"It speaks to our larger expectation that the world should be comprehensible – that everything happens for a reason, and that we can pinpoint all those reasons, however small they may be. But nature itself defies this expectation"

-Peter Dizikes

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CASE FILE 001- BULMA

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The clock is loud, ticking in her ear relentlessly. A steady metronome of time that pesters her like a noisy fly. Tick. Tick. Tick. Damned thing makes it so hard to focus on anything else. She can't think past the small clinks against the glass frame of the clock, let alone hear the words of the man in front of her.

His leg is crossed on top of the other one, his elbow resting on his knees. The skin around his eyes crinkles like used tissue paper, adding depth to his intense stare at her. He wants something from her, a reply to the words he spoke. His thin lips press into a tight line like he disproves of her silence. Of course he disproves. Everyone looks at her like that, now.

"Why do you refuse to answer the question, Bulma?" His tone is like sweet honey, meant to sop her up until she finds him worthy of her trust. She hates when he talks to her like that. Like they're old friends. Like he thinks of her in the highest regard.

She bends the ends of her long sleeve in her palms and folds her arms over her chest, looking away from him. Her eyes shift to the clock, following the long hand as it ticks away the seconds. She wishes that it could tick her away, too.

"Bulma."

"I don't know what you want from me." She refuses to look at him, instead focusing on the fibers in the muddy green carpet. It's an ugly old carpet that makes her want to vomit, and she can't understand why he thinks it's necessary to decorate the place with it.

"I only want you to answer the question. Would you like me to repeat it?" She rolls her eyes and pouts at his suggestion, not appreciating the gentle way he talks to her. She wishes he would swallow his sugared words and regurgitate something more raw, something more aligned with the way he must view her. He clears his throat when she says nothing, and she can hear the shuffling of his papers in his lap. "I want you to take me back to that night, Bulma. I want you to tell me what was going through your mind."

She scoffs, feeling her cheeks heat up as her brain replays that moment without her consent. She can still smell the lingering stench of pancakes from that afternoon, can still hear the cheap television comedy coming from the living room. She can still feel the way her fingers began to prune under the water as she hovered over the tub, as she hovered over him-

"Miss Briefs?" She still says nothing, biting her jaw so roughly she can taste the iron of her blood. She hears him sigh with annoyance, but it doesn't make her want to talk. If anything, she wants to close her eyes and pretend this is all a nightmare. "Listen to me, I want to help you. I want to be able to get through whatever barriers you have to give you some sort of leverage here. But I can't do that if you don't talk? We've sat here for forty five minutes already and you still have yet to tell me anything about yourself."

Bulma shrugs her shoulders, taking a deep breath of her own. Even the thought of having to discuss anything about herself makes her chest hot with anxiety. Her tongue dries up, but she finally turns to face him, staring through the lens of his glasses to lock contact with his eyes the color of snow. "What do you want me to say, huh?" The corners of her eyes sting, begging her to let the tears fall, but she wills them away before they can do so. "You want to hear about me? About good ole Bulma Briefs and her fabulous life?"

"Fabulous, you say?" He jots something down on the clipboard in his lap, briefly taking his eyes off of her. She watches him scratch his pen to the paper, and she can't help but wonder what type of adjective he's using to describe her. "What about your life makes you feel that it is fascinating?" His eyes slide back up to her then, looking at her over the brim of his glasses.

"Are you kidding me? Why would it not be? Unlike other people, I don't have to worry about money. I never have to worry about a job, or paying my bills." She leans back against the couch and crosses her legs, an arrogant smile spreading across her face. "Life's been pretty sweet to me. I come from great stock; my parents are stellar looking and I'm not so bad on the eyes myself. I can make a man wet himself just from blowing him a kiss. Honest to god," she says with a cocky smirk, raising her hand in the air, "I've seen it happen."

"I am aware that you consider yourself to be attractive, Bulma, but what else makes your life fulfilling? Outside of material things, that is. I'm just trying to understand you."

"Simple, really," she presses her finger lightly to her temple, her face taking on a more serious expression, "I'm smart. And not in some silly way that girls like to act. Reading a newspaper over some scrambled eggs doesn't make you some genius. But me, well I can run circles around the best scientists in this country. I even managed to blow them out the water at the National Science Convention. You have that somewhere in your notes, right?"

He fidgets with his glasses as he looks through his papers, nodding his head. "Seems so. It's very impressive Bulma, really it is. As young as you are and are already looking at being named one of the top scientists of this decade. Do you enjoy the work you've put in at Capsule Corps?"

"I certainly do," she smiles tenderly at the mention, memories of all of her achievements flooding her mind. Capsule Corporation is her pride, her baby. It's the lover she sleeps next to when she's feeling lonely, the ache in her heart when she's away from it. "My father built that company, you know. I got to watch it grow from a seed of an idea into a multi-billion dollar technological research facility. Enjoy isn't a strong enough adjective for what I do."

"So tell me then," he puts his papers on the coffee table to his right, folding his hands over his knee, "If you're so satisfied with everything in your life, what do you think happened that night? Why suddenly a glitch in the matrix?"

Her smile wanes until her mouth straightens into a thin line and she looks to the floor again. Why do they have to keep going back over this? Bulma's already given her answer for what happened that night -she doesn't know. She doesn't know why she let her brain take the back seat to her rationalization, why she let her emotions become the driver of her body. She wishes he would stop asking her so that they can get to the root of her problems. Like when she'll be able to go home. Like if she has a shot of beating this sort of thing.

The door opens suddenly behind them, a tall, slim woman walking through the door. She holds papers to her chest, her eyes temporarily sliding over to Bulma. She struts over to him, passing him the paperwork as stiff as the gleam in her eyes.

"Eighteen," he takes a sip of water from his glass on the coffee table, sternly looking at her, "You can't interrupt my sessions like that. The privacy of my patients is very important."

"I thought I should tell you that you're ten minutes past the appointment. Your next patient is here and he's getting on my nerves about seeing you. I don't like this one at all, Dad."

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head at her, staring her down. His eyes dance over to Bulma, an apologetic grin stealing his lips. "It seems as if we've gotten carried away, Miss Briefs. I feel like we should pick up where we left off tomorrow. Maybe then we can discuss more about what goes inside that brain of yours. Does that sound good to you?"

Bulma stands promptly, feeling stuffy inside of this claustrophobic office. She's got to get out. Got to get some fresh air and erase her mind of these ghosts of memories. Maybe even smoke a few cigarettes to feel better. "It's what I've gotta do, right? I don't have a shot in any court room without the good ole assessment of Dr. Gero, after all."

He nods, but his eyes show that he isn't entertaining her sarcasm. "Perhaps, but maybe you'll also find a breakthrough yourself, right? That's the sort of gift that keeps on giving."

"Don't patronize me, doctor. I don't need a fucking psych evaluation; I need a drink and a better lawyer."

"Don't we all, Miss Briefs," he forces out a chuckle and walks her to the door, the blonde woman clinging close to his side. "Eighteen here will guide you back to the dormitories. After our session tomorrow, I should be able to prepare a med list for you so that you'll be able to see the nurse before bed, but for now you should try to rest. The first night can be tough on anybody."

"I'm not anybody," she responds harshly, glaring at him from the corner of her eye, "I already told you, I'm Bulma Briefs. I don't break down so easily."

"Oh my god," Eighteen's tone drips with sarcasm, and Bulma catches the eye roll the woman throws at her, "In here, you're just like everybody else." She pushes past Bulma and leaves her bewildered at her rudeness.

"Please excuse my daughter, she's just helping me out with the overwhelming caseload," Dr. Gero smiles earnestly at Bulma, extending his arm through the doorframe. "I'm sure my sons won't be giving you a problem. You can see them to receive your pajamas and toiletries. They're right outside of the double doors to the office." Bulma nods and heads through, halfway listening to him. Outside of these walls, she's just another drugged up drone, isn't she? What does it matter who does what and who she needs to see? To them, she's all the same. She's crazy. Unstable.

A terror.

She swallows hard and exits the office, locking eyes with an impatient Eighteen. A grunt is heard at her side and she looks around to the waiting chair and sees a man sitting there scowling, an annoyed glare shooting daggers from his eyes to hers. He looks to be around her age and for a second she feels pity for him for having to be here. Just like her. They probably think he's a monster too. Just like her.

But then his midnight coal eyes accuse her of something, of what it is she doesn't know. An angry snake slithers around her belly and she lets it crawl through her chest until she blurts out an irate, "What the hell are you looking at!?"

He scoffs, shaking his head at her and standing. A flash of rage blinks over his face quickly as he soaks in her harsh question. He's not even that tall, she thinks with a judgmental sort of arrogance, one that makes her feel better about the way he's staring her down. And his hair is funny looking too. It reminds her of a black flame that she wants to blow out, like the feathers on a raven. It makes her blood run cold, really, as she takes in his murderous stare. She really pissed him off, hasn't she?

"Whatever the hell you need to discuss with the doctor, you need to make sure it doesn't cut into my time! I get an hour, same as you, and I don't like to be late," saliva pools around his mouth as his wild eyes study her face.

Who the fuck does this midget think he is, telling her what to do with her time? Stupid asshole, it doesn't matter if he takes the full hour or not, he still has to be here every fucking day just like her. She opens her mouth to tell him so, but she's met with a palm to the face as he walks past her. "You'd better be done on time tomorrow." He calls from over his shoulder.

"Or else what?" The anger inside of her rises like a phoenix, spreading its wings until her limbs stretch in rage. "I'll do as I please, thank you! You don't fucking tell me what to do!"

"Go fuck yourself," he says coldly, the tone in his voice making the hair on her neck stand up, "Or are you even allowed to do that here?"

Her cheeks heat up as a rebuttal dies in her throat, her fingers clenching and unclenching around the nerve of this guy. Eighteen walks between them, an amused smile stretching across her face.

"Jesus, children, can we behave like adults? No wonder you idiots are in the looney bin, you're arguing like you're five."

"You can't say that to us!" Bulma pushes an accusatory finger in her face, feeling hotly overwhelmed with the attitude she's been getting. "That's gotta be illegal!"

"Maybe, but who's going to listen to you?" Eighteen glares at her comically, as if Bulma is an insect ready to be squashed. "Who's going to listen to either of you? If you ask me, you'll be lucky if someone comes to check on your ass for the next year. I sure as hell wouldn't. And what about you, tough guy? Got any more words you want to toss over to her?" She turns around to face him, but instead she's met with a heavy slam of the wooden door. A shrill laughter escapes her lips and she tosses her head back before turning around to Bulma, a hint of mockery sleeping under her grin.

"Well I can definitely say that this will be entertaining. I'll buckle my seatbelt for this ride. Okay, blue," Eighteen walks as if she's some sort of fashion model, making Bulma green with envy. She remembers when she could strut around like that, like nothing mattered past the curve of her hips or the sharp slant of her eyes. "Head on down through these double doors and go see my brothers. They'll give you a room assignment and take you to meet your new bunk buddy. Try not to give them a hard time, okay? Seventeen's a real sucker for exotic colors." She laughs again as she sits back down to her seat, playing through her smart phone. Bulma glares at her for a few tense seconds before looking back to the door again. The name on the door -Dr. Gero- stares back at her and reminds her of what just happened with that short asshole. The little prick.

She can't believe how incredibly rude these people are. She can't believe that, outside of the doctor, she'll be forced to see the slick mouthed Eighteen every day. Or that little troll with the bad attitude and even worse manners. She can't believe that this will be her life for the next year, that she'll have to live that bad dream over and over again in her mind, like some sort of cursed film.

Bulma finally tears her stare away from the door and Eighteen, turning around to walk down the long, brightly lit corridor. She hates it here. She hates herself for putting her here. She hates him, for not being around to tell the truth. The truth that no one seems to believe. The truth that she has to fight to be heard.

It's too much. It's all too much.

As Bulma heads through the double doors, she finally lets the tears slide down her cheeks. For a brief moment, she feels alive.

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A/N

This is just an idea that I had and my fingers itched to write it down. I'm not sure if I'll finish it or how often, but I figured I'd see how the responses were. If this plot (which if I haven't made obvious, involves Bulma in a psychiatric ward for reasons unclear at the moment) interests you, then please R&R!