Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ You Made Me Cry ❯ One-Shot

Disclaimer: I've run out of witty disclaimer lines. Make up your own. ^^

A/N: I don't see too many stories out there dealing with Mirai no Bulma (though I have seen some), so I thought I'd try my hand at it. Again we see my obsession with the future timeline, angst, and violence.

You Made Me Cry

A dark blue air car roared across the crumbled mountain terrain, speeding over the cracked asphalt with ease, skimming past the chunks of fallen concrete and the broken bodies beneath them, inside twisted wrecks of abandoned automobiles. The driver of the car didn't even look at the carnage -- she was used to it by now. It barely even turned her stomach anymore. Bodies -- or parts of them -- lying at the side of the road or even in the middle of it were a common sight, even more plentiful than the garbage bags and beer bottles which had used to litter the streets.

The car radio blared, filling the air with the strains of a quiet, classical waltz. The driver shoved a few loose strands of turquoise hair out of her eyes and stuck them under a blue Capsule Corp. ball cap. Bulma Briefs glared at the radio and punched a button, changing the channel to something less peaceful, allowing a tight smile of satisfaction as the sound of an angry rap song blasted out of the speakers. Much better . . . she was in no mood to listen to anything that tried to lift her spirits.

"Darn you," she muttered, apparently to no one in particular, as her vehicle raced down the road, swerving once to avoid a particularly high pile of rubble. Bulma glanced sideways and breathed a sigh of relief to see that her infant son, Trunks, was still asleep in his car seat. His crystal blue eyes were closed, and he sucked peacefully on one chubby thumb, perfectly content. Bulma blew out her breath in a sigh of frustration and longing; if only she could forget her troubles so easily . . . but it wasn't that simple.

Suddenly her foot slammed on the brakes, as out the corner of her blue eyes Bulma caught site of movement. She jumped out of the car, idly grateful that Trunks hadn't woken up, and she clambered over rocks and cauterized metal to the place where yet another body lay. But this one -- she thought she'd seen it move.

Sure enough, at the sound of Bulma's approach the crumpled figure twitched, moving a hand, and let out a weak groan. "Don't try to move," she urged the figure -- a man, she realized, noting the muscled figure and shaggy black hair. Her stomach twisted; in a way, he reminded her of a friend of hers, but Yamucha had disappeared with the rest of the Z-fighters a few days prior and she hadn't seen them since.

The person moaned again, and at last Bulma reached his side. She placed her hands on his shoulders and strained her muscles to roll him over on his back, to get his body off the sharp rocks, and lifted him partway onto her lap. Bulma didn't care who he was -- anyone she could save in this dark era was a miracle. Her house had become sort of an impromptu hospital for any wounded pedestrian or motorist she or her friends had discovered.

The man's face was so covered in blood that she couldn't make out the details of his features, and his hair was matted together in clumps of crimson. The only part of him that looked alive were his eyes, but even they were beginning to get a film over them. "Just hold on," Bulma pleaded, "I'll get you some help, sir. Don't worry."

At the sound of her voice, the man's eyes widened fractionally, and he moved his lips, trying desperately to speak. Bulma put her ear close to his mouth, to hear what he was saying. When she realized what it was, she nearly jumped out of her skin. "...Bu..l..ma ..."

Bulma held back a screech as she tore off her sleeve and soaked it with water from a bottle at her belt. She used the fabric to clean some of the blood away from his cheek. Below his left eye, a cross-shaped scar became visible . . . her breath catching in her throat, Bulma wiped the blood from the other eye and saw another scar that started above the man's eyebrow and ended at his cheekbone.

"Yamucha!" Bulma cried, and the sorrow she had felt for this unnamed man intensified into a raging pain. "No!" she put a finger to his throat, feeling the pulse that beat weakly, like a dying moth's wings fluttering inside a lamp.

The warrior groaned, and again his lips moved silently, and this time Bulma was barely able to make out the words. "... the ... oth..er..s ..." Yamucha whispered, "F-f..ind ... th..em ..." he raised a blood-covered hand, missing three of its fingers, and touched Bulma's face. She pressed Yamucha's fingers to her cheek with her hand, not caring that his blood was smearing her skin.

"Don't give up," Bulma ordered, her voice faltering, though she didn't cry. She had used up all her tears when Son had died. "Just wait. I'll be able to help you!"

His mouth curved upwards, in the tiniest indication of a smile. "I've ... al..w..ays ... l-l..ove..d ... you ... Bul..ma ..." he wheezed, his voice rasping in his throat, then he closed his coal-black eyes and the breath trickled out of him, one last time. Bulma could feel his fingers fall away from her cheek.

"No . . ." she cursed softly, helplessly, as she closed her eyes. Still, she did not cry.

A few minutes later, Bulma reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, finger-long ovoid device. She pressed the button on its top, then flung it down the road as far away as she could. There was a loud explosion, then a yellow jet appeared when the smoke had cleared. Swallowing hard, Bulma went to her car and took Trunks from his car seat, putting him in the baby sling on her back, then encapsulated the vehicle. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned back to the grim task that awaited her.

It took some time for Bulma to move Yamucha's body onto a stretcher and drag it into the jet. Trunks had awakened and was fussing, but for the first time she ignored his cries. After a few minutes he quieted down and stuck his thumb in his mouth sullenly. Bulma was glad he was behind her, and couldn't see what she saw.

After Yamucha was laid down in the jet, a blanket over his still form, Bulma pressed a hand to her forehead. Yamucha had been one of her best friends since their adolescence . . . for him to die like that, without her even able to say much of a goodbye . . .

"Ba," Trunks gurgled. "Ba, ba . . ."

"Hush, sweetheart," Bulma told him. "Mommy will feed you when we get home."

"Ba," Trunks cried insistently, and he tugged at her hair. "Gaba ba da ba!"

Her curiosity finally roused, Bulma turned around to see what Trunks was looking at -- and she gave a shout of horror. The little boy had seen a pile of bodies lying in a heap in a small cave in the side of the mountain, and Bulma felt her insides churn as she identified them. Tenshinhan, Chaozu, Muten Rôshi, Kuririn . . . even Yajirobe, the widely-reputed coward, had joined the fight.

And lost.

The bodies were mangled almost beyond recognition, but there was something about each one that let Bulma figure out who they were. Tenshinhan had his third eye, Chaozu his size . . . Muten Rôshi's long, white beard (though matted with blood) was still there . . . Kuririn's bald head, and Yajirobe's sword. All in all, it was impossible not to know who they were.

And it was Trunks who had showed them to her. Her baby, her sweet, innocent little baby, had noticed the dead bodies and thought it important to point them out to her. "My poor boy," Bulma whispered, "What has this world done to you?"

It took almost an hour before the rest of the bodies were safely stowed away on the plane, and as the minutes ticked by Bulma could feel the gnawing pain in her heart growing stronger until it felt like acid was eating away at her insides. "My friends," she whispered sadly, and though her eyes burned, no tears fell from them.

Bulma sat down at the controls of the jet and was about to start the engine when her phone rang. Warily she picked it up, hoping it wasn't anyone looking for Yamucha and the others. "Hello?"

It was ChiChi. The young woman was in hysterics, so much that Bulma had trouble understanding her words. "Bulma, have you seen my Gohan? I can't find him anywhere!"

Bulma's chest tightened with worry. Gohan was ChiChi's only son, and all she had left after her husband had been killed by a heart virus nearly a year ago. "No, I haven't."

"He went off to fight a few days ago, and he hasn't come home," ChiChi sounded on the verge of tears. "Please tell me if you see him!"

The turquoise-haired woman debated for a minute whether or not to tell ChiChi of her discovery, then decided she should. She'd only find out some other way. "Listen, ChiChi . . ." she explained what had happened.

ChiChi gave a gasp of fear. "O, Bulma! What if Gohan's there and you haven't found him? What if he's still alive? What if he's buried somewhere, waiting for someone to come find him, but nobody ever does?" she broke down and began to sob. "Bulma, I'm so worried for him . . . I can't stand the thought of losing him!"

Bulma tried to calm her. "I'm sure Gohan's alive, ChiChi. In fact, I'll go look for him, and I promise I'll call you when I find him."

ChiChi bid her a shaky goodbye, then hung up. Bulma took a few minutes to nurse Trunks, and after he fell asleep she cradled him gently in her arms. Swallowing her sadness, Bulma brushed a few wispy strands of lavender hair off her son's high forehead, watching him sleep. "You frown when you're sleeping," Bulma noted aloud, "You look like your Daddy."

She shook her head fiercely. "Never mind Daddy. Thinking about him just makes Mommy sad, and you don't like that, do you, baby?"

Bulma left the jet, placing Trunks back in the baby sling, though this time she arranged it in front of her. "We're just going to go find Gohan," she whispered to him, stroking his silky-soft cheek. "You pray that Gohan is still alive, okay, Trunks? 'Cause Mommy doesn't know what she's going to do if she has to tell Gohan's Mama that he's gone to meet his father . . ."

She began to conduct a thorough search of the street, mountain, and the surrounding area, checking under every chunk of cement, every fallen rock, even in bushes and caves for any trace of the small boy. "And Piccolo!" Bulma realized suddenly, "I betcha' where Piccolo is, we'll find Gohan," she smiled half-heartedly at Trunks. "If you see a big, green man, you holler, okay, sweetie?"

As she searched, Bulma's mind drifted back to the last time she'd seen Trunks' "Daddy," Vegeta, a few days before. The black-haired Saiyajin had been insistent on going to fight the new menace that threatened the earth -- two humanoid Androids -- despite all Bulma's attempts to discourage the idea.

Bulma sighed as she glanced over at Vegeta. Though it was nearly two-thirty in the morning, he lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling with a scowl touching his proud, aristocratic features. In the light of the stars, which shone dimly through the bedroom window, he looked cold and somehow distant. Bulma reached out a hand and touched his shoulder timidly. "Vegeta?"

His dark eyes flickered to look at her for a split-second before returning to the ceiling. "Hmph," he grunted to acknowledge her.

"You should be sleeping," Bulma frowned lightly. "You haven't slept since the androids arrived."

"Why should I?" Vegeta snarled, and this time the anger on his face was tinged with dismay. "I can't rest knowing those metal demons are out there, laughing at me. How could two wind-up toys be stronger than the Prince of Vegetaseii?"

Without having to say anything, both their gazes were drawn to Vegeta's left arm, which was encased in a cast from shoulder to wrist with a hole for his elbow to bend, and tied to his chest with a sling. He'd had a brief run-in with the androids that morning -- just enough for him to get his arm broken in four places before they laughed at him and told him he wasn't up to their level. Bulma knew that Vegeta would rather die than hear those words directed at him.

Vegeta's eyebrows pulled together in anger and he tried to move his arm, but of course he couldn't. He'd been incensed that the injury was affecting him so badly, but without medicine or the benefits of a Saiyajin healing tank, there was nothing to do but let the bones mend naturally.

Bulma also knew that he would fight long before that happened.

Now, Bulma shook her head in disgust. Vegeta was so proud . . . one of these days his pride was going to kill him. Yet, despite this knowledge, Bulma didn't search the rubble for Vegeta's body -- somehow she knew he was still alive. His spirit, though definitely arrogant, was unconquerable. He'd find a way to defeat the androids. She was sure of it . . . wasn't she?

"You're not going to go back and fight them, are you?" Bulma tried to keep the concern from her voice, but failed.

Vegeta frowned at her for showing such weakness as he noticed that her blue eyes shimmered with tears. Somehow the sight of that made something in his heart jump, and he wanted to kill the androids for making her so worried. "Of course I'm going to go back! I can fight them without the use of my left arm. What do you take me for?"

"You may be a Prince," Bulma said quietly, "But that doesn't make you infallible."

"How dare you!" Vegeta sat up in bed, eyes blazing with fury . . . and something else. Betrayal? Yes, that was it. Through all his years of training, Bulma had always teased him about being unable to surpass Goku (or "Kakkarot," as Vegeta called him, using his original Saiyajin name), but she had never doubted his strength. Bulma was aware that Vegeta had come to count on her support. "You don't think I can defeat them?"

Bulma shook her head rapidly, and she sat up also. "That's not what I meant!" she disagreed. "I just . . . I just think you should be careful, that's all. If you get too cocky, you might slip up."

"Not likely," Vegeta glared at her, attempted to cross his arms, then winced and settled for drumming his fingers on his knee. "I can't believe you don't think I can do it."

"I never said that!" Bulma pleaded, and she put her hand over his. He stiffened and yanked his hand away. "Vegeta, please . . . I just can't bear the thought of . . ." but she couldn't say it. She and Vegeta had always had trouble voicing their feelings to each other, even after the birth of their son. So many things, so many confessions, had ended this way; unvoiced, in broken or half-finished sentences.

This time, however, the scowl on Vegeta's face cracked, and for a second he looked at her almost as he would at an equal, not as a member of an inferior race. "The thought of what?"

Bulma sucked in her breath sharply, gathering her courage, then finally managed to blurt it out like a schoolgirl announcing a crush. "The thought of losing you. Vegeta, don't you understand that I would die if I couldn't see you again?"

Vegeta didn't reply, but he moved closer to her, narrowing the space between them by a few inches. Knowing him as well as she did, Bulma sighed with relief and accepted the invitation, shuffling over to sit next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. Slowly Vegeta's arm came up around her waist.

"I know how powerful you are," Bulma told him, "I don't doubt you. You know I don't. But, please -- please promise me you'll be careful."

"I don't need to promise you anything."

To anyone else this would have been an insult, but Bulma could hear from his tone that he meant the opposite. This was confirmed when he spoke again. "Fine, woman. I'll be careful. I'll kill them quickly instead of toying with them, is that all right?"

This wasn't quite what she had wanted him to say, but Bulma knew she wasn't going to get anything better. "Thank you, Vegeta. Now do me another favour and get some sleep. Please?"

He sighed gustily, then he pulled away from her and lay down, pulling the covers over him with his good arm. After a second of indecision he held out his arm, and Bulma lay down next to him, her head on his chest, and he curled his arm around her shoulders. "I'll defeat them," Vegeta vowed. "Kakkarot died before he let me kill him -- I won't let these two pass me by, also."

Not exactly comforting, but it was as good as it got with Vegeta. Bulma just nodded, and she was filled with the absurd hope that maybe Vegeta could beat them. After all, he'd all but promised her he would, and proud as he was, Vegeta never broke promises if he thought something was important enough to make one.

Bulma brought herself back to the present as Trunks let out a tiny whimper in his sleep. She glanced down and saw his face scrunched up like a little prune, and he opened his mouth to prepare for a cry. Quickly Bulma stabilized her footing on the rocky ground and began jiggling the baby sling, singing softly. She wasn't that great of a singer (thank you to Vegeta for pointing that out to her on more than one occasion), but Trunks seemed to like it, for whatever reason. He calmed down and drifted off back into his peaceful slumber.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Bulma was about to turn around and try another area when a gust of wind suddenly sprang up. Holding onto Trunks more firmly, Bulma dug her feet into the ground and forced herself to stay upright -- then nearly toppled over when something hit her in the face.

Growling with annoyance, Bulma whipped the object away, then gasped when she saw what it was. It was a scrap of purple fabric, and Bulma only knew two people who wore that colour of clothing -- Piccolo, and lately, Gohan. She peered even closer at it, and was able to discern that the wetness she felt on one corner was blood. A closer inspection revealed that the blood, too, was purple.

Piccolo, then. Gohan had to be somewhere nearby. Bulma looked around, scanning the ground where the wind had come from, and finally she saw that the pavement under a particularly large slab of rock was stained a dark violet. "Piccolo?" she called desperately, not caring now if she woke Trunks, but the tiny boy slumbered on. "Piccolo, are you still alive?"

If Piccolo was dead, that meant Kami-sama was gone, too. And that meant no Dragonballs. Those who had been killed would stay that way for eternity.

There was no question of moving the rock herself; she simply was not strong enough. Bulma debated for a few minutes, then inspiration struck and she pulled another capsule from her belt -- this one containing tools for servicing her air cars. She found a jack, and after some careful maneuvering she managed to lift the heavy stone about four feet off the ground. Using an anti-gravity lifter, Bulma pushed the slab away and was able to send it crashing down the cliff side to land a few hundred feet below.

When she saw Piccolo, Bulma knew that using the Dragonballs to revive her friends was out of the question. He lay face down, his arms under himself almost as if he was protecting something. His dark purple training gi was almost nonexistent, with only a few scraps of bloody fabric remaining on his battered, broken form. Bulma opened a capsule crib and carefully laid Trunks in it, then returned to the grisly job of pulling Piccolo onto a stretcher.

As she tried to move him, Bulma realized there was something beneath the Nameksejin's body, and hope flared up inside her heavy heart. She finally managed to pull Piccolo up and lay the bulk of him on her lap, and though the weight made her grunt, it was nothing compared to the joy that she felt when she saw what Piccolo had, indeed, been protecting.

Held firmly in Piccolo's arms, unconscious and relatively unscathed except for a few minor scrapes, lay the small form of Gohan Son.

Bulma gasped, and she was able to move Piccolo onto a stretcher and pull it out of the way. Prying Gohan out of his friend's death grip, she picked the boy up and held him to her, rejoicing as she heard his quiet breathing. "Gohan?" she called softly, shaking him gently. In the background she heard Trunks begin to cry. "Gohan, honey, can you hear me?"

At long last the boy's eyelids fluttered, then he sat bolt upright in Bulma's lap. "Mister Piccolo!" he screamed, not realizing where he was.

Bulma shook his shoulders. "Gohan? Sweetheart, it's me. Bulma. Are you okay?"

Instantly Gohan flung himself into her arms, gripping her shirt tightly in his fists and sobbing. "Everyone," he cried brokenly. "They're . . . they're all . . . g-g--"

"I know," Bulma sighed, stroking his hair. "I know. Are you all right?"

He nodded, slowly. "Mister Piccolo . . . he jumped in front of me when the girl android tried to hurt me. Then when the rocks came he fell on top of me so I wouldn't get crushed . . ." his head snapped up, and Gohan's black eyes were full of fear. "Where is Piccolo? Did you find him? Is he okay?"

Wordlessly, Bulma pointed. Gohan followed her finger, then let out a shuddering gasp and scrambled off her lap, running on shaky legs to fall to his knees beside the stretcher. "No, Piccolo! Come back!" tears flowed from his eyes like water from a broken pipeline, and he threw himself on Piccolo's chest. "You can't be dead, sir, you can't!" Gohan's words became less and less intelligible as emotion overtook him. "How . . . how could you leave me . . . l-like . . . like this?" he hugged Piccolo's motionless form tightly, and Bulma's heart went out to him.

"Gohan . . ." she came up behind him, rested a hand lightly on his back. "Your Mom's worried about you. You should let me take you home."

"Leave me alone," the words were muffled, but the anger behind them was perfectly clear. "Nobody ever cared about Piccolo except for me. Just go away."

Bulma was surprised at the rage that was inside this small boy as he continued to cry. "Gohan --"

"I said, GO AWAY!" Gohan yelled, looking up at her with fire in his eyes. "Just go! Let me stay here with Piccolo," he got to his feet, swaying unsteadily for a second, and though tears still rolled down his cheeks his expression was enraged. "They've killed him, and you don't care! You just care about me! Well, killing Mister Piccolo is the same as killing me, so just pretend that I'm dead, okay?" his chest heaved with the effort of so much shouting, but he didn't stop there. "Nobody cared about him! Now that he's dead, I'm the only one who will cry. The only one!"

Now, she was shocked at the accusations that came pouring forth from the gentlest boy she had ever met. "Gohan, that isn't fair. Of course I care about Pic--"

"Then why aren't you crying??!" Gohan demanded, dropping down to a sitting position once more and grabbing Piccolo's hand, holding it to his chest.

Bulma's hand went to her cheek, which, of course, was dry.

Gohan was still weeping, clutching Piccolo's hand in his. Suddenly the rocks around him began to fly upward as the boy's energy increased rapidly, and Bulma blinked. She'd seen this kind of power only once before --

Letting out a yell that mixed rage, angst, and fifty other emotions, Gohan gripped Piccolo's fingers even tighter, and as Bulma watched in awe, his hair and eyes transformed to the colours of the legendary Super Saiyajin. His hair sticking straight up in tall, blond spikes, Gohan glared at Bulma with angry green eyes. "Let me stay with Piccolo," he ordered, and the change in his appearance made him seem older. "After Daddy died, he's the only reason I didn't die, too. He was my best friend" -- his voice choked, caught in his throat -- "Leave me alone. I wanna' die with him."

But the power was too much for him, and as his hair faded to black, Gohan's body fell on top of Piccolo's, unconscious.

Bulma sighed quietly, and she picked Gohan up and carried him to the jet, laying him on one of the seats and pulling a blanket up over him. "Poor kid," she murmured, brushing his hair back. "I hope he doesn't take this out on ChiChi . . ."

She went back for Piccolo, noticing somewhere in the back of her mind that Trunks had never stopped crying. Feeling like a horrible mother, she ignored him for the time being and concentrated on moving Piccolo to the jet. Bulma glanced down at Piccolo's face, and she reached out her hand and carefully closed his eyes, gently rearranging the muscles in the Nameksejin's face until she was able to erase most of the pain from his expression.

"Gohan was wrong," she declared softly. "I do care, Piccolo. Without you, Gohan would have died long ago. Thank you."

Picking up Trunks, who glared at her as though she had committed some evil crime, Bulma returned to the pilot seat, then turned the ship around for home. As she flew back, a sudden thought occurred to her: Vegeta's body wasn't there. He's still alive!

******

There was no funeral for the fighters -- it was far too painful. They were buried in the cemetery on Bulma's property, where her parents (who had been killed while grocery shopping in the first attack from the androids) and Goku lay. Gohan, who had woken up on the plane halfway home, refused to speak to anyone, sitting in front of Piccolo's grave for the entire day. Eventually ChiChi abandoned her attempts to convince him to come home, after Bulma promised to keep an eye on him.

Vegeta had not yet returned.

The sun was beginning to set, and Bulma sat in the kitchen, feeding Trunks. Though she didn't want to admit it, she was worried to death about Vegeta -- even though she hadn't found his body where the others were, that didn't mean he wasn't dead somewhere else. She shuddered at the thought.

Trunks, sensing her uneasiness, looked up at her curiously. "Gla-blay?" he inquired, lifting a hand and playing with her hair.

"Nothing, nothing," Bulma sighed, forcing herself to smile. "Just thinking about Daddy again. Go back to your supper."

When Trunks had finished, Bulma held him up to her shoulder and patted him on the back as she walked. The sun's lower rim had touched the horizon now, and blood-red streaks were shooting across the sky. How fitting, Bulma thought morbidly. She could see Gohan kneeling by the graves, working diligently at something.

"Go away," he told her, as Bulma came up behind him. He was patting the dirt around the base of a newly-sown plant; a Forget-Me-Not, Bulma realized, her heart twisting on account of the boy's pain. "If you're going to lecture me about not going home, don't."

"I wasn't," Bulma said simply, crouching down beside him and rocking back on her heels. She set Trunks on the ground, and the little boy immediately began crawling around in the grass, cooing delightedly to himself. "I'm just seeing if you're all right."

Gohan made a noise that sounded like a choked-off sob, and he wouldn't let her see his face. "What do you think?" he demanded hoarsely, in a way that, oddly enough, reminded Bulma of Vegeta. "Piccolo's gone. Everybody's gone."

Bulma swallowed hard. "Even Vegeta? I didn't see him?"

"That's because he flew away," Gohan replied tersely, still tending the small, blue flowers on Piccolo's grave.

"Away??" Bulma repeated incredulously. That didn't sound like the Vegeta she knew!

Gohan glowered at her, but she could see that it was more pain and less anger that was causing him to be this way. She'd seen the expression on Vegeta's face before, and again she felt a twinge of fear. "When the rockslide came, he led the androids away from me and Piccolo. The last thing I saw before . . . before Mister Piccolo saved me was the androids following Vegeta away. I don't know where they went -- Trunks, don't do that."

Bulma barely even noticed when Gohan removed a wriggling beetle from Trunks' mouth, giving the boy's hand a gentle smack when he started to pout. Vegeta . . . leading the androids away to try to save Piccolo and Gohan? She shook her head, and a cold pit of terror began to form in her stomach. If he hadn't returned yet . . .

"Gohan, can you sense Vegeta's energy?" she asked suddenly.

"I don't care whether I can or not," Gohan snapped. "I don't care about anything anymore."

Bulma grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard. Alarmed, Trunks backpedalled a few feet and watched safely from a distance until a ladybug caught his interest. "Listen to me!" Bulma glared fiercely at Gohan, and to her surprise she slapped him in the face. It didn't hurt, obviously, but it got his attention. "Don't give me that attitude, Gohan Son! I don't know where you got the idea that this is going to help you cope with Piccolo's death, but it won't."

Gohan still scowled defiantly, but some of the anger drained away from his face. Bulma continued her tirade. "I hate to say this, Gohan, but you're acting like a spoiled brat! Do you know what Piccolo would do if he saw you acting this way?"

The boy hung his head and nodded. "He'd punch me," he mumbled. "Or blast me with his eye lasers, or something."

"Darn right," Bulma agreed vehemently. "Shutting everyone else out is not the way to handle things. I didn't know Piccolo nearly as well as you did, but I know enough that he would want you to use your pain to fight the androids. Blaming me and your mother because we weren't as close to Piccolo as you were isn't what he'd want you to do!"

Gohan looked at the flowers he'd planted so tenderly, and his bottom lip quivered. The next thing Bulma knew, he was in her arms, sobbing hysterically and crying "I'm sorry!" over and over again. She held him and patted his back, murmuring quiet condolences.

"It's just so hard," Gohan admitted after he'd calmed down some. He was sitting in Bulma's lap, and she was rocking him as if he were Trunks. "First Daddy, then Kuririn and everyone, and now Piccolo . . . I'm just a kid, Bulma!"

"I know, sweetie," Bulma kissed his hair. "It's hard for all of us."

Trunks crawled over to them, still wondering what was going on, only knowing that his Mama and Gohan were sad. He rested his head on Gohan's leg and smiled up at him. Gohan managed a tear-filled smile in return.

"I sensed Vegeta's energy when I woke up," Gohan whispered, "But I don't anymore."

Bulma tensed, feeling her heart drop to the bottoms of her feet. "What?"

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away," Gohan's voice trembled. "But I was so worried about Piccolo that I didn't think --"

Bulma's head was in turmoil. "Where, Gohan? Where did you sense him?" Maybe he's just unconscious, or hiding . . . she thought desperately.

Gohan told her, and Bulma picked up a startled Trunks and leapt to her feet, throwing the capsule for her air car. "Maybe there's still time," she muttered, then looked down at a crestfallen Gohan. "Go home, kid, and talk to your mother. She'll understand. Remember, you're not the only one who loved your friends."

Gohan nodded, and he sniffled. "I'm sorry, Bulma. I-I'm sure Vegeta's still alive."

She didn't even reply as she jumped into the car and kicked on the accelerator.

Bulma swore bitterly without pausing for breath as she drove in the direction Gohan had indicated. Why do you have to be so stubborn, Vegeta? she demanded silently, though she knew the answer. He was Saiyajin, and he was a warrior . . . and deep down, she knew she wouldn't want it any other way.

Trunks gurgled from his car seat, watching with amusement as the scenery whipped by. He was probably the only person on Earth who wasn't gripped with terror every time Bulma was behind the wheel. He kicked his tiny feet, chuckling to himself as one of his boots came loose, and he lifted a foot and stretched out a hand until he was finally able to reach the boot. Giggling, the little boy threw his footwear at the stereo, where it hit the power button.

Bulma jumped as the radio came to life, and she shot a baleful glance at her son, who just waved at her. The girl on the radio was singing a song about losing the one she loved . . . Bulma's lip curled, and she stabbed the tuner button with her finger in a vicious gesture. A news report came on.

"Hello, this is Pete Mullings reporting from Violet City, which was attacked by the androids some time this afternoon. The casualties have not yet been numbered, but it is estimated that at least one hundred thousand men, women, and children have been --"

"AUGHH!" Bulma screamed, startling Trunks, and she changed the channel again. "This is ridiculous! Trunks, why does the world seem to be out to get your Mommy today?"

Trunks, who was in the process of pulling off his sock, merely looked at her curiously and smiled.

I'm falling apart here, Bulma thought dejectedly. Why can't I hold myself together? Darn you, Vegeta, why do you have to affect me so much? She snorted inwardly. Stupid question . . . I know why. It's because I love you, you arrogant, stuck-up idiot . . .

She scowled, and played with the radio channels, flipping from station to station with such rapid succession that Trunks finally got annoyed and threw his other boot at her. "Sorry, sweetie, Mommy'll turn the radio off now."

Bulma sighed as she hit the power button, realizing that she was literally freaking out. Vegeta,she thought, I hope you're all right. I didn't lie to you when I said I wouldn't know what to do if I lost you . . .

Trunks sensed her mood and he fell silent, sucking on the back of his fist pensively, staring at her with serious eyes.

In the hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, Bulma heard the bed springs creak and the blankets rustle as Vegeta got out of bed. Still feigning sleep, she waited as Vegeta changed into his Saiyajin armour -- which she had made specially for him, by the way. When she heard him about to leave, Bulma sat straight up in bed. Vegeta's head snapped around in surprise, and his gaze followed her as she got up.

"Where are you going?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Apparently Vegeta thought so, too, for he cocked an eyebrow at her as he struggled to buckle his chestplate with his one good hand. "You know perfectly well where I'm going."

"But why?" Bulma snapped the buckle shut for him, and though he glared, he let her help him finish donning his armour.

"I can sense the others' energies increasing," he explained roughly. "They're planning to go fight. It would be a disgrace for these lower-class fighters to battle without their Prince."

"'A disgrace'?" Bulma repeated incredulously. "Again with the social status. Is that all you care about?"

His eyebrows furrowed. "No. You know that," he sighed. "But I have to go."

She knew from the look on his face that there was no stopping him. There never was . . . "Vegeta?" Bulma gulped, and she grabbed his hand. "Don't die out there."

"I don't intend to die!" Vegeta snapped scornfully, but something flickered in his eyes, and his mouth curved up in what could have been called a smile. "I'll return," he told her, and his voice softened, just a fraction.

"Thank you," she whispered, but as he left she felt there was something else she had to do. Throwing a housecoat over her nightgown, Bulma grabbed something from her dresser and followed.

Vegeta was just taking off when Bulma came up behind him. "Wait!" she called.

He hesitated, then returned to the ground. "What? Hurry up, the others will be leaving soon."

"Vegeta, I . . ." the feelings pushed at Bulma from inside her, welling up with the force of magma inside a volcano until she felt like she was at the breaking point. At last all the emotions were too great, and the lava exploded. "I love you!" she burst out.

As soon as she said it, Bulma regretted it, clapping her hands over her mouth. She'd blown it! In their time together, Bulma and Vegeta had never based their relationship on verbal confirmations -- it was more like a mutual agreement that in some odd way, they needed each other. By taking it to this new level, Bulma knew she had pushed it too far.

But Vegeta just lifted one eyebrow. "If you're trying to shock me, that's a pretty pathetic attempt. I've known that for a long time."

Bulma dropped her hands, and she more than anything she wanted to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him . . . but she didn't. With Vegeta, there was a time and a place for affection, and this was definitely not it. She fidgeted nervously. "Um . . . Vegeta, uh . . . I was thinking . . ."

"Speed it up."

She grabbed his wrist, opened his hand, and shoved something in it. "No, don't look. Just . . . keep it. Please?"

Vegeta looked at her oddly, then he put the trinket in a pocket in his chestplate. "Fine. Are we finished here? Yes? Good. Goodbye."

Bulma sighed quietly as he flew into the air, and she leaned against the door frame. From her bedroom she heard Trunks begin to fuss, and Bulma turned around to go back.

As she started to walk away, she heard a whoosh of air behind her, but didn't think anything of it. It wasn't until a calloused hand grabbed hers that Bulma realize what had happened, and she spun around to see Vegeta standing there, a mixture of emotions playing upon his features. They both stood there uncertainly for a minute, Vegeta still holding her hand, then suddenly Vegeta closed the gap between them and kissed her. Bulma closed her eyes, and had she been able to cry, she would have.

At last Vegeta pulled away, and Bulma thought he squeezed her hand briefly before letting go. "I'll be back," he vowed, then flew off for good.

Bulma stared out at the stars, and the smile that touched her lips was at once happy and sorrowful. "I hope you're right," she whispered.

The sun had surrendered the sky to darkness completely by now, and Bulma was still looking. She'd had to stop to feed Trunks and once to change him, and the delays made her chafe at the neck, but she knew there was no way out of it. Having Trunks screaming at her the whole way would most likely mess up her concentration, and increased the possibility of passing Vegeta by.

Bulma flicked her headlights on bright, straining her eyes for any sign of her errant partner. "Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn," she gritted out through clenched teeth as she raked the ground for clues. Her eyes burned, and Bulma rubbed them with one hand -- darn her, for sitting at a computer for hours on end and ruining her eyesight! A light drizzle was trickling down on all of them, and the windshield wipers made it even more difficult to see.

Different objects became illuminated for a split-second by the headlights, only to fade away into blackness again as the air car passed. Rock, bush, concrete, raccoon, another rock, blood, hand closed into a fist, another bush -- wait!!

Bulma slammed on the brakes, keeping one hand in front of the car seat so it wouldn't jerk so much, and engaged the reverse, backing up about fifteen feet before jumping out of the vehicle. She quickly pulled out a capsule tent and set Trunks in it, then dropped to her knees beside the arm of a man she recognized all too well. She got a flashlight from her belt and played it around, its dubious illumination bouncing off the rocks and giving the scene a surreal appearance.

Not caring what the combination of mud and blood would do to her clothes, Bulma worked to pull away bits of the wreckage off the body, trying to see if there was more than the arm in there. After a time she saw a white cast, then a muscled shoulder. At last, dropping the flashlight so it pointed at the site, Bulma used both hands to remove the rocks, and was able to uncover the broken body of Vegeta.

There was a hole in his chestplate, right through to the armour on his back, and Bulma knew this had been the cause of death. His armour was cracked in places, and the specially-made, ultra-strong spandex bodysuit had tears all over it. He lay on his side, black hair waving gently in the breeze, slowly dampening in the rain. A grimace of pain and anger contorted his feature, and Bulma noted with a sad smile that there was no look of defeat on his face.

She ran the back of her fingers down his cheek, glad that the injuries hadn't touched his face. Somehow it was a minor comfort to have at least part of him in tact -- she didn't want to remember him the way she did Yamucha, with his face bloodied beyond recognition. In a way, being able to look at him like this made it seem like he wasn't really dead.

Bulma jumped when she saw the pocket that had held her gift was open and empty. A sudden fear crossed her mind -- had he lost it? Or had he simply thrown it away after he'd left? Her gaze was drawn to his right fist, which was clenched tightly, and it was then that Bulma saw the glimmer of gold on the one side.

With utmost care, Bulma pried open Vegeta's fingers, and let out a gasp when she saw her present to him was indeed in his hand. It was a small, gold locket on a chain . . . it had no sentimental engraving, and it was not heart-shaped; just a simple, round pendant. It was open, and Bulma smiled when she saw the picture of her staring out at them.

"You do care," she whispered, and she closed his fist over the necklace respectfully. "You actually care . . ."

It was then that Bulma realized it was too late; whether or not Vegeta cared about her, he was gone. A hand went to her mouth as the full realization that Vegeta was dead -- not just gone; dead -- hit her full in the face. Though she had been crouching, Bulma's knees gave out on her and she flopped sideways in the mud. The rain trickled down her face, striking her like icy knives, and she slowly reached out and took Vegeta's hand, holding it to her chest.

He's gone, a little voice somewhere in her head cried. You'll never see him again. You won't have to yell at him for eating all your food, or for training until three in the morning and waking you up when he went to bed. You won't have to hear him call you "woman" or "brat," or insist that you are weaker than he and have to cater to his every whim. You won't have to deal with his pride and arrogance anymore!

"But I liked yelling at him," Bulma whispered brokenly. "I liked cooking for him, and even though I used to pretend to be angry, I'd get insulted if Vegeta didn't wake me up in the mornings. And I knew that 'woman' and 'brat' weren't insults, they were just his way of talking," she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "At least I got to tell him."

Suddenly her shoulders began to shake uncontrollably, and the rain running down her cheeks grew hot and tasted of salt. Her eyes widened as she realized that for the first time in almost a year, she was crying.

"You idiot," her voice was so low it barely carried over the hissing of rain on the cement. "See what you made me do? You made me cry . . ."

But after that, emotion took over and Bulma could speak no more as sobs wracked her body, shaking her so that it almost hurt and she had to gasp for breath. She bent over his lifeless form, put her head on the ruins of his chest, and wept, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Unnoticed, Trunks crawled out of the tent and managed to reach his mother's side. The small child frowned with concentration as he studied the shaking shoulders, the sopping turquoise hair, the thin hands clenching the shoulder straps on the armour. His blue-eyed gaze then took in the still form over which his mother was hunched, the proud, motionless face with its black eyes closed.

Several thought processes turned through the boy's mind, then something clicked. He opened his mouth, and for the first time an actual word was issued from it: "Papa?"

But Bulma didn't hear. All her attentions were devoted to the burning pain in her heart, and the numbing quality to her brain as she tried to come to terms with the fact that her Vegeta was gone forever. She sat partway up, caressed his cheek lightly, then kissed him one last time, trying to ignore the fact that his skin was cold and he didn't kiss her back.

Thunder and lightning crashed above, drowning out the whispered words: "I love you, Vegeta . . ."