A/N: Yay! An update! XD Hopefully, this chapter won't be to boring for your guys' tastes, but got to build up to the good stuff, right?
KimiruMai - Thank you! :D Well, we'll see if your idea of the serial killer is correct.
Sim - Aw, thank you! Here's an update!
tdh11 - I did. XD
Nova.81 - Thank you! I was aiming for that kind of feel, but geez, I don't know if I write that well... XD
DINOSAUR215 - Sadly, yes. TT_TT But, I'm glad you like the story! :D
nikki-michelle - Thanks :D
Disclaimer: I do not own DB, DBZ, or DBGT in any way shape or form (wish I did, but I don't *sigh* )
Hopefully, there's no errors, but if there is, I'll fix them when I see them *sweat-drop*
Mirror
"Bulma…"
The deep, masculine voice that whispered in her ear sent chills down her spine, and yet, she was not cold, but greatly warm in his embrace. She closed her oceanic eyes, reveling in his warmth and breathing in his musky scent, and sighed inwardly. She never felt more at home…
"Bulma…?"
She grunted in response, a muffled "hn?".
"I—"
His voice was cut off when she heard glass shattering in the background. She opened her eyes in confusion. The grip around her tightened and she felt him shaking—in pain?
"B-B-Bulma…" he choked out.
She was worried about him, so she hugged him back tightly, nuzzling his chest.
It's okay…I'm here…
She felt him bury his face into her hair and then she felt something wet soak into her head. Was he crying?
"B-Bulma!" he cried out desperately. He nearly crushed her in his arms.
She was scared.
What's wrong?
She heard a soft, choked sob from him—like he was in great pain—and he started trembling even more. She swallowed nervously.
Don't cry! What's wrong?
She opened her mouth to voice her thoughts, but, an unknown force unexpectedly ripped the two away from each other, sending her tumbling away.
"BULMA!" he screamed.
She cried out when she hit the "ground" hard. When she managed to sit up, she glanced frantically around the endless black space for him, but he was gone.
The tears fell quickly as she started sobbing and she covered her face with her dainty hands.
Come back, come back!
She eventually noticed the shards of glass that surrounded her weeping form. Her cries ceased, she blinked, and then she unsurely picked up the nearest one up, carefully so she wouldn't cut herself.
What is this?
She stared at the glass, seeing a part of her reflection in it, and soon noticed a dried stain of crimson and a fingerprint…
…
Bulma's eyes flew open and she bolted upright, breathing heavily, beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. Her eyes wandered about her room warily, searching for something—anything that might seem off or out of place…
Nothing.
She sighed heavily, brushing her turquoise bangs back before running her hands down her sweaty face.
That dream again?
She didn't understand what it meant! The sound of shattering glass, the bloodied smudged piece of mirror…
That man…
He was a strange man, Bulma decided. She could never catch a glimpse of his face—she could only hear his baritone voice, feel his warmth, and see his fairly tone arms wrapped around her slender frame. She had no clue who this man was; Bulma had never seen him before—or rather heard him before.
Darn, why did her mind have to conjure up an imaginary boyfriend that she was actually staring to grow fond of?
Sighing again, Bulma glanced at her alarm clock, the red, blocky letters glaring at her in the dark.
5:15 AM.
Huh—45 minutes until her alarm went off. Well then, more time to get ready.
The young woman threw the pink-and-purple plaid comforter off of herself and got out of the comforts of her bed, placing her bare feet on the hard-wood floors and wiggling her toes.
She was clothed in a white tank-top that had the word "BULMA" written in bold, magenta letters across the chest and pink pajama shorts. Her blue hair was ruffled and tangled from a heavy, dreamful sleep. Her deep, cerulean eyes were tired—but open, already observing her environment.
Bulma hobbled over to the mirror that had stood beside the mahogany dresser all the years she had been here—11 to be exact. She looked at her morning self, yawning and stretching. Her vivid orbs fell upon the dried stain of red that was on the glass's left side—her right. Bulma had already deduced that it was blood. She frowned softly, and her fingertips lightly brushed against the crusty substance. Most people would've cleaned and scraped it off by now; but, she was not most people and, strangely, Bulma was fascinated by it and the mirror as a whole. It had a dark story behind it—a dark one. A mystery she was determined to unravel.
She eventually shook her head, reminding herself of the other desired task at hand, and walked away from the mirror, not noticing a flicker of a different image inside it.
…
Bulma turned the dial to hot and stepped into her shower, letting the therapeutic waters cascade down her ivory skin. She released a contended sigh, and she grabbed a bottle of shampoo—with conditioner!—dumping a bit onto her left hand. Bulma set the bottle back on the mini shower shelf, rubbed her hands together, and started massaging her scalp. The shampoo foamed and frothed, eventually sliding down her slick locks to the shower floor and down the drain. She hummed softly.
After lathering her body with soap, washing herself down, and shaving her legs, Bulma turned off the hot water and stepped out to dry herself, grabbing a fluffy towel. She patted herself dry and slipped her pajamas back on, tying her hair up with a second towel, her humming ceasing.
She waltzed back into her bedroom and plopped down onto her soft bed. Bulma snatched up a book that was on her nightstand and thumbed her way to the spot where she left off. She turned on a nearby lamp and started to read.
…
As six o'clock rolled around, the alarm started ringing excruciatingly. Bulma scowled and hit the snooze button on the clock forcefully. She sighed heavily. Off to work…
She had already dried her hair, so she went straight to choosing her clothes. She'd fancy up her hair last. Bulma rummaged through her closet, finally finding an outfit she like—a halter top that was a dark shade of pink, a black jacket, and a black, knee-length skirt—and quickly put it on. She then went back to her bathroom, and she applied her makeup and dizzied up her hair into a bun; a strand of hair was curled deviously at the side of her face. She grinned at her reflection. The figure of perfection!
Bulma had been getting to work earlier since she had been having those dreams. She didn't mind it as much anymore; Bulma would get more work done, which lead to being ahead of schedule, which then lead to getting a week off—the early bird gets the worm, they say!
Bulma exited the bathroom and headed towards the bedroom door, passing by the old mirror. She cast a quick glance at it—yes, she did look quite beautiful—and smiled faintly.
I'll figure you out, soon enough!
…
The young woman typed away at her computer fiercely, her fingers flying across the keys with graceful and swift movements, her blue eyes scanning every word typed.
Bulma had earned a nice position at her father's company, which she would inherit once he retired. The heiress worked long and hard for this spot, and she wouldn't hesitate to fight tooth and nail for it. She was the future of this company, and she'd die before she would hand it over!
"Hey, B!" a voice rang in her ears.
Bulma's brow furrowed—not in annoyance of the man's presence, but in concentration when she reached a difficult part in her report.
"Hey, Yamcha," she greeted him. "Did you get that cappuccino for me?"
Yamcha smiled brightly as he nodded, "Yeah—French vanilla, just how ya like it."
"Thanks, Yam. Just set it there, will you?"
"Sure thing." The black-haired man carefully placed the Styrofoam cup of the hot brew off to the side, carefully enough so he wouldn't spill.
Yamcha was a rather tall fellow with sleek, black hair and eyes to match; his skin was a dark peach color—almost tan. He and the blue-haired heiress had dated for a few years, but, the spark that they were so sure was there when they first met had faded. So, they called their relationship off; however, they still remained good friends to this day.
"So, Bulma, whatcha working on?" the man asked, casually leaning up against a cabinet.
"Statistics," Bulma replied absentmindedly, scowling when she inputted two wrong numbers.
"Sounds fun."
"Ha."
Yamcha chucked a bit in amusement and rolled his obsidian eyes. "Y'know, since I'm thinking of this right now, I've heard rumors from some of the older employees—"
"Yamcha," scolded Bulma lightly, "what have I told you about believing silly rumors?"
Yamcha's eyebrows knitted, and he frowning seriously, "I'm serious, Bulma!"
"Fine, fine, I'll humor you. What did they say?"
"Well," he began, his brow creasing a bit more. Bulma waited patiently for his explanation, her fingers clinking continuously away at the keyboard. She grew confused when his tone turned anxious…dark. "The older locals here have been mumbling about this 'one hundred year anniversary' of some 'murder' coming up in two weeks. They seem pretty agitated about it."
"What murder?"
"Don't know. The people are very hushed about it. Something about 'bad luck' or something…"
He did not expect his ex-girlfriend to laugh—and in the way that she did was more surprising. She laughed like she had heard the funniest joke on the planet of the most hilarious story ever old. He knew that she was a care-free soul, but seriously…
When Bulma stopped her chortling, she shook her head, the curl swinging with the motion, and sighed, "Superstitious, all of them."
"But, Bulma—"
"Look, Yamcha, murders happen all the time across the country. What makes this one so special?"
"Well, y'see, I'm not sure—"
"Exactly. Let them be all superstitious about their little murder mystery and whatnot. It was a hundred years ago—people should just let it go."
Yamcha blinked. She had a valid point—it was just another murder, right? Sighing, he ran his hand through his raven-black hair. "Well, I'll trust you on this one, B."
Bulma nodded in affirmation. She reached out for her coffee and took a tentative sip of it. Still a little hot… "If you really must, I suggest going to ask Goku about it—his family's been here for generations, so he out to know. In fact, that's what I'll do after work."
"…Alright then."
"Good." Bulma turned back to the computer screen. "Not that your company's not welcomed, but could you leave now, Yam? I have to get this done."
"Whatever you say, B. See ya!"
"Bye."
The quiet and peaceful air of the office returned when Yamcha left. Bulma sighed and started to type again, immersing herself into her work halfway—the other part of her mind was mulling over this hundred-year-old murder. Surely, Goku would know. After all, the Son family had been living in the quaint, little town for generations. And if not, there was always the library, but that was a last resort. Bulma was a people person, not a straight-up book person.
I hope he knows…
…
Bulma had met Goku when she first moved into the town when he was a mere boy of twelve. The good-natured, naïve boy had lived with his late grandfather Gohan (whom, in which, little Son Gohan was named after) up until the day the man had died peacefully in his sleep from old age a few years back. He jumped at the chance to show Bulma around the town, pointing out special historical landmarks and the best places to get food. Bulma had grown a deep affection for the boy, and the two retained their brotherly-sisterly relationship to this very day.
The heiress arrived at the Son house shortly after she left work, pulling her motorbike into the dirt driveway. Bulma undid her hair bun—Goku didn't understand why she needed to look so formal all the time—and searched around for her best friend. She eventually found him in the backyard, playing with his four-year-old son.
"Okay, Gohan! Catch!" Goku gingerly tossed his son the red, rubber ball. The young boy's hands reached out for the ball and his fingers curled around the sphere when it came into range, gripping it with all his might.
"I caught it, Daddy!" Gohan squealed with glee.
"Good job!" A grin lit up Goku's face, priding in his son.
"Hey, Goku!"
The young man raised his head quizzically; surprised to hear a feminine voice that wasn't his wife's. He blinked, and as he looked over his shoulder he caught sight of a familiar blue-haired woman. His soft, black-brown eyes brightened with recognition and he grinned at the friendly face. "Bulma!"
The heiress and her long time friend exchanged a hug. "Bulma! It's been forever! How y'been?" Goku asked warmly, giving his childhood friend a gentle pat on the back.
Bulma smiled faintly, looking up into her tall friend's eyes. He had grown so much since she last saw him! She wondered if he would ever stop growing! To think, that he was just past her knee when he was a mere twelve-year-old…
"I've been fine, Goku," she replied, nodding. Little Gohan peered behind his father's leg, staring up shyly at the blue-haired woman, gripping his father's pants leg. Bulma's blue orbs fell upon the young boy and her smile grew as she crouched down to Gohan's eye level, carefully balancing herself. She noticed that he had grown a lot too—last time she saw him, he was a little 2-year-old.
"Why, hello, Gohan," Bulma greeted the little Son sweetly.
"H…Hi, Auntie Bulma…" Gohan squeaked bashfully, his chubby cheeks colored with a soft pink blush.
Bulma's plush, pink lips settled into a mock frown disappointedly. "Hey, doesn't Auntie Bulma get a hug?"
Gohan eeped in embarrassment, hiding further behind his father, and his blush grew darker, causing Bulma to inwardly chuckle at the boy's involuntary cuteness. Goku twisted his torso a bit and placed a large hand on his son's head comfortingly. "Go on, Gohan. Give Bulma a hug."
Gohan grunted nervously, and his eyes darted to Bulma timidly, the heiress looking at him expectantly. The boy gulped—hesitating—but he eventually mustered up the courage and waddled over to his surrogate aunt, and he awkwardly gave her a hug. Bulma's lips pulled up into a smile, and she wrapped her arms around the small boy, embracing him. When she let go of him, he quickly scurried back over to his father.
"See? Was that so bad?" Bulma cooed. Gohan squeaked again, his face cherry red, and furiously shook his head. "Y'know, Auntie Bulma missed you a lot!"
"Mm…"
Bulma chuckled softly and rose to her feet, checking to make sure she didn't have any dirt on her knees. She turned her attention back to Goku and asked, "Hey, Goku? May I talk to you for a second?"
"Huh? 'Bout what?" The young man perked up. "Is there gonna be a party?—with lotsa food?" Bulma laughed.
"No, no, not that, silly!" Do you ever think about anything else besides you stomach?
"Aw, okay. Whatcha wanna talk about?"
Goku was astonished when Bulma's expression darkened with seriousness for a moment and lowered her voice, "…I think you son shouldn't be here for this…"
The young father blinked, confusion growing with each blink, and he reluctantly told his son to go inside and see if his mother needed help baking cookies. Gohan nearly jumped with glee and he tottered off into the small Son cottage eagerly, not once wandering what his "aunt's" sudden seriousness was about. Goku's gaze followed his son back to the house, and as soon as the door closed, he turned back to Bulma and asked worriedly, "Is there something wrong?"
Crossing her arms, Bulma replied, somewhat resentfully, "I dunno—you tell me."
The response caused Goku's eyebrows to furrow slightly with anxiety. "…Is…Is anybody giving you trouble? 'Cause I can—"
"No, no." Bulma waved her hand to dismiss the idea. "Nobody's giving me that kind of trouble, but, I am having some trouble…"
"Really? What kind?"
A frustrated scowl settled upon Bulma's features, and her eyes decided to glare at a slightly longer blade of grass on the ground. "Goku, Yamcha told me that people have been saying a one hundred year anniversary of some murder is coming up in two weeks—I think, but everyone's so hushed about—talks of bad luck, he said—that I have no idea what murder it is!" She reverted her gaze back to her childhood friend, her scrutinizing eyes boring into his own. "I was hoping that you would know what it is, Goku—your family's been here longer than anyone else's, surely you would know."
Goku frowned. He wasn't expecting this, especially from Bulma, of all people. She wasn't the type of person who would ask such questions!
Yes, he knew a little bit about it, but not enough to satisfy his friend's question.
"Bulma," he began, the serious tone evident in his voice, "look, I don't know much about this murder—my grandpa didn't say much about it either—but"—he stressed the word, interrupting her when a sound was about to leave her mouth—"what I do know from what my grandpa did say is that whatever murder happened a hundred years ago shook the whole town. It nearly tore it apart with suspicion and deceit. It took many years for the townspeople to fall back into peaceful order." Goku took a deep breath and looked at his friend sadly. "That's all I know. I'm sorry, Bulma."
The air was thick with tension as Bulma stood there, motionless, in silence—not a trace of wind or birdsong. She finally uttered quietly, "I'm sorry too." Another moment of silence.
The blue-haired heiress finally sighed, running her slender fingers through her hair, "Well, it's been nice seeing you again, Goku."
"Likewise."
Bulma nodded faintly and turned away from Goku, walking back to her motorbike with a defeated posture. Goku's frown deepened and he sighed as well. When Bulma drove off, the young man returned to his wife and son in their house with a glum expression on his face.
…
Bulma, after taking a shower and changing into her pajamas, sprawled herself on her bed, glaring up at the ceiling. Dang it! All of that was in vain—although it was nice to see Goku again. She let out an angered puff of air and raised her head to glare at the mirror, like it was the source of her problems.
The anger slowly left Bulma's eyes as she continued to stare at the mirror. She huffed in defeat. It was no use…
The young woman slid under the covers, curling up beneath them, and fell asleep, the half moon's light pooling into her bedroom.
Being practically dead to the world, Bulma was not aware of the dark figure that silently pushed its way through the mirror's glass, making a soft pat when its feet touched the hardwood floor. Dark eyes studied the woman's sleeping form curiously, blinking once or twice.
The moonlight promptly caught the figure in its stance, and it outlined a head a flaming black hair…
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