Chapter 4: When One Door Closes
Capsule Corporation sat in in the more industrial part of South City, overlooking a vast scenery of water, complete with a dense fog of various chemicals. On any given day, the otherwise clean air of South City was polluted with the intermixings of salt, iron and water.
It was a smell that, no matter how hard she tried to rid herself of it, attached to Bulma like a second skin.
"Sweetheart, you're going to contaminate my oil supply if you keep fussing over your hair like that," Bulma's father, Dr. Trunks Briefs, adjusted his glasses on his nose to momentarily scold his daughter.
Bulma turned to face him, a blue tendril of hair wrapping loosely from her finger while a Bobby pin dangled from her mouth. "Sorry, dad," she mumbled as she removed the pin, tucking her hair into a manageable updo, "but Yamcha's coming over, and I don't want him to see his girlfriend looking a greasy mess. It's bad enough I don't have time to shower to wash these chemicals away." She smelled her arm and made a disgusted face. The horror.
"He loves you, doesn't he? Then I'm sure he's content with however you look."
"Geeze dad you've been married forever," Bulma rest her hands on her hips and scrunched her nose at him, "you and mom may have already had time to adjust to each other, but I still have appearances to keep up. "
"But haven't you been together for about a decade?"
"That's not the point dad," she sighed and put her safety goggles back on, "just know that it's something I want to do."
"You do what pleases you honey," Dr. Briefs glanced back down at his blue prints and stroked his chin, "you look nice and I suppose that's what matters."
Bulma's face softened as she watched her dad. Old coot. He sure knew what to say to make someone feel special, and it was probably how he grabbed on to her mother in the first place. "Okay dad, so how much solution do we need to add to make this baby function?" She looked over at the model of their patent pending smart home, complete with Capsule Corp robots and charging stations. It would require a lot of work, but between his mind and her clever wit, it could be managed.
"About half a liter. I suppose it won't hurt to experiment with different levels if we need more. I'm thinking we use a hydro advanced cooling system to keep the wiring from getting too hot."
"Good idea," Bulma scribbled the noted down in her notepad, running her tongue over her top row of teeth, "I can work on the schematics of that on Friday. It will probably take me until Sunday, at the least—"
"Bulma… "
"And then on Monday I can start project building on a model. I can ask one of the new techs to help me-"
"Bulma!"
Bulma pursed her lips as she looked over at her father, her sharp eyes studying the tense lines around his mouth. "What is it, dad?"
Her father sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Sitting back in his chair and folding his arms, he shifted his thick, upper lip mustache while he chewed over his words carefully. "Honey," he started slowly, "do you know what weekend this is?"
The heat in Bulma stomach intensified and she gulped. Of course she remembered what weekend it was. The date had been engraved in her memory like scuffed cement. She simply nodded, the curves of her mouth tightening into a line.
"I know it's hard, Bulma, I really do. But I have a buyer for the lot coming Friday morning, and I need it cleaned out sweetheart."
Two days. Fantastic. She had two days to make the property shine like spitfire gold, and remove any trace of anyone utilizing the space. And scrub away her very soul that she imprinted there in the process. She sighed, forcing a slight tilt to her lips. "Say no more dad, I'll take care of it. I'll push the plans back until next week and have it all prepared."
"I'm really sorry it didn't work out for you, Bulma. I know how much you put into that place. "
She shrugged her shoulders, although the feeling of dread slept loudly in her belly. "It's just life. I suppose I can't have it all." She sighed, turning to look out the multi panel factory window, the mid day sun sparkling marvelously against her large, oceanic eyes. "I just wish it wasn't so much to remove with such a small time frame."
"Perhaps Yamcha could help you," Dr. Briefs grabbed a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, lighting it and inhaling the hypnotic fumes, "he has a two week break, right? "
"Absolutely not," Bulma turned to sharply stare at her father, her eyes rising to a light panic.
Dr. Briefs exhaled his smoke, the wisps curling around him like it was his own personal snake, and shook his head. "Am I wrong to assume that you've never told him about it?"
Bulma bit her lip and slowly shook her head, sheepishly looking at him like she was nine years old again and was caught tampering with her father's experiments.
Dr. Briefs sighed. "I don't know why you keep making this out to be some big secret, honey. I think you should at least tell Yamcha-"
"Tell me what?" Speak of the devil. Yamcha strolled in carrying two brown paper bags with grease stains and a drink tray. Instantly the corporation was filled with delectable smells that made the two Briefs' mouths salivate.
"Oh, just uh, that I wanted to have a little getaway with you while you're on break," Bulma shimmied her way to him, a large smile sketched on her face. She swallowed the truth that sat dormant on her tongue and took the drink tray away from Yamcha, "I wanted it to be a surprise, but you know my dad! Can never keep a secret!"
"Hmmm," Dr. Briefs shook his head at his silver tongued daughter. She was her mother through and through.
"That sounds great, babe," Yamcha sat the bags of food on a nearby table, removing the drink tray from Bulma and embracing her fully. "Where are you thinking of?"
She accepted the polite kiss he offered and smiled at him. "You pick. It is your vacation after all."
"Okay. Well what about that place in the mountains up North? You love it there, plus it has a great dojo so I can get some workouts in."
Bulma closed her eyes tightly as she smiled suspiciously hard. She hated the mountains. The air was thin and reeked of acidic water from the hot springs, their cabin never got comfortably warm, even if she sat directly in front of the fire place, and she wasn't a fan of waking up to little critters decorating the back yard like lawn gnomes. She and Yamcha frequented the mountains a lot when they first dated, and Yamcha loved it. Bulma, however, loved him and tolerated the whole ordeal to impress her new found boyfriend. In the beginning, she could watch him flex his muscles as they strained from a good workout, practically drooling on herself as she watched the sweat cascade down his slickened skin and get lapped up by the floor. Now, she had more of an exciting time watching paint dry.
But she needed to distract him from prying any further, in regards to her and her father's conversation, so she smiled and nodded. "Sure! Sounds like a plan to me."
"Awesome! I wanted to meet up with a couple of the guys from the orchestra before practice starts again," Yamcha began to dig through the bags, gathering a foil wrapped sandwich from the bottom. Bulma's mouth salivated, smelling the seasoned pork cutlet. " One of the guys brother owns a martial arts studio, so I figured we'd goof off there for a workout. I'd like to really shape up before then, though." Yamcha beelined to Dr. Briefs with the food and drink, offering it to him with a smile. Bulma watched jealously, hoping he thought of her empty stomach as well.
"Here, babe," Yamcha spoke with clairvoyance, "I didn't forget about my best girl." He placed an aluminum tray in her hand, covered with a plastic lid. Bulma frowned at the lack of grease, the subsiding of seasoned meat smells leaving her nose without a vice.
"What's this?"
"A tuna salad with no dressing. And I got you a cucumber water too."
"Salad?" Bulma's eye twitched as she pouted, the sounds and smells of her father munching happily into his pork cutlet sandwich igniting her irritation. "I don't get a sandwich too?"
"Oh, babe, you don't want one of those," Yamcha unwrapped his sandwich, unveiling a chicken breast with lettuce wrapped around in place of bread, "much too fattening for a woman with your curves. I figured we could eat healthy together."
"What's wrong with my body?!"
"Absolutely nothing!" Yamcha took a bite of his sandwich and gulped it down with his fruit smoothie. "I'm just doing my part as your loving boyfriend to make sure it stays that way."
"How sweet of you," Bulma said drily, sarcasm dripping from her words like acid. She sighed and looked at the container again. Welp, no point in starving herself. She took a bite from the salad, shoving in goops of tuna meat and spinach on her fork. Bland. Completely unfulfilling and tasteless. She continued to shove it by the forkful until it was all gone. Glancing at the clock, she made a mental note to stop by the beef cart on her way to the lot and order a large beef sub. With extra gravy to dip it in. Her mouth and belly congratulated her on the wise decision.
Yamcha and Dr. Briefs finished their food as Bulma studied the blue prints further, making notations to the various experiments they wanted to run. She had practically zoned out their talks of future projects and workouts, until a certain subject and name pulled her out of her trance.
"I heard from a few old colleagues that the man could be a bit unreasonable," Dr. Briefs stuck his hands inside his large lab coat, "but I had no idea it was that awful."
"He's such an arrogant prick," Yamcha seethed, balling his fists at his sides, "he literally made us run scales for three hours because one of the violin players kept playing off key. Said if we were going to play like underdeveloped children, then we would rehearse like them. For one player. I literally ran the A scale seven times, and I haven't done that since I was ten!"
"Oh my," Dr. Briefs began to light another cigarette, "that intense, huh? Did anyone complain? I can't imagine wanting to practice on a piece and getting stuck running intermediate scales for children."
"He said anyone who didn't like it can leave! Which let me tell you was so tempting, but none of us wanted to do that," Yamcha sighed, running his hands through his brown hair. "It was a shot in a dream to even be a part of Vegeta's orchestra, especially after his brutal audition. If you want to make it in this business, unfortunately he's the guy to see. Fucking prodigy," Yamcha scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"He is talented," Bulma said softly, although she soon had the attention of the two gentlemen.
"You noticed too, huh babe?"
Bulma's cheeks went flush red with embarrassment as she remembered the hypnosis his conducting produced. Of course she noticed. She wanted to kid herself and say that she was the only one who noticed the confident breeze that oozed from his baton, or the way that his head moved slightly with the hums of the strings. She noticed all right, perhaps a little too much.
"Babe?"
"Y-yeah, I noticed," she coughed to regain her cracked voice, "he is naturally good. Like I can tell that he wasn't trained for that. It's almost like it's a part of his DNA. I can see why you really wanted to join with him."
"Yeah," Yamcha sighed and dropped his head, "hopefully for not too long. Maybe in six months or so, I can catch the attention of someone at one of his concerts. Hasn't happened yet, but I hear that sometimes famous musicians will come in attendance to a concert and pluck members for their own benefit. Vegeta gets a small cut for letting one of his members go, and it seems like everyone benfits."
"Wow," Bulma said, although it kind of upset her. So was Vegeta just doing this for the money? Grooming up and coming musicians so that they could have a successful career and he could pay the bills to his penthouse every month? What a waste of pure talent.
"Oh, well, look at the time," Yamcha looked down at his watch as he walked over to Bulma, "didn't realize it was getting this late. I have to go meet with Puar for a practice session."
"Aren't you supposed to be on break?" Bulma chided. "You can't relax if you're practicing scales with Puar."
"It won't be for long," Yamcha wrapped her in his arms and smiled down at her, soaking in the soft, pretty lines in her face, "I just don't want him to feel left out since he didn't make the audition." He cupped her chin and kissed her softly. Once, twice, and a third to make her smile. "I'll see you later tonight, don't make me wait up for too long."
"I won't," she said, pulling away from the embrace as the insecurity of salt smells lingered over her.
"See you later, Dr. Briefs!" He called as he threw his coat on and waltzed out.
"You too, young man. Thank you for the lunch." Dr. Briefs watched the door close behind Yamcha, his eyes pressing into the center of the elevator style brown panels. "Bulma…" he said, his eyes still gazing forward.
"Yes, dad?"
"That boy will want to marry you. It's best you let him down gently, lest you break him completely."
Bulma felt her face flush. Marriage? To Yamcha? The two had never even discussed it, even after all this time. "W-what do you mean by that? Where did that come from?"
He turned to face her finally, his hands still shoved into his pockets. "I remember when you were a little girl, and you would play in my lab like you knew what you were doing. I would tease you and tell you that the laboratory was where I created the boogeyman and all types of creatures that scared other children before bed. Never scared you though," he chuckled as he let a memory wash over his features. "Do you remember what you told me?"
Bulma shook her head not, earnestly trying to remember.
Dr. Briefs walked to her and placed his hands on both of her shoulders. "You said, I'm going to tell on you, old man. Mom is going to whoop your butt when she finds out you're trying to lie to your little girl. If you have to lie to someone, then it means you don't love them. Are you trying to say that you don't love me?"
Bulma looked at him in shock as a smirk played upon his lips. Had she always been so sharp tongued?
Dr. Briefs chuckled at his bewildered daughter. "I'll let that sink in on you honey. I suppose you should be heading out to the lot? I can finish things up here."
"Yeah," she nodded, her mind clouded over his words, "I'll head right on that."
"That's my girl," he gave her shoulders a squeeze and released her, "call me if you need some help with anything." She nodded again and threw her coat on.
What was her father trying to say? She loved Yamcha. She had practically grown into an adult with him, made bad decisions with him, had the best sex with him and gave him everything she had to offer. That's love, if she ever heard it.
She couldn't tell Yamcha about this, though. It was her diary in physical form, and he would have questions. Questions she didn't want to answer, topics she didn't want to talk about. He had shown her on more than one occasion that he didn't understand her indulgence, and she had no plans on making him see the light now.
Bulma wiped the sweat from her forehead and dusted off her overalls. They were too tight and too old, but it was the only thing she was willing to get dirty so they had to do. She looked around the 'progress' of the room. She was supposed to be repainting walls and boxing away her items, but instead she had gotten lost in the memories of it all. Each tile of this room had her engrained in it; her tears after a fight with Yamcha, her glee while she put on her favorite old jazz station while she drank, the times she slept because she got too caught up in her work. Everything was touched by her personally, and it hurt to know that someone else would soon call this home.
She picked up a painting, her earliest one, and ran her fingers over the blotchy paint. She smiled longingly as she remembered how she experimented with colors and techniques until she could find her own style of medium. It was supposed to be a woman lying on a bed of flowers cleverly disguised as a woman's most intimate part. Instead, it was just a swirl of pinks and greens and reds, all for the hell of it.
This space was her own growth as a painter, her footsteps into the art world on every canvas. It was her own isolated secret haven, one that only she and her parents knew about. Back then, around nineteen, she had the glorious idea of opening up a studio where she could paint, host galleries, and sell her artwork. Her parents liked the idea, and made enough money to support her, so they rented the space for her. After her first unsuccessful gallery, where only a few people from the corporation showed up, she questioned if she really had what it took to do it. Yamcha told her that he thought that she was good, but in a "stick it on the fridge mom!" sort of way. He told her that she was a brilliant scientist and inventor, and that's where she should stick to her guns. So she did, completely abandoning the dream like a child who outgrew their favorite toy, and threw herself into her work at the corporation. She itched to pick up a brush, but the crushing defeat had only landed her on her bottom, and the fall and not been worth it.
Her parents had been telling her to clean out the space for months now, telling her the large, white tiled lot could be used for a better purpose than collecting dust, and could also help out with paying the property taxes. Bulma had put it off, sensing dread to see her dream dissolve between her fingertips like a small insect. But now here she stood: alone and sad and nostalgic and sober.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket then, pulling her from her pity party. "Hello?"
"Bulma, honey. It's dad."
"Caller ID, dad. Caller ID."
"Yes, yes of course," he chuckled, "are you at the lot, by chance?"
"Yep," she sighed into the receiver, "I'm here now, actually."
"Aaah good, good. Well listen, the buyer that I told you about wanted to get an early look at the space. I tried to talk him out of it, but he was pretty persistent. Said that if he couldn't look at it he wasn't interested in buying it."
"Just great," she growled, "so what do I have now? Like a day?"
"Actually, he said that he'll be there-"
The buzzer to the downstairs entrance rang loudly, cutting him off shortly. "Just a second dad, someone's at the door. I didn't realize people actually come to this place anymore."
"Well that's what I want to discuss with you! He says he's in the neighborhood and wanted to drop by to see it. So that should be him at the door."
"What!?" Bulma almost dropped the phone as he chest tightened. Now?! He was coming now? "Dad, I can't talk to him about this place! I barely want to give it up, and now I have to watch this complete stranger scope it out like a detective looking for a fingerprint?"
"You're a Briefs, honey, you can handle it! All he wants to do is look. Wouldn't it give you a peace of mind to see the person who will be claiming your space?"
She sighed again as the buzzer went off. He had a point; she would want to meet the asshole who would be taking what she should have successfully built. "Fine, dad. I'll call you when he leaves so I can tell you how terrible I think he is."
"I love you too, honey."
Bulma smiled and hung up the phone. Her dad had her wrapped around his finger, although she wasn't complaining. If ever there was a man to truly know her…
The buzzer went off again, almost impatiently as if the person was sending her a message of their irritation. "Alright, alright, I'm coming. Hold your horses, geeze," she pressed the intercom to let them up as she tried to push her paintings to the side and out of view. An unsuccessful attempt. She sighed and glanced in the reflection of herself through the glass of the wall to wall window. The setting sun painted her skin with the most brilliant shade of orange as she watched herself, and yet she frowned. Dust settled in between her hairs and eyelashes, and what little makeup she had put on was smudged and dirtied. Frankly, she could've used a shower at the moment, but she wasn't here to impress this guy, of all people.
A loud knock put fire under her feet as she made her way to the door. She sighed, grabbing the handle and bracing herself for the impending sale. She put on the politest smile she could muster , closed her eyes and opened the door, speech in que.
"Hi there, thank you for coming to look at the property. I'm Bulma Briefs," she extended her hand and imagined that she was her mother, full of sugar and confidence in her hosting gig.
"Well, I never thought you would be related to such an esteemed family."
Oh boy, that voice. Velevety and deep and smooth, washing over her in waves. She opened her eyes, hoping it would be a case of mistaken identity.
Nope, of course not. Life was never that kind to anyone who dared to live it.
Her eyes settled on him; taking in his scowl that had the audacity to call itself his face and sighed.
Her father could have given her the name of the buyer, after all.
"Come on in, Vegeta," she said reluctantly, "I guess you're just who I've been expecting."
A/N: Thank you guys SO much for all of your wonderful feedback! Every review made me super excited and happy and just *squeals* you guys are the bees knees. I'm so happy that you like it!
TO HK Guest: thank you for clearing that up! I did add the filters so that this may be a little better to find for others! Thank you for pointing that out, and thank you again for your review/ idea for this story! I'm happy to do it justice and I hope I can continue doing so.
Till next time guys, please read and review! If you have any questions or comments and don't want to leave them a review, I also reply swiftly to PM's!
