20 years later.

The greyhound stunk of the putrid sweat and ancient farts of her fellow passengers. The bus was a silver bullet traveling through a tranquil night. Bulla was hunched over her sketchbook, her overhead light on. The man in front of her stirred.

Bulla sighed to herself. He'd been a problem the entire trip. He was loud. He'd told Bulla his life story while she tried to draw. Even said that art was a nice hobby, but not a very good 'job.' Bulla was 25 years old. He'd thought she was 15 and hadn't made a career choice. He didn't know that she was selling her art to numerous underground magazines and was budding in the mainstream.

She didn't blame him for the mistake. She had a baby face and naturally unnatural colored hair that gave her a 'young punk' vibe. The five piercings in her left ear and the braided side bangs didn't help. Neither did her unusual attire.

The Gothic Archies murmured sweet nothings through her cheap earbuds as the man turned around. She glared at him, but he didn't notice.

"Do you mind turning that light off?" His voice was wound so tight, it almost caught in his throat. Bulla idly wondered how many cocks he'd scarfed down to get his position; to get so cocky as to tell her how to live her life, but not rich enough so he wouldn't have to take the bus. She watched his Adam's apple bob under his red skin.

"I'm sorry, but I need this light," She said coolly.

"The hell you do!" He hissed. His calm demeanor had vanished through the revelation that his slumber would only be mildly refreshing.

"I need to draw," Bulla's eyes narrowed and her voice was taunt, "It's my job."

"What are you drawing anyway?"

Bulla looked down. It was a man, propped up against a blood-splattered wall. There were defense marks on his wrists. He'd put a struggle before he'd died. Dark eyes, dark hair that stood up in the shape of a flame. A chest that was little more than an open, oozing sore. Curiously, Bulla realized she'd labeled the piece: 'Vegeta Lace.' No, no. Her father had been Vegeta Briefs when he was alive. She'd given him her pseudonym by mistake. She posed her eraser over the words, but couldn't bring herself to erase them.

"Hello! I'm talking here."

"I'm sorry," Bulla grinned and showed him the sketch, "I was drawing my father."

The man's jaw hung open. She was immediately filled with a sick sort of satisfaction. The details were incredibly life-like. You could've smelled the blood and rot and sick if you'd pressed your nose against the paper. He sat back down in his seat.

Bulla Lace kept drawing. A few more hours, and she'd be spending the twentieth anniversary on the soil where it'd happened.

It felt somewhat like a pilgrimage. Every year before this one, the day felt hollow. She'd stay awake all night, make as much coffee as humanly possible, and draw till her hand cramped or her vision grew blurry from lack of sleep.

Drawing was her escape. If she couldn't draw…

She couldn't finish the thought. She'd had dreams of staring at a blank canvas, it was laughing at her. Taunting her. She wanted to smear pencil lead against it, paint…something…anything. But she was rooted to the spot.

Maybe if she went to the house in Ginger Town, it'd stop. Maybe she could move on…get some closure or whatever. She just…needed to know why she survived. Why had her mother chosen her five year old daughter to be her killer?

It was with this thought that Bulla fell asleep, laughing sentient paper and sticky, warm blood across her hands filling her dreams.


She was awoken by a grimy hand against her inner thigh, much too close to her nasty bits. Without missing a beat, she jabbed a pencil into the offending appendage, much the annoyance of the offender. She had been wearing such a short skirt, after all. She owed him something for being so tempting.

"Bitch…"

"Woof woof," Bulla flipped through the sketchbook, paying no attention to the glare her seat mate had given her.

There was a few sketches of Bulla's own characters: Alice with her matted black hair and love of puffy, blood stained dresses, The Mad Hatter, whose eyes were a becoming shade of purple and green, Cheshire, a woman with a passion for slicing her face open to make herself look like a cat. Basic landscapes, storyboards, notes, portraits, and of course, visuals from the night her life fell apart. Or maybe the night her life began? She didn't know at this point.

She chanced a look at the window and saw the sign: 'Ginger Town, population: less than two thousand,' under the glare of superficial lamps. It was still dark out. She checked her phone: one twenty five.

She smiled to herself, "A whole two hours. Nice."

She'd flushed her sleeping meds as soon as she was set on leaving. It felt like the drugs were polluting her system, making her see things through a dense fog. She'd rather never sleep again, than feel drugged when she was supposed to be awake.

The bus stopped in one of its numerous rest stops. This is where most would go to stock up on Lays and Faygo, but for the fair blue haired woman, this was it. She sat on the concrete. It was cold and unforgiving against her upper thighs. She needed a place to stay, at least for tonight. She wasn't ready to make the pilgrimage yet. Not tonight.

With her mind focused on shelter, she wandered the streets.


Lilly's Demonias clanked against the floor of the club.

Kids were on the dance floor, getting covered in glitter, sweat, and other not so harmless bodily fluids. The smell of pot was heavy in the air, and Lilly shook her head. Black bob bouncing as she did so. Gone were the days of blonde hair and motor oil, welcome the new age of blue-black dye and the stink of booze and skunk-weed.

She'd been the most patient of entrepreneurs, gathering enough money to buy what had been the tiny rec center and convert it into an all age's club. To most of the people grinding on each other, she was the cool aunt. She was the one who they came to for advice, for a beer, or a joint if she was feeling generous. She let the kids do what they wanted for the most part. As long as she, or the police, didn't see it happen out in the open.

She slid behind the bar just as a lone figure sat down. Lilly looked up and was taken a bit aback. She was used to seeing the bright eyes and drunken smiles of her customers. This woman, with her unkempt appearance and bags under her eyes, surely wasn't from around here.

"Aye, hun, you look a bit ragged."

"While, don't you know how to talk to someone," the stranger grinned and moved a strand of light blue hair out of her eyes.

"Sorry. Take it as a dose of empathy. Are you legal?"

The woman leaned back, "Are you hitting on me?"

"You're sitting at a bar. I assume you want to purchase an alcoholic beverage. I have a business. Can't be serving minors booze…"

The woman snorted, "Are you serious? I saw a fifteen year old throwing up into a potted plant."

Lilly rolled her eyes, "You want something or not?"

"I don't drink…you have any Coca Cola?"

Lilly got a cold can out of the fridge and tossed it to her. More people flooded the club and soon, Lilly was flailing. The keg was running out of beer. She could go to the back and get the spare, but there were some customers still waiting for their food. The stranger's eyebrows raised and suddenly, before the owner could protest, she was behind the bar. The liquid gurgled in its container as if to say, "Refill me!"

"I'll take care of these guys. Is there a spare?"

"Yeah...in the back. Are you sure you can handle this?"

"I worked fast food for five years. I can handle this."

Lilly nodded her thanks and went to get the spare keg. When she returned, the crowd of people had diminished and the blue haired stranger was chatting amicably with some rather disgruntled club goers. Their buzz was diminishing and they needed to hide behind the veil of alcohol. Soon it was set up and the crowd was happy with their drunkenness and mindless groping.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Bra Lace. And you?"

Lilly sat down the cup she was polishing, "Bra Lace? You wouldn't happen to be an artist, would you?"

"Oh…uh…yeah…" Color tinged Bulla's cheeks. She'd never been recognized in public before.

"I know that it's really annoying for an artist to be compared to other artists…but you have a lot in common with Bulma Brief, style wise." Her eyes moved down her body, "You kinda look like her too."

Bulla traced a finger around her soda can, "I've been told that, yeah."

The way she said it, the way her eyes grew when Bulma's name was mentioned, Lilly knew to drop the subject. But still. The resemblance was uncanny. Some part idly wondered…maybe…

"Lilly Machiavelli," The club owner stuck out her hand. Bulla took hold of it and shook it halfheartedly.

Soon the club life dissipated around them. They began to clean up. The only sound filling the room was the radio.

"One pill makes you larger

And one pill makes you small

And the ones that mother gives you

Don't do anything at all

Go ask Alice

When she's ten feet tall."

Grace Slick's voice made Bra's skin crawl. It brought her back to the kitchen of that dreadful house. Of the warm sun coming in through the windows, of her brother grinning at her, "Mom would like this song. It's all about getting high to escape your fucked up life."

Bra had looked up from her picture, a girl in a puffy, blood stained dress, "What makes you so sure?"

"What do you think mom does all day? She can't draw anymore, B, she can't even if she poured all the booze in the house down the drain. She's unhappy and she can't cope. She's looking for Wonderland. That's her only escape."

Her only escape.

Bra dropped the broom she'd been using. It clattered to the floor and she recoiled as if she'd been struck by it.

Lilly started, "What's wrong?"

"I can't go to Wonderland…I can't go there unless…and I'm fucking terrified." She could feel warm tears streaming down her cheeks. "I can't stop drawing. I can't go out like she did…"

"Your mother…you're Bulma's daughter, aren't you?" Lilly neared her and reached out to touch her shoulder, "I worked on your car…do you remember?"

"She was ashamed. She didn't want to call herself an artist. She didn't want to be recognized as a failure…"

"Do you have anywhere to go?"

Bra shook her head.

Lilly seemed entirely to lift up. She stood at attention, spine straight, eyes burning with a motherly determination, "You're coming home with me. I won't take no for an answer."

Bra chuckled, "I don't exactly have other options. But you don't have to do this out of pity-"

"Not pity. Respect for an artist and giving shelter to someone who needs it," Lilly wandered back toward the bar, "Just let me get my bag, and we can go."

With a lurch in her stomach, Bulla realized she'd actually made a friend.

"When logic and proportion

Have fallen sloppy dead

And the White Knight is talking backwards

And the Red Queen's off with her head

Remember what the dormouse said

Feed your head

Feed your head."