Disclaimer: I do not own DB/Z/GT. I asked Santa for the rights to them, but I guess even Jolly ol' St. Nick is afraid of a lawsuit from TOEI, FUNimation, and the rest!

A/N: Ah, yes. This fic is more than a Bulma-gets-kidnapped-Vegeta-rescues-Bulma story, I promise you that. If I can pull it off, this will be a tale of action, romance, cunning (on Bulma's part, anyway...^^), and deception. Intrigued? Stick around and see.

All preamble aside, on with the show!

Damsel in Distress?  Not Likely!

Chapter One: In the Dark of the Night

A tiny fist met a larger one in a clumsy attempt to block a punch, then struck forward in a blow of its own.  The child frowned, lavender eyebrows knitting together in frustration as he tried again and again to land a hit on his opponent, who also happened to be his father.  He knew it was useless, but the desire to try burned deeply within him, causing the boy to continue to throw random punches despite the fact that each blow missed its mark.

The father lashed out his fist, but this time he miscalculated.  Instead of his hand merely grazing the child's face, the blow was met head-on, and the six-year-old flew backwards into the far wall.  Tears leaked from his bright blue eyes, then he bit his lip and swiped his eyes clear.  "I'm s-sorry, Papa, I should've blocked it."

"Buck up, brat, you did fine," Vegeta growled, pretending he wasn't affected when his son scrambled to his feet, beaming happily. 

The next minute, Vegeta's shoulders hunched as a voice came from the kitchen.  "Vegeta!  If you're beating up our son again, you'll be sorry!"

Little Trunks giggled.  "I guess we were too loud, Papa," he grinned, and he wiped the blood dribbling from his nose with his sleeve.

One corner of Vegeta's mouth quirked upwards in the slightest possible indication of a smile.  "Guess so," he raised his voice.  "The kid is fine, woman!"

Footsteps were heard stomping dangerously toward the livingroom.  "Vegeta . . ." Bulma's voice came closer and closer, sounding annoyed.  "Trunks . . ."

Trunks squealed and hid behind his father's leg, until Vegeta pushed him away.  "Hey, brat, you're going to make her suspicious!"

Bulma came into the room then, hands on her hips.  "You two are impossible!  Trunks, I already told you, you're not allowed to train with Daddy unless you're in the Gravitron or outside.  As for you, Vegeta," she raised an eyebrow.  "I told you the same thing.  What am I going to do with you boys?"

"Sorry, Mama," Trunks laughed, and he ran to her, jumping up to be caught in her arms.  "But it's fun."

"Bleeding is fun?" Bulma challenged, smiling at him.  "Look at you, you little goof ball!" she cleaned his nose, an affectionate look crossing her face.  "I think I'm going to lock you in your room when Daddy's inside, kiddo," Bulma tickled his stomach before setting him back down.  "O, well.  If you two grunts are finished trying to kill each other, your dinner is ready."

She turned and left, but before the other two followed, Vegeta punched Trunks and sent him sprawling.  The boy chuckled and trotted after his parents.

Bulma watched, amused, as the Saiyajin and demi-Saiyajin tackled the mound of food set in front of them.  Her parents didn't even pay attention anymore.  "Slow down before you choke," Bulma sighed, though it was more of a reflex response than anything.  Vegeta completely ignored the remark, and Trunks just raised an eyebrow and kept eating.  He sat on a stack of computer textbooks so he could keep his head above the table.

Ten minutes into the meal, Vegeta looked up.  "We need more food.  I'll have finished this in five minutes."

"We need to go shopping," Bulma pushed a strand of turquoise hair behind one ear.  "Thanks to your bottomless stomach, we're all out of food again.  I was going to ask if you could go to the grocery store after dinner."


"I'm busy."

"You aren't," Bulma countered.  "You would just go to the trainer for a few hours, then come back in and watch television for twenty minutes or so before going upstairs and crashing on the bed.  Don't give me 'busy'."

Bulma's father almost choked on his food as he struggled not to laugh.  "Bulma, lay off a little.  The poor man!"

"'Poor man'?" Vegeta repeated, looking shocked and insulted, and everyone at the table suddenly became interested in their napkins, forks, or plates — anything that kept them from glancing at the irate Saiyajin and bursting into peals of laughter.  "Don't be stupid, Briefs.  Fine, I'll go to the store.  Is the brat coming?"

"Grocery shopping?" Trunks spit into his napkin.  "Papa, are you kidding?"

Bulma grinned.  "No, you have to go to bed.  Daddy can handle shopping all by himself.  He's a grown man."

Vegeta's lip curled, and he finished his supper.  "Give me a credit card," he commanded.  Bulma fished in her pocket and handed Vegeta a handful of zenni vouchers.

"This should tide you over," she stood up from the table and followed him to the door.  "Here's some capsules to carry the groceries in."

Vegeta grunted as he accepted the small devices and stowed them in his pocket.  "I won't be long.  Think you can take care of the house until I'm back, weakling?"

Bulma smacked his arm.  "Don't overinflate your ego, mister.  The house will still be standing, I'm sure.  Go on, get outta' here."

He snorted, but he grinned as he flew away.


Bulma watched him go, shaking her head slowly and smiling.  "I don't know why I let him stay here," she sighed, knowing she didn't mean it.  "That man is such an idiot."

"Mama, do I have to go to bed?" Trunks asked when she came back to the table.

"When you're done supper, yes, you do," Bulma ruffled his hair as she sat down, ignoring the face he made from the action.  "Until you're old enough to stay up all night without falling asleep, you will have a bedtime.  Sorry, Trunks."

Trunks blew her a raspberry, then winced when his mother shot him a glare.  "I can stay up all night.  I'm not a baby."

Bulma's mother raised an eyebrow.  "I remember the last time you said that, sweetie.  You were asleep by eight o'clock."

"Goten was over that time," Trunks protested, "We'd been playing all day.  That was different!"

Bulma looked at him, studying his proud face.  The boy's stubborn expression was identical to one of his father's, and the comparison drew a small smile from Bulma.  "You know what?  I have to work on a program, so I won't be going to bed tonight.  If you can stay up with me, Trunks, then we'll negotiate a later bedtime.  How's that?"

Trunks grinned, and he bounced up and down on his chair.  "Okay!  Thanks, Mama!"

"Sure thing, kid," Bulma punched him lightly on the cheek.  "Maybe you can help me with the program.  You're going to grow up to take over the Capsule Corp. business someday, you know."

The little boy made a face, but he shrugged.  "Sure.  I can try."

******

An hour later, Bulma bent over the keyboard, leaning close to the computer with her nose almost pressed to the screen. A housecoat was thrown over her pajamas, and a cup of coffee sat beside her on the desk, now ice-cold.  "I'm going to need glasses at this rate," she muttered, tapping at the keys viciously.  She was working on the design for a new security robot, and though things were going well, it was still a time-consuming process.

Bulma grimaced, and she pushed her chair away from the lab table, hearing the wheels squeak as the chair rolled backwards.  She stretched her hands up to the ceiling, feeling her cramped muscles complaining from the movement.  She looked down at the floor and smiled, seeing that Trunks lay curled up on the floor, fast asleep.  She'd known perfectly well he wouldn't last long, since he'd been at Goten's house almost all day.

"Vegeta should be back in about half an hour," Bulma murmured, glancing at her watch.  AI'll put Trunks to bed before he gets back."


Lifting her son into her arms, Bulma carried him upstairs to his room.  "You're a good boy," she whispered, kissing him on the forehead.  In her bare feet and house robe, Bulma padded down the carpeted hallway to Trunks' bedroom.  It was sparsely furnished, with only a bed and dresser, but toys were strewn everywhere.  Bulma changed Trunks into his pajamas, and he mumbled in his sleep. 

"No.. Goten.. don't eat .. my food," he muttered, then subsided.  His mother smiled as she tucked him into bed, softly brushing his lavender hair out of his eyes.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Bulma turned to leave the room, suppressing a groan as she thought of the long night that awaited her.

She wasn't halfway to the door before all the lights went out.  It wasn't a flicker like a power outage during a thunderstorm; every electronic device in the house — be it lights, computers, robots, or security systems — shut down with a bang.  Even the backup generators were dead.  Bulma emitted a small shriek, and she stumbled back to Trunks' bed, stepping on toys and cursing quietly to herself as the sharp edge of something cut her foot.

Bulma fumbled in her pocket, where she always kept an emergency supply of capsules, no matter what she was wearing or what the occasion was, until her trembling fingers found a flashlight.  The bright, white beam lanced out from the small device, and Bulma played the light around the room trying to find the cause of the sudden power failure.

"Mama?" Trunks' voice came from the bed, quivering from sleepiness and just a touch of fright.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Bulma kicked a few toy tanks and warrior action figures out of the way, and she picked Trunks up.  "But something's the matter.  I don't know what."

Trunks tensed in her arms, and Bulma held on tighter.  "What?  Can I fight it?"

"You aren't old enough to fight!" Bulma snapped.  "A few clandestine sparring matches with your father does not make you qualified to battle anyone!  Just relax — we don't even know if there's somebody —"

She never got to finish the question, for the next thing she knew a blinding light was glaring at her with the intensity of a Taiyouken, and someone had wrenched Trunks from her arms.  Bulma heard someone scream, and it took her an agonized second to realize that she was the one making the hysterical noise.  Strong arms pinioned her elbows to her sides, and a hand grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head backwards and causing her to cry out in pain.

"Briefs Bulma?" a gruff voice demanded, shaking Bulma's head roughly.


"Y-yes," Bulma stammered, squinting against the light and trying to see where Trunks was.  "What's going on?" finally her eyes adjusted to the glare, and Bulma could see a group of soldiers — both men and women — dressed in black combat suits, holding an array of weaponry that was both frightening and illegal.  All of the guns were pointed at her.  In the background, Bulma could see a man struggling to hold Trunks, who was kicking and punching and even trying to bite.

"Mama!" Trunks cried, "They're too strong!"

The soldier restraining him shouted, "Shut up, brat!" and clubbed Trunks on the back of the neck with the rifle he carried.  The small boy's eyes bulged, then his body went limp.

Bulma screamed and fought to free herself from her captor, but he was too strong.  "Don't hurt my son!" she yelled, but to no avail.  The target of her anger merely hefted Trunks' unconscious form over one shoulder and raised the barrel of his weapon to point at her.  "What's happening?" Bulma repeated.  "I demand to know what's going on!"

A man stepped forward, standing in front of one of the flashlights so that Bulma couldn't see any details of his face.  It wouldn't have made a difference anyway, since all Bulma's attackers were wearing masks.  "You're in no position to make demands right now.  In fact, I think it's in your best interest just to shut up.  Come."

The soldier holding her shoved Bulma forward, and though she stumbled she had no choice but to obey.  "Where am I going?" she demanded, trying to sound strong and in command, but she was appalled to hear the tremor in her voice.

"Shut up."

A spark of hope flared up in Bulma's heavy heart.  Vegeta was due back soon — if only he would hurry!  These soldiers, despite all their guns and bullet-resistant clothing, would be no match for a Saiyajin.  If only she could stall them!

"Can't I at least get dressed?" Bulma pleaded, trying to think of some way — any way — to remain in the house a little longer.  "I mean, I'm in my pajamas!"

"Shut up and get moving."

"At least let me carry my son," Bulma took a step forward, straining against the guard's iron grip on her upper arms.  "You'll hurt him that way!  If you keep him upside down, all the blood will go to his head and he'll get a huge headache when he wakes up.  And you've already hit him!!  My poor baby, you —"

"SHUT UP!!!"

A gauntleted hand lashed out and struck her in the face, and Bulma wheeled backwards into the arms of her captor.  The leader scowled at her.  "Give the woman her child.  Maybe it will stop her stupid whining."


Bulma straightened, wiping the blood oozing from her cheek with the back of her shaking hand.  "Give him to me," she extended her arms, and one of the soldiers dumped Trunks' body into them.  Bulma held him to her, feeling tears spring to her eyes.  Even Vegeta didn't beat Trunks into unconsciousness.

A rifle jabbed her in the small of the back, prodding her forward.  Bulma had no choice but to walk, surrounded by the cadre of men and women and their array of weaponry.  As she stumbled down the stairs, Bulma heard a shot, and a cut-off  scream.  "Mother!" she cried, and she pushed past the soldiers, running down the last few steps to the livingroom.

Portable floodlights had been set up in the livingroom, and in the harsh white light, a horrible image met Bulma's eyes.  Her mother lay on the floor in a crumpled heap, blood pooling from her head and staining the carpet a deep crimson.  Dr. Briefs knelt beside the body of his wife, tears running down his face.  "No . . ." he whispered.  He was clutching his wife's hand in his, trying to ignore the limpness of it. 

The doctor raised his face, and anger and sorrow contorted his features so they were unrecognizable.  "You didn't have to shoot her!" he cried desperately, staggering to his knees.  "She's dead!"

"Of course she's dead," the squad leader snorted.  "You didn't think we were packing water pistols, did you?  Don't be ridiculous, old man."

"Dad!" Bulma dropped to the floor next to him, shaking his shoulder and trying to get a response out of him.  Finally her father met her gaze, but his eyes were vacant, bleak. 

"Bulma . . . your mother . . . she's . . ."

Trunks chose that moment to stir, and his crystal-blue eyes flickered open.  "Mama?" his gaze fell upon the lifeless shell of his grandmother, and the boy screamed in terror.  "Gramma!"

The group of soldiers — mercenaries? terrorists? — laughed.  "Poor li'l tyke," one of them chuckled maliciously, kicking Mrs. Briefs' body with the toe of his boot.  "Must be hard seeing Grandma dead like that, huh?" he laughed.

Trunks buried his face in Bulma's shirt, and she wrapped her house robe around him so he wouldn't be able to see, even by accident.  Her father stared blankly at his wife for a second, then something in his eyes snapped and he shouted in rage and pain.  Reaching up, Dr. Briefs grabbed the barrel of one of the guns and pointed it at himself, then pulled the trigger before its owner could react and stop him.


Blood spurted from the exit wound, and the thick, red liquid sprayed Bulma.  She jumped and swiped at her face like she had been burned with acid.  Her father looked at her, eyes boring into hers as the grey film began to cover them.  An apology was written on his face then, in the last moments of lucidity, as his limp body fell forward onto his wife's.  He started to say something, but the blood bubbled from his lips, making the words unintelligible.  A few seconds later, it was obvious the life had left him.

Bulma, though she forced every muscle in her body to move, was unable to tear her eyes away from the grisly scene.  Inside her housecoat, Trunks began to sob.

"Well, that was completely useless.  We needed that old fool!" one of the women sounded disgusted.  "Idiot!  You shouldn't have let him anywhere near a weapon.  Now we'll just have to leave him there and hope his daughter is enough."

Bulma shuddered, and the tears streamed down her face like rain.  "That's my father," she whispered hoarsely, feeling as though she was the one lying on the floor, bleeding, in pain.  In a way she wished she was — death . . . no more pain, no more suffering.  She could be with her parents . . .   But Trunks . . . and Vegeta . . . you can't just leave them!  Bulma's teeth ground together in rage, all thoughts of suicide abandoned and forgotten.  She took off her housecoat, though she kept a hand over Trunks' eyes.  "You monsters . . . those are my parents you're talking about, not cattle on the market."

She covered the bodies with her robe, then stood and held Trunks close to her, staring defiantly into the eyes of the murderers.  The pain welled up in her chest until she thought her heart would burst with it, but Bulma used every bit of the core of strength within her to speak clearly.  Her son needed her to be strong for him right now.  "Whatever you wanted me and my father to do, forget it.  I'm not going to do anything for you."

"Funny how brave you are," one of them remarked coldly, and the lack of emotion in his voice made Bulma shiver in spite of herself.  The way these people spoke, the way they acted — they reminded her of Vegeta, when he had first come to Chikyuu.  Relentless, efficient killing machines.  "We'll see how well you stand up to our methods of persuasion.  I think you'll come around."

Bulma stood her ground, glowering fiercely.  She couldn't see the man's face, hidden as it was behind the mask he wore, and though his lack of identity made the situation seem even more frightening, Bulma refused to back down.  She was the heir to the Capsule Corp. empire — the head of it now, she thought with a pang of guilt and sorrow that stabbed her like a knife — and she lived with Vegeta, for goodness' sake!  There was no way she was going to let these goons push her around.

Even if they had killed . . . her . . . parents . . .

"You have a weird way of persuading people," Bulma bit out, her words as sharp as the blade of Mirai no Trunks' sword had been.  "After what you did to my parents, what makes you think I'm going to listen to you now?"

As soon as the words left her mouth, a gun was jabbed sharply against her temple, pressing uncomfortably on the sensitive area and making Bulma's head spin.  "Let me spell it out for you.  You can come with us willingly and bring your little brat, or we can kill him, then knock you unconscious and make you come.  It's your choice, Briefs-san."


Bulma closed her eyes for a second, trying to block out the anguish that threatened to tear her to pieces.  "I'm sorry, Trunks," she whispered, kissing the top of his head, feeling his soft hair tickle her cheek.  "I don't see what choice we have."

Trunks' eyes narrowed, then suddenly he pulled free of his mother's protective embrace and dropped to the ground.  His expression was one of pure rage, and for a second his face was a carbon copy of his father's — minus, of course, the odd-coloured eyebrows.  "Don't you threaten my Mama!" he screamed, fists clenched at his sides.  The small boy let out a yell of frustration and anger, and suddenly a pulsing, white flame burst up around him.  "Leave her alone!"

Trunks raised his hands, and his fingers began to glow.  Round orbs of energy grew slowly, until they were the size of baseballs, then Trunks thrust his palms forward and released them.  Two guards were the target of the attack, one of whom, the man with the gun to Bulma's head, and they fell to the ground, twitching for a few seconds before finally lying still.  Trunks stood, panting heavily, still surrounded by the aura of energy. 

"Trunks!" Bulma cried, "Look out!"

The little boy jumped and spun around as a soldier, previously immobilized by shock, brought his weapon to bear.  "Kid, that was a stupid thing to do," the man sneered, flicking off the safety.  "You're gonna' go meet Grandma and Grandpa, now."

"NO!!" Bulma dove for the ground and snatched up the weapon of one of the dead militiamen.  Lifting the heavy gun to her shoulder, Bulma pulled the trigger and sprayed the bullets in a haphazard circle, taking out soldier after soldier.  "I am not some helpless civilian you can terrorize!" she shouted, "I am Briefs Bulma!  You can't come into my house, kill my parents, threaten my son's life, and expect me to come with you like some blasted puppet!"  her antagonists collapsed, blood spurting from the holes in their black uniforms, and soon there was a large pile of dead men and women on the livingroom floor.  There was no one left in sight.

"Mama, you did it!"  Trunks looked up at her, eyes shining with pride and admiration.  He had stopped powering up, Bulma noticed — he must be like Gohan was, his power oscillating with his emotions.  "You got 'em!"  a smile began to permeate the determination in Bulma's expression, slowly spreading across her face —

— the next second, the smile morphed into a scream as Trunks toppled face-first to the floor, blood dyeing the material of his Piccolo pajamas.  Bulma's knees buckled and she fell beside him, dropping her commandeered gun, holding Trunks' small body to her chest and clutching him to her.  She probed gently into the area of the wound until she found the bullet, and she gingerly dug it out, swallowing bile and the urge to vomit as her fingers became covered in her son's blood.

"Stand up."

Bulma's head snapped around to see one lone soldier standing behind her.  The guard had been hiding behind a chair when Bulma had gone on the attack.


"You made a grave mistake," the soldier grated, her voice sounding like pieces of gravel sliding over one another.  "You should not have killed my comrades.  If my orders weren't to take you alive, you can bet there would be pieces of you all over this room."

Bulma didn't even think to pick up a weapon and shoot, as the grief washed over her like a tidal wave, numbing all her senses and shutting down her brain as she cradled the limp form of her son in her arms.  "He's just a baby," she sobbed, "How could you kill a baby?"

Through the slit in the mask, green eyes narrowed.  "If you'd stop your bawling, you'd notice he's breathing.  I hit him with a rubber-coated bullet — but one more stupid move from you and it will be a real one next time.  Now get up."

Faced with the reality of losing her only child, Bulma saw no choice but to comply to the viciously-given order.  She stood, forcing her legs to stop shaking, and she walked forward, trying to ignore the barrel of the gun pressing into the back of her neck in an angry reminder of her predicament.  "Where am I going?"

"You'll see.  Shut up."

Bulma frowned.  I've tried everything, she thought desperately, if I do anything else Trunks will be killed.  I don't know what else is left for me to — Vegeta!   Suddenly, a ray of hope began to shine upon the dismal situation, but it was a weak one.  The only thing I can do is hope Vegeta will be able to find me . . . but what if he thinks I'm dead, too?  What if he thinks whoever killed Mom and Dad killed me, and took my body away?  How can I let him know I'm still alive?

In a flash of decision, Bulma knew what to do.  Surreptitiously raising a hand to her throat, Bulma yanked hard at the gold chain that hung around her neck.  After a few sharp tugs, the necklace broke at the clasp, slithering into Bulma's palm.  She smiled bitterly, and when they came to the doorway, she feigned a stumble on the welcome mat.  Shooting out a hand to the door, ostensibly to stop herself from falling, Bulma hung the necklace on the doorknob.

A gloved hand grabbed her upper arm and hauled her back up to her feet. "Get up and keep moving."

Bulma nodded numbly, and her stomach sank when she saw the black, armoured helicopter sitting on the lawn waiting for her.  Vegeta . . . I don't know what it is these monsters want me for, but whatever it is — you'd better find me, fast.

She was shoved unceremoniously into the 'copter by the merciless guard, who didn't seem to notice or care when Bulma banged her forehead off the top of the door frame.  Once Bulma was inside, her right hand was handcuffed to a bar on the wall, leaving her left one free to hold Trunks on her lap.  The soldier spoke a few harsh words to the pilot, who nodded and started up the engine.


As the rotors whirled to life and the vehicle lifted into the air, Bulma had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  She stared out the window, watching in the dim light of the stars as her estate grew smaller and farther away below her.  In that moment, it seemed that Bulma's hope shrank with the image of her home.

The soldier came back to the cargo area of the helicopter, where Bulma was being held.  She sat on a bench across from her prisoner, keeping her gun on her lap while she pulled off her mask.  Bulma jumped; the face that peered out at her was young — this woman couldn't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old, yet she was this competent an assassin?

Jade-green eyes glared at Bulma out of a face that looked like it had gone too long without smiling.  Brown hair was pulled back into a tight, serviceable braid, and dark eyebrows were pulled together in a frown of determination and anger above a snarling mouth.  "If it were up to me, you'd be dead by now," the woman remarked conversationally, though her tone was anything but genial.

"Lucky for me your boss wants me alive, then," Bulma shot back.  She was trying to clean the blood from Trunks' back with her shirt, but wasn't being very successful.

Her captor scowled at her, then reached under the bench and pulled out a first-aid kit.  Grabbing Trunks from a startled Bulma, the woman removed Trunks' bloodstained pajama top and slapped a bandage on his gunshot wound.  Another box held spare uniforms, and the soldier quickly dressed Trunks in the smallest shirt she could find.  It still hung down past his feet, the sleeves coming over his hands, but it was better than nothing.

"Thank you," Bulma replied slowly, unsure of what to make of this new development as the woman dumped Trunks back in her lap.

"Save your thanks for someone who cares," was the snappish retort.  "I only did that because you and your brat were supposed to be alive and unharmed.  If he died on the way to th — " she choked, then caught herself before revealing any information.  "If he died on the way there, I'd be executed for failure to accomplish my mission," her mouth twisted in an enraged grimace.  "If, of course, I'm not killed for letting a stupid kid and his mother kill all my accomplices."

"Who are you?"

The woman sneered.  "Just call me Blade.  Remember that, because it's the last thing you'll hear before you die."

"I thought you said —"

"We won't need you forever, and when your usefulness runs out, I will be the one to kill you.  I promise you that."

Bulma shuddered in spite of herself, and she held Trunks to her, attempting to seek comfort in his presence.  At least she wasn't completely alone . . .

******

Well, what do you think? Who are the soldiers? Why do they need Bulma? (Hmm... the summary answered that one. Never mind!) How long do you think Bulma will be able to take being pushed around like that? And more importantly, what will Vegeta do when he gets home? Stay tuned for the next episode!