Warning: Some violence ahead.
Author's Notes: Another Bulma-centric part, but I promise she and Vegeta will meet in the next update. This is an unusually long chapter, the remaining ones won't be so long.
Prompt: Red
Chapter Two: Choices
Bulma had always thought herself a worldly woman, having spent her younger years exploring the far-flung corners of Earth on one life-threatening adventure after another. She had plunged into that life, head-first and head-long, with the reckless abandon of dream-filled youth, an unwavering sense of hope, and the comforting knowledge of having somewhere safe to come back home to in the event things got too rough for her or her friends to handle. But as the ship smoothly made planet-fall that evening, a wave of trepidation rose in the pit of her stomach. She realized that this time, there would be no security, no guarantee of her safety on the strange new world that was to be her prison.
The hatch opened up to a dimly lit courtyard where several squads of armored soldiers stood at attention. Zarbon's firm but gentle hand was on her shoulder and she was ushered out of the craft to walk past the men who, from the corner of their eyes, studied her with either pity or a lecherous patience. Bulma had gotten used to the blue officer's touch, no longer tensing or shrinking back whenever his fingers brushed against her skin or idly threaded through her hair. It didn't make her comfortable, but it was grounding in a way, something she could use to anchor herself to reality.
Even if each time he made contact a cold dread shot up her spine, it was preferable to giving into the urge of crying her eyes out whenever she remembered she would never see her friends or family again. Something she had desperately tried to avoid doing in front of the man. She couldn't afford to show him any weakness. Not after figuring out his intentions when he wheedled her about Earth.
He gave back-handed compliments about her planet's level of technology, laughed at the absurd notion of their government as opposed to a totalitarian form of ruling, and dismissed the level of biodiversity that existed as nothing more than evolution not having made its mind up of which specie wasn't worth culling from existence.
There was a certain level of elitist sincerity in the way he spoke, as if he wasn't intentionally trying to get a rise out of her with all his insults.
"If it's so worthless why do you need to purge Earth?" She had snapped testily, her patience frayed.
"It has potential, love, which can be worth a small fortune on the planetary market," he smiled kindly at her, then those beautiful, golden eyes glittered with a cold-blooded calculating gleam so briefly Bulma would have missed it had she not been so entranced by them. She wondered how she had never noticed his smile never reached his eyes, at least not until the moment he asked "Why? Is there something on Earth that makes it so unique?"
Oh Kami, he knows about the Dragon Balls! But, no, that couldn't be. If he did, he would have tried to take them when he arrived, or threatened her into showing him where they were. And he wouldn't haveleft without them. Just like the Saiyans, Zarbon hadn't heard about the mystical artifacts. But unlike the Saiyans, they hadn't been privy to Piccolo's loose-lipped boasting.
So she looked offended, something she already felt to begin with, and with a petulant pout declared "You just took her with you!"
He had stared at her, stunned by her ego and spirit, before one corner of his lips pulled into a smirk of admiration. "You will have your chance to prove it, love. This planet-base we are headed for has the highest concentration of tech slaves and Mastertechs. You should be quite at home with your fellow engineers for company."
Home, huh? Bulma thought wryly as Zarbon led her from the courtyard into a building. She followed him into an elevator shaft, down a long carpeted corridor and into an elegantly furnished suite, complete with ceiling-high windows opening to a garden that undoubtedly looked breath taking in the morning.
"It's beautiful," she found herself whispering, almost forgetting about the man standing behind her.
"As is everything I own," he purred into her ear, his hands sliding from her shoulders down to her waist.
His breath was hot in her ear, but his touch chilled her and she shuddered, wishing fervently that she was not expected to share his bed. It shouldn't be as terrible as she thought. He was, obviously, a man she found very, very attractive. He spoke with a cultured grace that would have made her swoon had her pride not been so reviled by the fact that he was now her master and she his slave. Strange that whenever she touched him, she didn't feel cold or dread though his skin was cool beneath the pads of her fingertips. It was only when he touched her that her stomach turned, goose bumps prickled her arm, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
Zarbon seemed unaware of his effect on her, thinking her unease stemmed from being inexperienced (which she was on all accounts) and smiling a gentle, humoring smile told her "I did bring you here as a tech slave, didn't I, love?"
She nodded, unable to speak lest he heard the panic that had steadily begun to twist in her chest.
"As I am flesh and blood, I don't believe servicing me falls under the scope of your duties. However, Masters may do with Slaves as they wish. But I give you the choice, love," he chuckled, bringing a hand up to caress her face. She stared up at him in disbelief, and Zarbon saw things warring behind those sky-colored eyes. He studied her appraisingly, and when the intensity of his gaze proved too much for her, she looked down at her feet. It had been a smart move on her part, to have turned away when she did. For he continued, "I would prefer if you came to my bed willingly. I fear if I forced you, I would break you. And it's only fun to break things if they can put up a fight."
And just like that, whatever semblance to desire she might have felt for the man vanished and her lowered gaze hardened with grim determination. He will never have anything of hers. Not information about the Dragon Balls, not samples of the Capsulization technology, and not her. Not while she breathed.
"I, I am grateful, Zarbon," she whispered with a slight tremble of her shoulders, "But I, I cannot make such a decision at this time. I, you, that is," she stammered, and babbled of her relationship with Yamcha. It was a good enough excuse on her part, her genuine anxiety coupled with the conversations she had shared with the officer about Earthling "mating" traditions granted her a stay of execution of sorts.
"You have until I return in three months time to give me your answer," there was a benign smile on his lips, but it gave Bulma no comfort. "As well as an improved model of that hand cannon you slaughtered my men with."
She nodded. Then blinked. "Return?"
"Yes, love, I leave in the morning to report to my Lord Frieza of my findings on Earth. And since it seems I will be well rested for it, perhaps I may even leave before sunrise."
Bulma remembered the wolfish stares some of the soldiers had given her, and unsteadily asked "You mean you're not staying?"
Long, braided emerald locks shook, "Fear not, love, I've given all the necessary instructions before we arrived. You will come to no harm. Not while I have you under my wing."
And like his smile, it gave her no comfort.
She would later learn why, when her supervisor came to collect her the next morning. She awoke on the plush duvet she had claimed, since she would not share Zarbon's bed, to a sharp rapping on the door. She fumbled, briefly, and managed to figure out which button controlled the door. When it slid open, she came face-to-face with a tall, avian-like creature with russet plumage cresting its head.
"You the new tech slave?" beady black eyes narrowed at the Earth woman still dressed in her native garb of black cotton and synthetic leather. A nod and the alien unceremoniously shoved a uniform into her arms, followed by a sharp command that she get dressed for briefing. "Bring your things," another clipped command and the Mastertech began to hurriedly walk. "Hurry up, don't lollygag!"
Bulma did as she was told without protest, if only because the alien hadn't leered at her, and while his tone was gruff, he did not seem overly hostile.
"I am Mastertech Chooco of Rawin," he introduced when they arrived in a large facility where other similarly dressed aliens were scuttling about, tools, blueprints, and prototypes in hand. "Zarbon appointed me as your supervisor, Bulma of Earth, because I am the only Mastertech who doesn't need to wear a Ki-damper and am least likely to strike you for no apparent reason." He ignored the pair of blue eyes staring at him dumbly and continued. "I am fair when it comes to meting out praise or punishment. If you deserve it, you will get it. That is the way I run things."
The Earthling swallowed, "Is there anything else I should know?"
"Mastertechs have lost more promising engineers to Soldiers than they have to laboratory or field mishaps. You will do well to remember that when Zarbon loses his interest in you and finds himself a new toy to play with."
"N-new toy! Is that what you think I am!" Bulma shrieked so loud and shrill that the rest of the tech slaves cringed.
With no concern for her feelings, the Rawin nodded. "You are not the first Zarbon brought to me for safe-keeping. Most of them eventually end up in the Pleasure Quarters because that's all they were really good for. You have to prove to me, Bulma of Earth, that you are worth keeping on my team and under my protection after you've lost his interest."
He was by no means friendly to the woman with his neutral stance. But he spoke candidly, as someone who was just stating the facts and not out of any malice or delight in causing another person pain. His beady eyes stared down at her, telling her that the ball was in her court now. Whatever became of her after the inevitability of Zarbon's fickle nature was in her own hands.
"H-how many have there been before me?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"That is not any of your concern. For the next three months, you are to produce an upgraded model of the hand cannon you built while on Earth. Miint will assist you for today. She will run you through the safety protocols and when the day is done, she will show you to your room." The Mastertech allowed himself a knowing smirk, "You didn't think you'd get to sleep in Zarbon's quarters while he wasn't present, did you?"
Bulma shook her head vehemently, even as an embarrassed blush crept across her face. A young, female Rawin with viridian feathers appeared at her side. Bulma gave the other tech slave a small smile, and she was met with a look of pure disdain. By the time she reached her worktable, she was trembling from anger and outrage at all the thinly veiled sneers and poorly hidden eye rolling everyone had given her as she trailed after Miint.
Obviously, no one here thought she belonged with them.
Attentively, she listened as the young Rawin told her what each station in the laboratory was for, where they kept the tools, and what they were used for. Bulma bit back a snarl at the insults her guide snidely made in between explanations, but it was clear in the fire burning in the Earthling's eyes that it would take more than a couple of biting words and open contempt to break her. The blue-haired woman knew that she would have to prove to them that her intelligence had been her bargaining chip to save her homeworld. With her goal in clear sight, she tackled her task with the same ferocity and dedication as her friends on Earth did their training.
Despite having to start from scratch and to build from memory, Bulma managed to piece together the circuitry for a prototype within the day. Granted, the level of technology and the manner of raw materials helped speed things up immensely, but Bulma couldn't deny feeling satisfied with how much she accomplished on her first day. When Mastertech Chooco came to inspect her progress, the Rawin slowly stroked his beak and muttered in slight admiration. "So that's how you managed to stabilize the damn thing."
Miint was decidedly less hostile after watching her charge at work, but she stayed aloof and kept her distance even while she gave Bulma the tour of the facility.
"This is your room. Enjoy your privacy as long as you can, because when you get replaced as Zarbon's favorite, you move in with us in the barracks."
"Were you one of them?" Bulma suddenly asked, trying to see if she could somehow find a friend in the female, or at least someone who was less cold.
The Rawin glared at her, crimson eyes filled with pain and regret. Before Bulma could apologize, Miint whispered, "Zarbon promised me, my sister Berri and even Uncle Chooco sanctuary when they came to purge our world. Uncle Chooco always said I had the smarts and my sister got the looks. Her feathers shone iridescent blue under certain lights, then wild magenta under others."
"She sounds beautiful."
Miint's eyes were shining with unshed tears while she continued to speak unwaveringly. "Zarbon never forced her into anything, we were still very fine-boned when we got here, but she gave herself to him willingly. He spoiled her rotten, and she started acting like she was too good to be around lowly tech slaves. She never carried her weight, and I was forced to finish her tasks on top of mine. I didn't mind. My sister would give me her hand-me-down gowns and the other presents Zarbon showered her with that she didn't particularly like. And then, one day, he told her he was bored with her. Uncle Chooco never acknowledged the work I'd done for her and Berri was sent to the Pleasure Quarters that same day."
"How, how is she doing?" Bulma swallowed thickly, unnerved by the casual tone of the Rawin.
"She died the next day. Bulma of Earth, you are naive and fragile like a Rawin newborn. You will not survive life in the Pleasure Quarters." A statement, not a threat. And Miint left for the barracks.
Bulma wordlessly entered her room. She didn't seem to see the elegant dressing table, the plush couch decorated with embroidered pillows, or the closet half-filled with beautiful gowns and clothing. She drifted toward the large bed, letting the reality of her situation sink in the way she couldn't on Zarbon's ship as she herself sunk below the silken bedcovers. Were it not for the soft, gentle presence in her mind, she doubted she would have gotten any sleep that night or the nights thereafter.
The prototype was finished a month ahead of schedule, much to her fellow tech slaves' surprise. There were those who still had their doubts about her abilities, having seen the original schematics and notes regarding the hand cannon. Until they, along with the blue-haired Earthling, were brought to the Combat facility's firing range.
The Soldiers practicing their shooting had clustered to one side, curious and amused. They always found these tests entertaining. Especially when something went wrong. There was a chorus of whistles, peppered with snickers, when the delicate woman holding a hand cannon that looked too small to be nothing more than a joke broke away from the group. The sharpshooting instructor Cui showed her the proper stance, managing to cop a feel in the process and earning himself an outraged glare.
Slim fingers twisted a knob, and figures began to register on Scouters. The numbers skyrocketed when the woman pulled the trigger and power shot out of the muzzle in a steady beam. The woman was speaking now, explaining things using jargon that only her fellow tech slaves understood, but when she twisted the knob again, the numbers on the Scouters drop. She twisted a third time, and the Scouters explode from the sharp jump in energy. Buttons were pushed, and what came out of the muzzle was a scatterburst.
"That thing's got some serious juice," Cui grinned, a hand outstretched expectantly at Bulma.
"It does, doesn't it?" She smirked and made no motion to hand it over.
"I'd like to see it up close." It was not a request.
"Alright everyone, head back to the lab. Compare notes and we'll see if we can't make this thing better than it is," Mastertech Chooco interrupted, spotting the antagonistic glint in the Soldier's eyes. The Rawin ushered his team out of the Combat facility, keeping a wary eye on the Soldiers trailing after them all the way to the complex's entrance.
Several hours of brainstorming later, Chooco dismissed everyone for the day, stating rest was the next order of business. On their way to their rooms, Bulma lightly nudged the Mastertech's niece with her elbow, "Well? What do you think?"
Miint sniffed imperiously, "Too flashy."
"Maybe the scatterburst was a little too much," she chuckled. "But I wouldn't have been able to incorporate that feature if it wasn't for your help."
A light flush dusted the female avian's face at the praise. "As long as you acknowledge it."
Before they rounded the corner, Bulma felt talon-tipped hands grab at her arms and pull her to the wall. "What is-?"
"Shh!" Miint hissed, pressing herself as flat as she could and glaring at the Earth woman to do the same.
Laughter, cold, hard and cruel soon filled the hallway, then a terrified squeak, pleading and begging for mercy. The sickening crunch of bones, a dull thud of a body being dropped, with only the wet gurgles of pain to give comfort that it was still alive. When heavy footfalls faded to silence Miint peered around the corner and found a small, rodent-like medic curled up into a trembling, defensive ball.
Together with Bulma, the two tech slaves brought the wounded healer to the infirmary. The physicians shook their heads sadly as they tended to their own, thanking them as if it was the norm. Wordlessly, the two females continued back to their rooms. Miint had seen this sort of thing before and it was obvious it no longer surprised her. But Bulma was visibly shaken, the color from her already pale skin had drained to a sickly pallor.
"They're monsters," Bulma whispered finally.
"They are," Miint agreed. "Any form of resistance is only met with more violence. It's just easier to play dead than to fight back."
Mastertechs have lost more promising engineers to Soldiers than they have to laboratory or field mishaps. Chooco's words suddenly echoed in her mind.
"That's not right."
"That's how things work on this base and on all the other bases."
"Hasn't anyone told Zarbon?"
Miint's beak hung open, feathered brows knitted in sheer disbelief. "He encourages this sort of behavior. He and his Lord believes the strong have the right to do whatever they want while the weak are-"
"Forced to suck it up and take it?" An angry growl was in Bulma's throat. "Is that why you never go anywhere in this base on your own?" From the corner of her eye, she saw Miint nod and that tiny gesture made her ill. Her friend was right. She was naive. Nothing has happened to her because she's under Zarbon's protection but what would happen to her once he grew tired of her? Despite her vanity and ego's outcry that anyone would ever tire of her, Bulma shuddered at the very real possibility.
She'd have to find some way to defend herself because she'd never been very good at playing dead.
A hulking, monstrous creature trudged away from a smoldering wasteland that had been West City. Its movement was slow, sluggish, the fatigue from seven straight days of non-stop slaughter finally given leave to seep into its limbs. It made its way to where two deep craters, each housing a circular pod, sunk low in the ground. With every long stride the dark-furred beast took, it seemed to shrink, its length and mass seemingly collapsing in on itself until finally it was no bigger than a man.
A man with a tail wrapped firmly around his waist, armor-clad chest rising and falling with deep breaths, formerly pristine-white gloves stained with blood, much of which was not his. His lips were curled in a cruel, triumphant grin, no less feral or savage than the one he had worn as a Saiyan Oozaru while he beat down on his opponents. In one week, he laid waste to civilizations that took centuries to build. The air was heavy with the silent dirge of death for the millions upon millions of ended lives, but in his ears rang clear echoes of the war song his enemies screamed before he slew them to the last man.
It begun as a one-sided battle - if he could even call what to him was little more than a leisurely stroll through a training simulator on its easiest setting a battle. He hadn't even needed to get involved, perfectly content with watching from the sidelines and letting his subordinate deal with the little gnats that were this pathetic planet's strongest warriors. They were sufficiently amusing, with the futility of their struggles against a clearly superior power and their blind faith in Radditz's traitorous younger brother, supposedly back from the dead.
He wanted to see for himself the living proof of the Dragon Balls and their mystical abilities. Deciding to indulge them with an extra three hours of life to await their savior, never expecting his mercy would be so greatly rewarded with information.
"Cool it, Yamcha!" the bald, diminutive Earthling hissed, trying his best to keep the scarred warrior from pushing off from the ground where he lay prone. "I know you're pissed but we need to hold on until Goku gets here."
"Let me go, Krillin, I'm not done with these bastards!" the man called Yamcha hauled himself up, struggling into a stance despite the arms that held him at bay.
"I'd be happy to oblige you your death wish right now, weakling," the towering, mustached Saiyan chuckled, cracking his knuckles while taking ominous steps towards the cluster of soon-to-be dead men.
"Nappa."
The command the smaller Saiyan had absently uttered stilled the big brute. Nappa turned to argue, but any words of protests died on his lips at the warning that flashed in the dark, hard eyes of his liege.
"S-sorry, Vegeta-Ouji, I got carried away. My body's just been aching for some action."
"And you would have proven me a liar and dishonored me in the process," he said coldly.
"What the fuck would you know about honor?" the scarred Earthling snarled.
"Yamcha," his small friend pleaded, though his own face was grim as he shot an equally furious glare at the two alien conquerors.
"He is the Prince of Saiyans, you pitiful little insect!" Nappa hollered. "His honor is worth more than all your miserable lives combined!"
"Where is the honor in kidnapping?" The hairless, three-eyed man standing beside a floating, deathly-white creature quietly demanded.
"Taking someone hostage is at times necessary to lure our intended target into the open," Vegeta shrugged casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then absently added "Or to ensure they don't run away."
"Such as when your friend came and took Son Goku's boy?" The Namekian growled, unconsciously stepping closer to the half-breed child struggling to stop the shaking of his tiny body.
A nod. "Precisely. When we've achieved our goal, and the hostage has outlived its usefulness, we put it out of its misery like we would have our target."
"That's not what we're talking about and you know it, you sick fucks!" Yamcha roared, his Ki spiking in fury, tearing himself free of Krillin's grip, and charging straight for the tailed pair.
Sneering, Nappa spread his arms apart. "I'm not allowed to kill you for another three hours, insect." In the same breath he sharply brought his meaty hands together, the impact creating a shockwave of sound and air pressure that knocked the enraged Earthling backwards and forced him to land at his fellow warriors' feet.
"What were you talking about, then?" Vegeta asked, a patronizing smirk on his face, having decided to humor them until their time was up and his companion ended them.
"Playing dumb?" Krillin grimaced, "Or do you really have nothing to do with the blue guy who took Bulma?"
"Blue guy?" Nappa's forehead was furrowed in confusion as he turned to the smaller Saiyan for answers.
"The blue-skinned freak has to be one of them!" Yamcha screamed, already crouched and ready to spring forward into another attack, only to be blocked by his three-eyed comrade. "Briefs showed us the video footage and he had the same gear as these two do!"
"I assure you my squad is composed only of Saiyans. Any other specie would be hard pressed to keep up with us," Vegeta's smirk widened, taking great delight in the rage his arrogant words incited from the warriors present. Then he looked serious. "But does this "blue-skinned freak" happen to have long, braided green hair?"
"And looks really girly?" Nappa added, unease slowly replacing the confusion.
The hard glares from the Earthlings confirmed their suspicions: Zarbon.
"So he is one of you!" Yamcha seethed, unsuccessfully trying to maneuver past the larger, bald Earthling.
"You should be more worried about yourselves than your lost warrior," Nappa laughed mockingly.
"Bulma wasn't a warrior! She was an innocent civilian! He had absolutely no reason to take her!" the scarred man's voice was raw with unshed tears and pent up frustration of helplessness. The Saiyans would have thought the emotional display hilarious if it weren't so pathetic.
"It's not our practice, but some squads like to bring back souvenirs from their missions," Nappa grinned wickedly.
"W-what'll they do to Bulma-neesan?" the little whelp cowering behind the green-skinned fighter squeaked.
"Is your missing civilian beautiful?" the towering Saiyan leered.
No one missed the way Yamcha trembled as he choked back a horrified sob.
"She'll either be the fancy boy's personal fuck toy, or be sent to the Pleasure Quarters. Either way, she's probably dead by now. Your kind is just too breakable. And if she isn't, she's probably wishing she was!" The big man threw his head back in laughter, relishing the disgust and outrage on their opponents' faces. After all, to the Saiyans, it just meant one less Earthling to purge from this planet.
Though he kept his features a neutral blank, a small knot of worry had begun to form in the back of the smaller Saiyan's mind. Zarbon had come to this miserable planet, under Frieza's orders no doubt. Vegeta mentally cursed the fool Radditz for using such a complicated encryption when he relayed the information about the Dragon Balls to them. He understood the need for secrecy, and why they had to make certain their employer never caught wind of the mystical artifacts. But it shouldn't have been at the risk of drawing the very attention they had been trying to avoid in the first place!
Frieza never trusted the Saiyans to begin with, and had always kept a close watch on their movements. But if this Son Goku had indeed been brought back to life just to do battle with them, then it meant the old lizard didn't know anything about the magical, immortality-granting spheres. The squad-leader bit back a snarl, deciding it couldn't be helped. At least they managed to buy themselves some time.
Speaking of time, a soft beep from a Scouter indicated the designated three hours were up and with no savior in sight.
"How disappointing," Vegeta clucked his tongue, pulling his Scouter off his face. "But of course the traitor would also be a coward. You can have your fun now, Nappa."
The giant wasted no time in charging at the six warriors, shoving aside the three-eyed fighter before plunging one large arm elbow-deep into the chest of the scarred Earthling in the blink of an eye. Laughing at the ease with which he whittled their numbers down until only the half-breed, and the diminutive warrior were left. At some point in the skirmish, the Namek had sacrificed himself to protect the boy, and with him gone so were the Dragon Balls.
Fearing for his life, Nappa apologized profusely for his error, which Vegeta dismissed with a wave and an amused reminder that "We know the coordinates to planet Namek."
Then the traitor arrived and promptly beat Nappa within an inch of his life.
Vegeta never thought the tides of the battle could turn so easily with just one man. What the combined efforts of six fighters could not accomplish, Radditz's brother had managed with frightening ease. Something about the younger Saiyan, something in his eyes, or the power he housed made the Prince itch to put him in his place. Perhaps it was the fact that the traitor had refused to give Nappa the warrior's death he deserved for being defeated and forced Vegeta to slay the big man himself.
Regardless of the reason, he engaged the Earth-raised Saiyan in combat, trading blows with break-neck speed and leveling the land with each dodged blast.
The Saiyan Prince couldn't remember the last time he felt his blood sing for battle, for the blinding need to tear at flesh, to break bone and spirit in the glorious frenzy of brutality so instinctive to his race. He had hoped it would be mirrored in his opponent. He was not disappointed. He had actually come very close to losing.
A feral grin broke across Vegeta's face. It had been long, so very, very long since he needed to call upon his strength as an Oozaru. Energy thrummed through his body as he transformed, pushing past the pain that exploded in his limbs from the violent onslaught of power with a roar. The battle sharply tilted into his favor.
He welcomed the vicious joy surging through his veins when he caught the younger Saiyan in his massive paw. Sturdy bones gave way to pressure, the audible snap and the shrieks of pain a sweet duet to his ears. The wind shifted just then, and he caught scent of someone trying to sneak up behind him. His tail rose and absently swatted down on the insignificant pest, a chuckle escaping his maw at the satisfying squelch of innards bursting through skin. Two gnats buzzed about, their attacks doing little to hurt him, but they were still singularly annoying. He squashed them beneath his foot.
A scream of pain and anger and outrage reminded him of the half-dead Saiyan he held. And like Vegeta did to Nappa upon the larger man's defeat, he put the fallen warrior out of his misery. He tossed the broken corpse away, not deigning to give it the funeral pyre he had bestowed upon his companion.
His bloodlust had not been sated, he thought with disappointment then quickly realized the fewer living things there are that knew of the Dragon Balls, the better. The fact that he was supposed to purge this pathetic planet was just a convenient excuse. There was a deep rumble in his chest, a cross between a purr and a laugh, and he marched his way towards the nearest settlement he could sense.
It was seven days after he made planet-fall when he exterminated the last of the Earthlings.
The grin on Vegeta's face widened into a vicious, fang-bared smile at the memory. He slowly climbed into his fighter pod, easing himself down into the seat as the last vestiges of strength his transformation lent him finally ebbed. While he had no Dragon Balls, he had a few things to console himself with. That little technique the Earthling fighters used to detect Ki for one. The pathetic Ki levels of the planet's inhabitants made for the perfect targets to develop his senses. He'd managed to perfect it in a matter of days, able to distinguish the individuals amongst clusters of hundreds at a rate that put the Scouters to shame.
And for two, if the scarred weakling hadn't run at the mouth the way he had, Vegeta would have immediately punched in the coordinates to planet Namek and alerted Frieza of his plan. So instead, he programmed his pod to take him to the closest Planet-base. He'll think of his next move once he regained his power. In the meantime, he will sleep to recover from the injuries he sustained and as the darkness claimed him, he pushed away the thought that he was now the last Saiyan left.
A monitor displayed the slow heartbeat of one at rest, producing a tinny beep for each faint pulse of life that flowed through the regeneration tank's occupant. Another screen, smaller and mounted at the base of the machine showed numbers counting down until time of completion, the digits changing at an agonizing snail's pace. Wary, reptilian eyes darted from the monitor to the door, from the door to the timer, from the timer back to the door, and from the door to the pale, female Earthling floating within the healing liquid of the tank.
"Please don't die, Bulma," the medic begged, pressing a clawed hand against the glass. "Zarbon will have my head if you do."
At the mention of the blue officer, the steady beeps suddenly burst into a staccato, heavy lids shot open in a surge of panic, and the tech slave began to thrash in a blind, desperate bid to escape the phantom horrors that plagued her visions. A sedative infusion quickly filled the chamber, forcing a fog of calm to settle on her mind and weigh her limbs like lead.
Dilated blue eyes drooped close, pulling her down into the world beyond the waking realm. Only it was not dreams that greeted her but memories, disjointed and painful and vivid and recent. Memories that she wished she had only read about or seen as an uninvolved third party observer rather than experienced first hand.
It was six months ago.
Zarbon had summoned her to his bedroom, and she arrived dressed in dark blue satin that seemed to have been molded to fit her form perfectly. It revealed the swell of her breasts and the long, fluid line of her thighs, just enough to entice without becoming vulgar in the blue officer's opinion. He offered her wine, and a meal, and all throughout the evening they spoke.
Small talk, idle chatter, white noise in the haze of memory until he brought up his proposition when he had brought her to the planet-base.
"I cannot share your bed, Zarbon," she murmured, eyes downcast, hands folded neatly on her lap. She didn't elaborate on the why, not too much. It would have gotten her killed or at least a vicious beating. She expected to be thrown out into the cold, metaphorically of course, and prepared to stand when she feels him gently push her back down.
"I think I would have been disappointed if you did, love," he chuckled.
Bulma's head snapped up before she even realized it. "And what's that supposed to mean!"
"It means, my sweet, that I preferred what we already have. You can appreciate beauty the way I do, and it is rare to find a kindred spirit who I do not find repulsive to look at. I simply wish for someone I can converse with. Tell me all about your inventions and dangerous little gadgets in a report. I want your company as Bulma of Earth, not as one of Lord Frieza's faceless tech slave."
Her breath caught in her throat. The bastard, he'd been testing her!
Zarbon snapped his fingers, and music began to play. He bowed to her, and offered his hand. She took it and immediately found herself pressed up against his chest, an arm wound around her waist, the other holding her hand. He led, she followed, realizing only after they had finished that they were doing the Waltz.
He gave her a smile, and it reached his eyes. She can't remember ever seeing anything so beautiful before.
It was three months ago.
She had finished her side-project, a secret she kept from everyone, even Miint who was fast becoming a very close friend, even Mastertech Chooco who was her mentor and almost like a substitute father. It was a Ki-nullifying pistol. She realized she couldn't create anything destructive like the hand cannon. The Scouters would have reacted to any sudden spike in power but they never recorded dropping power levels unless they caught its rise in the first place.
The Soldiers liked to stare at her when they think she's not looking and when they knew she was. Cui, in particular, enjoyed leering at her and offered her more lessons at the firing range, for whenever Zarbon got bored with her. Bulma knew very well the blasted purple man would never have said such a thing if Zarbon were on the base instead of somewhere in the depths of space. She wished he would try to grope her again, he'd be in for a nasty surprise. She pulled the bill of her cap lower to hide the smirk on her face at the thought.
She would get her wish sooner than she thought when Mastertech Chooco transferred her to the Combat building's Training Simulator project. The best tech slaves under every Mastertech would be working on it. She and Miint were the Rawin's representatives and they were excited to be working together.
At some point while they worked, Miint had to go retrieve a specific tool from the main lab. Bulma assured her she would be fine and when Cui snuck into the room and ran his unwanted hands over the curve of Bulma's rear, the Earthling decapsulated the pistol and pulled the trigger. Cui never saw the gun, only heard a soft pop before he fell to the ground convulsing.
"You must have developed a severe allergic reaction," the small, rodent-like medic diagnosed while Miint and Bulma stood nearby, trying to appear concerned and hide the self-satisfied grins behind their caps.
It was two months ago.
Bulma still had her private room, but she liked to have Miint over sometimes. She didn't feel so alone this way and the gentle presence in her head seemed to be pleased by this.
Zarbon called her to his room again. This time they danced something from his homeworld. She spent most of it holding onto him for dear life because their dancing involved flying.
The gentle presence didn't seem to like that very much.
She had no idea how or why a presence could be happy or upset about something.
It was a week ago.
The day began like all the others: A flurry of activity, trying to meet deadlines and work out the bugs in the Training Simulator's system. The Soldiers made for wonderful lab mice, Bulma found, as they blasted and were blasted back by the training droids and wall-mounted weapons. The gentle presence she normally only felt at night before she fell asleep was suddenly there but she managed to ignore it while she worked.
"Miint could you hand me the-" Bulma was suddenly on her knees, wheezing from a sharp agonizing pain in her chest. It felt like someone had grabbed her heart and crushed it.
Child, I haven't much time.
Tearful blue eyes blinked in recognition of the voice. A soft inaudible whisper escaped her lips. "Kami?"
A soft chuckle, Yes, child. You must stay strong. You must survive, or else all hope is lost for Earth and its people.
"Wait, what do you mean? Kami?" Bulma whimpered beneath her breath, feeling the presence in her mind grow faint. As the last wisps of the mental connection faded, the deity imparted to her the knowledge of Namek and of the planet's Dragon Balls.
And then he was gone.
It was yesterday.
Miint was sobbing somewhere to her right, something about how she hasn't moved in days and that she needed the shot. She felt a pinch on her skin as a syringe injected her with a stimulant. Her vision cleared instantly and she was on her feet, pushing past medics and tech slaves alike in a rush to the Communication room.
She typed in Earth's coordinates. The result came back minutes later. The planet was still there. Sentient life-form readings indicate negative. Planet successfully purged and ready for processing and auctioning.
She didn't understand it. She knew the words. Separately. But in the same sentence it didn't make any sense. She was doubled over, clutching her chest because it became very hard to breath all of a sudden and the weight of her grief threatened to crush her at any given moment.
Bulma vaguely remembered hearing a wail. It sounded like her. She wasn't sure.
Cold, strong fingers pulled her face upwards, a voice was calling her name and bleary blue eyes locked onto golden eyes.
"Earth has been purged," Bulma choked on the words, her entire form shaking like a sapling in a storm.
"Earth has been purged," She repeated, her voice stronger, steadier as she stared into a beautiful, blue face framed by emerald hair.
"Earth. Has been. Purged." Clarity regained, things fell into place, and Bulma recognized Zarbon.
She doesn't know how the soul wrenching ache of losing her world could burn into mindless blind-rage so quickly. She launched herself at the blue-skinned officer, her hands wrapping tightly around his throat, wishing with every fiber of her being he was dead and not her world. She gripped as tight as she could but felt no give beneath her fingers.
A sharp blow to her stomach knocked the wind out of her and sent her reeling back into reality.
"Now, now, love. There's no reason to throw a temper tantrum," Zarbon chided.
From the ground where she stumbled, she looked up at the serene expression on his face and blanched. "You're going to kill me now."
He looked genuinely surprised at what she said. "Do you want me to?"
"N-no," she swallowed, trying to calm the hammering of her heart, trying to hold onto the dying wish the deity had asked of her. "But you lied to me! You promised me Earth would be spared!"
"From my men, yes. Oh, you didn't know that Saiyans are not under my direct command, did you?" He simpered patronizingly.
To her confusion, he scooped her into his arms. There was a collective gasp from the tech slaves, medics, and Soldiers who had gathered. Zarbon turned to one of the medics and instructed him to "Prepare a regen tank. I'm afraid I must punish my little toy here and she's going to need one."
Bulma began to struggle against him, her fear and panic overriding her ability to remember the Ki-nullifying gun she kept encapsulated in her pocket. She could do nothing to escape as he brought her into a private med-bay room, away from prying eyes to spare her dignity, he told her.
"You are still a Slave and I am still your Master. While I find your spirit and temper entertaining and productive, I must still set an example. I promise you, love, I will not marr your face or risk the dexterity of your hands."
He gave her a smile, and it reached his eyes. She can't remember ever seeing anything so terrifying before.
Zarbon set her on her feet, leaned down to plant a tender kiss on her forehead, and simultaneously broke one of her ribs. Before she could draw the breath to scream, he broke a different section of the same rib. His lips brushed against the tip of her nose, and he fractured her clavicle. Only by the sixth injury did she finally managed to let loose a keen.
Each gentle caress he gave her preceded a vicious blow that mottled skin, shredded muscle, and snapped bone. Bulma lost count of how many parts of her body he broke. Her throat was torn from all her screaming, and her lungs burned.
"This will be enough, love," She heard Zarbon croon softly to her, felt him thread his bloodied fingers through her sweat-soaked hair. The door slid open and shadows loomed over her. "Place her in the regen tank but do not let anyone near her. Remind anyone who tries that she still holds my fancy and I will do worse to them than I have her."
Instead of the disgusted "Fuck your fancy!" that she tried to snarl at him, all that managed to slip past her crimson-stained lips was a wet gurgle.
"Don't look at me like that, love, you only brought this on yourself," Zarbon shook his head, gold eyes completely free of remorse.
The medics eased her into a healing chamber and as the mask slipped over her face, she gave herself to the darkness.
The tinny beeping sequence indicated the tank had finished its job. Bulma had spent a full day in the chamber and emerged exhausted. The medic sent word to Zarbon before handing the tech slave a fresh change of clothes. She refused and asked for her blood-drenched uniform, which they had thrown into the incinerator for sanitary reasons.
Bulma bit back a scream. This meant she would have to rebuild her Ki-pistol!
Slowly, she got dressed and was about to ask if she could possibly stay in the infirmary for the night when the blue-skinned officer entered. She froze, nearly forgetting to breath until Kami's words echoed in her mind.
You must survive, or else all hope is lost for Earth and its people.
The steel in her will returned and she straightened herself. She let him pull her into a gentle embrace, shuddering at his touch. He mistakes it as a shiver of fear and purred.
"It is wise to fear me, love. Come to my bed just for tonight. I promise I will only hold you."
"And if I refuse?" she whispered, the sharp edge in her voice taking him by surprise.
He studied her and decided that "Perhaps it is too soon since your punishment. Go to your room, love. We will have plenty of time to talk."
Somehow she found the strength to stumble to her private bedroom before wearily sinking into her bed. As sleep claimed her, she clung to the thought that she was now the last Earthling left.
