Thanks for all the reviews everyone! :) this next chapter's gonna be a little dark so be warned.

XXXTITANIA SCARLETXXX: Hehe yes I love listening to rock music while writing and to show for it here's the next chapter LOLz.

H. Harlow: You'll get your answers in this next chapter.

Noorjehan Sheikh: I'm not sure yet I might this fic about Goten and Bra so we'll just have to wait and see.

msanimegeek: I'm glad you like it so far and yes Valese is so much better like this. Pan I'm not sure yet but I'll keep that option opened and no Mr. Phoenix doesn't know anything about Bra's past and he only knows that Goten went to prison for manslaughter cause that's all Goten would tell him.

Wacey: It's gonna get a little intense believe me.

Chapter 2

It was January. Bulla stared at the calendar above her desk. Goten had been at Lilac's for over a month, and they had little contact with each other. Occasionally she saw him in the break room grabbing a cup of coffee and a snack. Once he was taxiing down the runway when she went out to tell Mr. Phoenix he was wanted on the telephone. Then there were those brief occasions when Goten conferred with Mr. Phoenix in his office.

Bulla busied herself in her work and had relaxed into thinking they could go on this way indefinitely.

Valese slid out from behind her desk and walked across the office towards Bulla. There was a distinct look of frustration in her brown eyes.

"Well what's bothering you?" Bulla asked.

"I've tried everything to get him to notice me," Valese announced with a flourish of her hands, indicating mock despair.

"Who?" Bulla asked, knowing full well who she was talking about.

"You know very well who. Mr. Mystery Man, the Lone Wolf." She held out her hands palms up. "What does a girl have to do? Have I lost my charms? Are my looks just fading away? Tell me, maybe it's better if I know right now."

"I don't think so," Bulla said, smiling, "Maybe you should just write him off as the one that got away."

"No! He's a challenge, and it only makes him all the more interesting." Valese paused soberly for a long moment. "You know I've tried everything. Everything! I tried bumping into him at the coffee machine, I've flirted outrageously with him, and I've used my most brilliant smile." She smiled showing off her beautiful white teeth and batted her thick dark eyelashes provocatively. "I've introduced him to people, thinking, maybe he was just a little shy, and I tried to draw him out. But that one is like a closed fortress. You can't even get close. I hate to admit this, but I even went out to the parking lot and let out the air out of one of my tires when I knew he would be passing my car on his way home." She looked down at Bulla and rolled her eyes dramatically. "Well I was getting desperate."

"You didn't."

"I did," Valese replied, unashamed, but looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening.

Valese really had it bad, Bulla thought as she listened with her head propped up by her hand. It was truly amazing the lengths the girl was willing to go to, in order to get Goten's interest. Bulla thought, maybe that Valese had made herself so obvious that she had possibly ruined whatever chance she had, but she would never say that to her friend.

"Maybe he's already got a girlfriend somewhere and he's just not interested in female company. He's happy with what he's got."

"My instincts tell me no," Valese continued stubbornly. "He keeps himself so…apart. I think there's something about him. I don't know what it is. I can't put my finger on it exactly. There's something different about him."

Bulla felt the alarm bells go off in her mind. She didn't want Valese's suspicions provoked. She didn't want her to know about Goten's time in prison. It could be dangerous. Valese was not the most closed mouth of people, which was putting it lightly. She had her good points, but being discreet was not one of them.

"I think we should respect a person's privacy. Don't you? People have a right to keep to themselves if they want to. If he wants to be so self-contained, like a fortress, as you put it, that's his business. Some people are awkward in social situations and it's a waste of time trying to get them to be what they simply aren't."

"I'd go along with that. But he's not shy. I'd bet my life on it. It's something else. I just don't know what." A puzzled frown creased her brow. "Have you seen him up close yet?"

"Yes." Bulla studied her fingernails intently, not wanting to give away the devastating effect he'd had on her.

"Well?! You're not going to tell me that you don't find him attractive!"

Bulla had to agree. There was something about Son Goten that set him apart. He projected something dangerous. Only she wasn't quite sure what it was. There seemed to be a seething mass of emotions inside him that threatened to break the bounds of restraint. There was suspicion about him that bordered on hostility. She pitied the person who unlocked the restraint, who unwittingly triggered the release. It would be foolishness to say that she didn't find him attractive. In spite of his wary demeanor, he had a strong intellectual appeal that made women's heads turn, while his determined strength made men respect him.

"I think he's attractive," she replied finally.

"I just knew you were going to say it eventually." Valese sound so smug.

"But when you're interested in someone else, you tend not to pay too much attention," Bulla added, trying to cover up her attraction to Goten. "Besides, looks aren't everything."

"But he looks like he's got everything else too." Valese laughed with irrepressible delight. "Alex says he's one of the best pilots he ever had ex cetera and so forth." She was like a blood hound that couldn't be shaken off track once she picked up the scent. Bulla wished they could just drop the subject.

"What did he do when you did manage to speak to him at the coffee machine?" Bulla asked, suddenly curious to know how Goten reacted. "And what happened when he saw your flat tire?"

"Oh, he answered in monosyllables at the coffee machine. Not exactly encouraging when you're trying to make a friendly conversation. I don't think he spoke one complete sentence. And when he saw me struggling with the flat tire, he came over and asked if he could help. I said I would be very grateful if he would. He then went to work and finished in about ten minutes flat. I asked him if he would like to join me for a cup of coffee. He made some polite excuse and disappeared into the night. I think he managed to complete one sentence that time." She frown suddenly. "You don't think he's one of those, do you?" she whispered conspiratorially.

"I don't think so," Bulla replied, amused.

"Yeah, you're right. I guess I have to face the facts," Valese added glumly. "I don't seem to turn him on." She smoothed her sunflower-yellow dress over her hips. Bulla breathed a silent sigh of relief, glad that the conversation about Goten was coming to an end. Valese started to leave, then impulsively swung back around, brown eyes flashing with sudden enthusiasm.

"Are you going to the festival?"

"What festival?"

"The national Hercule Satan day festival of course. It's the big annual event in this town. It's the only thing that ever happens here. They always have it at Lilac Park every year. The whole thing is financed by small businesses, the Diary Dream, Lilac Bank, and so forth."

"I'll have to think about it," Bulla said.

Valese's phone rang on her desk, and she rushed to the other side of the room to pick it up.

Bulla plunged back into her work, pushing the festival to the back of her mind and hoping that Valese would soon forget all about Son Goten. She was completely absorbed in her work, until a shadow fell across her desk. With a sense of unease sliding through her, she raised her gaze slowly to meet Son Goten's charcoal, fathomless eyes. She was unable to hide the quick response. He walked like a jungle cat, she thought, as her breath seemed to jam painfully in her chest and that strange breathless sensation attacked her again.

"Either I seem to be making a habit of taking you by surprise or you're the jumpiest woman I've ever met," he said in a low, mocking voice.

He stood towering over her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his faded leather jacket. She looked at him tongue-tied while shafts of excitement flowed along her nerve endings. He had the most devastating effect on all her senses she realized, as her gaze traveled over swiftly before she spoke. He wore a crisp black shirt that seemed to outline ever muscle of his torso. His black eyes studied her, playing havoc with her pulse rate.

"May I help you with something?" she finally asked with hesitant politeness, trying to maintain her distance. Her pulse rate seemed to be exploding under the pressure of his nearness and his silent examination of her.

"I was looking for Alexander Phoenix. He's not in his office," he replied with casual indication of his dark head. This was the second time she had seen him up close, she had to admit. He had the flawless handsome features of man that should be modeling for one those men's clothing catalogs.

"I think he might be out in the loading bay," she replied quickly.

"I've checked. And I looked out on the airstrip. Where else could he be?" his hostile glare changed slowly to languid male scrutiny that told her she was being thoroughly and systematically examined and he didn't care too much if he was making her uncomfortable. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying it, and she sensed that he was speculating on how she rated against the other women he had known. Her face began to burn. His sharp gaze didn't miss it. And she thought she detected a flicker of some emotion in his look, but it was quickly hidden and the unreadable mask was back in its place.

"You might want to try the machine shop. He sometimes stops in there to talk with Travis, the head machinist."

"Thanks." He rewarded her with one of his rare smiles.

Her gaze followed him as he disappeared into the hangar. She let out a sigh of relief. Feeling Valese's eyes on her, she looked up and then quickly bent her head down. The intense annoyance on Valese's face left Bulla uneasy.

That evening Bulla couldn't seem to get Goten out of her mind. Home from work, she'd headed straight for her small box-sized kitchen. It was barely big enough to swing a cat in, she thought critically. Yet a hefty portion of each weekly paycheck had to be set aside for the monthly rent for this modest apartment. But it was home and meant peace of mind, and there was no price tag one could put on that, she recalled grimly. She opened the freezer and pulled out a small container of grilled chicken and penne pasta in alfaido sauce to put in the microwave, her thoughts on the past.

There was a time when she would have given everything she had for this tiny apartment and for the peace and quiet it meant. It was an awful time, a time she was too ashamed to recall, a time connected with Goten. She pressed her hands to her temple as the memory hovered, a dark ominous shadow. Usually she could push it away, but tonight it insinuated itself into her conscious thought, slipping past her defenses like a silent marauder, like thief in the night.

The knife she was using to cut vegetables for the salad slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor unnoticed. Visions of a big empty house on a rainy Sunday afternoon focused clearly in her mind. She could see her stepfather banging around the house. He had been in one of his dark sulky moods; something had trigged it. She couldn't even remember what it was. Neither she nor Trunks, her brother, could ever figure out what started the moods off. It would never take much, some petty misdemeanor, some imagined thing she had done wrong, something she or Trunks had forgotten to buy at the store. It could have been eggs stuck to the frying pan, anything. Any tiny thing was enough to set off another vicious tirade. But this day had been different.

She had been study in her bedroom, listening to the latest rock hits on the stereo. It had been raining all day, and she was getting bored, bored, bored. As often happened, she had slipped into daydreaming, dreaming of herself as a fantastically beautiful woman, someone with feminine allure and devastating repartee, like her mother was. She experimented with her hair, sweeping it up on her head and then turning from side to side, this way and that before the dresser mirror. Oh, how she wanted to be just like her mama. Her mother had been such a beautiful, outstandingly gorgeous woman, who had made men's heads turn.

Bulla went to her closet, and dug through her closet till she found what she was looking for. It was a big box filled some of her mother's belongs. Oh how things had been so much happier when her mother was alive, Bulla thought as she opened the box. Now things seemed dark and sulky, her stepfather had sold the family business to a rivaling company after her mother had died, they had given him a generous price. The only things left of her mother's was this house and the few belongings in the box that Bulla had pulled out of the closet.

Bulla saw one of her mother's dinner dresses. It was an olive green crepe creation that suggested everything, yet revealed nothing. She pulled it out of the box. Trunks was out, so she didn't have to worry about him barging into her room while she was in the middle of dressing, he always had an annoying tendency to do things like that. He was at school, then he was going to hang out with some new buddy of his he meant at a club not too long ago, someone called Son Goten. Bulla had to stop to think of his name, though only half her mind was on Trunks' friend. The other half was on the alluring dress that seemed to dare her to put it on as she held it up against herself.

It was hard to keep track of all Trunks' buddies, even his girlfriends for that matter. He had so many it was like a revolving door in this house. There was always one friend after another asking for Trunks. And then the girlfriends. They never lasted long, any of them. He went through them like tissues, discarding them just as heedlessly and carelessly. None of them ever lasted as long as it took a person to get over a common cold, Bulla thought as she stripped off her jeans and blouse. Standing in her black strapless bra and bikini briefs, she slipped the dress up over her legs, shimmying into it, and then turned with barely restraint excitement to look at herself in the floor-length mirror.

It was provocative, even on her, she thought as her gaze slid over her budding, willowy figure. The green dress had tantalizing cutouts that revealed glimpse of skin and caressed her figure lovingly, clinging in all the right places, not missing a single curve. While she didn't quite fill the dress out the way her mother had, she was more than pleased with her blossoming femininity. She turned back towards the box, wanting to put the finishing touches to her exciting new image. She reached into the box and found her mother's makeup kit, which was crammed with every beauty aid known to woman, and decided to experiment. With strokes at first awkward and hesitant, she applied liquid makeup and blusher the way she had seen her mother do it, stepping back to survey herself critically at each stage of her handiwork.

As she was outlining the upper lids of her eyes with her mother's violet eyeliner, she could hear echoing noises in the kitchen that made her again aware of her stepfather's presence. He was probably looking for another beer, she thought with a frown. Even over the stereo music she could hear him banging around, his temper getting more vicious. He always drank too much on Sundays and got mean and aggressive. She wished he would play baseball again or tennis, anything to work out his frustrations, but he just drank and watched television and usually picked on her and Trunks.

Trunks would probably be getting out of his classes and heading home by now. Trunks was trying to get his grades up so that's why he was talking classes on the weekends as well as the weekdays. Bulla just hoped that when she went to college that she wouldn't be having a hard time with it like her brother seemed to. The thought suddenly eddied into her mind and canceled out the darker reflection of her stepfather. Bulla couldn't wait to see the results; whatever her mother had done always seemed to turn out well. After he came home, Trunks would most likely go out clubbing with that Son Goten fellow. They seemed to really be hitting it off, maybe Trunks would finally find himself a best friend.

Bulla picked out an eye shadow and turned back towards the mirror and, after a few deft sweeps of her finger, she noticed how miraculously her young eyes were given mysterious and sophisticated depths. Why, she looked like one of those fabulous models in the fashion magazines, she thought, amazed by her own reflection. Encouraged with the results, she applied a thick coat of mascara. It was truly amazing what makeup could do. She was transformed, utterly transformed! She never really experimented seriously before. She struck an airless pose and smiled, thoroughly fascinated by her own image.

With her hair swept up and makeup on, she thought she looked at least nineteen, maybe even twenty! She went back to the box to get a pair of her mother's strappy high-heeled shoes, slipped them on and walked back to the full-length mirror with a sumptuous but delicate swish of her hips, the way she had seen the models do it on those fashion shows she would watch sometimes. Why, it wasn't difficult at all. With a little practice she could be…gorgeous, too!

But her hair was wrong.

She surveyed it critically and released the clips to let it cascade down where it waved naturally to her shoulders. Usually she wore it back in a tight, high ponytail. This was more in keeping with her new image, more breezy and provocative. She imitated the models' walks again and almost let out a squeal of sheer delight, but caught herself just in time, thinking of her stepfather in the kitchen. She raised a slender eyebrow at her image in the mirror, mocking herself and laughing softly.

She was still laughing when the bedroom door burst opened. Thinking it was Trunks, she whirled around, her eyes widening in panic. Trunks would be thrown into a fit of laugher if he saw her like this. He would make fun of her for playing dress up. The thought flashed instantly through her mind as she turned to face the doorway.

But it wasn't Trunks. It was Yamcha, her stepfather. She drew in her breath sharply as she took in the picture he made standing in the doorway, his arms braced on either side of it, giving him a hovering, aggressive look.

His voice exploded in the bedroom and the words rattled through the air like a machine gun spitting bullets.

"You stupid empty-headed little bitch. You forgot to buy me razor blades! How can I shave without razors? Are you just stupid, or do you like annoying me?"

She couldn't answer and stood silently staring back at him, mute with sudden fear.

"I think you do it on purpose, because you're a little scheming bitch, aren't you, just like you're no good bastard brother!"

Yamcha was a hulking six footer, brawny and muscular; his bulk filled the entire doorway. Once he had been a good-looking guy, but since her mother's death, he'd gone to hell. A look of dissipation had crept in around his dark eyes and mouth. His shirt hung unbuttoned out of his casual slacks. The glint of a sliver chain caught her eye as she stared at him, stricken with increasing fear as he hung poised in the doorway, as though he were going launch an attack.

"My stupid good-for-nothing stepkids," he muttered beneath his breath.

Bulla shrank back. He was more drunk than usual, and that meant he was more dangerous than usual.

He suddenly straighten and pushed away from the doorway as his gaze began to take in her changed appearance.

"Well…" he said suddenly. "What do have here? Our shy little wallflower is starting to grow up."

He eyed at her unsteadily, and she felt a new, nameless fear unwinding and growing inside. She had always been afraid of Yamcha. His nasty turns and savage temper were something that she and Trunks constantly tried to get the better of. They had become extremely creative and skillful at it, since life with Yamcha was like walking on thin ice, and one had to maintain caution at all times or you'd find yourself falling into the abyss. Each of them protected the other. They had learned how to cajole him, humor him along, flatter his ego, and distract him. Any maneuver they could possibly think of they put to full use, and they always stood together. But Trunks was not here now.

"Oh, I was just bored. I found one of mama's old dresses and decided to play a little dress up." It was the truth, her fear made her sputter on. "She was so pretty, the real beauty of the family. Don't you think so Yamcha? I really miss her. I just wanted see if I could look anything like her." Bulla quickly dragged her mother's memory into the conversation as a kind of protective shield, because at one time in his own weird way, Yamcha had loved her mother. Why her mother had ever loved him, she wasn't at all clear about, but while her mother had been alive she'd had a stabilizing effect on his unpredictable temper, and he had never had the dark mood swings he seemed to be having more and more lately.

She picked up a tissue and hastily started to wipe away the makeup, the threatening feminine allure she had so innocently projected. His narrowed eyes glided over her, and she saw something kindling in them. He stepped away from door frame towards her.

"You are looking more like Bulma. You have some of her ways and personality. There's something about you," he murmured huskily. "Something about you that reminds me more and more of Bulma. The way you move, the way you walk, the way you hold your head and the way you look at people."

Mounting alarms grew inside Bulla. "Do you think mama would have liked the way I'm growing up?" she asked in a low voice, wanting some degree of normality, as the very air around them began to grow heavy with a component that was unfamiliar. Something that shouldn't be, something that was all wrong was happening between them! Desperation began to claw at her as panic seeped into her veins.

"Yeah I think she would have liked the way you're growing up," he said, getting even closer, "because I like the way you're growing up. She would agree with me that you're turning into one beautiful young woman."

He moved across the bedroom, and Bulla backed away in fright, trying not to panic. She watched in a kind of horrified, slow-motion fascination as he closed the distance between them. She couldn't move, but as his hand snaked out and he made a grab for her, she moved, but not quickly enough because, suddenly, she felt herself pulled up against him. She gasped and began to struggle wildly, but he was too big, too strong. His hands were like a steel vice on her soft body, and his breath reeked of beer, she sobbed and pushed furiously at the wall of his body.

He seemed oblivious to her frantic attempts to get away from him. "You could almost take her place," he whispered. "Would you like that, sweetheart? Would you like that? I would like that very much."

"Stay away from me!" she yelled hysterically. But his hand grabbed the hair at the back of her head and held it, held her head painfully locked, making her wince and cry out before his nasty, wet mouth covered hers. Her futile protesting moans were swallowed forcefully down her throat. He molded her body into his, and she felt him pressed against her thighs, his powerful body quickening against hers. The sensation repelled and sickened her.

He pushed her backwards, and she grew fearful as she knew they were staggering towards the bed. She scratched and kicked and tried to jam her knee into his groin, but he shoved her knee down, his breathing harsh and ragged. He grabbed her by the back of her head again and kissed her, his tongue thrusting deep into her month, and she had the feeling she was gagging as she twisted and kicked wildly against him. With increasing terror she felt him hard and ready against her.

"You're just like her," he said huskily, his eyes seeming to lose all life in them. "It's been so long, so long since I…you'll like it." his grip on reality was slipping away.

Her mind, too, spiraled off, trying to black itself out from what was going to happen. She had the vague sensation of her mother's beautiful dress being torn from her body and her panties being pushed down her thighs as he lowered her onto the bed. He was above her now, on his knees, with a leg on each side of her, his weight effectively pinning her down, and no matter how much she twisted and turned, she couldn't move. His hands quickly undid his belt and the zipper of his jeans, and slid down over her hips. She clenched her eyes shut, unable to look, and she heard her own piercing screams tear through the air over and over again. He was too busy stripping off his pants to cover her month. Then she heard front door slam, and Trunks burst into the room. Trunks' face was white with shock and rage.

"Get the fuck off her you bastard!" Trunks shouted at top of his lungs and grabbed Yamcha, giving him a painful punch to the face, sending him to the floor. "So help me, god! If you ever come near her again I'll fucking murder you!" With dazed eyes, Bulla saw that Trunks was shaking with anger. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles were turning white.

Yamcha looked up at Trunks, his pants unzipped down knees, exposing his green boxer briefs underwear, the dark look of aroused desire still in his eyes. He stood up and continued to stare at Trunks for several long moments, trying to clear his head, weaving slightly from side to side. Bulla remembered him running a confused hand through his hair, as if he were trying to straighten out the mess inside his head. With an air of dazed distraction he turned and looked at her lying half naked in a crumpled heap on the bed, weeping hysterically. Whatever it was that possessed him, suddenly retreated. He swore viciously to himself, quickly pulled his pants up, zipping them, and lurched from the room.

Trunks stared after him with narrowed eyes. He reissued his warning in low growling tones. "If you ever lay so much as lay a fucking figure on her, so help me, I'll have you locked up for rape or I'll kill you myself!"

"How do you know it would be rape?" Yamcha sneered.

Enraged, Trunks picked up the nearest thing and threw it at Yamcha. He laughed cynically and disappeared down the stairs. Trunks immediately locked the door and then unclenched his fists.

"Shit," he whispered. "How did this happen?"

Bulla could barely speak, barely get anything coherent out at all, Trunks had sat, wrapping a sheet around her quivering body and held her, rocking her to and fro. Finally, after five minutes of crying in her brother's arms, the story of how she had been adorning in front of the mirror poured out.

"Don't ever let him see you like that again! You're turning into a beautiful girl, Bra. I haven't said anything or made much of it because I was afraid something like this was going to happen one day. I hoped you wouldn't attract his attention because you never really bothered about your looks." He got up and reached into his back pocket grabbing a pack of cigarettes, then sat back down on the bed. He pulled out a cigarette and meditatively sat smoking.

Bulla had sat and watched him. She wished more than anything that her daddy were still alive, if he were alive he would have taught her and Trunks how to fight and then she would be strong enough to fight back. She would never have to be at the mercy of monsters like Yamcha ever again. Sensing her thoughts, Trunks wrapped his arm around her in a side hug, being careful not to scorch her with his cigarette.

"Don't worry. I'll always be around. You've got me. I'll never let him hurt you. I'll be more careful from now on. I'll be sure whenever I'm out, you're baby-sitting somewhere or staying with a friend, and when you're home, I'll be sure to be home too. That son of a bitch! Pretty soon I'll have a decent enough job and we'll be out of here for good."

Bulla was remembering the determined look on Trunks' face when the buzzer on the microwave shattered the vivid memory. She pulled out the bubbling chicken and pasta and placed it on the mat on the counter and then rooted the drawer for the silverware. With a knife, fork, and spoon gripped in one hand, she took a dish from the cupboard. She put the salad next to her dinner. When she removed the led, the steam rose in a mist before her eyes, and she slid onto the stool.

Staring into space, she ate without tasting the dinner she had so absentmindedly prepared. The horrible memory of her stepfather invading her bedroom faded away and another took its place. Suddenly a courtroom and a picture of herself sitting on the witness stand leaped into her mind as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

She had been very young and very frightened when she had gotten up to testify that day, but there had also been the overwhelming desire to do what she had been told by those around her she must do. Trunks had insisted that Bulla lie to protect him from going to jail. And Bulla had lied remarkably well.

She had pointed to the man across the crowded courtroom, looking fleeting first at her stepfather and then back at the accused, back to Son Goten. She knew what life without her brother around would mean; no one had to spell it out for her. She was consumed with fear at the thought of being alone with Yamcha in that house, at the thought of Trunks no longer being around to protect her. She had nowhere else to go. And Trunks, the very person who had always protected her, was now demanding that she help him. She had no choice, she couldn't let Trunks down; she couldn't stay alone in that house with Yamcha. She couldn't run away. The world was a frightening place for a sixteen year old who didn't have the maturity to face its harsh challenges. So she lied.

"Would you please identify for the jury, the person who was behind the wheel of the car when you saw the car leave your house with your brother in it on the night of the accident?" the prosecuting attorney had turned towards the jury, asking the question in a loud, clear voice that carried to the people in the back of the courtroom.

Bulla had slowly, like an automation, lifted her arm and pointed directly at Son Goten.

"He was the one," she had replied in a clearly audible but detached tone, her eyes looking straight through him as if he didn't exist. Then she had turned away. He had been staring at Trunks, his gaze a laser of enmity beaming across the space of the courtroom. There seemed to be an unspoken message that someday the score for this unspeakable injustice would be evened between them, but Bulla had turned away, thinking it would never touch her. She hadn't looked at him again during the entire trial. Only for that one moment. She had been asked a few questions regarding Goten and her brother, how often had he come to the house, and then been crossed-examined by the defense.

She had held up remarkably well under the cross examination. She had sensed the frustration of the defense counsel, who probably assumed at sixteen she'd be very malleable, easily tripped up. He must have experienced cold shock when she didn't break to the questions he fired at her in a continuous bombardment. It was not the power of her intellect but pure terror that had enabled her to give such a dishonest testimony. First, there was her overwhelming fear of her stepfather—she knew without a doubt that she would have become his sex toy without Trunks around to protect her, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would have abused her emotionally as well. In his desperation, Trunks had ponded this into her brain until Bulla was numb of all emotion except utter fear and the excruciating pressure of misguided loyalty towards her brother. It was those two dark forces that had kept her so cool and collected under the pressure. At the time, they had not permitted any other feelings to enter into her conscious mind at all, all other emotions were instantly and remorselessly blocked. Any guilt, any compassion she felt for Goten never had a chance to even surface, so powerful was the fear and the desire to help her brother, that other feelings were banished from her mind.

When the trial was finished, Son Goten had gone to prison to serve time for manslaughter. She remembered seeing a small item in the local newspaper afterward, and remembered she had felt nothing, absolutely nothing, just a curious detachment, almost as if had been someone else who had been there, not her. But she remembered the way he had looked in the courtroom, grim and silent, his dark ebony eyes boring into Trunks, who had betrayed him, and that was all Bulla remembered. That, and a sense of relief that her brother had not been convicted.

A few months after the trial, her stepfather had overdosed on alcohol and some pain medication and had died on the way to the hospital. They had felt nothing of Yamcha killing himself, just utter relief that he that he would never hurt them again. The house was sold, and Bulla and Trunks lived on the money until Trunks got a job. About a couple of years after that, her brother had gotten married to some blonde who worked at the same company as him. The family as Bulla knew it, had disappeared into the wind. She had to fend for herself. She started a new life, changed her name and moved to another city. She went through a succession of unsatisfactory jobs until finally she found Lilac's and an equally unsatisfactory series of motel rooms until she at last found her tiny apartment. She's managed alone ever since.

To her amazement, she began to discover that life was not always despicable and terrifying. It was as if she emerged from a dull cocoon and fluttered into a bright and beautiful new world. But in the back of her mind something developed, too, that she had not felt before, and it was the only tarnished dark spot in her new bright world. A sense of guilt began to emerge. Her conscious, frozen by fear at the time of the trial, was beginning to thaw.

Now the full great realization of what she had done surfaced, traveling from the preconscious level through to her conscious mind, bursting through from time to time like a dark stream. She had pushed it as far as she could, reminding herself again and again of the greater circumstances, but nothing could block the dark tide of guilt that threaten to overwhelm her. She had forgotten that it was her brother who actually committed the crime, that it had been Trunks who had been driving the car, that it had been Trunks who had moved Goten into the driver's seat after he had been knocked unconscious when Trunks had driven the car into a telephone pole. He'd been desperately trying to avoid hitting an old man and his granddaughter who been crossing the road. The little girl had been pushed out of the by her grandfather in time but the older man didn't make it. Trunks never seemed to suffer any remorse before he conveniently disappeared.

Suddenly weary, Bulla sighed. She was too tired and drained to think anymore. She couldn't undo what had been done, she told herself for the hundredth time. She recalled once again how she had looked then. It wasn't surprising that Goten hadn't recognized her. When she looked at snapshots, she hardly recognized herself at that age. She had changed so much. She been so painfully shy that when Goten had come to the house to meet her brother to go clubbing, he had barely noticed her.

Was there any way she could ever make it up to him? She wished that somehow she could put it right, but how could anyone compensate for years lost out of his life or the anguish of what he had been through? Her common sense told her there was no way that any attempt in that direction would be a fool's errand. She had to be a complete idiot to even think there might be a way to make it up to him. But the thought kept going over and over in her mind, there just had to be something she could do.

Well that's it for now, review and tell me what you thought. Oh, and before you ask no Vegeta couldn't be wished back with the dragonballs. One, he died once before and therefore can't be wished back with the earth's dragonballs. Two, since Goku's dead there's no wishing anyone back with the Namekian dragonballs since Goku was the only one who could locate New Namek. Bulma knew this and moved on with her life and eventually married Yamcha. When Bulma died, Yamcha went to alcohol to ease the pain, till eventually he became a drunk and took his anger out on Trunks and Bra. Bra was three when Vegeta had died and ten when Bulma died, she and Trunks are eight years apart in age. Hope that helps if you were confused.