Author's Note: Just playing around with thoughts and ideas. I'm focusing more on character development than plot. Reviews & Constructive Criticism Welcome, Flames Not. I write to get it out of my system, I hope you enjoy. This is just an interpretation; nothing is really right or wrong in the fanfiction world
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Solitude
Bulma Briefs is an inherently lonely girl. Unable to relate to the majority of her peers beyond a superficial level, she often feels an uneasy solitude within her life. Desperate attempts for popularity and plays on vanity and selfishness to hide her rather insecure self-doubt. Her indiscernible lack of confidence when it comes to the social world she inhabits. A world that during her youth, did not appreciate the intellect of the female persuasion. A world that she still fights to gain recognition of her accomplishments, overshadowed by the malocchio that plagues intellectuals. A world that designates her the subtle secondary status she faces as the unfortunate result of her gender.
But Bulma is a smart woman, a woman who can understand her social surroundings, sit outside and look in. Always looking in. From a young age she realised she was different, and strived to become the same. But it often left her feeling empty and frustrated. So she learned by replicating that which was around her, an extroverted persona, a façade. A way to get by, get through life. Nonetheless, she is acutely aware of her loneliness, her eclectic group of friends that often feel no more than circumstance, herself only included within the lives of others when something of her is needed. She is mindful of her difference and the manner in which she needs to become the same.
She stands by the window, watching the dark brooding clouds looming over the property, threatening to flood their abode. Small drops of rain splash against the window, trees beginning to sway in the increasing violent wind. A storm is coming, this she knows.
She is only half listening to the rambles of her mother, her focus on the world outside the glass. Bunny strolls about the room, tidying up odds and ends, the soprano tones of her voice ringing through the space. A unique trait of her mother, the ability to fill any room with the melodic quality of her voice, no matter how dampened the noise is with fabric and carpets. One of many of her strange and wonderful gifts that she brings to the eccentric family.
Bulma is spooked by the sudden placement of her mother's hand on her shoulder. "You'll take good care of him while we're away?" She nods her head, turning around to give her mother a warm embrace.
While she sometimes feels estranged from her mother with the stark differences in their personality, she does adore her. A breathe of fresh air and sunshine, her mother is within the dark, dank world of research and science, confined to attending to the needs of two like-minded, focused individuals of herself and her father. Bulma admires her mother, her ability to put up with the mood swings, the stress and the pressure that both her and her father continually feel pushing hard down onto their shoulders. Her warmth and kindness, her soothing ability to make one feel better, to feel human in their increasingly artificial and inhumane world. Deep inside she hopes that she has gained some of those qualities from her mother, that she is not completely like her father.
"A lonely man indeed….Just like you" her mother muses over her shoulder before letting go of their embrace, breaking Bulma out from her own silent reverie. Her mother leaves then with a smile and a skip before Bulma can respond. Another gift of her mother's, the ability to read people, to see the larger picture that often her and her father miss in their search for the details. An uncanny ability to unpack the individual in front of her. Her mother is a beautiful creature, she concludes. A magnificent being whose penchant for naivety could in fact, be inherent and misunderstood wisdom. She ponders the meaning behind her mother's phrase, what she is seeing that she cannot.
Bulma turns her attention back to the window, a frown etched onto her face as she observes the realm beyond the transparent wall, her focus intent on the figure she cannot see, hidden within the walls of his own prison. The enigma of a man that gives her a strange feeling, constricting within her chest. As if he is part of something more within her life beyond his role as a house guest. As though he is a puzzle that is waiting to be unpacked by her.
The thick, heavy blanket of darkness has settled over the compound as the evening wears on, shards of rain beating against the glass and steel that is Capsule Corporation, as if it is trying to break down the stronghold that keeps the Briefs family safe. She sits at the kitchen table, observing the streams of water trickling down the front of the window, listening to the comforting rhythm of the rain.
She has been feeling out of sorts as of late, unable to move forward with the threat of death lingering at the back of her mind. As though her life is perpetually on hold. She is unsure what she can do to prevent the invasion, the devastation. Her stroke of brilliance shot down by the others in their overwhelming need to prove themselves, their lack of truly understanding the significance behind potential failure. Her fists begin to clench with slight anger, angry at their selfishness, their pride, how they can begin to think that losing against a worthy opponent is worth the lives of millions. She slams her fist down on the table, muttering softly, unaware of the man that is watching her.
"Talking to yourself onna?" She looks up, startled to see him leaning against the archway of the room, dripping wet from the onslaught of the rain. Her gaze is momentarily distracted by the droplets of water falling off of his body, pooling at his feet, the way his shorts cling desperately to his skin. A faint blush stains her cheeks when she realises she has been staring.
"Are you here for dinner?" She avoids his question. He does not expect an answer, and she knows she is not required to give one. She wonders whether he is attempting to engage with conversation, or trying to bait her, a form of entertainment she has come to learn that he sometimes participates in with her companions, though very rarely with herself and her family. He does not answer her inquiry, but instead turns and disappears down the hallway. She takes his silence as a yes. This is common, their lack of dialogue. Something she has grown accustomed to. The man who keeps to himself, never giving himself away.