It's been much too long since I've updated and I'm happy to say that my horrendous writer's block has been pushed aside for now. My hope is to devote more time into Driven by Need but life takes precedence, as always.
For those new to this story, this is the sequel to Bound by Fate. Its a continuation of Bulma's and Vegeta's story so if you're a tad confused as to why these characters are just 'appearing' in their predicaments, I gently urge you to read through Bound by Fate before you continue on your reading journey.
**Warning** For those that have read my previous stories, you are already privy to my twisted enjoyment of dark, violent writings that make readers squirm in their seats while cringing. This chapter picks up in the thick of everyone's present circumstance. There is no gradual decent into the gruesome situation some of my characters are in. It gets graphic. It gets grim. It's a train wreck you can't help but watch as the violence piles up. That's the tone Bound by Fate closed with and will be carried throughout this tale. If you're squeamish, you've been forewarned. If you enjoyed my other writings, however, this one is right up your alley.
"In the darkness, before the dawn. In the swirling of the storm. When I'm rolling with the punches and hope is gone, leave a light – a light – on." -Coldplay, Midnight
Trying the handle of the door to check it was secure, the guard gave the curved metal another jerk. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, the figure moved to the next cell to repeat the action. Even though there were only two tenants currently residing in the empty rows of cells, extra precautions were set in place decades ago. A redundancy system wisely enacted, each cell door checked so the guard on duty was forced to make sure to check that each tenant was secured. It would only be a matter of hours, less than a day at the most, to discover any inmate out of place. With a limited time to navigate through the maze of corridors and crew before discovery, an effort to escape was futile for those in such unfamiliar territory. Their captor, more cunning then any prisoner locked safely away in the ship's bowels, had the necessary checks in enacted to thwart escape. His diligence had kept each captive in line. The rare outliers who managed to get beyond their bars were found swiftly and executed ruthlessly.
The loud, deliberate rattling of metal against metal drew an annoyed glare from the farthest cell. A dark outline shifted as it pressed itself further into the corner attempting to melt into the shadows of his confines. Sighing in temporary relief as the cool wall pressed against his feverish cheek, the figure hiding in the darkness closed his eyes in an attempt to block out the noisy jingling of handles that eventually trailed away. It was during this rare time, when the second cell's occupant was absent, that something loosely resembling solitude settled over the weary prisoner.
In this brief recess of solitude, such rare gifts of peace were often short-lived. If it wasn't the hungry tendrils of electricity mercilessly licking at spent nerves aiding in his unhinging, it was his reflections of past failures and losses that edged him closer to insanity. As much of a relief as it was to be rid of the watchful pair of eyes that seemed to slice through his curtain of darkness, it gave Vegeta the unfortunate gift of time alone with his thoughts.
Thoughts, he had observed while growing up in Frieza's ranks, were dangerous.
Although not nearly as fatal as a blow received in combat, they held a subtle power that could bend the will of even the strongest of opponents. They had the power to give one strength for victory when all odds were stacked well out of favor. They had the ability to cripple the most devious of fighters, whether the fight be with fists or tongue.
Vegeta had learned that wars were more an exchange of wits then of strength and power. It was a game of chess where the rook could force a king to his knees in a checkmate when all other pieces were sacrificed. They were the faculty of effectiveness influenced by the competency of the player through the control and manipulation of others. The rook's final move, overthrowing the opponent, was punctuated with bloodshed as both side's strategies played out in the finality of death's waltz.
Power comes in a number of forms, but one needs to have the ability to wield such foolhardy things. To blindly impose one's strenghth with sheer force alone demands attention and quick intervention by the oppressed. Too many people negatively affected by such an obvious show of arms upsets the delicate balance of existence in all species and swift intervention often precedes. Even if such a rise to power occurs on the heels of an overwhelming number of solders and weapons at his or her disposal, such numbers can only be controlled with precise skill, only to eventually be crippled by the high cost of maintaining such expendable bodies.
To gain access behind locked doors, to create networks of unbroken loyalty, one must excavate hidden secrets for bargaining. Having the ability to threaten exposure of skeletons to win the favor of others without hesitation – motivated by fear - is the menacing foundation of a lasting leader who rules by force. Coupled with flushing out the already corrupt who slobber greedily with desire at the promise of more creature comforts and gaining controlling power is the inevitable progression. It is a way to shift the balance of scales by discreetly moving one inconspicuous grain of sand at a time until the scale tips inch by slow inch. This ensures that once someone of significance with the ability to intervene realizes things are curiously off, it would be near impossible to undo what has already been corroded away. Instead of using bloodshed and expending costly effort to take galaxies by force, only to be stopped by a more cunning adversary as resources dwindle, it takes the delicate controlling of thoughts to persuade the scale to tip and set the new foundation to rule uninhibited.
Frieza, who understands this thing which is so vague - so invisible and challenging to wield – had turned into one of the most dangerous persons of all.
Vegeta had learned that lesson as a child.
Bored with compliance and stability, Frieza's thirst for conflict demanded to be quenched. He discreetly manipulated his way onto the thresholds of those with the ability to help him obtain a self-proclaimed empire. He found the most corruptible in both Cold and Saiyan politics, winning their loyalties with promises of grandeur and riches. Targeting those in power who would sell their souls to keep well-buried secrets where they belonged, Frieza uncovered acts of atrocities and betrayals to force alliances that aided in securing his position at the top. After the devastating genocide of Vegeta's planet, his parents of royalty dying to save their only living son and heir to a now non-existent throne, Vegeta was plucked from the chaos and forced into Frieza's ranks. At the time, the Saiyan supremacy was the last hurdle between Frieza's desire to rule the galaxies uninhibited and the Saiyan alliance with the Cold administration.
Eventually groomed for destruction, Vegeta was Frieza's twisted personal pet project – a way to demonstrate to the universe that even the most ruthless and feared of races couldn't escape Frieza's will. What better way to show each and every galaxy that the heir of one of the most feared régime's of all could be easily leashed? A symbol of power and cunning so effortlessly mutated into the weapon that eagerly followed orders to wipe out civilizations with only rubble to whisper of the horror left in it's wake?
It was quite an undertaking to pull apart the tightly woven threads of innocence and morals Vegeta's parents had carefully stitched together. The makings of a great King, one that would have been cherished by his people when he came into his own, was not easily torn apart. Vegeta's craftiness for defiance forced Frieza to enlist his most trusted elite troupe to teach the would-be prince how to become an instrument of destruction. Entrusting Ginyu with the task, Frieza knew he had the skill to break Vegeta so he could be sculpted into something far more devious. Vegeta proved to be a handful for Ginyu at times, trying his patience with blatant insubordination, finding ways to escape to short-lived freedoms and frequent hesitations stemming from moral struggles refusing to release their grip on the boy. Poisoning Vegeta's soul was an impossible task. The invention of the ki cuffs after a stubborn refusal to follow orders helped to expedite Vegeta's submission. Having one's internal power painfully suppressed then weaponized inward helps one to quickly learn to be, at the least, fearfully respectful of those who demand obedience.
The desire to avoidance of future punishments of that nature finally gave way to the desired outcome.
Even if Vegeta's compliance was through fear, it was still effective. Every sizzle of electricity pulsing through Vegeta's body brought with it another reminder of the atrocities he had partaken in. Each jolt jarred another memory of his failures and disappointments from the deep recesses of his mind.
The ki suppressing cuffs were now Frieza's nostalgic reminder to Vegeta that there was no escaping his will. It was to reinforce that, despite Vegeta's strength, Frieze was undoubtedly in control of both it and of him. No matter how successful Vegeta was at loosening Frieza's collar, Frieza would wrap an even tighter one around his throat whenever Frieza caught wind of Vegeta's pathetic hope for freedom. Even though he was no longer a young child, the liberation Vegeta craved was more deeply rooted now than it was in his youth. The punishment for dreaming of such freedom hadn't changed, however. Just as when he was growing up, Vegeta would eventually bend to Frieza's will either by choice or by force. Either way, Frieza was satisfied as long as Vegeta was complacent.
Harassed by his past, it was even worse when the purple-eyed woman was occupying the cell catty-corner to his. Peering through the bars separating them, she would sit on the floor with arms shackled overhead without comment or complaint. She had tried to speak to him the first day he was dumped on the floor and left for dead. She had spouted ominous foretelling's of the location of the woman that double crossed him. Trying to persuade him to find hope in the forsaken bowels of the ship where the only certainty is that agony is the only comfort, she tormented him with her presence.
She reminded Vegeta of the woman he had given sanctuary.
One month of spending almost every hour together whenever possible to work towards staying alive.
Four weeks of learning how to trust conjointly even though both had a lifetime's worth of betrayal to dictate otherwise.
Twenty-eight days of helping each other grow stronger, to fight harder for the right to their own existence while escape from their suppressor which fed a fire that combusted into heated passion between them.
How was he repaid?
She fled while I was left to take the fall, Vegeta seethed bitterly.
She had found a way to create a diversion throughout the ship while using outside resources to aid in her escape. She used Vegeta as shield to protect herself from a particular sadist who exuded delight at the mere though of snuffing her out. She teamed up with Vegeta using a harpy's song rich with science and sweetened with the melody of freedom.
The spell that she weaved, the one that bewitched Vegeta from the moment her fidgeting figure kneeling on the floor piqued his interest, blinded him to the plans of escape she had carried to fruition under his nose. He was too distracted by the thought of hope, the whisper of freedom, to see what Bulma truly was.
Because of her, he had lost the only connection he had left of his heritage. Mercilessly severed from him as punishment for his defiance as she rode the wave to freedom, he roiled with the desire of destroying her.
Because of her, the legend of becoming more – of becoming the most powerful being to grace the cosmos – had been stolen from him.
Because of her, he was the forgotten ghost of an endangered people only a few bodies away from complete extinction.
Without his Saiyan tail, he was just a man without the ability to transform in silvery moonlight as the ape within reveled in its escape in its mysterious ambiance.
Drowning in the depths of his self-pity, Vegeta barely registered the sound of booted steps approaching. Peering from the comfort of the shadows, he watched two guards escort the purple-eyed woman to her cell. The past few times she had walked past him, she stood tall and proud. Back straight with chin high, she had radiated self-assurance. Every time she had been brought back, the same steel resolve was apparent.
This time was different.
Her posture, slumped fractionally despite the confidence she feigned, pulled him from his loathing.
Waiting for the door to be opened, she shifted in discomfort. Vegeta noted the way her arm subtly twitched in the same manner as one trying rid themselves of an annoying insect. Her door creaked in protest as it yawned opened. The woman, shoved forward, fell to her hands and knees. There was no attempt to get up from the fall. Instead, she slid the rest of the way to the ground trembling.
When the guards shut the door, Vegeta's attention was fully piqued. He studied the unexpected change in routine as a statue regards the traffic of bodies scurrying on the street. In times past, the woman marched into her confines and sat along the farthest wall, raising her arms above her head expectantly. The guard would lock the willing captive's cuffs to the bulky chain dangling overhead. She would look calmly ahead or gaze towards Vegeta's darkened corner as the guards took their leave, silence loudly filling the emptiness around them both.
This third day, his guess if the lock checks and shift cycles were the same as the last time he was locked away and forgotten, was a curious deviation from the norm.
What Vegeta found abruptly odd was the usual care that was taken to secure the woman was completely ignored.
Once her shaking seemed to subside, the only rare hint that the ki restricting cuffs affected her the same as him, a hushed sob hiccuped from under her wildly splayed hair. Arms pillowed under her forehead, the woman quietly cried. If it wasn't for his keen hearing, he would have never picked up the sniffles she buried between her arms and the floor.
He didn't feel sorry for her. No, the fact that she seemed mostly unfazed by the cuffs when they riddled him beyond agony gave him a sick sense of satisfaction in her suffering. Knowing that she should be a rotting corpse on the vacant planet eradicated by his hand, only to discover she was undoubtedly alive and caged in juxtaposition to him, only deepened his hatred. Her tears in reaction to whatever it was that had transpired was music to his ears.
It was the hunch that beyond their surrounding walls something had changed that held his curiosity.
"Have you ever been undone?" She asked softly, her voice low and grievous.
He answered by shifting against the wall. He regarded her silently, caught between the want to be left alone and the desire to find out what had caused her silence to break. Even caged, he still had the wherewithal to be prepared should the change in her treatment be a foreshadowing of his.
"Have you ever had trouble discerning where reality ends and the nightmare begins?" She didn't stir from the floor. Instead, she seemed to be talking to herself. "It's been so terrible…being repeatedly ripped apart only to be put back together with no end in sight."
He thought her silent stares were an annoyance before. If she was going to take up vocalizing self-pity, he'd rather have the gawking back.
His cuffs fired up as his irritation rose. Thankful for the distraction from her blubbering, he ignored her. Closing his eyes and turning back into the wall, he welcomed the red-hot fire burrowing deeper into his skin.
Shadows fluttered against the walls as Bulma fought to wake among murky shapes and familiar drowsiness. The recognizable sensation of stirring from the depths of a forgotten nightmare had her feeling sluggish and weak. Mouth cracked and bleeding, she pressed her parched lips together with a laborious swallow of powdered rusty iron as her eyelids peeked open.
Everything ached. Her shoulder, tender and sore, throbbed angrily. The skin on her side pulled uncomfortably with each breath. Gingerly rubbing a hand against the tight skin, she felt silky smoothness under her fingertips. She laboriously tugged off the heavy covers to look at her side, absentmindedly noting the midriff-baring top and loose bottoms she wore. Hand caressing the light pink patch of flesh where she knew a laceration should be, the unexpected stabbing pain underneath made her inhale in surprise.
She gently caressed her shoulder next, taking note from the tenderness in her side to be much more cautious. Any bruising or swelling that revealed her harrowing escape off Frieza's ship was eerily absent. Her confusion thickened as she discovered clean, healthy skin in the places she remembered were badly mauled by a demon made real.
Questioning her memory, as well as her sanity, Bulma looked around the room in an attempt to try to make sense of it all. The sterile surroundings of her previous residence was replaced by the inside of a welcoming home. Despite the warmth of the room, Bulma pulled the soft wool blanket around herself protectively. She slowly sat up, hugging the blanket closer as she studied her surroundings dumbfounded.
Shadows danced on the walls with the soft hiss and pop of a fire crackling behind her. The exposed knotted beams overhead, unfinished with bark curling away from the thick tree remnants underneath, supported a thatched roof of straw tightly woven between straight, sturdy wooden poles. The room was cluttered with crude shelves containing labeled bottles and containers, the dyed liquids inside glinting curiously in the flickering light. Metal pans and utensils, some recognizable and some foreign, hung from the tightly packed wooden tiers supporting the tall peaked roof. Colorful fabric draped over windows along the walls shielded the warm light of the fire from the darkness behind the curtained openings. A coarse wooden door, thatched in the same style as the roof, was the only protection between Bulma and the unknown beyond the threshold.
Muffled conversation and laughter drifted from the other side of the door. Worried, Bulma pulled the covers tighter. Unsure about her new surroundings, she weighed the consequences of staying in the dwelling against sneaking off unprepared. Placing a hand on her aching shoulder, the memory of the bone underneath shattering with a sickening crunch making her shudder helped conclude she was in no shape to fend for herself. She thought it best to stay in the cozy dwelling for now.
Before she could settle back onto the mattress, Bulma jumped at the sound of the door opening. A young girl in her teens entered with a woven basket overflowing with material resting snugly against her hip. Putting it down, she took something hidden from under one of the folds in the pile.
Pale green eyes studied Bulma intensely. Thick curls of tangerine outlined a freckled sun-kissed face vibrant with youthful curiosity. Her clothes, a mix of earthy colored fabrics and leathers sewn together in haphazard organization, hugged her frame. An array leather chords in varying sizes crossed to hold different sections of the animal skins together accented by lavender and white shells woven into the braided hides.
When a genuine and inviting smile spread across the girl's face, a fraction of Bulma's tension eased. Relinquishing her murderous grip on the blanket, Bulma returned the smile with a tentative one of her own.
"Hoi," The girl said softly, walking towards Bulma with deliberate steps. The item she had taken from the basket was cupped protectively in her hands.
Bulma cleared her raw throat. "Hoi," she mimicked, hoping the phrase was a greeting. The smile she received in response confirmed her hunch was correct. "Have you been looking after me?" Not sure if her language was even remotely spoken here, she decided to try anyways. She was surprised when the girl nodded.
"Yes," she said, voice thick with accent. "My father and I have been healing you. I'm happy to see you were able to wake."
"What do you mean 'able to wake'? Was there a possibility I wasn't going to?" Relieved she could be understood, the sudden need to understand what had happened between her escape from her captor's ship and ending up here was impulsively uncontrollable. Wanting to gather as much information as possible, she ignored her burning throat to ask questions.
She was answered with a quiet laugh.
Extending her cupped hands, the girl uncovered the item she was cradling ever so carefully. "First, you need to eat this then I can answer your questions."
A bright green legume rested between the girl's extended palm. Wrinkling her nose at it, Bulma studied the girl's face. "What is it?"
"It's for healing." She answered patiently. "You've had two already, but you were fading in and out of consciousness when they were given. This last one should be enough for you to finish healing on your own."
Bulma plucked the innocent looking bean from the girl's outstretched hand. Studying it, she shook her head in disbelief. "You're telling me that this little thing has that kind of healing properties? It's just a bean."
"It's a rare bean from the soils of Mount Senzu," the girl said as if that would explain everything.
"Um, okay. Sure." Bulma eyed the bean again. Shrugging her shoulders, she popped it in her mouth and chewed. The light, watery crisp of the legume was pleasant at first. As she chewed, though, the taste of spoiled anchovies filled her mouth. Eyes watering from the flavor that was now invading her nostrils, she fanned her face frantically with her hands. With great difficulty, she swallowed the disgusting thing. Looking around for any kind of liquid, she was relieved to find the girl offering her a cup. Taking it without prompting, she gulped the watery liquid down to try and wash away the foul taste.
Instantly, she felt the throbbing of her shoulder dull to mild irritation. The aching she felt when she woke disappeared just as quickly. She felt more alert then she had before, the last foggy tendrils of forced sleep finally loosening their hold. The immediate sensation was oddly invigorating.
"Better?" The girl asked.
"Yeah, actually." Bulma rotated her arm, the dull pain slowly dissipating. "Thank you."
The girl smiled in reply. "My name is Brighid. May I have yours?"
"Bulma." She answered.
"Bulma," Brighid repeated. Crossing an open, sideways palm to her opposite shoulder, she gave a subtle bow. "It is a great honor to meet you."
Just as a Bulma was starting to mirror Brighid's perplexingly formal greeting, the door opened. Eyes widening in surprise, Brighid stepped around the bed and tended to the fire without further comment.
A man, tall and stocky, ducked under the door frame to enter the dwelling. Looking at the basket next to the doorway, he turned his narrowed eyes suspiciously at Bulma. Confused by Brighid's alarm and his fierce scrutiny of her, Bulma tensed in anticipation for some kind of confrontation by this newcomer.
His long stride made short work of the distance between them. Cowering backwards into the mattress, Bulma pulled the blanket to her chin protectively when he towered over her. Without introduction, he gingerly pulled at the shoulder that had been injured. Quickly freeing Bulma's arm from under the woven shield, he slowly squeezed the muscles connecting her arm to her shoulder. Turning it this way and that, he tested its rotation and movement. As he manipulated her arm, he placed a hand against the joint to check its fluidity. He studied her intently, watching for any wince or flinch of pain.
When no indication of discomfort was given, he lay her arm above her head and pulled the covers back. He shot Bulma a look of warning when she protested against the rude violation. Stifling a huff of embarrassed irritation, she focused on the ceiling as he drew the blanket back. His fingers expertly poked and prodded her ribs, testing their sensitivity. One particular push made her wince. The sharp pain seemed to intensify as she felt his fist bury deeply into her side, the sound of bones splintering around the force of impact taking her breath away. A dark chuckle reverberated in her ears as she struggled to free herself from the grasp of the one looming over her.
NO! She thought in a panic when his eyes of amber looked over her, thirstily drinking in her suffering.
"Easy," an agonizingly familiar whisper urged her away from her terror. A warm blanket of trust and understanding only he could offer enveloped her. "Breathe and focus. Eyes on me."
With shallow, choking breaths, she felt the words caress over her with recognizable warmth. Struggling to regain control, the face above her came into focus more clearly. Sluggishly, she recognized features that looked male. Older…with some fine lines beginning to deepen around his mouth and eyes. An intense frown on his hard face made Bulma wonder if a smile might shatter the surrounding skin. Light hazel eyes studied her with years of wisdom nestled between their pinched corners. His hands did not move. Instead, his palms gently rested against her tender skin as he waited patiently for her mind to register what her eyes were seeing. The soothing hiss of the fire helped to ground Bulma further as the ugly memory of her almost failed escape faded away.
"Sorry," she smiled sheepishly up at him. With a deep breath, she laid her forearm against her clammy forehead.
Nodding with understanding, his eyes seemed to soften in the dim light. "You've seen a bit of hardship, I see." His words held knowledge far beyond the ability to identify a panic attack.
"I guess you could say that," she agreed nervously, shifting her gaze back to the ceiling. She didn't know what he knew about her, or how he knew it, but she was too shaken by the memory to put much effort into the creeping fear that these two knew more then she knew about them.
"Relax for a moment longer." He quietly encouraged.
His hands started to move again, this time without the intense pressure. Carefully, he massaged the sensitive area. Feeling a gentle warmth against her ribs, the soreness under her skin fizzled away. He stood silently, focusing intently on his task. Without word or comment, he withdrew his hands and pulled at the blanket to cover her again.
"You will rest for another day, yet." He instructed. "You've suffered a significant amount of trauma. Although we've been supporting your system as it heals, it will take much longer for you to recover in full. You will be staying with us, for now. Tomorrow, Brighid will show you around. You will be assigned a role in the village as your injuries recede. Everyone pitches in, regardless of health or circumstance."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and left.
Brighid walked over to the basket, bringing it over to Bulma's bed and dumping its contents at Bulma's feet. "Don't mind him," Brighid waved towards the door as she began to fold the large sheets. "He's not really friendly to strangers but he'll warm up to you eventually."
"Sound's familiar." Bulma chuckled. Her amusement quickly trailed off as she remembered the Saiyans that had eventually befriended her. Raditz was someone that she had trusted almost immediately. He was the first one to speak to her like an equal. Kakarrot, with his lopsided hair and equally lopsided smile, had turned from an aloof stranger to a budding friendship. The hardest for her to win over was the behemoth, Nappa, that intimidated her from their . Eventually, she learned that his being so guarded was more of a façade then he let on.
Then there was one more…
"I'm sure you'll be assigned a task that's not so bad." Brighid's casual tone broke through her thoughts. "Everyone pitches in around here. Even the elders have responsibilities in the village. My dad says it helps their minds stay young. He'll make sure you won't be assigned to something that will re-injure you when you meet with the Sulevia. They always seem to respect his recommendations."
"You're father?" Bulma sat up again, this time without the aches and pains. "Wait…the man that examined me is your father?"
"Yep," Brighid placed the now-neatly folded fabrics back in the basket. Moving it to the floor, she sat on the edge of the bed. "He's our village's Healer. This is where everyone comes for treatment."
"And your mother?"
Brighid paused for moment, glancing down at her hands tucked in her lap. "She died…a long time ago."
"I'm sorry." The apology was automatic. The sincerity offered was not.
Brighid's pause reminded Bulma that she was more alone now than ever. Even if she had ended up on her home planet instead of this strange place, she would still have to come to terms with the finality of facing the loss of her friends and family.
"There's no need to apologize," getting up, Brighid walked behind Bulma. "My dad tells me that I'm just like my mother and that I'm a more promising Healer then either one of them were at my age. He gets mad at me because I don't take my teachings as seriously as he thinks I should. He tells me that I'm wasting my talents."
"By doing what?"
"Exploring." Brighid rummaged through a pile of rags on the floor next to the fireplace. "I'm always trying to find new things about where we used to live and where we came from. Sometimes he catches me when I've snuck out past curfew. Other times, I've been caught trying to leave our boundaries by the other villagers."
"I don't understand," Bulma said distractedly. The pile of familiar black garments glimmered in the firelight.
"We're not allowed to pass the boundaries unless granted permission by the Sulevia. We pilgrimaged here for safety. Most of the people don't talk about what happened before we came. But," Brighid straightened, seemingly content with finding what she was looking for, "I was able to find out some of what happened."
"What did you find out?" Bulma was only paying attention to a portion of Brighid's story as she watched in hopeful despair that her stolen trinket made its journey with her unscathed.
"They," Brighid held a small scrap of paper towards her, "forced us into hiding."
Bulma's heart skipped. The edges, torn meticulously smooth, were stained a rusty crimson. With a shaky hand, she accepted the paper. She could already feel the tears burning as she turned it over. A face, one she knew she could never forget, scowled disapprovingly back at her. Mesmerized by the face of the man she could never see again, her fingers caressed the picture gently.
"They're not the ones that hurt you?" Brighid asked in a surprised, hushed whisper. "The Saiyans?"
"No," it was difficult to talk as her throat tightened. "They would never hurt me. Not the ones that I knew, at least." Bulma gently wiped away the pooling tears. "Why did you keep this? And why did you have to hide it?"
Brighid looked over her shoulder, "We'll talk more in the morning." She eyed the window as the patter of two giggling children ran by. "Some things are better discussed when little ears are far from sight. Rest now and I'll show you around the village tomorrow."
There was no fighting back the sobs earlier. They had been bubbling just under the surface since the first day of Artiria's capture. Her first interrogation by Frieza, himself, now seemed a mild introduction to her new reality. He had questioned her about her involvement with Hearken. He had given her an 'out', of sorts, to save her from the tortures she was now enduring if she would have volunteered just how deep Hearken's roots had spread on Frieza's ship. Unbeknownst to Artiria's captor, everyone involved in the operation was either dead scattered in the wind.
The entire mission had been compromised the minute Bulma, the person Artiria was sent to retrieve, made the decision to escape the ship. Bulma had successfully found a way to escape, Artiria was informed, but the status of her existence was unknown. Artiria had also seen first hand that Amisty, the one assigned to look after Bulma's safety, was dead. The only thing that had gone according to plan was Vegeta and Artiria's capture…and even that fraction of the mission had been compromised from Bulma's unforeseen actions.
"Sit," a cold voice commanded as Artiria faced the plain, steel chair in the center of the room. With numb obedience, she shifted against the surface of the bone-chilling metal pressing hard against her backside.
Artiria wasn't sure how much time had passed since she was imprisoned. At the moment, it felt like an eternity. It was almost humorous to know that Frieza's introduction to her imprisonment was more like a compassionate orientation to her unfortunate stay.
She acknowledged her forearms being roughly tugged against the armrests distractedly. No protests erupted from her as each wrist was painfully secured to the chair, the stiff leather biting into tender flesh. Automatically sliding her ankles back against the chair legs, she was lost in thought as she focused on separating herself from the atrocities she was preparing to endure. Artiria barely flinched when the guard cinched the straps too tightly around her ankles.
She had felt out Vegeta's mindset the day he was thrown into his cell, his first to her fourth she had guessed. Testing to see how responsive he would be, she tried to use Bulma as leverage to force a reaction. Finding out his mental state was rapidly deteriorating, she quickly realized he had learned some of what transpired with Bulma's departure. At the time it was almost a relief to know that her biggest obstacle with him was going to be Bulma and not the fact that, to Vegeta, Artiria should be dead.
She kept a silent vigil, waiting for an opportunity for conversation to develop between them. Naïvely, Artiria thought she had nothing but time. As her frequent tortures continued, becoming more volatile each session, she became acutely aware that time – in fact – was not on her side. The fascination with healing as though her anguish never happened had lost its luster by her third mutilation.
A living nightmare playing in an unending loop where the endless demands to answer questions forced Artiria to the edge of her sanity - teetering precariously between firm ground and an endless fall into the pit of madness. Earlier, the compilation of her session had started a fissure in her control. In the sanctuary of her cell, she finally gave herself permission to feel the insanity clawing to find purchase in her mind. Remaining stoic through each session she endured, she refused to allow herself the luxury of feeling any emotion to guard herself from her tortures.
Her original mission was no longer her objective.
Her survival was.
"Prisoner A176 is ready," came the usual formality. She didn't bother to turn to see who her handler was. There was no point. She would be dragged out of the sterile, white-washed room as close to death as they would dare only to be patched back up and revived as if the entire ordeal never happened. The phantom pains where scars and gashes should exist always brought her back to this room. The proof of her horrors only the buzzing florescent lights above understood after they were wiped clean from her flesh.
Half-listening for the usual reply of confirmation, only the maniacal hum of the lights gave the guard a response. Her abuser's reply didn't echo in the hollow room like normal. Instead, the lack of any acknowledgement made her acutely aware of the immediate present. The soft click of the door shutting sent a shiver of dread racing down her spine.
Breaking her stature, uneasiness cajoled her to chance a discreet glance behind her. The gleam of the lights reflected off the white figure in front of the door.
Her veins turned to ice.
With an amused sneer, he stepped around the chair to look down on her. "I must admit, you are tougher then you first appeared."
"Oh?" Artiria averted her gaze to the clawed feet rooting Frieza to the floor. His admiration fell flat on her.
She knew she was in deep trouble.
"A rare few have been able to hold out as long as you." Frieza ran his hand gently through her hair. She ignored the bile rising in her throat. "It's a wonder how you have found the strength to endure what has made others crumble. Measuring your lack of deterioration had me questioning what, exactly, is feeding your will to live."
Goosebumps prickled her skin as his hand, cold and smooth, messaged the back of her neck. His fingers expertly melted her tension despite her inward plea for him to stop.
"So," he continued, "I decided to look into your file to see if I could find any answers. What I found was quite unprecedented. Did you know that you are in the top one percentile of past captives that have the least amount of response to our regimen?"
"No," Artiria whimpered, conflicted. He had decided to make a personal house call, a foretelling of how this one-sided conversation was going to go. His gentle tone and expert hands kept her transfixed on his touch as she hung on his every word. The barrier she had entered with had been easily breached.
"It's quite a feat, I must say, to be able to withstand so much." Moving to her shoulders, both hands worked on muscles aching from long hours of being suspended above her head. "It was only natural to look through your regen tank scans to see if there was something on a molecular level that we didn't take into account. Imagine my surprise when I perused over your body scans and found something peculiar that caught my interest."
Artiria slowly connected the dots in his tale. When Frieza's hand moved to the front of her shoulder, just under her collarbone, she knew that he knew what was hidden from sight. She tried to lean away from him with a violent jerk only to be stopped by the unforgiving curved metal forming the back of the chair.
He dropped his head next to hers, his sickeningly sweet breath hot against her cheek. "Do you know the number of tank operators that were disposed of due to such an obvious, minor oversight?" He whispered. His thumb pressed against her skin, searching for the one-way intercom no larger than a grain of rice. "Good help is so hard to find these days. I'm reminded time and time again that if you want something done right," his face broke into a satisfied smile as he found the hard nodule he was seeking, "you must do it yourself."
A sharp, stabbing pain pressed above the spot where the intercom was buried.
"Wait!" Artiria gasped. Frieza's attentions undermined her focus to distance herself from reality. Looking down at his nail disappearing into her flesh, she frantically yanked against the bonds around her wrists. "Please…please stop."
The pressure stopped but Frieza's hand did not waiver. Deep crimson began to gather around the buried thumb, a startling contrast against his bone-white skin.
"Is it worth it?" He crooned. "All of this pain, all of this anguish…is whoever you're protecting worth it?"
She hissed out a string of incoherent babbling as his thumb resumed its intrusion. Pinching the intercom between his thumb and finger, her skin sandwiched in between, he inched it steadily out.
Her chilling scream fell on deaf ears as he continued, unfazed by the shrieking next to his head. Her skin tore, forcing her howl an octave higher. Uncontrollable sobs racked her body as she bend over the chair's armrest sideways. Wet warmth seeped down her front saturating her dirty, dull top.
"What a shame," he spoke to her as if they were sharing a casual conversation over lunch. "It's almost criminal to know that whoever has been listening in on your little sessions can do so without any intervention for your well-being thus far." He turned the microphone over in his palm, examining it. "Such technology is truly a marvel. A set of ears hidden to listen in where few have survived. Mystery has a way of making the curious act extremely daft."
"You're a monster." Artiria replied weakly
"No, my dear. A monster, I am far from."
Sitting up a little straighter, she glared at the tyrant lizard. "Is that what you tell yourself at night to sleep better?" Her words were reckless but she didn't care. Artiria's contraband had been found. It would be by some horrible miracle that she left the room alive.
"A monster uses someone as a pawn for his own benefit without giving anything back in return." Showing her the smuggled device in his blood-stained hand, her only connection to her salvation, he tsked in disappointment. "A monster sends a person into a snake pit unarmed and unprepared without regard for their life or well-being just to gather intel. It is such monsters that can greedily listen on the other end of this intercom as you suffer for their gain."
"And you're different how?" Artiria spat with as much malice as she could muster. The bleeding continued as she sat helpless with the need to apply pressure to get the flow to stop.
He calmly watched her as he carefully chose his words. "My soldiers are well taken care of. Their successes are honored with promotions. They have ample opportunities to advance their careers in my ranks. They are donned with the finest textiles, the most indestructible armor and the best technology we have at our finger tips. They are gifted hours alone with the gender of their choice, allowed to purge planets with little supervision and can request missions that are usually granted. The only thing I ask for is unconditional loyalty with trust in my vision. Are you offered the same benefits?"
Artiria sat silently, unsure if his words sounded disgustingly logical because of her pain or if what he said was true.
Resting the nail of his index finger against the top of her thigh, ruby eyes danced with the knowledge that his explanation was creating turmoil within her mind. Her doubt was deliberately seeded to work to his benefit.
"What is Hearken's interest in the monkey-filth Saiyan and his whore?" He asked gently. Pressing down, the knowledge that he could easily puncture the skin underneath made her writhe frantically under his touch.
"I don't know!" She cried, straining against her bonds. "Please, I beg you to believe me. I don't know anything about Hearken or his plans. I already told you that I was following orders to enter the ship to prepare for combat. I don't have any information to give."
His eyes narrowed dangerously. With a hardened stare, he pushed his finger down hard drawing another agonizing scream from her withering frame. "What is it about your commander that has convinced you to put your life before his? He's obviously listening to this conversation being transmitted. If not, it is surely being recorded for follow-up later. Why continue to protect him when he has no want to answer your pleas for help?"
A firm tug towards her knee split her skin as smoothly as a knife through butter. Dark blood hesitated momentarily before oozing from the laceration, leaving muscle and bone exposed before the coagulating liquid hid them from sight. No words could describe the udder distress Artiria was under. Her head spun as her shrill cry echoed in her ears. Hyperventilating, her vision pulsed against the darkness trying to press inwards.
"Is his objective, the reason he placed you here, an even trade for your life?" His question, sounding impossibly far away, was void of emotion. Through her grogginess, she registered Frieza's finger resting on her other thigh.
"I don't know what you want from me." Throat closing from shock, she choked out the words. Refusing to give into his game, she reminded herself that as long as he found the information she held as valuable then he wouldn't kill her yet. As far as she knew, she was the only connection that could feed his hunch that sinister workings with Hearken pulling the strings was happening with his unknown permission. "I told you Hearken never discussed anything with me. I'm just a peon in his ranks. I play no significant roles other than blindly following orders.
"Lies." Frieza countered harshly. "You came onto my ship with no weapons in-hand. Hearken struck when the worthless ape was safely out of the way to his execution. You knew exactly where his whore was quartered after her death was sanctioned and in-process of being carried out."
Her eyes widened in disbelief. He put the puzzle together with enough cunning to know without any doubt that she was integral in Hearken's plan.
"Ah, there's the admission I've been waiting for." His voice was dark with vengeful malice. With little effort, he drew a hiss from Artiria as he punctured her thigh. "Tell me why you are protecting Hearken. Explain to me what of this mission is so integral to his cause."
"Over my dead fucking body." Trembling with the knowledge of the wrath such defiance would bring, the tug from groin to knee was expected. Throwing her head back against the unforgiving metal, she didn't hold back her reaction to the white-hot pain enveloping her lower body. Squeezing her eyes shut, tears saturated her cheeks.
Riding the waves of agony, she searched for a memory to grasp. Anything to hold onto to keep from spilling Hearken's plan as freely as her blood soaking the floor under her. She was still an asset to Frieza. Although the efforts to extort information from her would probably be fast-tracked, the longer she could keep her mouth shut was a minute longer she could stay alive.
Her mind settled on the exchange between the two Saiyans she had once spied. They had tested each other's strengths while drawing out the other's weaknesses. Remembering the way they sparred, how they looked at the other with respect as their worth was proven, gave her an idea - a life preserver drifting towards her despite the waves trying to crush her. Was it too far off to imagine that those who wield power and finesse respect those that do the same much sooner than those who don't? If her fleeting plan worked, would he be intrigued enough to listen to her? If it failed, she would have to think of an alternate plan quickly.
She refused to leave this existence without Vegeta's freedom but she wasn't sure how long she would last under Frieza's relentless interrogations. When his hand, curved in claw-like malice, rested against her stomach she imagined her entrails spilling out across the blood-soaked floor.
Swallowing loudly, she gripped the chair as firmly as she could. Turning her gaze to Frieza's unnervingly calm expression, she did her best to stare directly into his bloodthirsty eyes. "I have more information than you would know what to do with. The questions you ask me are just a fleeting tease to all that Hearken has planned. I will never breathe even a faint whisper of Hearken's plan for your pitiful empire. I will be long dead before you understand how outmatched you are."
Frieza smiled cruelly. "That is where you are wrong. After I'm done pulling each piece of Hearken's plan from your mangled, pathetic body, you are going to wish you were dead. No…you don't get such an easy exit from my ship. I'll make sure to place distinct orders that you're kept alive indefinitely. The whimpers of you begging for your death will become the lullabies that I'll use to drift off to sleep while your friends on the other side of this intercom listens to each tormented chorus you happen sing out that evening."
Artiria braced herself as his talons sliced across her abdomen. Between hysterical shrieks, she sent a silent prayer to Kami to give her enough strength to get Vegeta and herself to safety before Frieza destroyed them both.
