Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vigilantes ❯ Pt. 4 ( Chapter 4 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Pt. IV

“Down And Out”

Vegeta swatted at the cell phone ringing next to his pillow and it fell to the floor with a thump.

Huffing, he readjusted his back against the pillows propped against the headboard. The ghostly colors of late night tv lit the dark bedroom animatedly as Vegeta sprawled on his back in Nappa's guest room. He stretched one arm behind his head and rested the other on his ridged, bare stomach, clad in nothing but black boxer briefs and trying like hell to unwind.

After a minute, his phone began ringing for the dozenth time from the floor beside the bed, and with a growl, Vegeta bent over and snatched it, mashing the talk button. “What?!” He barked.

“You finally decided to answer the phone,” a deep voice drawled. “It's about damned time.”

Vegeta sighed grimly. “Since when did you start calling me from a pay phone.”

“Since I left Hell. Shit's about to go down, Ouji, where the fuck are you? Why didn't you pick up the phone?” The voice questioned him with dark comedy.

“You usually come up as `unknown number,'” Vegeta said defensively.

“Reception is shit down there, you know.”

“Yeah, well, there's someone I'm trying to avoid right now, and I don't feel much like chatting. Now, where the fuck are you?”

“At some hole in the wall bar on 5th Street. Real classy place here. I've spotted two escorts, one guy whose going to kill a woman in a drunk driving incident on his way to a hookup, and three obscenely corrupted politicians. One of them has gone to the men's bathroom with another man and hasn't come back in awhile.”

“Nice.”

“Do you think I should just escort them to Hell now or wait to shake their hands at Yemma's years from now?”

“Seeing as how you get double points for every evil committed succeeding the first, that can't be a real question.”

The voice on the other end chuckled. “You know, it warms my heart to see people committing sin in the name of self indulgence.”

Vegeta glanced toward the wall with silent resentment. “I hear you.”

“So, anyway, like I said, where the fuck are you? Why are you not at Capsule Corp right now?”

Vegeta frowned. “Why would I be?”

“Cuz Blue Menace is standing outside the front steps, right now.”

Vegeta sat up swiftly. “What?”

“We all got the word that the War has started earlier tonight. I'm just wondering how you missed the memo.”

“Yeah, well, I've been a little distracted tonight. You need to tell me exactly what's going on,” Vegeta dictated slowly.

“I heard from someone who heard from Kami that the Blue Menace's Archangel mode has been activated. Sure enough, not a moment later, I get a call from the Big Guy telling me it's the real deal. She didn't just fall on the ice and bump her head. She went head to head with some Red Ribbon schmuck tonight who put her in Archangel and now Red Ribbon is gearing up for battle. Kami's waiting at the check in station with Yemma right now waiting for the goon to come through so he can get the low down. So, I came up to settle in and watch the fireworks from afar, and I shit you not, only a few moments later, I hear an engine roar through and stop. I go outside for a smoke to check it out, it's Blue Menace. No mask, full Archangel mode. Decked out to the nines with weapons. She's standing out there right now staring up at the building, like a waif, I don't know. Thought I'd give you a call and ask you why you ain't with her.” Vegeta heard him blow smoke through the receiver.

“Why would I be?” Vegeta replied defensively.

“Don't give me that shit, Ouji. These people in the bar aren't the only ones who've been putting themselves before others. Bulma fucking Briefs is standing outside Capsule Corporation right now after some serious shit went down, and you don't know about it? Coming from the guy who's been secretly trying to get out of his contract for her, I find that curious.”

Vegeta ran his hand over his face and sat back against the head board. “Okay. So you know. We're not together anymore. She's no longer a hindrance to my contract.”

“Whether she is or she isn't, I'm still taking you back down with me after this is all said and done. You get what you want, I get what I want. Now go take back my fucking rice cooker. And hurry. Bulma's flying up the steps right now.”

The line went dead and Vegeta stared at it in confusion.

He stood up and looked around. Most of his shit was piled in Nappa's garage right now, including his gear.

Vegeta ran his hands over his face and sat down on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and gazing at the carpet. What was going on? Just what in the hell did Bulma think she was doing? They were in no position to attack right now, at least, not confidentially. The Bulma he knew wouldn't have tramped in there recklessly, not without finishing her research, not without informing him. But he really didn't know her, did he? His stomach tightened with bitterness. Given that she'd been fooling around with that celebrity Red Ribbon fuck, she was probably just there for a conjugal visit.

He just couldn't help but feel a twinge of worry. She couldn't do it alone. It wasn't just the Boss they were challenging, it was his army of 88's and any other thugs he hired to show up. He felt a sharp pang of concern at the thought of her trying to go up against 88 soldiers at once, alone. He massaged his temples and sighed.

Piccolo mentioned some shit went down. He stiffened when he remembered how beat up Bulma looked, how drained.

He had been seeing red at the time. Everything she did, every time she sniveled, every time he glimpsed her torn skirt, he had grown more and more murderous.

He hadn't fully believed Nappa when he'd gotten the call while he was chest deep in paperwork at the courthouse. He knew Nappa wouldn't lie to him, not about something like this, and the big guy's delicacy and underlying disgust while telling him what he saw indicated the truth. But not his Bulma, not his little blue haired dork. He trusted her one hundred percent. He remembered the way she had had dazzled him with her smile the night he proposed to her, the lantern light highlighting her mass of curls, the sheer adoration seeping from her bright eyes. That Bulma was his and his alone.

But when he got back to her place, finding her absent (out with that fuck), finding her phone and wallet on the counter, slowly reaching for it, trying to control his anxiety, trying to tell himself it was all a misunderstanding and he didn't need to check her phone, then he had found Yamcha's name, first on the list...

...Let me take you out to Gojo's Steakhouse tonight....You looked so beautiful last night...Wear the dress I first met you in....

And he had dropped the phone on the kitchen table in overwhelming horror. Not his Bulma; but when his Bulma had came in the back door, walking tenderly, her dress askew...when she had confessed she was pregnant with that bozo's child...she had proven him wrong about his trust in her after all.

He had thought, despite losing his family and legacy, despite never being interested in a woman besides her legs spread, despite never being able to confide in anyone about his other life, Fate had taken over the night he blundered in to some coffee shop in some cringingly small college town. He had...stupidly...grown convinced it was Fate that had slid that ring onto her finger.

But now it was very clear that Fate didn't give a shit about Vegeta Ouji, reminding Vegeta exactly why he had sold his soul to Piccolo in the first place.

Vegeta stood up and grabbed his white t shirt off the dresser, tugging it over his wide chest before walking into the dark bathroom and pulling his underwear down over the V of his lower abdomen to take a piss.

He inched open his bedroom door and made his way quietly downstairs. The house was dark and silent. He slipped into the kitchen and through the door next to the pantry that led into the garage, where his stuff was stacked against the far wall. He made his way to it gravely. After moving the stuff on top of the chest, he flipped the locks on the chest and opened it.

His gear glinted up at him familiarly.

With quiet precision, Vegeta grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled it up over his hard body, tossing it to the floor before pulling on his suit. As he strung both Aldebaran and Betelgeuse in the cross straps at his back, the scimitar banging his thigh in its sheath, remembering how Bulma had jokingly named it his `Sword of Damocles,' when he heard a noise from the doorway and looked up.

Nappa stood staring, his football players form filling the doorway.

Deciding that it didn't matter anymore whether he knew or not, Vegeta tugged his mask over his face and tightened it, waiting for Nappa to talk.

“Going somewhere?” His oldest buddy asked with unusual solemnity.

Vegeta closed the chest with care, and then turned to Nappa.

“To take vengeance,” Black Vengeance declared.

Nappa nodded slowly. “I don't know if I'll be able to post your bail or argue you out of a life sentence if you get caught, as good as I am,” he wisecracked.

“After tonight, it won't matter,” Vegeta said, slipping his gloves on systematically.

The full might of Black Vengeance strode up to him. Even though Nappa knew that, under the black leather and spandex, the figure was the first and best friend he had had since Law School, Nappa stiffened facing the stuff of the city's most feared and most militant crime organization's nightmares.

Nappa held out his hand, and Vegeta shook it seriously.

“Stay safe. Your stuff will be here when you get back.”

Vegeta nodded slightly, knowing full well that he'd not be coming back.

----------

“What's taking so long?” Kami tapped his foot impatiently, his arms crossed in his robes.

Yemma once again looked over the crowd waiting to get their permission into Heaven or sentence to Hell. “I don't know, Kami, he should have arrived by now.”

A flash of light blinded the men momentarily, and King Kai appeared out of the glare, antenna twitching as he readjusted his sunglasses.

“I would have much rather just driven my Bel Air,” he groused. “Hello, boys. I have some unfortunate news. Kami, you're not gonna like this, but Yamcha won't be showing up.”

“Huh?” Both Kami and Yemma blinked in surprise.

“Yamcha isn't deceased. He never died.”

“But Bulma said she killed him!” Kami began growing alarmed. “And in a very...graphic...way.”

“Yamcha isn't dead because...well, because he's not fully human. Red Ribbon had Gero outfit him with android technology. Yamcha has been...resurrected.”

Kami thought it over dejectedly. “Well then, it seems there's just nothing I can do for her, if I can't question him about Red Ribbon.”

“Not to mention just what happened between him and Bulma,” Yemma muttered darkly as he stamped the paperwork of some twitching middle aged man smiling at them nervously.

“He's not fully android,” the Kai explained. “He's had some parts replaced, but he still has his soul. Once she manages to kill him, he'll be standing in line in purgatory like the rest of these folks,” he promised them ominously.

“Will you be going back to the Lookout to watch over her?” Yemma asked Kami with concern, handing the paperwork back over to the man, who let out a squeal once he saw where he was headed.

Kami scowled at the ground. “That's about all I can do. I haven't checked in on her since she left the Lookout,” he admitted anxiously.

“That's not entirely true, Kami,” King Kai reasoned. “You can send her word of what we've learned.”

“What good would that be?” Yemma asked him.

“Because that, my good man, is the advantage she's been looking for all this time.”

Kami seemed shaken. “That's it,” he whispered. “That's it! But...but how will I tell her? I can't reach her. The Archangel turns her mind off to me!”

“My telepathy won't work unless I've met the person before, so I can't reach her, either,” King Kai informed him sadly. “But I know someone who wouldn't mind visiting Earth again,” the Kai mused, readjusting his sunglasses.

-----

She twisted the engagement ring back and forth on her finger.

She was really doing this without Vegeta. She always thought they'd be doing this together. The diamond caught the streetlight and sparkled. Everything she had ever wanted was symbolized in that ring. And everything that had been taken away from her. She never wanted to take it off. She never wanted to believe that things had changed, that she couldn't turn around and go back home and snuggle into bed and fall asleep against his warm back. But things had turned on a dime, and here she was, at the threshold of Capsule Corp, a place she hadn't stood since a child...alone.

She glanced down once more before twisting it off her finger, coming off for the first time since Vegeta had slid it on, and capsulized it. It may not stand for anything anymore, but she couldn't' bear it if it got damaged in the fight.

Bulma flapped her wings once with enough force to propel herself off the ground and flew low up the steps to the front doors of Capsule Corp.

Steeling herself, she placed her hand on the door handle when she heard a whooshing. She glimpsed something approaching her from above, a shadow agains the thick violet sky. As it neared, she could make out the figure of a man crouching down on an object speeding towards her. As it neared, the man stood, an imposing figure against the darkness, and it slowed to a stop on the lawn to hover over the ground.

He hopped off and approached her, palms spread out in entreaty. “I've got a message from Kami!”

As he approached Bulma could see he was clothed in an orange gi like the ancient martial artists, the Northern Kai's symbol scripted in black and white on his chest. His inky black hair framed his face in thick spikes with no rhyme or reason, and he was tall and powerfully built. Although she was reminded of Vegeta's own defiant hair, this man was paler than Vegeta, and exhibited none of the reserve Vegeta did. In fact, though his brows were furrowed with gravity, he was giving her a light hearted, good natured smile, and she lowered her blade.

“I have a message from Kami, who had King Kai send me. He wants you to know some guy named `Yamaha' isn't dead. He's alive, and he's kind of an android.”

Bulma crossed her arms, loosely resting her blade against her shoulder like it were a parasol, and frowned in confusion.

“`Yamaha?' You mean Yamcha?” She paled, but her face scrunched up with disgust. “An android? Is that even possible?”

Goku looked at her helplessly.

“But when I...hurt him...his body looked quite human,” she pondered.

The man nodded sympathetically. “Well, he's been rebuilt. I don't know if he's here, but King Kai seemed certain that the knowledge would be very important to you.”

She stared off in befuddlement. “I'm not worried about Yamcha,” she ruminated out loud, before shuddering. “Android or not, he won't put a finger on me anymore.”

She looked back at the man's determined, open face, which she thought was decidedly handsome. “Why is the Northern Kai interested in our affairs?”

The man scratched the back of his head thoughtfully. “Kami-sama didn't tell me why you needed to know that. It just seemed really important that you know. But Kami and King Kai are good friends.”

“Well, if they're trying to spare my feelings, they can stop,” she muttered. “Is that a cumulus?” She interrupted, pointing to the fluffy thing writhing over the lawn.

“It's a nimbus, actually!” He responded with excitement.

“I have a flying cumulus cloud that I was gifted from Korin, one of my martial arts masters,” she informed him, perking up.

“Oh, yeah? I know Korin! He trained me for a few days after I climbed his Tower. I earned mine from my first Master, the Turtle Hermit,” he explained humbly. “I took him with me to King Kai's planet once I was invited to train there. It's kind far away, so it sure is helpful to have something that can get you somewhere quickly,” he explained, scratching his head, his arms bulging in the process. She glanced away demurely.

Handsome as he might be, his ripped build and chiseled face mostly just reminded her of Vegeta.

“Not many people can say they've climbed Korin's Tower.” She sighed and looked toward the building. “I don't think I've been trained enough to prepare for a fight of this magnitude,” she glanced at the man with apprehension, her eyes widening with self reproach.

“I'm sure if God and a Kai sent you here to do it, they believe you can get it done.”

Bulma smiled weakly. “Thank you.”

He held out his hand, and Bulma reached out her own and shook it, his large hand engulfing hers softly. “My name's Goku. Maybe I'll see you around and we can spar sometime. Next time, I'll Instant Transmission! Fight well!” He raised his fist in salute.

Bulma put her fist up in agreement and watched him hop the full thirty meters to his nimbus, crouch down, and take back off to disappear into the cloud cover.

How could Yamcha's resurrection be so important that Kami and King Kai would go through great lengths to tell her? Why would he go through all the trouble of getting some kook to replace parts of his body with android technology? Startled, Bulma remembered the night they took out Gero, a crazed old scientist whose office was cluttered with metal prosthesises.

There was some sort of link between Gero, Yamcha, Red Ribbon, and android technology.

“Well, time to kick some ass,” she resolved, as she lifted her katana cautiously and opened the front door of Capsule Corp.

----

Inside it was dark, quiet and seemingly empty.

Purposefulness filled her at the sight of the familiar gold chandeliers, the oversized, crescent shaped secretary's desk, the dual staircases that curved up to the second floor cat walks, the antique elevator doors fitted between them, and the Red Ribbon flag that hung where the “CC” logo once proudly greeted visitors.

“Red Ribbon!” She screamed into the large atrium, her voice echoing shrilly. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

She stepped inside, one step at a time, sensitive ears trying to pick up any movement. She heard motorized humming, and the elevators doors drifted open.

A woman and a man stepped out. As she tried to decipher their threat level, the lights inside the building came on with a glare.

They were young, both dressed with youthful style and both leaning casually back on their heels.

The young woman was tall and lean, her white-blonde hair cut into a fashionable, straight bob. She stood back aloofly, her arms crossed over her small chest, her small booted foot stuck out and tapping impatiently. Her icy blue eyes stared unblinking at Bulma.

The other stood with his arms crossed over a black t shirt, an orange kerchief tied loosely around his neck and the knees in his jeans torn out, his bulky skate style shoes tapping with less impatience and more excitement. His cold blue eyes held more warmth than the girls; he smirked at her from across the room.

“My, my, look who we have here. We've been waiting years for you to show up. It's been quite boring waiting all this time,” the girl drawled.

“She didn't bring company,” the boy mentioned.

“I see that. Where's your man, Blue?”

“It will be just me tonight,” Bulma called out firmly.

“Well, that's a real downer,” the girl commented dryly, her voice lightly accented with the privileged lilt of a valley girl. “I had real hopes of seeing what he's made of. If you know what I mean,” the blonde smiled at her cooly.

Bulma's eyes narrowed.

“Is he free, then? You two are...no more?”

“What does it matter to you? Who are you two, anyway?”

“What, you haven't already guessed?”

“And I thought she was supposed to be a genius or something,” the boy mumbled with disappointment.

“Some genius.”

Bulma's eyes narrowed even further.

“We're the Boss's bodyguards. Can't you tell? Aren't we intimidating?” They both snickered.

“You're Seventeen and Eighteen,” Bulma put together with surprise.

“Well, she's not all hot air,” the blonde remarked cuttingly.

“Yep, seems like she's got beauty and brains.”

“Oh, good lord,” Bulma muttered, suppressing the urge to facepalm. “I didn't come here to chit chat,” she growled.

“Aw, I'm sorry. We've just been short on conversation these days,” Seventeen explained. She wasn't sure if they were fucking with her or not. “Well, if you insist on getting busy, we'll let the 88's take over,” he said disaffectedly.

“Good luck all by yourself,” Eighteen said callously.

“But if you make it, let me know if you'd like to go out sometime.”

Seventeen's snarky tone really grated on her nerves. “Fuck off.”

“You don't have to act all tough around me. Yamcha told me how much you were partial to Red Ribbon men.”

Bulma stared them down stonily, katana wrapped in her fists, while they simply smirked at her.

That's when Eighteen called down the heavens. “88's!” She snapped.

From all around her, the resounding stamp of feet bounced off the large atrium, and that's when she saw them -dozens of them, dressed in red ninjutsu suits and hoods, pouring down the stairs and over the balconies with hive mind. She gripped her sword tighter and tried to take stock of her surroundings and strategize as her mind chattered with adrenaline.

They settled around her in a circle, and she twitched with anticipation.

“Have a fun time,” Eighteen called out to her, now hidden behind eighty six ninjutsu soldiers. “If you're still in one piece after this, we'll be waiting.”

“For a date,” Seventeen shot in.

“Yeah, from your ex,” Eighteen humored her.

Bulma couldn't wait to violently remove that smile off her pretentious face.

One of the soldiers crowed their signal, and all at once, eighty six soldiers were coming at her.

Bulma pulled her wings in tightly and readied for the assault.

---

To her surprise, she didn't do as poorly as she expected right off the bat. As soldiers swarmed her, a few dashing in to take her on a few at a time, she felt the sing song of the Archangel humming in her blood. She had done this a hundred times, she reassured herself; she had faced scarier foes in more challenging situations. She could do this, and the Archangel, with its cold practicality and desire to see everyone crushed, would back her up on it agreeably.

Adrenaline pumped through her, her senses fully alerted. The first soldier lay slain at her feet, and two more glided up the walls and jumped out at her. She sunk her katana into one's belly and whipped around just in time to cut the legs out from the other.

As the bodies piled up, they had to dance in small spirals in order to prevent tripping over them.

Bulma spun and ducked as three red suited bodies front flipped over her, slashing at the air where her head had been with their short ninjutsu swords. Bulma tucked and rolled, flinging a knife into the face of a solider who sought to take advantage of her position on the ground. Ripping it out of his face, she plunged it into the chest of another soldier.

They were getting too close for comfort, now. The Archangel presence gave her a surplus of energy, quick reflexes, and more determination. But nothing could deter the fact that she hadn't eaten anything substantial for days, that the task of carrying a child was draining her way before her time, that she had been drugged, beaten, assaulted, and broken up with in the last twenty four hours and was, plainly, dispirited. The only things carrying her through besides the instincts of the Archangel were anger and hopelessness. She had nothing left to lose but her life.

Bulma swung upward as another soldier swung his sword down -the clashing swords jarred her, and the fighter slashed at her with a knife hidden in his opposite hand, cutting Bulma open beneath her collar bone. She plunged her sword into his belly with force, yanked the knife out of his hand as it loosened with the shock of his injury, and stuck it through the skull of another fighter sneaking up on her.

That's when she spotted the flail swinging above their heads, advancing ominously toward her.

Bulma crouched and then bucked her wings, flying upward with as much force as she could muster before the crowd parted and the flail smashed into her face. She hovered above the crowd of fighters, her wings snapping back and forth as she assessed the situation. From up here, she was safe, but she couldn't touch them. All of her weapons were short range.

Except her Power Pole. A wild grin sprouted on her face. She whisked the red pole from her back and hollered. “Power Pole EXTEND!”

Then, with as much strength as she could summon, she swept the mass off their feet with a blunt whack to the back of the knees. Bulma laughed manically. “How about this for stirring the pot?” Taking advantage of them while they were struggling to get up, she sheathed her Power Pole and pulled out her nunchuks with lightning speed, and with a maniacs glee, dipped down and started going to town.

She had never felt so strong, so alive, so impervious. With the nunchuks in each hand, Bulma Briefs twirled in a slow waltz, the nunchuks whirling in a tango of smashing and bruising. In fact, she was laughing, laughing as more and more soldiers fell, gaining more and more speed as they did. How could she have worried all this time about facing Red Ribbon when they were making it such a piece of fucking cake? As a line of red ninjutsu soldiers sought to rush her, she charged forward with a shriek, intent on knocking them down one by one like bowling pins.

That's when she felt the blade rip her open, and her back arched with hot pain. Someone had opened up one of her wings, freezing her. She had no idea her wings would be so sensitive. Someone punched her in the back and she seized up in pain, while another fighter slugged her in the face. With silent determination, they surrounded her as she fell onto her knees, taking jabs at her back and kicking her in the abdomen. As she curled protectively into a ball, unable to do anything but endure the pain, she heard two shots pop off, then another, and the beating slowed to a stop.

With a growl, and despite the pain, she stood and bared her teeth at the soldiers around her, circling, and popped her wings open, the wind forcing some soldiers down. With a scream, she cut one down, and then with an anguished grunt, rose with her wings just above their heads and hopped, one by one, from shoulder to shoulder, slicing through jugulars with relish.

More shots popped off, and as she hovered just out of reach, she searched for the source with frenzied eyes.

There, on the nearest walkway, stood a thick and regal form in shining black, a supernatural antique pistol in each hand. At first, in the killing lust of the Archangel, she didn't recognize him; she simply understood, on a deep level, that he was no threat to her.

He didn't look at her as he shot one gun, then the other, each time enduring their sharp recoil effortlessly.

Vegeta.

She wanted to melt into a puddle with longing. She wanted to cry out and kneel at his feet. She wanted to believe he was here because he cared.

But she understood. This was just business.

Swallowing, she pulled her big girl panties on and dashed the tears that pooled in the corners of her eyes, gritting her teeth.

The truth was that she had really thought she'd never see him again. With a stifled sob, she tucked her wings in and dove back down, using her momentum to knock a group of fighters over, breaking their necks with her speed. She caught the wrist of another who attempted to plunge a small knife into her shoulders, and forced the dagger into his own neck before roundhouse kicking the face of another flanking her.

There were only a half dozen left now, and she grinned at them wolfishly. Daring them. Wanting them, with frenzied desire, to come at her.

“Well, boys, who thinks they're man enough to try me?”

Two sprinted forward, one from each side, and she ducked so that they plowed into one another, falling backwards onto their faces. With violent precision, she broke both their necks with her heels. Reaching back behind her, she sheathed her katana and reached once again for her Power Pole.

Two more rushed her, and she twisted the pole to grip it horizontally in both hands. Thwacking one in the chest and taking the legs out from the other, two more shots popped off, and two more goons fell.

Only two were left standing: the ninjutsu with the flail, the other fighter clutching, of all things, a cat o' nine whip. Sizing them up, she glanced at Vegeta, but he had lowered his guns to his sides, ceding the fight to her.

The one on the left, slowly, surely, moved his wrist in stiff, small circles, letting out more and more chain as the flail gained speed. The flail shot out at her and she jumped back, just as the whip lashed her back, laying open her back and her wings in nine different places. She dropped her Power Pole and tightened with the pain and almost saw the barbed flail once again hurling towards her too late. She fell back with control and rolled to the side, and it buried itself into the tile less than a foot away.

As she jumped up, the whip once again caught her, this time on the arm, wrapping around her wrist.

She smirked, and with a hard yank, yanked the whip right out of the goon's hands.

Twisting it around so that the handle fell into her palm as the tail uncurled from around her wrist, she gave a small chuckle.

“Wouldn't you know, I've been trained to fight with a whip?”

The goon took a small step back.

That was all the incentive she needed.

She swung the whip in front of her as if she were throwing a curve ball, and all nine tails wrapped in a crescendo around his neck. Just as she squatted to get the leverage to snap the goons neck, she saw, too late, the spiked head of the flail hurling towards her to sink into her belly.

She watched it with her mouth open, awaiting its excruciating impact. At the same that the flail's spikes tore through flesh, she heard gun shots. The goons masked face jerked and gore escaped out of the two wounds that nearly halved his head.

Both goons dropped like puppets with their strings cut, and Bulma looked up at Vegeta with wide eyes, who looked down on her, his expression indecipherable from the distance.

All around her were the mangled bodies of the 88's. She took a moment to breathe and then stepped carefully over the bodies until she stood in front of the elevator doors, considering her next move. Seventeen and Eighteen were nowhere to be seen.

She ran her hands over herself and stretched, checking for serious injuries. Blood was seeping down her front and back, but all of the lacerations were bearable. She didn't want to use her half senzu until she was knocking on death's door, and then, only if she hadn't served Red his due. There was no need to be revived beyond that point.

She glanced back to where Vegeta had been; the walkway was empty. A tremor of disappointment went through her, until she heard his footfalls from behind.

He stood carelessly just a few feet away, pulling a cigarette out of his case. The action was so familiar that she felt an anguished longing towards the movement. She looked away.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Hmph.” Vegeta took a slow drag.

A woman's laughter cut through the heavy silence.

“Catch me if you can!” Eighteen's voice echoed throughout the floor. “And I mean you, Ouji!” Followed by a string of giggles.

Vegeta sent her a glance, and she gave him a sympathetic, pained smile. “Seventeen and Eighteen. Red's bodyguards.”

“Red?”

Bulma nodded, her voice dipping into a whisper. “The Boss. His name is Red. I...called him and told him I was coming.”

Vegeta stared at her impenetrably.

“Why on Earth would you do that?” His tone was scathing.

She stared at him with haunted eyes, an expression unfamiliar to him. “What else do I have to live for?”

Vegeta inhaled the last of his cigarette deeply and then flicked it onto the ground and ground his boot onto it.

“Ouji, come find me!”

He glanced at Bulma when he heard her let out a little growl.

“So this is the Archangel transformation Piccolo was talking about,” he gestured at her wings. He was trying to stay cool, stay distant, but every time he said something, he found himself caring about the answer. He had to just get Piccolo's damn rice cooker and get the hell out of here.

Up close, she seemed luminescent, nothing but blues and whites, and he could see an elegant, silver diadem in her curls, like some sort of princess get up. He was shocked when he recognized the Sword of the Supreme Kai etched into the crown.

“It's a survival reflex.” She looked the other way.

“Brava, Blue. Now, may I have this dance?” Seventeen chimed from nowhere, followed by a string of playful giggles and doors slamming distantly.

“They're in the ballroom,” Bulma said, heading up the stairs two at a time, wings trailing behind her like the train to a gown. Vegeta followed after her, leaping up the steps.

She sprinted down the hallway, cautiously checking each door hastily, and then soared to the end of the hall to a set of massive double doors.

It still shook him a little to see her sporting heavy weight -sized wings. It reminded him that she had powerful beings at her back...despite the woman's ethics. He chuffed at the hypocrisy.

He had first entered the building as she escaped the crowd of fighters with flight and used the Power Pole, a weapon she had never used with him before. He recalled the folklore surrounding a magic pole and bristled. So, a woman like that could have a guaranteed spot in Heaven, probably someone there to fluff her pillow on demand, and here he was, practically doing double duty for Hell and Heaven, and all he was guaranteed was a hot slot in Hell. It burned him up that she was surrounded by people who cared about her, while he had nobody. He hated them all at that moment: Bulma, Kami, Piccolo. But deep down, he hated “Red” the most -for putting him into a position to sell his soul to Piccolo Daimao for revenge and for putting him into a position to meet that blue haired harlot. Resentment and hatred flowed through him.

Well, if he was heading to the pit of Hell shortly, he might as well drive it like he stole it.

-----

They found Seventeen and Eighteen giggling and jumping from chandelier to chandelier.

“You've got to be kidding me,” Vegeta deadpanned.

Bulma shot him an understanding look.

“There you are, you lovebirds!” Seventeen called, jumping off the chandelier and landing the thirty feet gracefully, the heavy, gold chandelier rocking back and forth above.

“Oh, snap, Seventeen. Remember, they're not an item anymore.” Eighteen made the jump effortlessly to stand beside him, flipping her fair hair out of her face.

“No biggie. More Blue Menace for me, then.”

It was Vegeta's turn to growl.

“Why don't you take your shirt off, Vegeta. It's going to get hot in here as you enjoy watching a real woman fight.” She leveled a pompous smirk at him.

`They're overconfident,” Vegeta rumbled.

“No,” Bulma countered softly. “No, I don't think they are. I just think...they've got something up their sleeve,” she puzzled out.

As Vegeta scrutinized these new enemies, a door opened from the far side of the ballroom, and disgusting Bulma and galling Vegeta, Yamcha Matsumoto sauntered in.

“Oh, good, I haven't missed anything.”

He sidled up to the other fighters with his hands in his suit pockets.

“How are you still alive,” Bulma protested savagely. “I killed you!”

Vegeta's eyes narrowed, and he watched the pair's interaction, watching Bulma's pale, stricken face curiously.

“I told you, it takes a lot of work to make me come. Don't hold it against me if you couldn't finish me off.”

Bulma clenched her fists and took heaving breaths.

“Aw, a lover's quarrel.”

“How sweet.”

A dagger sailed between them and plunged into Seventeen's chest with a dull thump, wiping the smirk off his face as he looked down at himself distastefully. “Not nice,” he bristled, pulling it out of his chest smoothly and throwing it back at Bulma. She barely caught the butt of it before it sunk into her shoulder.

“Oh, Seventeen, you don't want damaged goods, now do you?”

“You're right, Eighteen. Unlike Yamcha, I like my women in one piece.”

Yamcha laughed and turned to Vegeta. “So, tell me, Vengeance. Is it true that you and Bulma have had something going on?” Yamcha asked him genially.

“He's goading you,” Bulma rushed.

“Shut up,” Vegeta snapped at her. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, worm? Like you didn't know she was when you were fucking her.”

“Vegeta, please,” she cried.

“I mean, all of this time, she's fooling the both of us. Well, at least we can agree on one thing, am I right? That asshole of hers is so tight.”

Bulma screamed, and in a blaze of wings and white light, seemed to appear in front of Yamcha instantly. “You should have stayed dead!” She screamed as she punched a hole straight through his chest.

To her horror, she felt her fist slide past muscle and hit steel and yanked her fist out of him, absent of gore. Instead, flopping in her grip, was a tangle black wires.

“King Kai was right,” she breathed.

“Oh, my pretty little Bulma -or should I say, Maron.” He wrapped her in his arms, and she fought vomit, struggling to get away from his unbreakably rigid hold.

“I'd really like to take you back to my place and finish what we started. After all, you never even got yours! What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't finish you off?”

The smell of him completely nauseated her, and she struggled against him helplessly, gulping. She flung out her wings forcefully. It broke his hold just as a bullet sailed through his forehead.

Seventeen and Eighteen broke out into laughter. “Oh, man, Yamcha! Oh, man, he shot you in the face!”

“You fuckers, you watched him do that and didn't say anything!” Yamcha yelled at them, prying the bullet from his forehead. Bulma squatted defensively after stumbling away, gawking as he fingered the wound with vanity.

“That's for not knowing how to treat a woman,” Vegeta sneered.

“I had bone gristle on my knuckles and I kicked your head off your shoulders,” she reasoned, on the edge of frenzy.

“Yeah, I still owe you for that one, bitch!” He backhanded Bulma with brute force, sending her skidding a dozen feet away on the waxed floor.

They all turned as Vegeta bellowed, charging Yamcha and tackling him at the knees, his guns in their holsters lifting from his back.

In one swift move, Vegeta shoved the barrel of his Aldebaran down Yamcha's throat, snapped his fingers to ignite the gunpowder, and unloaded it with a resounding boom into Yamcha's mouth.

“Only a coward hits the mother of his child,” chided Vegeta.

Yamcha jerked with the force of point blank range.

“Wait, what?” Seventeen questioned.

“The mother of whose child?” Eighteen quipped.

Seventeen gaped. “Oh, man, is the Blue Menace pregnant?” Seventeen asked with awe and began chuckling. “Oh, Yamcha, how the hell did that happen?”

Vegeta stood, heaving beside Yamcha's body as it twitched, blinking, and then sat up rigidly, a Frankenstein coming to life. Bulma saw with horror that the back of his neck was gone.

“Fuck that bitch,” he rasped, his voice grating metallically. “She's not carrying my child.”

Vegeta's leg rose and sailed down with enough force to sever Yamcha's shoulder from his body with his boot heel.

“Aw what the fuck! I'm not completely metal, asshole!”

“Do you still feel pain?” Vegeta drawled viciously, kicking Yamcha's face from the side, knocking it almost backwards. “This is a fraction of the pain that I've felt because of you.”

“Probably only a fraction of what Bulma felt under him,” Eighteen snickered.

“This is like daytime television,” Seventeen drawled.

That's when Bulma rushed her, katana in one hand and dagger in the other, low and quick. Eighteen hopped over her, but not before Bulma was able to yank her ankle and pull her downwards, slamming her face first into the floor. She slammed the knife into Eighteen's lower back and raised her sword with both hands to cut through her neck in true executioners style, when she heard a sickening snap, and glanced up.

Seventeen held Yamcha's head in his hands as Yamcha's body fell to the floor heavily, leaking brackish blood.

Vegeta stared at Bulma, watching for her reaction.

Bulma stared at Seventeen from her crouch, baffled.

Straightening, she stomped her boot heel forcefully into Eighteen's neck before backing away.

“You'll pay for that, bitch,” she heard her grunt, her head buried in the tiles, her hands flitting behind her back in search of the knife.

Seventeen snorted and tossed Yamcha's head behind him.

“What a bore,” he drawled. “There's only room for two androids in this forsaken city,” he lectured, “and that sociopath is not one of them.”

“That's it,” Bulma wondered out loud. “Vegeta, that's it!”

For just a moment, she bedazzled him with a smile. “They're androids. Not just Yamcha. Seventeen and Eighteen.”

Vegeta stared at her with wide eyes.

He was pretty sure he was getting too old for this.

“They can't be killed the old fashioned way,” she continued. “That's what all that research and fundraising was for! Red is investing in cybernetics!” She nearly wooped with the revelation. It was such a token Bulma response that Vegeta found himself reciprocating her smile, and then buried it with a frown.

“Smart bitch, aren't you,” Eighteen snarled before kicking Bulma in the arm, breaking it noisily.

Bulma sank to her knees, clenching her teeth against the stabbing white hot heat, fighting the urge to pass out.

Vegeta hated her, hated her with all his heart; but he just couldn't stand seeing her in pain. He was having a pretty difficult time pretending he didn't have feelings for her. He grit his teeth with annoyance, resolving to defend her only one last time, goddamnet.

He shot through Eighteen's leg.

“What the hell, Ouji!” Eighteen yelled.

“Looks like your relationship chances are getting slimmer by the second,” Seventeen commented wryly. “Whose side are you on anyway?” Seventeen asked him.

“Hell's.”

Bulma sat on her knees, clutching her arm and taking in deep breaths, trying to mediate through the pain. A flash of light erupted from her, and Bulma let out a wail, her arm, quite remarkably, straightening right in front of their eyes. With rare expressions of surprise, the two androids watched her arm heal, until it lost its twinkling effervescence.

“So it's true. You're doing Kami's work,” Eighteen commented inquisitively.

“I really thought Commander Red was just harping about Heaven and Hell like a nut job. He never seemed very religious to me,” Seventeen told her.

“He's building an army of cyborgs to put a wall between himself and Heaven and Hell,” Eighteen complained, shaking her leg out in front of her, and the bullet dropped from her cuff and rolled a few feet to the side. “The man is a piece of work, regardless.”

“Yea, well, I don't think I'm comfortable with that,” Seventeen admitted. “I mean, Yamcha's one thing. Any more missing women and the cops would be all over Red Ribbon. The guy was a creep.”

“Yeah, what a tool.”

“But, the truth is, I don't much like the idea of any more androids,” she drawled.

Bulma had stood up shakily, and she and Vegeta shared a glance at the android's exchange, who ignored them.

Her head teetered to the side to fix him with wide eyes. “They can't be harmed or killed,” she whispered, “Unless they're decapitated. They're the secret we've been after all this time.”

Vegeta's features hardened and he nodded with understanding.

“Are you okay?”

It came out of Vegeta's mouth before he could stop it.

Bulma gave him a small, watery smile. “I'm fine. I didn't know that that could happen.”

“The healing?” He said, turning away from her indifferently, trying to resume his cold mask.

“Any of it, really. But yes. I don't think...I don't think it can save me from death,” she whispered. “And I don't know how many chances I get with it.”

“Alright, you two. We have a proposal,” Seventeen interrupted them.

Vegeta and Bulma looked at them wearily.

“What if we don't kill you.”

Vegeta chuffed, and Bulma's eyebrow raised.

“We have no reason to trust you,” Vegeta argued.

“I don't want to fight. In fact, I'm still hoping I have a chance to take Blue Menace out for dinner,” Seventeen countered with saccharine sarcasm.

Bulma rolled her eyes. “Get bent.”

Vegeta irritated himself with the bolt of relief he felt hearing her reject him.

“Look, maybe we don't want to be Red's bodyguards the rest of our lives. Especially if Heaven and Hell are involved. I mean, it's not like we have souls anymore or anything, but this isn't our battle. Maybe we just want to go back to living the normal life we had before Red kidnapped us and made us tin cans,” Eighteen explained, pouting.

“You have no allegiance to Red?” Bulma asked cautiously.

Vegeta looked at her with alarm. “You can't seriously be considering this.”

She cast a scornful look at Vegeta and turned back to the androids. Vegeta knew that look. That was the “shut up” expression she got whenever was backed into a corner.

“I'm on a mission from God,” Bulma explained gently. “In my contract it states that I must eradicate all of Red Ribbon, no exceptions. But Heaven may accept a deal if, in your heart, you remove yourselves from the Red Ribbon lifestyle, forever.”

“You're a rash idiot,” Vegeta vented.

“What?” Her voice hit its higher registers with her defensiveness. “I can understand wanting to go back to the way things were before.” She fixed him with a withering stare.

Black fire met blue steel.

“If you're not honest, it won't work. I or someone else will be back to collect on you,” she informed them candidly.

“Look, Briefs, we're not programmed to like him or defend him. At least, not anymore.”

“We overrode the programming,” Seventeen explained. “We're much smarter than he gives us credit for.” He smirked sharply.

Bulma's eyes widened. “You still have souls.”

“We're just here because, what else are we supposed to do?” Eighteen's arms crossed over her chest and looked at the ground reproachfully.

“Then you have to take us to Red,” Bulma demanded.

“Just what is it you want from him anyway,” Seventeen asked them as if the idea were half-baked.

“He owes me his life,” Bulma remarked grimly.

“He owes me a rice cooker,” Vegeta answered sheepishly.

They all stared at him.

“It's a long story.”

The man, all sharply defined muscle and glowering menace, holding himself regularly with all the pride of a prince, flushed pink, and Bulma suppressed the urge to kiss the embarrassment right off his face.

“The Demon King has something very important magically sealed in a rice cooker. Your leader stole it to disadvantage him, and I'm charged with getting it back.”

“You never told me that.” Bulma broke the awkward silence softly.

“Yeah, well, you're not the only one who can keep secrets.”

Her face hardened and she turned from him.

“Are you talking about the Hello Kitty rice cooker he keeps in his desk drawer?” Seventeen posited.

His question instigated another round of stares in Vegeta's direction.

“Oh, yeah, I know the one,” Eighteen offered. “It's pink, has the Hello Kitty friends on the front.”

“Can this night possibly get any more absurd,” Bulma deadpanned.

“Well, there you go, Ouji. We told you where to get back the Demon King's...rice cooker. Now, if we lead you to him, Bulma, will you spare our lives?”

Eighteen and Seventeen looked at her warily, awaiting rejection and battle.

“You're negotiating with the enemy,” Vegeta snarled.

“I didn't ask your opinion, minion. What happens on the Earthly plane between Heaven and it's denizens is no concern of yours,” Bulma snarled back at him. She turned to the androids. “It's a deal.”

Eighteen and Seventeen shared a flicker of relief.

“Heaven offers benevolence, Vegeta. A trait you should acquire,” she said darkly.

“Give me a break,” he snarled, and stomped away to lean up against the wall to brood.

The androids glanced at him, and Eighteen motion to Bulma. “Follow me.”

Bulma didn't glance back at Vegeta as she followed them inside the elevator.

Those days were over, anyway.

-----

“The Price of Love”

The elevator doors drifted open revealing a darkened hallway.

The hall stretched out into darkness and ended with one orange, closed door, punctuating the darkness. The other offices and conference rooms they passed were dark and silent, their large wall of windows overlooking the night cityscape.

Bulma hadn't been to the top floor of her father's building since she was young. She walked this hallway last with her 3rd grade grade report on the butterfly's life cycle rumpled up in her hands, waving hello effusively to the Capsule Corp executives in their offices.

It was all nauseatingly familiar.

The androids led her down the hall silently. As they approached the door, Eighteen turned to her, regarding her icily. “If you want Red dead, you're going to have to do it yourself.”

Bulma nodded once, sharply. “It's my destiny.”

“So you say,” the young woman agreed dryly before opening the door and stepping in. Seventeen followed behind, leaving Bulma to enter last.

Against the desk -her father's oversized, walnut antique- stood a stocky red head, his smattering of freckles making him appear unthreatening, despite the eye patch that stretched across his face. His hands were interlocked in front of him, and his thick, flat lips arched in a welcoming smile. He was middle aged but aging well, and remarkably enough...wearing a janitor's uniform.

Bulma recalled the goon at the industrial park lamenting that no one knew the identity of the Red Ribbon leader and that, for all they knew, he was masquerading as a janitor. Her heart sped up.

Seventeen and Eighteen separated, settling to slump in the chairs in front of the desk, revealing Bulma between them.

“What kind of bodyguards lead an enemy straight to my doorstep?” He asked mildly.

“We're out of here, Red,” Eighteen ventured. “We're done being your toadies.” She waved her hand at him dismissively.

“Gero created you years ago, and you're just now deciding to maroon? That's true poetic irony.” He looked back and forth between them. “Did she put you up to this?” He had yet to spare Bulma a glance, though it was clear her was talking about her.

“This job is dull,” Eighteen explained in a tone that seeped boredom. “And I don't really think you have any way of stopping us.”

“Yeah. If I'm right, you now have no army and no bodyguards. You have nothing,” Seventeen quipped, smirking at his sister.

“Is that so?”

Red reached behind him and into a drawer, pulling out a small device about the size of a cell phone.

“If you think you're so impervious, try fighting this.”

His thumb moved over the device, and Seventeen dropped to the ground, the light suddenly vacated from his eyes.

“Seventeen!” Eighteen called out.

Bulma watched as she leapt up to strike at Red's head, but as in slow motion, he pushed the button, and she, too, fell limply, heavily, to the floor.

Bulma felt her heart pounding in her chest.

In the darkness, it was just him and her now. Seventeen and Eighteen's bodies lay cool and still between them.

“You sure do look like your father.”

Bulma rocked with a maelstrom of sudden rage. “Shut up about my father. You don't deserve to even speak his name.”

“Heaven sent you to me, huh? That was nice of them, sending me an angel. Although you're really not my type. More of Yamcha's, apparently.”

There was a fine line between existing and not existing for the supernatural, and Bulma straddled it. Filled by hatred, buttressed by bitterness, fueled by a rancorous grudge that had lifted her to the edge of the spirit world, the Archangel was no longer an auxiliary to her; they were one in the same, they were Rage embodied, they were a liminal demand, harboring the powers of the Kai's and the will of God. She felt out of body, anchored to the fifty-fifth floor of Capsule Corp simply by fury.

She was willing to bet he didn't have a device somewhere to turn her off.

She slid her katana out of the sheath quickly and gracefully, her eyes filled by blue fire, her mouth in a firm line, her body a weapon, lithely strung, strained as it waited to be pulled taut and let go.

“It's interesting to me that you chose to join her, after all she's done to you,” Red remarked casually.

“I'm not here for her.” She heard Vegeta grate from behind her.

“I'll be damned if you aren't. Just yesterday you were trying to kill Piccolo to get out of your contract for her.”

“You are damned to Hell,” Vegeta countered saucily, while Bulma, sword wavering in her grip, Archangel stuttering, turned to Vegeta.

“Oh no, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be staying on Earth. Surely you can puzzle out the mystery,” he smiled sickly at Bulma. “Just like tonight, I finally puzzled out my own mystery. But why don't you explain to her just what your contract with Piccolo entails? Why don't you confess your own dark secret?” He sat on the front lip of the desk and crossed his arms casually.

Sword drooping, Bulma turned to Vegeta.

“Like, how no matter how mad you are at her for betraying your commitment, it doesn't matter. You're not sticking around anyway.”

“What is he talking about?” Bulma turned to Vegeta, the Archangel's smooth, ethereal voice cracking with confusion.

Vegeta continued looking forward sternly. Bulma knew he was trying to hide something.

“What does he mean you're not sticking around?” Bulma demanded, growing concerned.

“He's trying to divide us,” Vegeta barked. “He's a master manipulator. Don't give in.”

“But I'm not lying, am I? Why don't you explain to her that you're leaving this place once you extract Kami's treasure from me, and you're not coming back? That you were just going to leave her, without even letting her know?”

“That wasn't my only option, damnet!”

“And what, defeating and usurping the Demon King is? What if you actually had the strength to beat him? Then what? You'd still be reigning from Hell.”

“I'd have the authority to walk on Earth,” Vegeta snarled, “I would get to visit--”

“What is he talking about, Vegeta,” Bulma barked nervously.

Vegeta turned to her angrily but didn't speak.

“Damnet, Vegeta, what are you hiding?!”

“What does it matter? We're through!”

His harsh tone made Bulma's eyes burn stupidly with fresh tears.

Red smiled.

“Vegeta's contract comes with a clause that demands he return to Hell as soon as Piccolo's possession is safely returned to him. Indefinitely.” His voice dipped with false concern. “He never told you?”

“No. He didn't.” She looked out at the skyline through the wall of windows.

“I was working on reversing it,” she heard Vegeta grouse. She turned angrily toward him.

“You still should have let me know!”

“I didn't want to hurt you!”

“We could have figured something out together!”

“Feh.” Vegeta turned his body away from her, and the quiet grew thick.

“How were you going to fight it, V?” Bulma asked him softly. “Divine Contracts are written in blood and celestial Kai magic. There's no undoing them.”

“I was planning on challenging Piccolo,” he grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. “It would make the contract null and void.”

“And then reign over Hell while I lived my life alone?”

“I would have visited,” he argued.

“Our engagement was a lie.” Bulma's voice rose, strained.

“There's nothing I could do about it, goddamnet!” Vegeta roared. “I signed that contract long before I met you.”

“I thought that Piccolo gave you magic so you could just get something back for him, that this was just a favor to Piccolo to help you get revenge on Red Ribbon--”

“I did do it for revenge. I sold my soul fro revenge. He game me the help I needed to do it, but I had to give him my soul to convince him to do it. The rice cooker was ancillary.” He glanced at her from lowered lashes. “I just wanted you to have everything before I left you.”

“I would have rather just had you,” she whispered.

“Good thing Yamcha stepped in to clear all this up,” Red smiled at them from his perch on the desk.

Bulma was floundering. It was as if each time she'd surface from a vast, dark sea, the sea would wash over her again, pressing her lower into the rip tide than before.

She truly didn't have anybody on this planet that she could trust.

Because of this man in front of her.

“You killed my parents.” Bulma's voice scraped across her lower registers, eyes glinting.

Red seemed mildly surprised. “I didn't. I hired Yamcha to do it, when he was still just a teenage delinquent, willing to earn his cash in any way he could. I'm the one who got him into the major leagues, you know. You could call me his mentor, if you will,” Red said affectionately.

“You used him and the mobsters as pawns to raise your money and arm your own personal army,” Bulma intoned. “You kidnapped two teenagers and outfitted them with cybernetics, against their will. Then you trusted Gero enough to allow him to start working on Yamcha. Am I right?”

“Go on,” Red smiled, reaching over the desk and opening the top drawer. Bulma and Vegeta tensed, but he simply pulled out a cigar box, stuffing a fat cigar into his mouth and lighting it with a match.

“With the intention of making your army a mass of invulnerable androids.”

“Annnd?”

“And yourself one, too,” she said, putting all the pieces together at last. “Your whole career has been a project to become immortal. To keep yourself out of reach of both Heaven and Hell.” Bulma felt the same high she got when she was a student, making discoveries about the forces of the universe. “That's what you meant by staying on Earth.”

Red opened his hands, conceding. “Why do you think they're so obsessed with me? I defy their logic, their rules of nature. I make my own rules.” Red's genial attitude finally faltered, and he sneered. “Unlike you. You just cried cried cried until Kami gave you something to do. You think that's purpose, that that's love? That's being a puppet on a string. You're pathetic. Just like your father,” he spat. “At least I took my destiny into my own hands. I climbed to the top, without any magic.”

Red rose from the desk and made his way to the limp body of Seventeen, looming over him.

“Do you want to understand what it means to be free?”

With a sick crack, Red broke Seventeen's neck expertly.

Bulma felt a pang of regret.

“Being free and creating your own destiny is refusing to be patronized for it in Hell. It's about choosing your own life without any threats from Heaven.”

Red strode over to Eighteen's prone form and stared into Bulma's eyes as he twisted Eighteen's legs unnaturally until they, too, snapped, falling heavily to the floor at an bizarre angle.

“You're fooling yourself,” Bulma hollered. “You didn't build an empire on your own. You couldn't have done it without the help of hundreds of criminals. It's like a Pharaoh claiming he built the pyramids, like Hadrian claiming he built his wall. You're nothing without foot soldiers! Your destiny is nothing without the foolishness of other people! That's nothing to be proud of, “ Bulma lectured him heatedly. “And what do you have to show for it? You have no true family or friends. All you have is blood on your hands.”

“Just because I deal in the currency of blood and fueled by the foolishness of others,” he intoned, “doesn't make it any less rewarding.”

“You're a weakling,” chimed Vegeta from her side a few feet away. “You could not have done any of this on your own. To think that my father lost the company he built from the ground up to such a coward. Even Hell knows the difference between right and wrong.”

“Without investors and employees,” he told Vegeta, “your father was nothing. Without the education provided by other people, your father would have been nothing.” He pointed to Bulma. “Without your mothers, without God or the Devil, you two would be nothing. But without me,” he smiled, “your father's would still be alive. Do you see the difference? I control the power. I channel the ambitions of men. I end things, I am not ended. I am a God on this plane. You are the sycophants. And once I kill you two, I will be ready to challenge the rulers of the celestial planes.”

Vegeta and Bulma's eyes widened.

“I'm done talking,” Bulma state matter of factly, looking at Vegeta. “What say you we shut him up?”

For the first time since their estrangement, Vegeta gave her a saucy smirk.

“Ladies first.”

Bulma and Vegeta bumrushed Red.

-----

“Warrior Concerto”

It became very apparent very quickly that they were outmatched.

They didn't know what to expect as they sprinted towards him; everything in their lives seemed to have led up to this point, and expectations were high. What they weren't expecting was the sheer volume of brute force available to him. Before, he just seemed deceptive and slimy, but in combat, he was straight forward and brutal. His movements were economical and he didn't pull punches. His style superseded brawling; it was a highly trained dance of killing movements. She had been trained in advanced weaponry and martial evasion, but she had no idea how to approach a man that was so powerfully straight forward. Especially when Vegeta seemed more than happy to refuse partnering up to tag team him, their tactics disconcerted.

She understood this clearly when Red disarmed her minutes within the fight, throwing her katana to skid across the floor and clatter up against the wall before she was tackled, barrel rolling her into his desk. She saw stars momentarily before she glimpsed Vegeta jump into the fray.

Vegeta, however, fared a lot better, despite not relying on his weapons.

“You fight a lot like you've been trained,” Vegeta commented with a spirited smirk as they circled each other warily.

“Vegeta Ouji, you should recognize a special forces fighting style when you see one...especially a superior one.”

The two merged in a flurry of wrestling. As they were grappling, Bulma waited for an opening to sink a throwing knife into Red's wrist. She wasn't sure if he was android or not, but at least it would slow him down. She was rethinking her strategy now that it was apparent she was no good to them in short range combat, when she saw Red grab Vegeta's hair and yank him to the floor, his face bouncing off the floor. She winced.

Red pinned Vegeta's arms behind his back and dug his knee into Vegeta's broad back. “You haven't told her about that, either, have you?”

Aw, fuck the throwing knife. She couldn't stand seeing Vegeta hurt and she needed him in one piece.

Bulma snuck up behind Red, and as he slammed Vegeta's head into the floor, dazing him, she whacked him hard in the back of the head with a nunchuk. He stiffened and spun around, grabbing her hair and kneeing her in the upper abdomen before kicking her legs out from her. He wrapped the nunchuk chain around her throat and tightened it ruthlessly, a bruise instantly blossoming in a ring around her throat, before punching her in the face and blacking her eye. He was slowed when Vegeta pistol whipped him in the back of the head, and followed it by smashing a chair over his head with a pro wrestler's flair.

“I think you should be more nervous about the fact than she should.”

“He never told you he was a special forces soldier before going to law school? He was an expert marksman, a sniper, in the same platoon that I once was. “

Bulma wrenched free of Red's body as Vegeta punch him in the jaw, before receiving the same treatment.

“Why the hell aren't you using your guns?” She squeaked at him.

“Because I can't wait to wipe that smug face off with my bare hands.”

“Now whose overconfident,” she bitched. “Give me your damn guns and I'll do it!”

Vegeta didn't bother answering her as he stubbornly laid into Red.

Growling, she turned and searched the desk for the matchbox that Red had used when lighting his now long forgotten cigar.

She pulled the desk drawer open with a hiss and had to stop to duck as a plant pot hurdled toward her head, thrown recklessly by none other than Vegeta. She cursed him under her breath and continued her mission.

On her knees, she clasped her hand around the little paper box but knocked into something rattling on the way out.

Peeking in, she saw it.

The Hello Kitty rice maker.

Vegeta hadn't been bluffing.

There was also a file with hers and Vegeta's name on it that looked like it had just been thrown in willy nilly. She flicked through the pages and her blood ran cold.

Her life, and Vegeta's, on paper. She scanned the documents with growing horror. They were all carbon copied to Yamcha's e-mail address. The last document verified that all of their documents had been pulled courtesy of Yamcha's direct order to hack them, tout de suite, once he had been rebuilt.

Yamcha had armed Red with the knowledge of their history to use against him.

She understood that this wasn't just a brawl; this was a battle of wits with a master manipulator. Her greatest challenge yet.

Unfortunately, the time to talk had evidently passed, as Vegeta hurled the Red Ribbon leader into the wall and then inserted himself in between Red's legs as he stumbled away from the wall, picking him up piggy back style and throwing himself backwards, slamming Red's back into her father's desk.

The desk crumpled in on the men, the drawers crushed inwards.

Bulma watched it cave in just inches from her face, gaping. As the men struggled to right themselves, Bulma sat the file on the carpet and scooted further away, trying to put distance between herself and Red to give herself time to strategize.

It was not to be.

As she flipped to all fours, she spotted both Betelgeuse, lost during Vegeta's body slam stunt, and the device that had shut down the androids, and as she reached out for it, she heard a sick thump. She turned her head around and saw Vegeta lying in the middle of the office and Red towering over him. To her dismay, she saw that Red had cracked the glass to a fire extinguisher and clobbered Vegeta in the face with it.

“No,” she groaned, as Red held it aloft before bringing it down with all of his strength onto Vegeta's body.

“No!” She wailed.

And then regretted it, as Red tossed the fire extinguisher carelessly onto the floor and turned to look at her, assessing.

“No, please,” she heard herself say, and whether or not she was begging for Vegeta's life or her own, she couldn't say.

Watching Red make his way toward her, Bulma felt the renewed resilience of the Archangel form under her skin, and she stood to face him.

Spryly, Red bent down and pulled Aldebaran from Vegeta's side holster and cocked and lit it with the cigar left ignored on the floor.

As the fuse hissed to life, Bulma reacted reflexively.

The slug buried itself in her shoulder just as her throwing knives left her hands, drifting through the air, polished and mercurial and drifting oh so slowly, to glide into Red's belly as if it were butter.

Red lumbered towards her and slammed the butt of the gun down on her cheek, a cloud of gunpowder powdering her face. The impact forced her both to her knees and backwards to barrel roll towards the wall of windows.

She tried standing, but wobbled like a newborn foal, and sunk instead to her knees to cast a disorientated glare at him.

Red glanced around, and then plucked a small walnut desk from the corner. He stared at her soullessly as he hefted the desk to his chest, and then swung it backwards before shotputting it right at Bulma.

She tried to leap out of the way but didn't make it very far, just flattening and covering her head with her hands in the knick of time for them to take the brunt of the table, which caught her up in its movement, tumbling her closer to the windows before depositing her in front of them as it continued on through them, as persevering as tumbleweed.

She choked on the pain throbbing through her hands. They screamed at her with searing, mind numbing indignity. She tried bending her fingers and let out a little anguished wail as they protested.

She glanced up, stricken, at Red, who listed and stumbled toward her, the hilts of her daggers sticking out of his belly like pins stuck in a voodoo doll.

He wasn't android after all.

With the last of his strength, Red grabbed her by her suit and pitched her into the center of the room before collapsing to his knees.

Bulma skidded and rolled into the rubble left behind from her father's desk, dreamily recalling a time when, during humid summer evenings, she and other children would race, rolling down a hill, their worlds momentarily a kaleidoscope of vivid green grass and endless blue sky.

With a start, she hit her head against wood, and came to a rest halfway slumped against the remainder of the desk. Tiredly, she fell onto her side, content to just watch the end of her life like it were a television screen.

Vegeta lay gasping on his side for air, coughing up blood. From her side, Bulma could see Red slowly pulling himself toward him with her knife clutched in his hand.

She searched her thigh with numb hands and discerned something capsule shaped. She pulled the plunger out with her teeth and sat it on the ground. Her mother and fathers items, the engagement ring, and the senzu lay in the rubble that covered her. She bit her lip in consideration. She could eat the last senzu, but she knew, if he hit her again, she wouldn't be able to come back from another attack and still take him out. She needed a better defense if she wanted to make certain that Vegeta stayed in one piece and Red did not.

She stared at Vegeta's crumpled form, her face screwing up with grim consideration.

She made a decision.

She pulled herself out of the rubble, towards Eighteen's motionless body, as Red made his slow, sure crawl on his elbows towards Vegeta's prone form.

The remote device was a few feet further from the blonde, and Bulma wiggled her body just past the android to capture it where it had clattered to the floor after Vegeta had slammed Red into the desk.

Bulma fingered the device with numb, fat fingers and turned the dial.

Eighteen's eyes opened, gazing cloudily up at the ceiling.

“Eighteen,” Bulma croaked. “I need you to throw me towards the bookcase, and then distract Red. Please.” She handed the half senzu to Eighteen between her thumb and index finger.

Eighteen silently regarded Bulma.

“It will heal what Red did to you...” at Eighteen's blank gaze, Bulma whispered. “He broke your legs.”

Eighteen's glassy eyes hardened into ice, and her lips slowly parted. Bulma slid it between her lips clumsily and waited until she felt Eighteen's tongue press the bean up against the roof of her mouth and watched as she dryly swallowed it down, down, down into the androids belly.

Eighteen sprang up silently, and heaved Bulma prudently over her shoulder into a fireman's carry.

“Are you ready?”

Bulma nodded, bracing for impact.

With uncanny ease, Eighteen lifted Bulma behind her head and then tossed her into the bookcase near the two struggling men. Bulma hit hard, books and splintered boards falling with heavy plunks on her head and back.

This was her only chance.

Eighteen stalked Red silently, who was dazedly trying to figure out what happened to the bookcase as he pressed his forearm into Vegeta's throat forcefully, bringing up his trembling arm to slit Vegeta's throat.

Bulma reached into her suit front and felt for the matchbox.

Bulma blew air through her nose and struggled to strike the match against the gritty tape on the box. After three failed attempts, Bulma sobbed and struck it one more time as she heard Eighteen cry out.

“Bulma, now!”

The little red head of the match flared to life, and she sobbed happily and lowered it to the supernatural gun as she tried aiming the bulky thing. The barrel quivered, hopping in Bulma's shaky hands between Eighteen, Vegeta, and Red. The earthly yellow fire ate at the fuse, making this one shot absolutely crucial.

Eighteen had Red's arms braced behind his back, and try as he might, he couldn't dislodge or outmaneuver the android. Vegeta was still pinned under his knees, trying not to howl in the pain of Red's weight on his wrists.

That's when Red saw the little floating spot of light, Bulma's right eye squinting shut as she aimed, and took one last shot at Vegeta and Bulma.

“Vegeta, did she ever tell you who the father was?”

Vegeta, against his will, looked up at Red from bruised eyes with attention.

Red looked at Vegeta sympathetically and said, “It's mine. If you don't believe me, ask her where she was the night you couldn't make her board speech, the night before you proposed. She was working for me that night, in your bed--”

The gun fired with a resounding boom as it cut the air on its way into Red's skull.

Red jerked back into Eighteen's chest as Vegeta's bullet sunk into his brain.

Eighteen tossed his body to the side, and Vegeta scrambled up with as much grace as he could manage, and stood over Red to make sure he was truly dead. Eighteen backed away warily.

And then he looked at the woman who had betrayed him in every conceivable way. He watched her fall like a sack of potatoes out of the wood pile next to the broken window, her chest rising and falling jerkily, and, without a second though, made his way over to her to end her.

---

As the life drifted out of Red's eyes, Bulma's labored breathing hitched in a sigh, broken ribs needling her lungs. She closed her eyes in relief. The moment had finally come. The Boss was dead, and Red Ribbon was no more. She had fulfilled her contract.

The moment didn't last long though -she felt the familiar strain at her back and grit her teeth as she expected her wings to reabsorb.

Instead, with a flash of white heat and a wave of dizziness, Bulma felt something intrinsic, something subterranean separate from her and disappear. Bulma blinked at the low tiled ceiling. She felt hollowed out. Kami's magic had finally left her. She was totally human once again.

That's when she heard the crunch of boots on glass and remembered with anguish that Vegeta was quite convinced that she was his father's murderer's mercenary, carrying his child.

He leaned over her and mused about killing her as her breath came quick and shallow. He hated her, hated her for betraying his hopes for them, but most of all, for cuckolding him and sleeping with his enemies. He was a prideful man, and she had hit him where it hurt most.

She understood that, based on Red's machinations and Yamcha's manipulations of them, she deserved nothing less than his unadulterated hatred. And that's why she gave him the only gift she could: the knowledge that he was a father.

But she hadn't expected him to drop her out of the skyscrapers top most windows.

-----

XI. “The Windfall of Destiny”

Bulma stared transfixed at the night sky as the wind buffeted her outstretched arms and wondered if this is what Heaven would feel like.

When she had first caught sight of Vegeta that fall evening in the doorway of the coffee shop, never in a million years had she thought that that handsome man would fascinate her, impassion her, and fall for her, right before he killed her.

Her hair whipped upwards, stinging her face, her arms and legs dangling and wheeling as if trying to slow her fall against their own logic.

Had she satisfied Kami finally? Would Kami forgive her for the life inside her that would never be born?

Vegeta had wanted to give the gift of his life's work to her before being spirited away by the Demon King. The least she could do was give him the gift of knowing he was a father.

Or would have been, before Red drove a wedge between them.

The stars were hidden by thick, swarming clouds, lit a red violet by the city lights, squeezing out fat rain drops that splattered against her as she passed the last five hundred feet mark of her father's empire.

No matter how angry he was with her, no matter how they had hurt each other, she forgave him.

She would always love him, into death and beyond. Always and forever.

She was ready to die.

She closed her eyes and stopped fighting, stilling like a bird riding a breeze, and sighed.

The lights below began glowing brighter and she was able to hear the distant sounds of traffic. She straightened her arms and leaned into the wind to plummet faster.

Bulma was viciously jerked to a stop, knocking the air out of her diaphragm violently as the world swung sideways. She saw the granite wall of Capsule Corp rapidly approaching and her eyes widened as she anticipated smashing into it at blunt speeds. She heard a bellow and felt her abdomen squeezed before impacting. Instead, she bounced roughly off the walls, scraping at her arm and cheek before twirling outwards through the air. Her body swung back towards the building, more slowly this time, and as she neared a window ledge, she was jerked to a stop, hovering just over the brick. Her feet tap danced to find purchase, and her palms slapped the window, stinging, as she regained her foothold on solid ground.

She felt a heaviness at her back holding her up, her legs trembling.

She grasped at the pressure on her belly as she stared at the shadow of her reflection in the window and spied the silhouette of a man behind her.

It was an arm.

Her arm curled back behind her head, feeling for a body, and collided with a shoulder.

Vegeta breathe heavily in her ear, and readjusted them painfully on the window ledge.

She cocked her head achingly toward him.

He slowly, carefully spun her around so that they were pressed belly to belly. His right arm locked straight above his head, and Bulma saw the grappling gun gripped with white knuckles, the taut rope that had saved them from falling just another 200 feet to their death.

Her arm moved heavily to rest her palm against his smooth face, staring at him with wonder.

“Are you okay?” He breathed roughly.

She thought she nodded. He was staring intently, occasionally glancing upwards at the line as though he believed at any moment it would snap.

“Bulma,” he rasped emotionally.

She laced her aching arms around her neck and held him, his own arm squeezing her gently.

Rain sputtered to life around them, the window ledge barely sheltering them from the increasing pour of rain. Lightning lit their stark faces, and Bulma could see Vegeta's expression was glazed with anxiety.

She caressed his jaw, his sharp cheekbones, lovingly.

“Thank you,” she rasped.

He looked at her with deep consideration and then shook his head, clenching his eyes shut and turning his head away from her.

He glanced down, and then to her terror, tightened his grip on her and pushed them off the wall with his feet, sending them careening back over the street.

Bulma let out a little shriek as Vegeta slowly lowered them down, down, down, until she could distinguish the colors of the cars and see the sheen of rain on the dark streets. Vegeta felt for the sidewalk with his toes, the pavement scraping against his boots, and then released the grappling gun, sending them stumbling into the wall of the building. His hands curled quickly around her head to protect her from hitting the wall, taking the impact with his knuckles.

Pinning her against the wall so that she wouldn't fall, he rested his forehead on hers.

They stood like that for a long moment.

“I'm sorry,” Vegeta finally whispered.

“Me too.”

He looked upwards into her face. “I'm sorry for not telling you about my contract. I was...avoiding reality.”

Bulma nodded, but he continued. “I'm sorry for the way I reacted earlier tonight.”

“Vegeta,” Bulma stuttered, shaking her head. “I...I love you,” she lamented into his shoulder.

“I love you, too,” he kissed her cheek and pressed her close. “I'm so sorry.”

They stood in each others arms for another moment before she sought his hand, interlacing his fingers with her own and burying her face into his neck.

He pulled back after running his fingers over her own and regarded her hand.

She glanced at the her hand, swollen and raw, and then glanced up at him. His face was hard, but his eyes regarded her with understanding.

“Oh!” She reached for her capsules and popped one. Her most personal items appeared in her hand: the delicate chain on her mother's necklace wrapped around her father's watch, her engagement ring resting in the middle.

She stared at it with disquiet, then picking it up delicately, apprehensively held it out to him without looking at him. “You can have it back.” Her voice was strained.

Vegeta reached and took it, and then slid it back onto her finger. She stared at him with wide eyes.

“If you have no problems with it, I'd like you to keep it. To remember me by.” His eyes slid to the side.

She wanted to tell him that she had something to remember him by inside her, but couldn't open her mouth to form the words. She feared the worst in that regard. She had taken a beating she didn't know if either her or the burgeoning life inside her could come back form.

Vegeta glanced at her in turmoil, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing.

Had they ever even had a chance?

He tilted her head between his hands and placed a leisurely, but chaste kiss on her lips, which, though surprised, were soft and unresisting.

They held each other silently.

“Congratulations,” a deep voice echoed in the street, sardonically.

Bulma and Vegeta both looked up. A tall man stood a dozen feet away near the wall, sucking on a black cigarette butt between his thumb and middle finger. He blew out a cloud of smoke quickly. “Are you ready to go get my rice cooker, Ouji?” He looked remarkably similar to a youthful version of Kami: same green skin, some antennas, same hairless, narrow features. He wore a trench coat which flapped open with the wind, baggy trousers, and a plaid button up. He flicked his cigarette into the street, which sank into the gutter with a hiss, and strode up to them.

“She needs medical attention,” Vegeta protested.

The man looked her up and down cooly. “Kami's waiting for you at the Lookout with a healer.”

“How will I get there?” She asked weakly.

“Let me take her,” Vegeta interrupted.

The man narrowed his eyes. “Cut the umbilical cord, Ouji. Chivalry doesn't become you.”

“Let me take her,” Vegeta growled.

“And if I don't, you gonna challenge my decision?”

She felt Vegeta go rigid. “I might.”

“Bah. Fucking mortals. You all have all the wrong priorities. My bar closed. I don't have anything else to do but stand in the fucking rain like a transient. I don't want to wait,” his voice grated loudly, “any fucking longer for my rice cooker.”

“Vegeta has given his life for you,” Bulma argued frailly. “The least you could do is allow him to say goodbye to his life before you force him to abandon it.”

The man leveled a pretty intimidating scowl at her. “Ballsy, aren't you.”

“What, did you really think Kami found the Chosen One at Charm School?”

The man smirked without humor. “You've got thirty minutes, Ouji. Then you're mine.” He glanced at Bulma possessively and flicked his hand at Vegeta carelessly, blue green sparks arching between his hand and Vegeta, traveling like fairy dust to settle on Vegeta's suit and become absorbed, disappearing.

Vegeta nodded sharply.

He scooped Bulma gently up into his arms and blasted off into the sky.

“What a prick,” Bulma said sourly into his ear.

“That was the Lord of Hell,” Vegeta replied dryly.

“Oh,” he heard her mumble dumbly as Piccolo's temporary magic allowed him to breach and burst from the cloud cover and head north toward Kami's Lookout, the moon swollen and pregnant, lighting their way.

-----

“Bulma!” Kami and Popo cried, nearly falling down to greet them.

“She needs a healer,” Vegeta demanded gruffly.

“By the looks of it, so do you, young man. Are you her...consort?”

Vegeta, much to his chagrin, blushed.

“Sure,” he huffed.

“Are you okay, Bulma?” Popo cried out anxiously.

“I'm tired and I hurt,” she whined.

“Dende!”

The boy was beside her instantly, the tight green skin on his face furrowing with the seriousness of their condition. “Hello,” he said to her shyly.

“Hello. Just how many relatives do you have floating around here, Kami?”

“We can explain that later, Bulma. Let's get her to a bedroom.”

The four of them walked briskly towards the house.

Kami flicked the light on upon reaching the room and gestured to the bed, where Vegeta laid her. “I'm fine, Kami,” Bulma groused, swatting at the air.

Dende leaned over her and apologized. “This may feel funny, Miss Bulma.”

Vegeta automatically inched closer to her side, a fact that Kami didn't miss.

An ethereal white ball appeared between the boys hands and he swept them slowly over Bulma's body.

The boy gasped, and the light flickered out.

“She's with child,” he cried out.

“Yes, son,” said Kami. “Will you be able to...save it?”

Dende's eyes closed and he breathed in deeply, the white light reappearing from his palms. After a moment, Dende's breathing thickened with labor, and then the light went out.

He looked between Bulma and Vegeta bashfully. “The boy will be okay.”

“Boy?” Vegeta wheezed.

Dende gave him a small nod and bent back over Bulma to complete the healing.

She drowsed on the bed, and Dende hovered over Vegeta.

“He's Hell's missionary,” he cried, in much the same way he had at the discovery of Bulma's pregnancy.

“If you're going to be hanging out with Kami, kid, you better get used to stranger things,” Vegeta groused.

“Only because he made a mistake once, child.” Kami's eyes scrutinized Vegeta with a hint of compassion. “Heal him.”

Vegeta returned Kami's look with an uncomfortable glower.

Once Dende's work was done, Kami leaned over Bulma. “Is there anything we can get you, child?”

Vegeta startled at Kami's endearment toward Bulma. He had no idea how fond of the woman God was. He had always assumed she had been roped into the deal, as he had been. Now it was clear that her affection toward the old god was equivocally returned.

At least he wouldn't be leaving her alone.

“Let's go put the tea on,” Kami suggested, corralling Popo and Dende out of the room before shutting the door with a backwards glance.

All he saw before the door obscured his view was Vegeta, already moved, kneeling on the floor beside Bulma, whose chest rose and fell deeply with sleep.

----

Over 15,000 words and I wrote it up and typed it in three days. Absolutely ridiculous. If it's full of errors, I'll deal with them tomorrow.

Next: The Finale.