Chapter 1
Premonition

Dread. Bulma felt it all day, but she couldn't figure out why. She had no important board meetings coming up, taxes weren't due, she didn't have to fire any employees, and she hadn't gotten a call from the hospital reporting a tragic accident involving her parents. What, then, was she dreading? She couldn't figure it out. She plodded through the day, shoving the feeling aside whenever it became too overbearing, and focused on her work. She had projects to approve in the research laboratories and interns to hire. She had to figure out what to wear for a live televised interview the next day and meetings to schedule with other companies. She had a new building to design for the growing automotive branch and she was trying to figure out what kind of trees she wanted planted on the grounds of her home. There were many decisions on her plate. That, she convinced herself, was the reason for her dread. She couldn't afford to make a mistake on a single one. Being at the top was a privilege, a careful balancing act. One wrong move and she would topple down. The highest fall the hardest, she reminded herself.

When she left headquarters for her lunch break, she felt as though someone was watching her, just around the corner, no matter where she went. Someone was always watching, waiting. Of course that was ridiculous. Who would be foolish enough to attack Bulma Brief? Wherever she went, she was enclosed in the most foolproof security systems on the planet. They had to be, she designed them herself. No one could break in. No one. She even hired the world's top criminals to test her security. Then, when they failed to make it through, she made further improvements on them. She was safe. No doubt about it. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. It was just nerves, she told herself. Being at the top could certainly be stressful, even to her. She felt watched because, in a way, she was being watched. Everyone in the world knew who Bulma Brief was. Her face was plastered on billboards, she appeared on television regularly, there were stories about her in magazines and newspapers, and several writers had already published biographies about her. She was watched. And loved. No worries.

She still didn't feel better by the time she returned to her office. She slowly sank into her oversized leather chair and rested her arms on her massive desk. Her hands were trembling. As the day progressed she only felt more anxious, as if some sixth sense was telling her something terrible was about to happen. She told herself she was being ridiculous. But no matter what she told herself, the feeling remained, rooted firmly in her mind, and grew. It grew until Bulma could no longer concentrate on her work by mid-afternoon. She stood up and paced back and forth through her office suite. It was nerves. Just nerves. Nothing to be worried about. Finally, she headed to her kitchenette to make herself a relaxing cup of tea. That would calm her down.

Bulma put her tea kettle on to boil and pulled a mug and tea from the cupboard. She leaned against the counter facing her office after she caught herself periodically glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was there, watching. A shiver ran down her spine as she poured the boiling water into her teapot. There was no reasonable explanation for it. She just felt uneasy. Like something dark and evil was lurking around the corner, out of sight, ready to pounce. She shook her head as she added the tea to the water and waited for it to steep.

'Come on, Bulma, get a hold of yourself!' She bit her bottom lip and looked around her office again. Suddenly it seemed too large, too imposing. It was meant to intimidate visitors while providing her comfort. Now, though, it was doing anything but comforting her. After waiting precisely three minutes, she poured her tea into her mug through a strainer to keep out the loose tea leaves. She picked up her mug and carried it to her desk and sat down. She kept her hands wrapped around the warm mug. She stared at the cup, not wanting to face any more paperwork for the rest of the day. But she had two more hours before it was time to go home. That was plenty of time to get more done, and if there was one thing Bulma took pride in, it was her own productivity. She rarely wasted a minute a day. She was always busy, usually multi-tasking. It took a lot of effort running the largest company in the world, but it was worth the hassle.

She sipped her tea and pulled up a project file on her computer to look through. The director of the weapons division was requesting permission to test a prototype and she needed to make sure it was ready for a trial run. She hadn't been keeping close tabs on the weapons; she wasn't terribly interested in them, though her deals with the militia brought in a substantial portion of the company's annual income. Personally, she was more interested in automotives and devices that assisted daily living, such as servant bots, generators, and household appliances. Her father became a world-famous scientist with his invention of the DynoCaps, but she wanted to expand the company beyond that invention. Of course everything Capsule Corporation produced could be capsulated; after all, that was the company's trademark. She felt immense satisfaction when she walked down the street and saw people wearing Capsule Corporation clothing, driving Capsule Corporation hovercars, and talking on Capsule Corporation cell phones. She quickly skimmed through the reports and hastily gave her approval to begin testing.

Bulma continued nursing her tea until her mug was empty. She looked down into the white porcelain, wishing there was just one more drop of the soothing drink, but creating something out of nothing was one thing Bulma could not do no matter how much power she had. She sighed and set her mug on her desk. She whirled her chair around to face the window behind her desk overlooking West City. She hated that it was already growing dark as the sun set. Autumn was coming to a close and winter was rapidly approaching. The temperatures hadn't dropped to freezing yet, but in another couple weeks she would be forced to bundle up when she went outdoors. Of course she had stylish winter clothes, so she wasn't worried about looking bad, but she hated having to wear layers. It was more trouble than it was worth. Her hands were still shaking. This time, she told herself it was because of the caffeine in the tea. She always had an excuse ready.

At five o'clock, Bulma shut down her computer and gathered her belongings up in her briefcase. She put on her leather jacket and walked to her elevator. She glanced over her shoulder one last time. No one was there, no one was watching her. But she felt someone's heavy gaze. She shuddered and pushed the down button. A few seconds passed before she heard the cheerful ding and the elevator doors slid open. She was half expecting a mysterious figure to be inside, waiting for her with a knife tucked in his coat sleeve and a hat that blocked the light from his face. But no one else was on the elevator. She stepped onto it and pushed the button to take her down to the main floor. Her heart leaped in her chest when the doors shut. What if her intuition was trying to warn her that the elevator was broken and she was going to crash to the ground in a terrible, fatal accident? But the elevator did not fall. It slowly, safely lowered her to the main floor and the doors slid open without a hitch.

There were no men with guns waiting for her, no police officer holding out handcuffs for her. She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her free hand. What was wrong with her? She grunted when the receptionist bid her a good night as she walked through the lobby. Her stiletto heels click-clacked across the polished marble tile, echoing through the open area. The only other sound was the babbling fountain on the far side of the lobby. She pushed the door open and a gust of cool air blew in, carrying a few stray leaves with it. They hissed and coughed as they skittered across the floor. Bulma ignored them.

She tightened her jacket around her when the blustering wind tried to pull it off her. She tilted her head down, letting her long, blue hair blow freely in the wind without whipping in her eyes. She watched the ground, her feet moving, pushing her steadily forward across the pavement. When she reached the curb, she pulled a capsule out of the right pocket of her jacket, pushed the plunger, and tossed it on the ground. A bright red convertible appeared in the parking lane, her hand-crafted beauty. She ran her fingers along its smooth hood as she moved to the door to the driver's seat. She opened it, closed the door, and started the ignition. She smiled when she heard its low rumbling purr. A better car had never been produced. She moved her left foot to the clutch, her right foot to the accelerator, and her right hand to the gearshift when she suddenly felt unsure of herself. What if something bad happened while driving? What if she got into an accident? Maybe that was what her intuition was trying to tell her. Her brows furrowed as she bit her bottom lip. If she didn't drive, how was she supposed to get home? Walk? In her heels? Not likely.

She didn't go anywhere for several long minutes. She sat in her car, constantly checking the rearview mirror as she took slow, deep breaths. There was nothing to be afraid of. She drove to and from work almost every day. She had nothing to worry about. Today she would drive extra carefully and obey all the traffic laws for a change. She closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. When she finished, she opened her eyes, checked the rearview mirror, and, seeing it was clear, pulled out onto the street. Twenty minutes later, she was pulling into the driveway of the domed Capsule Corporation compound, the home of her father's company, her home. She parked and climbed out of her car, capsulated it, and returned it to her pocket. She heard the gates close and lock and released a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She was inside, safe. No one could hurt her once she went through those gates.

'Maybe I need a vacation,' she thought. 'The pressure's starting to get to me.' She nodded and walked to the front door of the compound. Her hand stilled on the doorknob as another shiver ran down her spine. She turned her head to look over her shoulder, an act she was entirely sick of repeating. No one stood behind her. No one was on the street watching her. She didn't see anyone peeking through the curtains in the windows of the homes across the street. Nothing moved but the dead leaves blowing across the lawn in the wind. She turned the knob and let herself in, quickly slamming the door closed behind her. She leaned against it, her hand over her pounding heart. 'Yeah, I definitely need a vacation.'

Bulma kicked off her shoes and set her briefcase on the table in the hall. She ran her fingers through her tangled hair and groaned. She had hoped for an immediate sense of relief and safety when she got home, but it didn't come. She felt the same tension, now bordering paranoia. She jumped when the kitchen door opened and her mother came out holding a glass of lemonade.

"Bulma, did you just get home? Would you like a glass of lemonade? I was going to go sit in the living room for a while. Would you like to join me?" Mrs. Brief smiled as she disappeared into the kitchen, apparently having taken Bulma's stunned silence as an affirmative. A minute later she reappeared holding two glasses of lemonade. She handed one to Bulma and walked down the hall to the living room. Bulma followed her and sat down on the loveseat while her mother took a seat in a recliner.

"So how," Bulma's voice rasped. She stopped and cleared her throat. "So how was your day?" She crossed her fingers, hoping all was well at the compound. No experiment mishaps in her father's laboratory, no burned cookies, no broken servant bots. Actually, scratch that. She hoped something minor had happened. Thus satisfied, her crazed intuition would leave her alone.

Mrs. Brief sipped her lemonade. "It was just fine, sweetie. Oh, you should see the crocuses blooming in my garden. They're beautiful!"

"I'm sure they are, Mom. I'll look at them tomorrow when it's light out." Bulma tried to smile, but her disappointment made her lips turn down. "Dad's been alright?"

"Of course, honey. I haven't seen or heard from him since lunch, but he said he was taking the afternoon to practice his putting."

"Of course."

The blonde woman giggled. "I think you spoiled him, taking over the company so young. He doesn't know what to do with himself anymore."

Bulma snorted. "He's loving every minute of it." She took a long drag of her lemonade. "But do you think he'd mind taking the reins for a couple weeks? I would really like to take a vacation. The stress is starting to get to me."

"Oh, no, do you have everything under control?"

This time Bulma laughed. "Yeah, Mom, there's no problems. The board's my bitch and all the branches are producing great work."

"I wish you wouldn't use such coarse language."

"Oh please, Mother." Bulma rolled her eyes and crossed her legs. She wasn't a little girl anymore. She could talk any way she wanted. She was the most powerful woman in the world. She wasn't about to let her mother slap her wrist and wag her finger in her face for using mild profanity.

Mrs. Brief sighed and swirled her lemonade around in her glass. "Well, anyway, I'm sure he wouldn't mind handling the company for a couple weeks. You'll have to talk to him though."

"I will. I don't think there'll be a problem. Nothing big is coming up." Or was there? Maybe she was forgetting something huge. Maybe that was why she couldn't seem to relax. She wracked her brain for any memory of an upcoming event, but there was nothing. She would have to remember to double check her day planner.

Bulma finished her lemonade and chatted with her mother for a few more minutes before she excused herself to go change before dinner. She was tired of wearing her business suit. She grabbed her briefcase on her way upstairs and went to her bedroom. The silence that lay on the other side of her door felt heavy when she walked in to it. Her eyes shifted around her room, checking for any signs of intruders. It was neat and clean. Not by her hand, but the servant bots she programmed to keep her room straightened up for her. She was getting irritated with herself now. There was nothing wrong. She needed to get a grip.

She walked over to her desk and set her briefcase on it. She pulled out her day planner and flipped through the pages to look at all her meetings, appointments, and other events for the next few weeks, but there was nothing big, nothing important. She closed it and put it back in her briefcase. That shot that theory out of the water. She definitely wasn't forgetting anything significant. She never forgot to write anything down in her planner. It was her lifeline. Without it, she would be a total disaster.

When she started pulling off her clothes, she suddenly felt very shy. She hurried over to her balcony doors and closed the curtains. No peeking Tom was going to catch a glimpse of her gorgeous body. She peeled off her blouse and pants and threw them in her dirty laundry. She felt self-conscious standing in her underclothes, a feeling she was unfamiliar with. She had nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. No one was even around to see her. She pushed her hair over her shoulders and pulled a t-shirt and sweatpants out of her dresser. Bulma dressed quickly and sat on the edge of her bed.

'Nothing is wrong, it's just stress. Everything is ok.' Like a mantra her words replayed in her mind over and over, but they did little good. She couldn't convince herself it was true. Something had to be wrong. There was no other explanation for the overwhelming sense of foreboding that was plaguing her mind.

That night Bulma had trouble getting to sleep. She tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position, unable to calm her thoughts. Every shadow in her room looked like a person, there to behead her or kidnap her or some such thing. The wind in the trees outside sounded like someone's breath, so close to her she could almost feel it. She told herself her mind was playing tricks on her. She knew it was, but that didn't assuage her fear. She didn't want to turn on a light. How pathetic would that be? Bulma Brief, most influential woman in the world, scared of the dark. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see shadows anymore. She just wanted to sleep. Sleep was safe. There was a creak in the corner of the room. She cracked one eye open. There was a shadow there, from what she couldn't tell. It looked like a black flame moving along the wall. Her breath caught in her throat. She blinked, and it was gone.

'Now I know I'm seeing things.' She closed her eyes and pulled her blanket up over her head. If she couldn't see anything, it couldn't freak her out anymore. Still, it was a long time before she fell asleep.

A/N: Is Bulma crazy? Or is there something to be afraid of? Guess you'll have to read on to find out! (For those of you wondering, Vegeta's not going to show for a while. This fic is mostly about Bulma, especially in the beginning.) Review!