Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ What We Deserve ❯ Chapter Three ( Chapter 3 )

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ or any of the characters associated with the manga, anime, or movies.

CHAPTER THREE

Dr. and Mrs. Briefs had appeared at the accident site just a few minutes later, with what seemed to be the entire Capsule Corp. medical team. They approached the wreckage cautiously, nervously eyeing Vegeta. They tittered about, making a show of setting defibrillators, first aid kids, and a stretcher down near the scene, but obviously not wanting to approach Vegeta.

It hadn't taken the employees long to figure out that there was something weird about the Briefs' houseguest, and it wasn't just that his hair stood straight up and he holed up all day in a dome. He didn't seem human. He was incredibly strong and had quite the commanding presence. His eyes were cold and calculating, and even the slightest glance from him was enough to send shivers down the spines of most of the Briefs' staff. They avoided him as much as possible, which suited Vegeta just fine. He was completely disinterested in them.

Most remarkable to the staff was how comfortable all the Briefs seemed to be around Vegeta, particularly Ms. Bulma Briefs, because he seemed to only barely tolerate them.

At their inaction, Bulma grew frustrated. “Don't just stand there like bumbling idiots! Do your jobs! Can't you see he's hurt!?”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Briefs mumbled.

The staff jumped into their roles. They checked his vitals, pressed around his chest with trained fingers, muttered findings to themselves. Finally, they lifted Vegeta off the debris and onto the stretcher, and carried him off to the medical wing. Dr. Briefs followed immediately behind them, leaving his wife to dab at her eyes dramatically. Bulma had gotten up to give the medical team room to work and stood beside Yamcha, who was holding himself uncomfortably.

Bulma reached a trembling hand out to touch his arm and a nervous chuckle escaped her lips. “So. How about that?”

Yamcha gazed down at her. “Close call,” he agreed.

He seemed out of sorts. “What's wrong?” Bulma asked. “You can't tell me you're particularly worried about Vegeta.”

“Not really, no... but you seem to be.”

Bulma's eyes widened in surprise and she let her hand fall from his arm. “Well… Yes, of course! Are you looking at what I'm looking at?” she gestured towards what used to be a gravity room.

“Poor Vegeta!” Mrs. Briefs moaned. “Yamcha, honey, please don't ever do that to yourself! I can't imagine what that would do to my heart. What would we do around here without you?”

A warm smile appeared on Yamcha's face, and the tension seemed to fall from his shoulders. He laughed. “Don't worry, Mrs. Briefs. I'm not that crazy!”

“What a relief!” she exclaimed. “I'm going to go see if anyone needs anything.”

She retreated back to the house and Yamcha turned back towards Bulma. He was smiling at her and shaking his head. “You care too much,” he accused, but it was said lovingly. “I don't think Vegeta deserves your concern.”

“Oh, Yamcha,” Bulma sighed. “I know how you feel about him. But he's trying to help us now, and I think we need him. I couldn't just leave him under there.”

Yamcha rested a calloused hand on the back of her neck. “Deep down, you just want the best for everyone,” he declared. “I guess if Goku trusts Vegeta, that's enough for me.”

They stood together for a moment, their heads still spinning from the events of the past few minutes, before Yamcha finally withdrew his hand. “This might sound crazy given what just happened, but I'm going to get back to training. And you should take care of this mess.” His eyes roamed over the rubble.

They parted ways, and Bulma went off in search of a cleanup crew. Recruiting some employees but mostly reprogramming some housebots to abandon their daily chores and work on the gravity room instead, she ensured that the accident would be completely cleaned up by the end of the day. She was on her way to the medical wing when the doorbell rang. She ignored it at first, continuing down the hallway, but it rang twice more.

Sighing exasperatedly, she yanked the door open, prepared to bark into her visitor's face that now was not a good time.

It was a cop.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Briefs,” she said formally. “Officer Takarabi, West City PD. I'm here to investigate an alleged explosion.”

Bulma frowned. Of course, as a company, explosions weren't supposed to take place. Tests were supposed to be safe and secure, with extreme measures taken to ensure the experiments were risk-free. Dangerous tests were never to be conducted without the appropriate permits. Although the occasional accident did happen, the Capsule Corporation had, in general, a shining record. Bulma suddenly sensed that, with Vegeta living there, that was about to change.

“Oh. Right. Um…”

“We don't have any indication of any permits being taken out for today. Was there perhaps some sort of mistake?”

“We had a malfunction,” Bulma stated confidently. “It wasn't anticipated. We weren't planning to run any kind of potentially dangerous tests today.”

The officer frowned. “I see.”

“Nobody was hurt,” Bulma lied again, “and the damage was minimal.”

“I need to take a look around.”

Bulma was irritated. She needed to get to the medical wing and check in on things. She needed to get the space ship cleaned up. She needed to brief the staff on their official story. Vegeta was, quite literally, an illegal alien in this country, and she was petrified to think of what might happen if he was found out. Not because she didn't think he could handle himself, but because she was afraid of what might happen to the police force if they tried to take him in. Or the government if they tried to deport him to… somewhere. She wondered vaguely how Piccolo had managed all these years, and thought that maybe that was why he spent so much time in the middle of nowhere.

“No,” she snapped. “You cannot come in here right now.”

The officer's eyebrows flew up. “I thought there was minimal damage. It seems very much like you're trying to hide something.”

Bulma was not about to be pressured. “Now is not a good time. We're trying to figure out exactly how the malfunction occurred so we can avoid it in future. Unless you want there to be more explosions?” she countered with raised eyebrows of her own.

Officer Takarabi swallowed and met Bulma's blue gaze evenly. “Very well, Ms. Briefs. We will be by later.”

“We'll hold a press conference when the time is appropriate,” Bulma promised sternly, “but not until we have enough information to make it worthwhile.”

The officer turned to leave, and Bulma practically slammed the door behind her. She turned and rushed to the medical wing.

By the time she arrived, Vegeta was banadaged and hooked up to an oxygen mask and intravenous. The medics had gone and only her parents remained, discussing the Saiyan quietly while her father held his charts.

“Well?” she asked. “How is he?”

Dr. Briefs shrugged. “Broken ribs, punctured lung, concussion, fractured elbow, a variety of broken bones in his left foot… I could go on, but I'm sure you'll read this yourself.” He waved the papers in the air. “But, he is a Saiyan. I'm sure if he takes it easy he'll be fine in a week or so.”

Bulma looked down at Vegeta. He looked so small and vulnerable lying on the bed, unconscious with all manner of tubes stuck into his body. He looked… human. Reservations Bulma didn't realize she still held towards him melted away. He carried himself with such closed-off arrogance that it was easy to forget he was a person and not a fortress. He wasn't unstoppable. He had limits, just like anyone. His heart, however cold and black it may be, beat just like hers. He wasn't a monster who had just put his evil ambitions on hold: he was a living, feeling creature.

She kneeled by the bed and stroked his arm softly. “Oh, Vegeta,” she sighed.

Mrs. Briefs tittered sadly behind her. “Such a terrible accident,” she mourned.

“Oh, come now,” Dr. Briefs scolded lightly, always the voice of reason. “He survived. I daresay our Saiyan friend will live to see another fight. But we should let him get some rest.”

Bulma had to agree, and she rose to leave. “You idiot,” she murmured to the warrior before she turned to leave.

Vegeta's voice halted her in her tracks. “Kakarot..!”

She shifted back towards him in surprise. Was he awake? Was he hallucinating? But she saw that his eyes were still closed, and she realized he was having a dream.

His head turned almost violently. “I will surpass you!”

A bad dream.

It didn't surprise Bulma that Vegeta wouldn't view his accident as a reason to back off a bit, but rather as an unwelcome obstacle along his path to becoming a Super Saiyan. She figured he'd be irritated that he would have to spend a few short days away from training instead of concerned for his own well being.

A strangled gasp escaped Vegeta's lips, and Bulma felt that she couldn't leave. As a living, feeling creature, right now what he needed was support and comfort. She brushed the back of her fingers lightly across his forehead, which was hot with fever, before pulling out the chair at the table beside his bed and plopping herself down in it.

***

Kakarot was there, just ahead of him. He reached out towards him, taking a few steps forward, but was halted by the unexpected appearance of the mysterious purple-haired Saiyan.

“You!” he exclaimed.

They stood together, staring down at him coldly. He stumbled towards them, but didn't seem to get any closer. And then, in unison, they clenched their fists and cried out as they summoned the energy to transform in Super Saiyans. Their hair rose into the air, lightening to a gold and locking into place. Their eyes flashed from black to green and back again, before settling on the lighter colour. Around them, their kis crackled like flames, the energy ruffling their clothes. They smirked at Vegeta proudly.

They were mocking him.

He broke into a run, but they were too fast. For every step he took, they retreated three more. They were too fast, much too fast for him. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained to catch up, but it wasn't long before they were completely gone from his sight.

He had been left behind.

A voice called his name. It was a voice he had not heard in years, and he doubted it at first.

“Father?” he asked.

As though he were a fly on the wall, a memory played before him. He was young, a child, and he stood haughtily beside his father - at least, how Vegeta imagined he had stood as a boy. And why not? He was heir to the throne and his father let him get away with murder - literally. The Saiyan King and Prince, together, watched space pods depart Planet Vegeta. They had spent so little time together.

“They are the weakest fighters,” the king said. “They are going far away to weak planets.”

Vegeta scoffed. “Bye-bye!” he taunted.

“But you are already a true warrior. You will be the strongest,” King Vegeta promised his son. “You've already demonstrated great potential. You will be the first Saiyan in a hundred years to become a Super Saiyan.”

Vegeta had not forgotten his destiny. His father had told him it would be so, and he would be goddammed before a pathetic third-class warrior and sniveling quasi-Saiyan stole that achievement from him. Through everything that had happened to him, the destruction of his planet, the sudden meaningless of his rank and title, the bitter years serving Frieza, his death, Vegeta had hung on to the knowledge that he would become a Super Saiyan one day.

His time was coming. It was so close he could taste it.

Sweat dried on his face as his fever broke. He jerked awake, the oxygen mask falling from his nose as his body involuntarily strained forward. He was confused for a moment. He remembered being in the gravity room. He remembered gathering a huge attack. He remembered the ship shuddering violently around him, and then he remembered clawing his way out of rubble. He must have blown the gravity room up. He remembered the woman darting towards him, helping him sit up, and patronizing him. He didn't remember anything else after that.

It was clear from his surroundings that he was in some type of healing facility. He was heavily bandaged. A needle was threaded into his vein, dripping liquid directly into his blood. He felt numb and warm, and the pain in his lungs and head seemed far away and unimportant, like it belonged to someone else. He assumed that he had been sedated in some way. He was mildly irritated by that but felt too hazy to give it much thought.

A light snore caught his attention and he turned his head drowsily. Bulma was sitting beside his bed, her head resting heavily on her arms. She was sleeping.

What is she doing here? Vegeta thought. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He wondered how long she had been there.

He stared at her for a few moments, or perhaps many moments, he couldn't be sure with the drugs dulling his senses. Hey, he said, trying to rouse her to kick her out of his room, but she didn't stir, and he couldn't be sure if he had even spoken aloud.

“I don't need your help!” he shouted at her and her blue eyes suddenly met his dark ones, but before she could respond he had fallen asleep.

***

Rustling nearby drew Bulma out of her doze. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but she had felt so exhausted from the turmoil of the day and lack of rest the night before that sleep had overcome her before she realized it. Although short, it had been a restful nap. She hadn't had any dreams of androids that she could recall.

She opened her eyes to see Vegeta peering at her wearily. He was still in the bed, but the mask was resting on his chest, pumping oxygen uselessly into the air.

“I don't need your help,” he mumbled, and she lifted her head to look at him closer. She was about to ask him how he was feeling when his eyes closed and he fell asleep.

Bulma couldn't help but grin. Even when loaded full of morphine and barely able to function through a drug-induced haze, Vegeta knew what he wanted, or more accurately what he didn't, and would not pass up an opportunity to tell her so.