the glossy blue curls struggling to be free of two pearl combs at her neck. Her movements seemed in rhythm with the tinker of glass and din of dinner table conversation. There was something otherworldly about her, and Yamcha was certainly not a religious man. As the woman recrossed her legs, her dress rode up momentarily on her thigh, revealing creamy pale skin. Yamcha's adams apple bobbed as he cleared his throat and tossed his champagne flute onto the tray of a passing waiter. He brushed his fingernails through his thick black hair, smoothing his lapels and puffing up with his typical bravado as he made his way toward her.

The woman was just lowering her wine glass form her parted lips when Yamcha slid in the seat beside her. He gave the bartender a churlish smile and signaled for two more of what she was having. The woman glanced at him but continued staring quietly at the reflection of the banquet in the mirrored wall in front of her. The bartender set two chilled glasses of wine in front of them indifferently and walked off to fulfill another order.

“Thank you,” the woman said coolly.

“Are you here for the Red Ribbon banquet?” Yamcha asked genially.

The woman turned her body towards him and plucked one of the wine glasses in front of him, regarding him with a wry smile as she took a strong sip. He was surprised at how breathtaking he found her. The past few years he had run through a slew of women, but none of them had made him feel such a gut deep desire before. Her eyes were an unusually bright blue, wide and framed by long black lashes in a classically heart shaped face. Her lips had a plump, glossy pink cupids bow that he really wanted to see her bite with pleasure. The sweetheart neckline of the strapless gown lifted her large breasts like creamy offerings.

Women had always been his weakness. Good thing none of them were smart enough to stay away.

“Actually, my family is. I'm just here for the cocktails.” She sent him another reserved smile and turned back to regarding the wall of wine bottles in front of her as she emptied the last dregs of her wine glass.

“Can I buy you another drink?” He offered, smiling down at her graciously.

She sat the crystal down with a delicate tap and leaned over to adjust the strap of her heel, unknowingly giving him a mouth watering view of her décolletage as she stood. Yamcha was surprised by how short she was; even with heels, the beauty barely topped his sternum.

“No thanks. I'm all finished here.”

“Wait! What about a dance?” Yamcha tossed his hair out of his face, which fell in a curl back over his eyes boyishly as he grabbed her lean white arm.

“I'm not interested,” she replied wryly, glancing at his grip on her arm with disdain. Such a little thing, for all that attitude.

He removed his hand quickly from her arm and held it out. “Yamcha. Yamcha Matsumoto.” When she peered up at him from under one winged brow, he sputtered. “Please, just one dance. And then you can continue on as if you never knew me.” He smiled broadly, his straight white teeth gleaming, covering his irritation at her obliviousness to his notoriety.

One side of her delicious lips curved upward. “Persistent, aren't you?” She let out a huff and extended her own hand, and as her hand slid into his, his nerves jolted. Her skin was impossibly soft as she shook his hand with a brief, firm grip.

“Maron,” she informed him huskily. “Maron Susoro.”

“Well, Maron,” Yamcha breathed, knee deep in the unfamiliar stupor of infatuation. “May I have this dance?”

She was the only woman who hadn't immediately fallen all over herself to impress and entice him. In fact, she was seducing him, with her knowing, smug half-smile that he just wanted to forcefully fuck off her pretty face. She was the only woman he'd encountered yet that very well may put up a fight in bed.

He had to have her.

The woman's lips spread into a lazy, knowing smile, eyes twinkling below well shaped blue brows, and his cock twitched to life when she consented breathily. “Alright, but don't hold it against me if I dance better than you expected.”

------------

Bulma trekked through the crowd, passing underneath paper lanterns strung over the sidewalk, strings of white lights laced down light poles and general festival merriment. It was fall again, and the Harvest Festival was at full swing in the center of her little town. She adjusted her loose trench coat against the chill and clutched her books a little closer to her chest as she passed through a group of rowdy college students. As she pulled away from them towards the dark quiet of her street, where the festival fray began to weaken, a man fell in step beside her.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she commented dryly, glancing at Vegeta with warmth.

He sighed and put his arm around her waist as they walked.

“I get it, I'm practically a stranger,” he admitted gruffly. “But I got out of work early tonight.” He grinned wolfishly.

She smirked up at him and came to a stop, clasping the lapels on his black trench coat.

“Hmm. And just what are you expecting to happen?”

He moved his lips closer to hers and returned her warm smile. “Well, I was hoping you'd join me for dinner, and then I'd walk you home, and you can relax on the couch while I peel off those boring brown slacks you're wearing and start eating that wonderful little pink pussy of yours. And if you like where that is going, I'd be happy to tease this cock into you and prove to you just how very, very sorry I am that I've been so busy with work.”

“Nice try, buster,” she teased him huskily, beaming up at him. “But you're going to have to do a lot more than that to make up missing my board speech last night.”

He pulled her close, pressing his erection softly into her, smoothing the hair above her ear as he leaned down into it, his hot breath making her shiver. “Are you sure, woman?”

She let out a helpless little sigh and crossed her arms around his neck, his briefcase bumping against her ass as she kissed him softly.

“I've missed you, Ouji.”

One hand moved up to cradle her head as he mumbled against her lip, “And I've missed you, Ms. Briefs. Now how about you join me for dinner.”

“Considering I was going to eat three day old leftover spaghetti,” she replied dryly, “I may take you up on your offer. But I'm in my work clothes,” she complained, gesturing at her loose brown slacks, shapeless trench coat, and gray sweater with displeasure.

Vegeta snorted and pulled her back into the crowd and into a nearby bistro, an old brick two story building with striped awnings, lace curtains, and its fair share of carousing.

“Two for Ouji,” Vegeta told the hostess briskly, hand on the small of Bulma's back.

The hostess' enthusiastic smile widened and she grabbed two menus from under her stand. “Right this way, Mr. Ouji.”

The hostess led them through the ruckus and up the stairs to the more quiet rooftop, where a dozen tables were roomily arranged under strings of white paper lanterns. A band played up front, and a few couples danced and mingled in front of them. Heaters blasted them, hidden in the viney lattice overhead. A single candle and a fat little vase of geraniums adorned their table. The pair stripped off their jackets and settled into their seats, Vegeta ordering a bottle of wine before the server could open his mouth.

“I don't think I've ever ate here before,” she said, looking around her at the romantic little atmosphere appreciatively.

“That's because you've never had a boyfriend as dashing as me.”

“Or a man who had the need to make up the full month a half he's spent in his office,” she retorted, and Vegeta sent her a playful glare.

“You better watch it, woman, or we'll be going dutch.”

She smiled sweetly at him as the server sat their wine glasses in front of them and twisted the cork open, filling their glasses before sitting the bottle down carefully on the table and asking them if they'd like to hear the night's specials.

“Two steaks, one rare with the works, the other medium. Pesto on the side of hers. Side salads with oil and vinegar, hold the olives. A baked potato for me, cheesy mashed potatoes for the lady. And two slices of cherry cheesecake.”

Bulma looked at him in amusement as the server jotted it down quickly and took their menus.

“I hadn't even popped my menu open yet.”

“Don't worry,” Vegeta replied smoothly. “I knew what you wanted.”

“Apparently.” A smile tugged at her lips. “You're lucky you know what I like.”

“No, I'm lucky I know what you like. And you better believe I know what you like.”

Bulma smiled bashfully and hid it with a sip of wine.

“How far have you gotten on your case? Far enough to tear yourself away for an evening, I see.”

Vegeta gulped back his wine, looking shiftily at the ground, and then cleared his throat. “It's coming along. I don't know whether to feel grateful for the profit of all this work or pout because of it. But it's going. Hopefully I'll be able to finish the final paperwork at the end of next week, but then I'll be right back where I started once we go to court a few days later. The boss has even mentioned that I'll need a hotel room near the courthouse throughout the first few weeks.” He glanced at her, measuring, as the server placed their salads on their woven placemats.

“Wow. This is really a high profile case, huh,” she asked as she pulled a bite of salad off her fork with her teeth.

He sent her a cutting glance. “You know it is. There's only so much I can do as Black Vengeance. Being a high profile lawyer provides me the leverage to stomp them out where he can't reach.”

She placed her hand on top of his, giving him a caring and demure smile. “There's no need to be defensive, V. I understand what you have to do. I'm not resentful.”

He gulped another glass of wine down, squeezed her hand, and then pulled away to pull out his cigarette case, placing one between his lips and cupping his hands to light it with his finger, for all intents and purposes looking as if he were shielding his lighter from the wind.

He took a drag off his cigarette and blew it out between his nostrils.

“Enough about my job. I want to pretend like our work doesn't exist tonight. All our jobs.”

“Alright, tough guy. Then I guess I should confess to you I watched the season finale of Bone Collector without you.”

Vegeta sucked in smoke quickly and tried not to cough, narrowing his eyes at her. “How could you.”

She grinned. “I'm sorry! I couldn't resist! I had a moment of weakness!”

“I will be taking that out on your hide later tonight.” Bulma blushed crimson as the server placed their meals in front of them.

Two bottles of wine and a good meal later, the rooftop had become crowded, and the server came to take their dishes.

Vegeta stood and loosened his tie, shrugging off his suit jacket, the white button up dress shirt stretching across his wide chest and large biceps. The liquor and light from the lanterns softened his usually stern expression, and he looked down at her sensually and extended his hand.

“Dance with me, woman.”

Bulma's throat tightened and she suppressed a giddy smile. “You know I'm no good at dancing,” she reasoned.

“A woman as talented as you at twisting men's necks between her thighs and riding me until I'm begging you to let me come in you can't not be good at dancing.”

“You're on a roll tonight.” She stood abruptly, placing her hand in his. The round, orange moon hung behind him like a sigil and he smiled at her benevolently.

“A woman as amazing as you deserves every compliment a gentleman could give her, and frankly,” he said, pulling her close and speaking against her lips, “ a woman like you deserves every inch of this hard cock inside her.” He kissed her gently, slipping his tongue into her mouth as he felt her relax into his arms, tasting her sweet mouth and her wine-soured lips. “You deserve a night all about you. Kami knows I haven't been the best companion lately.”

She squeezed his waist reassuringly and swept her own tongue through his familiarly clean, clove flavored mouth. “I couldn't ask for a better man, Vegeta,” she reassured him softly. She looked up at him earnestly. “I wouldn't change you for the world.”

“Is that so?” A rare grin graced his handsome face, and he looked up almost shyly before kissing her quickly. He tugged on her waist and led her toward the band. “Then dance with me.”

Although she felt silly and clumsy dancing to the bluesy folk music, Vegeta bestowed her with an amused smile all the while, his subtle dimples making him even more alluring to her. Somehow they fell into a rhythm, and their chuckles at her expense settled into a quiet, peaceful slow dance. Under dozens of paper lanterns and a blanket of stars, Bulma and Vegeta swayed slightly to the slow melody. She rested her head against his shoulder and breathed in his scent contentedly, one arm draped across his neck, the other hand interlaced with his own.

“Bulma,” she heard him call roughly in her ear, breaking the spell. “Bulma, kiss me.”

She lifted her head dreamily from his shoulder and kissed his warm inviting lips, closing her eyes serenely.

Vegeta pulled back slightly and looked at her intensely, an expression at odds with the tranquility of the night.

“Bulma,” he began once again, shifting his gaze to the ground and then back up at her with something akin to nervousness.

“Yes?” She inquired with concern.

“I love you,” he admitted roughly, searching her face for rejection, his posture stiff.

Bulma's face split into a wide smile. “I love you, too,” she returned.

Vegeta slowly untangled himself from her and bent to one knee, reaching into his pocket, staring at her as the band and the crowd hushed.

Bulma's confusion turned into alarm as he pulled out a black velvet ring box. His face, just minutes ago relaxed, was now tight with seriousness, his jet gaze beseeching her solemnly. Slowly, he opened the ring box, and sure enough, perched inside glittered a solitary diamond on a twisted white gold band. She lost her breath and her mind wheeled to a stop as she heard a few patrons gasp amid the crowd.

“Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”

Her hand unconsciously moved to her heart, and her mouth gaped dumbly. She stared at the beautiful ring and then at Vegeta, who kneeled, regarding her anxiously. To her embarrassment, tears sprang to her eyes, and she choked on her words.

Clearing her throat, a beauteous grin broke on her face, stunning him.

“Yes,” she agreed throatily. “Yes, of course!”

The crowd broke out into claps and whistles as Vegeta rose fluidly and wrapped her in his arms, kissing her within an inch of her life. Tears cascaded down her round cheeks, and she sniffled and hugged him tightly. “Whether you are Bulma Briefs or the Blue Menace, I promise I'll always be your man,” he rasped in her ear over the renewal of the music, slipping the ring on her slender finger. She admired the ring before she turned to regard him with utter joy. She kissed him hard on the mouth and beamed. “Vegeta Ouji, I promise to be your girl.” She laughed exquisitely. “Forever. For always!”

He chuckled into her mouth, unable to let her go. She turned her head in surprise as a few students and faculty members patted her on the back, congratulating her. She wiped at her eyes and issued a warbly thank you.

Vegeta enfolded her even more deeply into his embrace, resting his chin on her curly blue head.

“Forever and for always,” he rumbled.

“I swear it,” he heard her return from beneath him.

“Now lets go home so I can show you all the things I will be doing to you as your husband to be.”

“Oh, there's more?”

His hands moved subtly over her hips, and his tone turned smoky. “Oh, there's a lot more. I've been holding out on you.”

“If it has at all to do with my other hole, I'm not impressed.”

Someone handed them both a flute of bubbling champagne, and someone else asked them if they needed a ride home, sensing their intoxication. “No, we'll be walking,” Vegeta reassured him, before turning to Bulma, fixing her with a smirk that heated her through. “But it does involve you spread out on top of the Capsule Corp building.”

Bulma sputtered, and he laughed, kissing her surprised face. “Come home with me.”

Bulma nuzzled her head into his neck before pulling back and smiling happily. “Always and forever,” she crowed. He smiled briefly before the champagne flute to his lips, waiting for her to follow suit, and they both knocked the champagne down in agreement.

------

“Oh, Popo,” Bulma moaned from the grass, “those roses smell wonderful.” She stretched her arms over her head as she lay on her back, taking in the vast blue sky. She heard Mr. Popo shuffling around in the flowers and the tinkling of water as he slaked his pet project's endless thirst.

“Thank you, Bulma. You seem awfully happy today.”

“Life is good,” she sighed, running her fingers through her hair and letting the sunlight warm her face. Up here, in the Heavens, the cold seasons could not reach, and Popo took advantage of it.

She heard Popo still, and then his voice carry. “Kami can see you now, Bulma.”

She sat up lazily and picked grass from her hair. Pushing herself up with her hands, she slapped her hands together and made her way towards Kami's atrium. The air was cool under the ornate domed ceiling, and she spotted Kami leaning on his staff and staring out the window.

“What's up?” She called as she approached the wizened caretaker of her realm.

“Come to surprise me with a visit?” He warbled, turning to her with a doting smile on his face.

“It's been a while. I thought it was about time for a visit,” she chirruped cheerfully, sitting down on a bench beside him.

“How are things?”

She smiled, amused. “You should know that, you see everything.”

He smiled again, looking out over the horizon. “You know the magic I imparted to you precludes me from watching you, child. That's why it's so important for you to stay safe.”

“Of course, Kami-sama. Things are going well. We've almost got Red Ribbon cornered.”

“We?”

“Oh. Well, yes, I mean, you and I, rhetorically,” she explained nervously at her slip up.

“Your progress is ahead of schedule, then. I”m proud of you, child. What's the game plan?”

“I think I can challenge him by the summer solstice,” she insisted, her mouth set in a firm line. “I'm at his doorstep, Kami. I've just got to pry a little more information from a source, and I think I'll have enough background to face him without fear.”

“When that day comes, I wish you the best of luck. I will not be able to help you, as divine law prevents me from it. But my magic will part the veils of time once the war has begun, and I will be able to watch you serve him a lifetimes worth of divine justice.” Kami's leathered face hardened.

“Of course, Master. Your hard work will finally bear fruit soon. I'd stake my life on it.”

“You already have, child. I could not ask for more. You are...like a daughter to me, you know.”

Bulma sank to her knees and clasped his rough hand in her own. “I'm honored to do this for you, Master.”

“Together, we're going to change the world, like a phoenix arising from the ashes.” Kami watched geese fly over the swells of cumulus, the setting sun drenching the cloud cover in vibrant oranges and pinks.

“Now, stand, and tell me if you like these new chrysanthemums Popo planted. He says they're good for your health, but I don't care much for their sickly sweet smell. Between you and me, of course.” His voice dipped into a whisper.

“Green As Grass And As Vomit”

Bulma shuffled to the kitchen in a baggy shirt, sweat pants, and oversized slippers.

“Ugh,” she moaned, pressing her hand to her chest as she fought down heartburn and a sour stomach. She pulled the whistling teapot off the burner and plucked a mug from the dish drain. Tossing the slotted tea spoon into the mug with a clink and pouring the steaming water over it, she watched as the water turned from a translucent clear to a murky green. Ginger and lemon wafted upwards, and, sighing at her turn of events--a weekend that was supposed to be spent sleuthing out more details from Yamcha while Vegeta was holed up at the opposite side of the city- had turned into a camp out on the couch nursing a stomach virus.

She had done her homework, faking an alias and providing the paper trail to back it up should Yamcha grow suspicious. Yamcha was no small fry, and since he had been pursuing her for a few months, she would hazard a guess that he had done a background check on her. Luckily for her, her encryptions would hold up against any Red Ribbon hacker.

She pulled out her phone and typed him a request for a rain check as she sipped at her tea. Just as she went to sit the phone down, it vibrated.

“Well, that was fast.” She sat her cup down.

Aw not feeling well? I could bring you some chicken noodle soup ;-)

“Gross,” she muttered.

You'd like that, wouldn't you. Are you partial to vomit breath?

She smirked as it sent. Pig. For a high ranking Red Ribbon associate, he was easy to read. Weren't they all? All she had to do was string him along until he spilled. He wasn't used to women rejecting him, and it was driving him crazing, making exploiting him a no brainer. He texted her constantly. She was lucky Vegeta had been nearly AWOL these last few months. She didn't want to alarm him, should he ever get his ass home to notice another man was texting her.

Now that they were happily engaged, and he was in the thick of a very draining court hearing, she didn't want to worry him with the details of the misadventures she was having trying to extract information from Yamcha. She didn't think he'd get the wrong idea if she explained it to him, but because he had little time to watch over her, she knew he'd ask her to shut it down.

And she just couldn't. In her gut, she felt like something very important was hiding behind Yamcha Matsumoto. They were so close to uncovering the mystery and the figurehead behind Red Ribbon, and she knew it bothered him that he couldn't spend as much time chasing down bad guys as arguing with their lawyers in a court of law. She wanted to surprise him by having all the pieces in place once the litigation ended. It was the least she could do as he slaved away in court for days on end. Poor guy.

Now if only she could keep Yamcha's greasy hands off her. He was obviously just itching to undress her. She found the thought repulsive. This was a precarious game she was playing, but if she could spin his infatuation and lust out long enough, she'd have it all in the bag.

I'll pass. How about Thursday 6 pm @ the Beaumont? My treat.

Sounds good. See you then.

Wear that dress I first saw you in. ;-) Feel better

“Hmph. Jerk,” she mumbled as she sat the phone down on the couch and took another sip of tea.

Bulma slapped her hand over her mouth and raced to the bathroom as it threatened to come back up, losing both her tea and her breakfast in the toilet. After a few dry heaves, she flushed and rinsed out her mouth with mouthwash. Patting her clammy face with a cool washcloth, she glanced at herself in the mirror. She looked haggard. Hopefully this virus was out of her system by Thursday or she was going to be eating Tums by the handful in between Yamcha's come ons.

She loosened the drawstring of her sweat pants and pushed them down, flopping onto the toilet to pee. Again. This virus must have came with a bonus UTI, too.

As crappy as she felt, she had papers to grade, papers she was actually looking forward to from her graduate students, about the implications of string theory on the force of gravity and whether or not it could spell out a solution to time travel. She was mentoring some good kids, and she was excited to hear their ideas on the subject. Resolved to get some work done despite how she felt, she stripped off her remaining clothes and turned the shower head on, her tummy growling at her in response.

She stepped into the hot spray and turned her back to relax under it. Squeezing soap onto a poof, she worked a lather over her legs, making absent minded circles with it up her belly, swiping the poof over her chest. She jerked back painfully. Her boobs were ultra sore. Must be nearing that time of the month. When was she due? She had been so busy with work and teasing out the riddle behind Yamcha that she hadn't kept track of her last period. Not like it mattered, anyway. She wasn't getting any since Vegeta was shacked up temporarily in the city. The last time they had really made love was over a month ago, when Vegeta had found time to dash home, drive into her mercilessly against the kitchen table, eat dinner, and race back out again.

The washcloth slipped from her fingers.

Bulma remembered, with painful clarity, forgetting to take her pill that night.

And not just that night. That whole week, like a total airhead, until she had picked up the pack and returned to her contraceptive ritual as though nothing had happened. She had been so busy...she just hadn't been thinking with all that had been going on this winter...she was so stupid...

Bulma's stomach turned, but this time, she didn't make it to the toilet.

----

In the Divine Rulebook of Heavenly Intervention, the Kai's had drawn out a dense and detailed explanation of navigation the acceptable paths to justice. Kami had made her read and reread the book until besieged by a splitting headache, and then he drilled her in possible scenarios she would encounter in the defense of Divine Justice until she lay on the floor begging him to stop.

“Bureaucracy is the lifeblood of the Heavens, child,” he had chided her, “just as it is on Earth. Earth is no exception to it. But our rules are followed strictly to the letter, to make it fair to all and to allow responsible decision making. The problem with Earth's overemphasis on bureaucracy is that the ones in charge don't abide by it, and the one's who can't afford to be them are oppressed by it. This isn't just an assassination mission, Bulma. This is much more than that. This is a total attempt to bring balance back to the world we have come to call home.”

Bulma snorted. Although a bright and compassionate teenager, she was still predisposed to the sassiness of adolescence, and Kami's nose wrinkles in distaste as he waited for her usual surly lecture. The child was so hard headed about things which she had attached some emotion to that he had to bite his cheek to curb his impatience through it. Popo assured him it was natural for teenagers to question the world and set themselves squarely for or against certain things, to begin carving out the identities which would carry them through the rest of their life. Blah blah. But what did Popo know. Bulma spoiled him.

“It's not my world,” she chuffed testily. “It cast me out, spat on me, and then kicked me around until you saved me. I couldn't be happier being up here in the clouds away from it all.”

Kami knew bitterness still had its fangs in her and sorrowed at it. Although it was his job to harness and redirect it towards their goal, regardless of the ethics of it, he was sad to see it chip away at the fun, sweet girl he knew her to be underneath it all. He hoped that she would outgrow it, before it left her an empty shell, alone, with only four walls to bounce her misery off.

“Soon, you will have to go back, and finish what you started. Don't you want to continue your studies at the university? Time cannot stand still for you forever.”

Bulma sighed and rolled on her side, ripping grass out of the dirt and letting it fall back to the ground.

“Yes, I want to go back,” she whined. “But I don't want to go back to the city. I hate that city. I just want to obliterate Red Ribbon and then live out my days an old maid in peace.”

Kami chuckled. “You say that now. But what about when a cute boy comes along?”

Bulma giggled at just how cute “cute” sounded coming from God's lips.

“No thanks. I don't need anybody. `Cept you, Kami.” She sprang up sleekly, planting a kiss on the old man's cheek before descending into a flurry of practice kicks and punches.

“So you say. But everyone needs friendship and companionship. That's what we're fighting in defense of, Bulma. The beautiful, companionable side of human nature.”

Bulma ignored him in favor of a string of katas.

Kami's eyes twinkled. “What about when you settle down, get married, and start a family?”

Bulma once again harrumphed and backflipped, but landed on her butt when she twisted to far to the left. Her face scrunched up in pain and she rubbed it sourly.

“Noooooo thanks.”

“Well, just remember, if the time ever comes for you to fall in love and have a child, your duties to Heaven must be finalized, and then you will have my blessing. So don't grow up on me just yet.”

A final snort drifted to him from the roses as she loped toward the snack tray Popo had sat on a table. He spoiled her.

“That will never happen, Kami. Get your grandkids somewhere else! I'm a one woman show. I'm like Batman...no, wait! Like Catwoman. Hey, do you think you could teach me to be proficient with a whip?” Her chatter grew faint from behind a wall of roses. “I'm an anti-hero. I don't make friends, I just get the job done. Exactly as it's supposed to be,” she said dramatically through a mouthful of cookie crumbs.

----

She stared at the stick before she threw it against the wall and slammed her head back against the bathroom wall. She sprawled out onto the cold floor, releasing a sigh.

How on Earth could this have happened? Things like this didn't happen to her. She was a superhero, for pete's sakes. She was above logic.

The physicist in her bristled at the thought, and she conceded and took it back. She was allowed to pout, damnet.

“I cannot believe this is happening,” she said out loud to no one, her voice echoing in the bathroom.

She felt for another pregnancy test on the floor. Her hands brushed against light plastic and she picked it up, holding it above her face, narrowing her eyes at the small, blank screen, resolved to try one more time. Surely there was such thing as a false positive? Stranger things had happened, right? And she was no stranger to strange things. Cripes, she could smite sinners with a flick of her wrist. Shit like this, normal, everyday girl problems, just didn't happen to her.

She pulled herself up squeamishly and sat down on the toilet again, hoping a trickle would be sufficient. She was about all out of pee at this point, glancing around at an array of scattered, used pregnancy tests, despite the frequent pressure on her bladder.

How was she going to finish her mission? How was she going to tell Kami? Cripes, how was she going to tell Vegeta? Sure, it could be...a nice...thing...to happen to them, but not now. Not when he was so busy, not when she was working Yamcha and they were so close to eliminating Red Ribbon, and definitely, positively not when Vegeta had been so resistant to the idea of having kids.

But he cares enough about me to ask me to marry him, right? Bulma daydreamed on the toilet. If a man as closed off as he is wants to permanently invite me into his life, then he won't hold it against me. I mean, he might have a few choice words to say about my common sense, as usual, but it wouldn't be a deal breaker, would it?

He wouldn't...he wouldn't break off their engagement because of it, would he? She worried her lip anxiously.

There are always...options, Bulma considered. I don't have to carry this baby to term. He'll be busy all month. He need never know.

Bulma, remembering just what she was doing, glanced back down at the peed on stick of purple plastic dangling from her hand, a clear, fat positive marking the little view screen.

“Awwww, fuck. I just can't.”

-----

“Shame Is The Shadow Of Love”

Yamcha tucked his kerchief back into pocket and smiled vainly.

“If you had seen his face, Maron, it was like...oh man, it was like I told him his mom died or something. It was a fucking riot.”

Maron sipped on her wine for the dozenth time, although it seemed like the contents weren't diminishing at all, settling instead for her ice water. Her gaze drifted over the crowded upscale restaurant, her food untouched. Yamcha was glad he thought ahead and spiked her water, too.

“Still feeling ill?” Yamcha asked with false concern.

Maron turned her pretty head toward him and gave him a weak smile. “Maybe a little.”

“You seem restless tonight.” His hand rested on her thigh, stroking it softly where the slit parted. “Or just hungry for something else?”

His fingernails brushed the inside of her thigh and over the crotch of her thin panties, feeling the ridges of her pussy lips clearly. Maron tensed under his ministrations.

“Like that?” He asked her thickly. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, a bead of sweat like a beauty mark against her temple. “Does that excite you?” He whispered into her ear. She turned her head away from him resistantly, but by now, he knew that was just her game. She wanted him. Every woman did. It was just foreplay for her. It was the most enticing foreplay he had been given yet.

“I want to take you home, and peel that dress slowly off your little body, and suck on those luscious white tits you've been keeping from me. And then,” he said, putting his arm around her and stroking her collarbone with his fingertips, her expression still dazed as her head dipped lethargically forward, “I'm going to slide that little thong off those wide hips of yours and lick that clit until you're creamy wet. Three fingers won't be enough, I might have to put my whole fist in. Isn't it a good thing,” he whispered in her ear, “that I'm thicker than three fingers?”

Bulma was feeling very sick to her stomach. She hadn't expected this. Nothing had gone right tonight. She had been so tired and queasy this week, so distracted with missing Vegeta.

Since being seated at the little round table in the corner, since Yamcha scooted his chair uncomfortably close to her and persisted she try the seven hundred zenni wine he'd ordered, her whole world had been reduced to the sensation of being held underwater.

And on top of all that, Yamcha had decided enough was enough and it was time that he got what he wanted. She had pinned him as simply an overconfident playboy that she couldn't believe he was coming on so strongly tonight. As his fingers curled around the crotch of her panties, the fabric sliding easily out of the way so that he could stroke her over the clink and conversation of the restaurant, she felt acid jump in her throat. She swallowed. Everything was spiraling out of her control. She had to get back into control somehow. She wanted to rip the perverts head off his shoulders and sit it in the chair next to her as she finished her meal. But there was too much riding on this. He had become open and loquacious with her since she was playing hard to get, and she was just so close to getting information from him. It was too late to turn back. She was going to have to woman up, grow some ovaries, and endure his sick hands on her body and his sick conversation, and then go home and take a long hot shower. She sipped at her wine a little, trying to wet her dry mouth.

“Don't you want me in you, Maron? I'll tell you what I'd like to do. I'd like to bend you over from behind on this table....”

This was nothing like when Vegeta talked dirty to her. Vegeta was pure, loving, honest. When he told her he was going to bend her over and finger her until she was begging to come on his dick, she's be unbuttoning his shirt, her thighs wet, whispering, “Well, what are you waiting for?” before he could finish.

Yamcha just made her feel very, very dirty.

“So what do you say?” Yamcha purred, shoving a finger into her. Bulma gasped and jerked, and because Yamcha didn't really care, he took that as an invitation to start pumping his hand back and forth. Bulma paled. She couldn't move her arms. She stared at the cutlery intensely. She wanted to grab the steak knife and slit the bastards throat at the dinner table. Yamcha, intoxicated by finger fucking her in such a public place, began running his fingernails over her breast with the arm stretched around her neck possessively.

“You better take the offer, bitch, or I'm going to blow your fucking brains out right here in front of West City,” he snarled in her ear.

Bulma's eyes rolled upward as she fought down vomit. She buried her head in his shoulder to keep from throwing up, which Yamcha mistook as consent. He slammed his palm into her one more time, fondling her breast, and snapped at a waiter to bring him the check, leaving his hand in her panties nonchalantly. She jerked as he pinched her nipple so hard it made her dizzy, and her head bobbed up like on a string in surprise.

Where she met Vegeta's best friend Nappa's glare.

A few tables in front of them sat Nappa and a few other lawyer buddies she didn't know, laughing conspiratorially among themselves. All except Nappa. Nappa didn't drop her gaze as Yamcha's fingers moved back and forth inside her. She forced herself to reach down and grab his hand, pulling it out of her with a slick pop.

“Let's go,” she pleaded with a thick tongue.

Yamcha grinned in triumph and kissed her.

Bulma screwed her eyes shut as his tongue breached her mouth for the first time. He kissed her lewdly, roughly, not seeming to notice or care that she was unresponsive.

Pulling back, he grinned sinisterly down at her. “I love how feisty you are.” He rose and grabbed her jacket, pulling her seat out for her and helping her into her coat. As he led her toward the door, his arm around her waist...all over her ass...and as he handed the server several hundred crisp zennis, Bulma glanced back at Nappa, mouthing the word “help.”

But Nappa was standing up and moving toward the men's room as he dialed his phone, scowling.

---

By the time they had reached his “small' mansion -only five stories, twenty four rooms, and seventeen bathrooms- Bulma's shame had hardened into a purposeful hatred, burning through some of the fog in her mind. Things couldn't be any worse, so all she could do was try to find a clue to the mystery surrounding Red Ribbon's leader and get out of there. Yamcha Matsumoto wasn't anything she couldn't handle. She could pick up the pieces later. Vegeta would understand a botched mission. One thing at a time.

Yamcha opened the door of the limo and she stepped out into the humid cool night air. It smelled strongly of approaching rain and the first blossoms of spring. As the car door slammed shut behind her, Yamcha seemed to be thinking the same thing. Cherry blossoms littered the walk to the house in front of them, and he plucked one off the ground, threading it in her hair.

“A beautiful, worthless flower for a beautiful, worthless lady.”

Yamcha, on cloud nine, didn't catch Bulma's sneer. She forced her feet to shuffle forward and looked back over her shoulder with barely disguised malevolence.

“Coming?” She managed.

Yamcha hardened with excitement.

“I don't come so easily,” he countered as he pushed her up against the front door roughly and grabbed two handfuls of her breasts. She let out a squeak of pain.

She felt around and found the doorknob and worked to turn it, dumping them into the foyer. Yamcha laughed and made to pin her down.

“That's not how you treat a lady,” Bulma slurred, the blossom falling out of her hair and flattening under her heel as she sought to stand.

“How `bout a glass of wine and then I'll show you how I treat a lady. Follow me,” he commanded, slamming the front door closed and winking as he turned down the hall.

She tried to focus. First door on the right, bathroom. Second door on the left, guest room. Third right room, game room. Fourth left room--

her heart stuttered--

In the fourth left room hung a Red Ribbon flag above heaps of Capsule Corp and Ouji Corp memorabilia, as well as a row of dresses hanging from a freestanding closet. She knew she should catch up to Yamcha but was planted. There was something about that room that held a sinister answer.

It wasn't all for nothing, she chanted in her head, trying to alleviate the anxiety that was beginning to pierce through the fog of her mind about Nappa's discovery.

“Here.”

Bulma jumped as Yamcha appeared before her. He held out a glass of red wine, the bottle and an empty glass laced between his fingers.

“What's in there?” She nodded sluggishly toward the room.

If at all possible, Yamcha's grin became more devious. “Stuff. You want to see?”

She nodded.

“Nuh-uh. Not until you give me a kiss,” he demanded coyly.

She leaned in to peck him on the lips, but his mouth bit onto hers roughly, plunging his tongue in and pressing it against hers slimily.

“Not that kind of kiss,” he crooned, and he grabbed her hand and placed it on his erection. “This kind.”

“Get bent,” she snarled before she could think twice.

Suddenly Yamcha's fist impacted with her jaw and he hauled her into the room, throwing her painfully over the armrest of a chaise, sending a bolt of pain through her back. He pulled her dress down to her waist savagely, freeing her breasts. He yanked her head back by her hair and poured wine directly from the bottle into her mouth, forcing her to choke or swallow.

“Oh, don't stop fighting, now,” he encouraged her cheerfully. “I won't have any use for you if you don't fight me.”

After so much of it had made it down her throat, he let her go, and she sat up, coughing. She heard glass shatter and felt something sharp enter her hip, pain blossoming with exquisite force.

“Put that pretty mouth on my dick or you're dead.”

He fumbled with his pants as he kneeled over her. She made as if to fight him off, but he smashed a wine glass over her temple to subdue her. Dazed, she struggled to see through a growing black mist.

“Not so pretty anymore, are you,” he laughed. “No, you're the kind of woman that retains her beauty well into her old age.”

“I want to ruin you,” he snarled as he flipped her over and forced her belly against the armrest, her head and arms dangling above the floor. She struggled to stay conscious. Even panic would be a welcome sensation right now.

“Maron,” he cooed, hiking her dress up around her hips and pulling down her panties. “You should have sucked me off when you had the chance. Now what will make this easier on you?”

Just as she puzzled out his meaning, she felt one of his hands spread her ass cheeks, the other planting his dick against her.

Oh no. Oh, no, no nonononono

“Has your cherry been popped back here yet? You seem like a real frigid bitch so I'm guessing no. But you're lucky, for two reasons. Well, three. First and foremost, you're going to get fucked by Yamcha fucking Matsumoto. Two, I may or may not use lube. And threeee,” he giggled in the whorl of her ear, “I'm not going to use lube. Your blood should make it easier on you when you grow painfully tight with fear.”

Bulma's eyes bulged as he forced himself gradually into her rear, and she keened in pain, her head wrenching back on her shoulders, a prayer unheard.

And through the sweat, blood, smeared makeup, wine, and fog obscuring her vision, one object still held her attention.

...Her father's gold watch on the table, with the familiar Capsule Corporation design engraved into it.

She remembered begging him to let her play with it when he got home from work, rubbing it in her small hands until it grew warm, smudging the glass and fogging it up with her breath to write her name in it before wiping it off with the hem of her shirt. She would giggle uncontrollably as her father pulled the stop out of the watch, twisting the hands backwards and exclaim, “Honey, come here! Somebody, anybody! Call the president, call Channel 4 News! Bulma's figured out how to turn back time!”

She fixated on her father's watch. She swore she could hear it tick, tick, tick, tick, a sound she had fallen asleep to many times. Her eyes slowly wandered up where she saw similar items along the wall.

And the one thing they couldn't find on her father after his death.

Her mother's necklace, which her father had put in his pocket to be repaired before never coming home again.

This was Yamcha's trophy room.

These were trophies taken from his victims.

Yamcha had killed her father.

Yamcha's hand smashed her face back down into the wooden armrest, a bruise instantly blossoming on the side of her face. “Stay down,” he ordered. Cold fear settled in her belly as he rubbed something jagged against her labia. “Or else I might just fuck you with this glass. So be a good girl.”

She swore she could hear her father's watch, ticking.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

She felt Yamcha's hand begin to squeeze her throat until spots flitted in her vision as he began to buck behind her.

Tick.

It was like a switch had been flicked inside her.

With lightning speed, Bulma whipped around and clobbered Yamcha in the face. His dick slipped out of her with a sickening pressure and he fell onto the floor on his back with a release of air, tangled up in his pants.

With every gulping breath, Bulma felt stronger. Stronger than she had been moments ago, stronger than she had ever been. Standing over him, she slammed her fist with brutal force into Yamcha's temple, flattening part of his skull and knocking him nearly out of this world.

He gazed up at her in confusion. All he saw was an angel, luminescent white skin and expansive blue wings, a slender diadem perched upon her blue curls.

“You are a disgrace to your race,” she spoke, “to your parents, to your creator.” She kicked him in the stomach, unfurling unbelievable pain in his abdomen. She grabbed his lapels and shook him forcefully.

“You killed my father!” She screamed in his face. She screeched as she plunged the glass he had threatened to rip her open with into his face, still covered in gore from her hip. Yamcha wailed and held his hands protectively over his face in vain.

“You-you're the Briefs g-girl,” he stuttered, just as she pulled him up by his collar to sink her fist clean through his mangled face. Instead, her fist wavered next to her head. Yamcha chuckled, gurgling through blood, and rolled his eyes. “Now I get it. You're trying to get revenge. How rich. Ha ha! Wait until Red finds out.”

“I'm not trying to take revenge. I am revenge. I'm the Blue Menace, motherfucker.” Her fist slammed into his jaw, shattering it.

“I guess you can't tell me what I want to know now that your face is all busted. Like who you report to. Like who Red Ribbon's boss is, and where I can find him.”

“O sit,” Yamcha gurgled through broken teeth and a half severed tongue. “Yer boo mens--”

“And don't you forget it,” she barked, before standing and kicking his head hard enough that it ripped halfway off his shoulders.

Bulma stumbled over to the table and fell on top it, barely catching herself with her hands, before they betrayed her, slickened with blood and bone, and she fell to the floor in a heap. Reaching out painfully, her hands closed around her father's pocket watch, painting it in the vibrant blood of his murderer.

After resting for a moment, Bulma pulled herself up on wobbly legs and searched the tables for any other clues, but found nothing, except an old Ouji Corp cigarette case that she pocketed for Vegeta, along with her mother's necklace. She bent and tugged Yamcha's phone from the pants pocket at his knees.

Bulma stumbled out of the room and then, in frustration, ripped her heels off, throwing them, enraged, through the window. The glass shattered in a twinkling spray, setting off the house alarm.

She lurched her way down the main hall, only looking forward, her eyelids heavy with gore and fatigue. She opened the front door with a creak, it's swing nearly toppling her over, and looked to the violet night sky.

With a groan, she stretched her wings and shot off into the sky.

---

“KAMI!”

A bellow quavered from the gardens.

Kami and Popo shot up out of bed, and then glanced at the other.

“Did you hear that?” Popo trembled.

“Kami!” Came the scream again.

“Yes,” Kami said seriously, his heart filling with dread. They both rushed to throw a robe on and hurried outside, where, under the moonlight and on the edge of the dais, stood a broken, disheveled Bulma, powerful cerulean wings drooping tiredly on the stones.

“Bulma!” Popo cried, just as Kami gasped, “It's started.”

As they scurried over to her, they recoiled in horror at her condition. Not only was she coated in blood -only some of it hers, apparently- a once elegant gold dress hung loosely off her breasts, the natural slit ripped to her waist. She was shoeless, breathing in ragged breaths.

“What happened to you, child?!”

“Give me a senzu bean,” she growled low like an animal.

“Of course. But what happened??”

“I need a fucking senzu, NOW!”

“Popo! Now!” Kami barked at his lover, who whipped around and hurried off in search of Korin's healing beans.

She didn't seem all the way conscious. Kami used what magic he could to probe her aura, knowing full well his magic would be neutralized by his magic infused inside her, and he'd learn nothing.

Until he felt it.

A pulse, like the beat of butterfly wings, struggling against the beat of a war drum.

“You're pregnant,” Kami gasped, jaw dropping.

“I need a senzu if I'm going to stay that way,” she snapped hoarsely.

“You...you've been assaulted...”

Bulma began trembling with barely contained emotion.

“But the child is much older than that. You never told me you had found somebody...”

“Yeah, well, I didn't think you'd be partial to the father.”

“I don't understand--”

“Here they are, Kami!” Popo called, shuffling and panting back to his side, handing over a small drawstring bag. Kami dug into the bag, and then shook it frantically above his hand.

One small bean fell forlornly into Kami's hand.

“It must be the last bean of the season, Bulma, I didn't expect the war to begin so soon...”

“Give it to me,” she demanded, snatching the bean from his hand, breaking it in half, and swallowing one half of it whole.

She sucked in her breath harshly as the wings withdrew back into her with bone cracking complaint, disappearing.

She fell onto her butt and her head drooped above her lap, her legs sprawled out. “Kami?” Her small voice called out plaintively.

He rushed to her side and kneeled beside her. “It's a reflex, child. Whenever you're near death or in great danger, you can access the violent nature of the Archangel. That would explain the wings and the temper. It's a defense mechanism, and you should be grateful you have it. Now, child, what in the seven hells happened to you?”

“Yamcha Matsumoto killed my father,” she snarled weakly.

Popo gasped, and Kami's gaping face hovered in front of her. “Are you sure?”

“He had his watch, Kami,” her eyes filling with tears, her throat tightening. “He...did...stuff...to me...I spied my fathers watch...I hit him...and that's when he recognized me and laughed, so I kicked his smug face in.”

“It's part of the Archangel defense. Don't feel guilty. It makes you more powerful, but more ruthless. We who gifted it to you understand desperate times come for desperate measures, that's just the nature of justice--”

“Oh, Kami, what am I going to do?” She interrupted, slowly dissolving into tears. “He probably knows by now, what will he think?”

“What? Who? The man you're seeing?”

Bulma nodded weakly.

“Do you love him?”

She nodded passionately.

“Well, then, I'm sure he loves you, and he will forgive you,” he said dismissively. His voice hardened. “He doesn't know about your mission, does he?”

Bulma stood on renewed legs and looked over the edge of the dais out at the black and gold abyss below. “War's begun,” she chanted softly. “All I can do is go home and pray, and hope he'll answer my phone call.”

Popo and Kami shared anxious glances, their bathrobes billowing in the humid spring wind.

Bulma's right food left the dais and Kami hollered, “Wait, Bulma, you're still too weak! Take the cumulus--”

But Bulma had already jumped off.

-----

Bulma pushed the back door open weakly and stumbled into the apartment, slapping the pilfered cigarette case, half a senzu, and Yamcha's phone on her kitchen counters. She had left her purse at home, not wanting to risk her valuables.

She searched in the dark on the counters for her phone so that she could call Vegeta. A half a senzu wasn't enough to heal her wrecked body. Her privates still ached, and the side of her face throbbed, and she was totally zapped of energy. She had barely landed the drop from Kami's on her feet, a jump she usually found thrilling, was this time taxing. She had to speak to Vegeta, and then take a hot shower and sleep off her exhaustion before planning her next move. She had executed a close friend of Red Ribbons Boss, and despite her thorough, labyrinthine paper trail, he'd learn there was no Maron Susoro sooner or later. She might even need to pack up their stuff and move them somewhere safe for now--

“Look what the cat dragged in,” a voice grated from the darkness. Bulma froze, and then turned toward Vegeta.

“You're home,” she moaned with relief.

“What did you expect after I got a call from my best friend that said he was in pissing distance from Yamcha Matsumoto finger fucking my girl in a high class restaurant?”

“I can explain!” She cried out desperately.

“What the fuck is there to explain!” He roared, slamming his fist on the kitchen table, her phone, the screen lit up with her texts to Yamcha, falling from his lap. The room flickered for a moment in Hell's indigo monochrome, and Bulma flinched. She felt tears spring to her eyes and embarrassingly, without any control, she started sobbing, the events of the night choking her.

“I've already drawn up the paperwork for a civil separation and packed my things, so you don't have to worry about the details,” he informed her coolly.

A gut wrenching sob escaped her.

He was out of his seat in a heartbeat, standing over her.

“Now give me my ring.”

Bulma shook her head stubbornly, drunkenly.

“Give me my ring!” He shouted.

“No,” she hiccuped.

Vegeta sneered and took a step back from her. “You'll get a subpoena for it then. You smell like a frat party. And where the fuck is your underwear?” He pointed accusingly at her dress, just now noticing her torn skirt, yawning open and revealing her hip. For a moment, he paused, glancing over her swollen purpled face, and for one small second, she thought she saw concern flicker over his features. But just as quickly it turned to loathing.

“You disgust me. Do you like it rough with that rich prick? Did he pay you to let him fuck you, or do you still cling to a shred of decency and Kami's benevolence and let that Red Ribbon fuck put it in you for free?” He shook his head and turned toward the front room, but paused in the doorway, turning his head back to her slightly. “You know, I sacrificed everything for you, even my contract with Piccolo. This fucking lawsuit you evidently couldn't sit pretty for was to pay for a down payment on a fucking house. I have absolutely wasted the last two years of my life.” He turned to leave, and Bulma broke.

“Wait!”

Vegeta paused and looked back at her, a look that was a million miles away.

“I'm pregnant,” she confessed, the emotion of her night weighting her words.

Vegeta just regarded her in antipathy, his face screwed up with repulsion. “Go have that weakling's baby out of my sight, you Judas. I never, ever want to see your treasonous face again.”

He tramped out of the room, throwing the apartment key on the floor and slamming the door shut, picture frames falling to the floor with a clutter. After a moment, she heard his BMW roar to life and streak down the street, eventually fading from hearing.

With a wail, Bulma began throwing a supersized tantrum. She destroyed everything she could get her hands on. She threw her cast iron skillet as hard as she could at the fridge, overturned the table, chucking glasses at the walls, until she sank, out of breath, to the floor.

She ripped off her dress with sudden mania and stomped to the bathroom. Turning the shower on to its hottest setting, she stepped in without waiting, her skin pimpling and then flushing as the water went from frigid to scalding hot.

She thought animatedly about ending her life. Her contract with Kami was null and void now that she had gotten pregnant, to a denizen of Hell who couldn't regard her with more hatred. There was no point in living with the shame of it, no point carrying and raising a child with only a load of shame to give it, ostracized from the few people who'd ever loved her. She didn't know that she'd be welcome into Heaven now anyway, so what better way to Fall confidently.

As she resolved then to just kill herself, she felt a disagreeing tug between her shoulders, accompanied by a body wracking tremble and a sharp bolt of pain down her back. With an intense sucking shiver, wings once again sprang from her back forcefully, knocking over shampoo bottles which fell onto her toes, and jutting out the shower curtain.

A cold, determined fire settled over her like a second skin, replacing any earlier doubt.

Bulma jumped out of the shower lithely, turning around at the last moment to turn off the shower, and walked, dripping, to her room, her feet slapping wetly against hardwood. Vegeta wasn't bluffing; his things were absent from their room.

She reached under her bed and pulled out the chest which housed her gear. She picked up the whole thing with new strength and tossed it on the bed. Flicking the locks open, she reached in, seizing her katana, her nunchucks, her knives and her power pole and placing them with care on the bed next to the black chest. She held up her blue jumpsuit, surveying it before walking to the kitchen to grab a pair of shears.

Once she was satisfied with the fit of the now backless halter styled suit accommodating her wings, she fell into the familiar ritual.

Pull on fitted boots. Tug on and snap gloves into position. Attach thigh holsters and sheath throwing knives. Shrug on multi-function back strap, into which she fitted her power pole, Kami's first gift to her; her katana, it's damascus steel glinting encouragingly; and lastly, her nunchuks, won in a card game with Korin. She pulled her hair up into a severe bun, tight enough to force an ache out of her bruised face and, finally, attached her capsule case and capsulized the remaining senzu, her father's pocket watch, and her mother's necklace. If she didn't make it, and she was quite certain she wouldn't, at least she'd die with the treasures of the only people who had ever cared for her.

She strode through the apartment, swiping Yamcha's phone off the counter, and readily stepped outside, leaving her old life behind without a backwards glance.

She popped a capsule and threw it into the parking lot without bothering to use her light reflecting technology to disguise it as she scrolled through Yamcha's contact list. Lots of women's names, including Maron's...and one singular adjective, a synonym for the florid color of spilled blood.

“Hello,” a male voice answered brusquely.

“Hey, there, motherfucker, this is Blue Menace, and I'm on my way to kill you.” Bulma turned her bike ignition and revved the engine vigorously. “Let's dance.”