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THE SIEGE
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Chapter IX
Loss
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A few days had past since her first evening on Earth. The population in the halls had grown significantly since her disappearance, though there were few old faces among them. The residents spent much of their time in the commissary; an expansive lounge of sorts with a high ceiling. At one end, people waited in line to enter a small cafeteria to earn their paltry breakfast. Outside, a few long, plastic tables were arranged. On the opposing side, people lounged on leather couches, watching while others took turns at pool tables and various other games. Early in the morning, many flocked here to interact, to take solace in each others company. The large inset lights overhead were bright and rejuvenating, unlike the rest of the compound. The only sunset they could ever witness came when the lights were extinguished and the few that lingered retreated to their chambers.
Prior to it's re-purposing, this lounge would shelter scientists and engineers, taking refuge from their tasks. The walls were painted with a lively cerulean hue. A speaker loomed from each corner of the room along with a few discreet cameras. The familiar Capsule crest embellished the wall over the leather sofas. Children stood at it's base, admiring it. Had it become something to revere? Was it an idol to worship?
Not long after, the children returned to their play.
On a metallic table between the sofas lay a small, battery-powered audio player. The spinning disk sang a pleasant, instrumental rhapsody. A woman wearing a thin, magenta dress sat nearby with her head thrown back. A besotted companion hovered closely and whispered into her ear. In response to his cooing, the woman offered a sweet smile. Bulma couldn't watch them and she couldn't discern the reason. Perhaps it was a feeling lost between herself and Yamcha. Or perhaps it was the mindless indulgence between a broken woman and a wanderer. They would attempt to fill an empty void together, even if it were for only a little while.
Exiting the commissary, Bulma's hands were filled with various items; a bottle of water, some fruit and an unopened bag box of mixed nuts and oats. Vegeta had already expressed his dissatisfaction over the food, but he ate it nonetheless. As she ventured down the corridor towards the infirmary, she passed many small clusters of people. They watched suspiciously as she passed, but said nothing. A few more lingered outside the metal doors and dispersed when she arrived to wake the keypad. As time went on, their anxiety hadn't subsided.
As the days passed in boredom, Vegeta scarcely left the infirmary room. When she frequently visited, he was often partaking in some kind of training regimen until that asinine decision aggravated his newly stitched wound beyond his tolerance. When she entered with daily food, he would either demand that she leave or ignore her entirely.
Her father was absent from the lobby. She thought, perhaps, he had returned to his personal study to continue his tiresome work. Upon one visit, he told her, with a yawn, that he was working on synthesizing a new dietary supplement that would provide enough protein to the residents. The compound lacked many things in the way of food; meats, breads and a truly reliable way to store diary and other dated items for an extended period.
Standing outside the tightly shut door where the Saiyan resided, Bulma tugged nervously at her high collar. Today, she decided to wear a sleek Capsule jacket, a pair of denim jeans and white sneakers. Her father's kindly offered vitamins had her waking in a frantic upheaval. She had hoped her plain attire would aid in quelling her uneasiness when around Vegeta, but she began to doubt it as she turned the cold handle of his temporary chamber. She had given up on the formality of knocking, he seldom responded.
Bulma wasn't particularly stricken to find one of the few beds propped against the far wall. Large lacerations along the mattress bled white feathers onto the floor at its base. It slouched forward, having taken a tremendous beating. An IV rack lay on its side in the corner in defeat. Various forms of broken medical containers lay strewn about all around the room. Cabinets adjacent to the door had doors either swung open or fully ripped off. The faucet beneath them had a busted handle.
As expected, Vegeta was in the center of the disheveled room performing push-ups with one tightly curled fist behind his back. He disregarded her as she rolled her eyes and placed the items on the side table near the bed where he should have been resting. Once again, he had removed the EKG pads and the blaring monitor complained over the headboard. Too bad he wasn't as dead as the machine thought him to be, she thought callously. She silenced it with a forceful touch. She decided not to bother trying to reattach the pads, it was impossible to monitor his inhuman vitals anyway.
She watched him as he carried on his strict routine. A bead of moisture fled from his temple and joined a small pool on the floor. His caustic glare remained downward.
Bulma sighed in exasperation, but he took no heed.
"Looks like you've really made yourself at home," she stated offhandedly, "You know, there's an exercise room..."
He remained focused on the ground.
"Uh, hello?" She stomped towards him, stepping over heaps of medical supplies, "I'm speaking to you here!"
Then he paused in an exertion, turning a spiteful scowl up at her. Regretful, she withdrew a few steps as he backed ontp his heels before standing erect.
"What do you want, woman?" Vegeta inquired with disinterest as he moved passed her to peruse the little food she had brought. Holding a peach in his fist, he studied it with animosity, "Your miserable offering does very little for me."
Offended by his thankless ridicule, Bulma rested her hands on her hips and replied sarcastically, "My apologies, your highness, that my generosity isn't sufficient."
Vegeta appeared pleased by her atonement, as a smirk formed. Returning the bruised fruit to the table, he decided upon a bottle of water. He tore the cap clean from the plastic with ease. Placing the jagged opening to his lips, he drained it then discarded it to the floor. His flesh around the stitched wound had become rosy with his movement, but he paid no regard. Permanent reminders scarred his olive skin along his back and arms. Bulma felt the urge to ask about them, about his past, but said nothing.
He faced her abruptly and crossed his arms, "Since you choose to linger, then I demand the return of my battle attire immediately."
"You've almost completely destroyed them," Bulma replied, retrieving the bottle, "I'll do what I can to repair them but in the meantime, you'll have to wear Capsule personnel clothing. I'll get you some."
Bulma rose and approached the exit.
Vegeta scoffed, "Why would I, an elite, wear your pathetic, earthling attire? I suspect they did little for you inferior humans against Freiza. Certainly, it must have been like exterminating insects for him, ha!"
She was standing with her back to him and his hateful remarks slashed at her heart. Her hands curled around the plastic bottle and it screeched in agony. She felt him brush past her, towards the mangled mattress that was propped against the wall. Glancing in his direction, disdain swelled in her chest for him, but he once again to no heed. He raised a fist, prepared to strike the cringing target.
"Then your race defeated Freiza? Everyone you knew and loved, they're still alive?"
Vegeta froze mid-swing, with his strike never engaging the tattered fabric. She could hear him breathe, filling his rib cage with heavy breaths of loathing. He remained there, glaring at the mattress, silent. Bulma retreated through the exit, closing the door behind her. As she left the lobby area, she could hear him thrashing from within his chamber. Standing outside, regret tormented her.
Bulma tried to shake off that guilt as she trudged through the vacant hall. Vegeta was hiding behind that sizable ego of his and he deserved the backlash, that perpetual reminder. However, Bulma couldn't help but feel remorse.
Bulma decided to search for Yamcha. He had remained distant, aloof. Finding him where he hid in this maze was a chore so she often left him be. There was an exercise room beyond the lavatories. She imagined he would spend much of his time there. She was reluctant to confront him after their last encounter, but she needed information. She needed to know everything; what happened after she was taken, if Piccolo or any of the others ever reappeared or if Goku... No, things would have been different if he had returned.
Bulma came to an archway, where a plastic sign displayed the facilities functioning hours. She could see a cluster of exercise equipment within the long room. There was a rack for barbells at the far side; a few lay on the ground instead. The walls nearest the entryway were heavily padded with thick, cerulean cushions. A full mirror lined the far wall. She could see Yamcha in it. He was delivering heavy jabs at a punching bag. The echo of his swipes, flooded the hall. Only a single, lazy light illuminated the room. The shadows of the unused equipment were cast in tangled heaps on the concrete floor.
With a heavy sigh, she entered quietly. Descending the small set of stairs, she watched him as he focused on his task. His carefully planned strikes were poised and he moved with ease and agility. Bulma was proud of him; in all their years together, he had certainly improved as a fighter. But he placed his friends at the peak of his strength, his inspiration. Without them, without Goku, he was in an unforgiving loop.
She waited a few feet behind him as he raised another fist.
"Hey," Bulma murmured softly, though loudly enough to startle him. Shaken, Yamcha faced her with an alarmed expression.
"Oh, Bulma... Hey,"Yamcha's eyes fell on her in relief muddled with hesitation. He seemed both eager and worried to see her. He stepped away, towards a towel that hung over from the bar on a nearby weight bench. His breaths were labored as he dabbed at his head. Settled on the bench, he tugged at his exercise shorts uncomfortably.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you," Bulma offered an apology, stalling the tension, "I shouldn't have you disturbed you while you trained."
"No, no, it's fine..." He replied, slinging the dampened cloth around his shoulders. His gaze studied the slowly swaying punching bag. The chains attaching it to the ceiling creaked faintly.
The room was humid. Bulma sat a distance away from him, on a cushioned chair settled near a few hand weights on the floor. She rested her feet on the mat beneath the hanging bag.
"It's been a few days," she said after a moment of silence, "I hadn't seen you. I was a little worried."
"Sorry, I've been training a lot, you know, to keep my mind busy. There's not much to do around here."
She nodded in agreement. Silence followed.
Bulma watched as her shoes left depressions in the mat. She could detect him moving slightly, restless and on edge.
"So, uh, Bulma... " He stated suddenly with a lifted volume, "What have you been up to? Enjoying your return?"
His small talk made her uneasy. His questions seemed so fake, sarcastic even. Bulma wrapped her fingers around the seat of the chair, as if fighting the urge to jump up and escape this awkward meeting.
"Well, confusing, I guess," she replied, "That's sort of why I came to talk to you."
He seemed suspicious and said nothing. He looked on at the punching bag. It had fallen still.
"Have you heard from any of the others? Tien, Piccolo, Krillin... Goku?
Yamcha scratched at the back of his head, the way he always did when he was nervous. He sighed, "No, we take maybe three or four supply runs during a month. I've tried to search for their energy levels, but I haven't found anything. I'm afraid they were all killed in the Siege."
"But that can't be true," Bulma replied with absolution, "Piccolo, at least, must still be alive."
"What makes you think that?" Yamcha raised an eye brow, disturbing one of the scars on his face.
She wanted to slap him, "Ugh, the Dragon Ball, Yamcha! It's still here, from when we were trying to find them before I was... " disheartened, she trailed off, "Nevermind, the point is, Piccolo and Kami are still alive. I don't know about the others, but it's enough. If we gather the remaining Dragon Balls then we-"
"Again with this, Bulma?" Yamcha shouted, rising from his seat, struggling to contain his contempt. He pressed his hands to his temples as he paced the aisle between the equipment, "The Dragon Balls. That is precisely why you went missing the last time, Bulma! It's just the two of us, how do you expect to find them all... "
Yamcha had paused and he was staring into her eyes with an incredulous expression that held his lower jaw. Bulma felt her brows knit, prepared to face his disapproval. He spent several moments in utter disbelief.
"You can't be serious," he said finally, having drawn her confession without a single word. His eyes were wide as he approached her with a finger extended to condemn, "That is the reason? That is why he is here?"
Bulma remained silent.
"Damn it, Bulma!" Yamcha shouted once more, turning to pace in a more hastened fashion. Bulma felt deeply guilty as she watched him struggle with the realization. Perhaps he wasn't aware of the forced arrangement between she and Vegeta, but that would have only hurt him further. As much as she admired him for the burden he had willingly undertaken, Yamcha lacked the courage. And she lacked the strength to fair this momentous journey alone. Vegeta possessed both; until Goku returned, he was their only hope.
"Of all your insane ideas, this takes the prize!" Yamcha continued to exclaim, "Why, Bulma? Why would you put so much trust into one of them? He is one of them; he took your life from you! How could you ever trust him...?"
"It's our only chance, Yamcha," Bulma replied, flatly, "I'm sorry."
"I know it's been hard ever since the Siege, but I've done everything I could to make this place habitable; to make this life habitable. For you, for your dad, for everyone here, "his shoulders slumped, fatigued by his woe, "and you're prepared to throw that all away on whim."
Bulma's eyes sank to the floor, to the shadows. The light flickered.
"And if you fail?"
Bulma's eyes raised, to meet Yamcha's challenging gaze.
"Then it would have been worth at least trying." Bulma stated with certainty. Yamcha seemed displeased with her reply and shook his head. Bulma stood with hands raised as if to offer her vow, "I won't give up and I won't stay here waiting for the day Freiza comes and destroys Earth like all the others. I know that will be our fate is we do nothing, Yamcha."
Bulma sighed heavily as she turned to pace herself, "I think the only thing we have in common with Vegeta is that. He's lost everything, because of Freiza. I don't want you, me or anyone to be like that, not when I know there is still a chance. Whether Goku is dead or alive, the Dragon Balls will bring him back and who knows what could happen! It could change... everything."
Confidence filled her tone and she turned to regard him, but he refused to look at her.
"Please, trust me... things are different between you and I, I know that," She approached him slowly again, offering her words with kindness, "But please, Yamcha, please be with me on this."
For a while, Yamcha stared into the mirror, beyond his reflection. He would relent, he always did. Removing the towel from his shoulders, he ruffled his messy hair in defeat. Then he sighed, reluctantly.
"I hope you know what you're doing," He muttered, still without a glance in her direction, "Fine, I'll do what I can."
"Thank you, Yamcha," Bulma replied, relieved, "Well, I'll let you get back to your training."
She thought to embrace him, but decided against it. He seemed distant. She turned to leave, deciding she couldn't offer anything other than her verbal gratitude. Resting a hand on the railing of the stairs, she ascended towards the exit.
"Why are things different?" Yamcha inquired abruptly, forcing her to pause in her tracks. He was gazing at her image in the mirror.
"What? I... " Bulma thought for a moment. The chasm between them had existed even prior to the Siege. And now, after all this time, it was irreparable. She didn't want to dwell on it with him now, or ever, so she said nothing.
"Forget it," he snapped finally, severing his gaze and moving towards the bench where he previously sat. Laying down on it, he grasped the barbell over his head and prepared to lift. Changing the subject, he said "If you're going to collect the Dragon Balls again, then you'll have to go back to where you went missing and hope the radar is still there. I didn't recover it and I don't think there's another one lying around here. I guess you could ask your dad."
Bulma lingered on his previous question from where she stood at the landing of the stairs, watching him lift the heavy burden. Even if Goku came back and changed everything, like she had hoped, things between she and Yamcha would never go back to the way they were. Too much had happened, too much for their weakened bond.
"I'll... go do that then," Bulma ascended the stairs before stalling at the doorway, "Thanks again."
He didn't respond as she left in silence.
Again bothered by the guilt in her stomach, she ventured back through the corridor. She hadn't considered the radar, a necessary tool in her scheme. Had she even taken it on that last supply run? Ah, she couldn't remember. She decided to pay her father a visit, she was eager for his carefree company. Surely, he would know what to do.
Passing several denizens along the way to her father's study, she offered each of them a greeting or a wave. Most took solace in her salutation, some even stopping her to ask of her health. Others gazed back at her in scrutiny, as if seeing a ghost. Finally, just beyond the infirmary, she came to a closed door displaying a familiar crest. The reddened keypad turned all outsiders away. After rapping on the cool steel, a voice beckoned from within.
Her father's study, or his 'grand laboratory', as he would dub it was a trifling room only large enough to house a few large items for storage. In fact, that was its original use. Instead of taking one of the larger labs for himself, he offered all the space he could to those who called the compound home. This small space was his only sanctuary. There was a lone desk at the far wall, displaying a small desk lamp and many, many items of various uses. There was a tool box, bundles of wiring, a few notebooks, data chips and a computer monitor. There was also a mug that read 'Capsule; forward into the future.'
There were a few other pieces of furniture in the cramped quarters; a filing cabinet with a drawer pulled open, a table with a microscope and drawing desk. There were boxes shoved into one corner. A metal closet near the door housed many bottles of various chemicals and medicines. It was padlocked. There was a carefully made bed. The walls had suffered significant scrapes and bruises from his studies. A bulb burned brightly from where it hung from a chain at the rooms center. Next to his desk was a electrical box displaying numbers scribbled on duct tape over each switch. Here, He had master control over the electrical output for the entire facility.
Her father sat in a revolving computer chair with a wide smile beneath his over grown mustache. He was caressing a slumbering black cat on his lap. He encouraged her to enter and take refuge on a cushioned chair with scuffed legs near the microscope. Scratch mewed quietly as he readjusted his position on her father's leg.
"Why, hello dear!" Her father said with sincere enthusiasm, "You seem to be recovering splendidly. Have those vitamins been taking effect?"
"Yeah, dad, I definitely am getting those weird dreams you were talking about," Bulma replied with a nervous laugh as she studied the cat as he groomed the ruffled fur on his paw.
"Ah worry not, I don't suspect that they will intensify."
She laughed nervously once more; she certainly didn't need them that.
"So, what can I do for you, dear?"
"I was wondering if you knew where the Dragon Radar was?" She inquired, wiggling her index finger towards the lazy cat who studied it in curiosity, "I don't remember if I had taken it with me before... well, you know."
Dr. Brief paused in thought, gazing at her through his thick glasses. She hoped the question wouldn't lead to another lecture about gathering the Dragon Balls. Finally, he shook his head.
"Apologies, dear, but I do not have it in my possession. Ha, I remember when you built that interesting, little device; I was quite proud!"
He went on to reminisce again as Bulma racked her brain on the more pressing matter. It must be there; lying in the rubble where she spent her final moments before her capture. But if it were still there after all this time, the internal mechanism would be entirely damaged. Perhaps she could create another? No, she lacked the supplies to completely recreate and program it. She would need the original, if it could be found.
It was settled then; finding the radar would be their first objective.
"Ah, I remember my blossoming, young daughter going on an on about finding young love using that little trinket, or something like that," He chuckled richly, "Oh, speaking of which, my dear."
He turned in his chair, to the monitor. His fingers tapped away on a keyboard and the monotonous blip of information switched to footage from a security camera. It portrayed disheveled room. The camera studied a lone figure as he took heavy jabs at an unfortunate mattress. The hazy video lacked an audio output, to her mild relief.
"Dad! What is this?" Bulma exclaimed, rising to her feet. Spooked, Scratch jumped from her father's lap and scurried under the bed.
"Calm down, dear," her father stated, waving her concern from the air with a swipe of his hand, "I promise I am not spying upon your spry companion. And I must say, spry he is! The boy never stops. I'm fortunate he didn't destroy the camera."
"Dad, why is there a camera?" Bulma felt her cheeks were flush, recalling her short-lived visit to the Saiyan's chamber earlier.
"Simply for safety, dear," Dr. Brief replied, watching Vegeta as he pounded away at the mattress, "And intrigue. I understand his previous—ahem—duties involved some dishonest motives so I installed this while he was under anesthesia. He appears to function in the same routine, day in and day out. Although, whatever your conversation earlier was in regards to has left him in quite the hysterics."
"Geez, dad."
"Now, now," her father chuckled, switching off the monitor, "I dare not intrude upon the business between young lovers, I was one myself-"
"Dad!" Bulma exclaimed once more, truly appalled, "There is no such thing going on between Vegeta and I. He just helped me get back to Earth, that's all."
"I see," her father replied, clearly skeptical, "Regardless, dear, I appreciate his abilities, but he'll need to contain them when among others. Furthermore, I think it best, since he seems to be improving quite rapidly, that he take up residence elsewhere in the compound. Perhaps with you, if you wish."
"No, Dad," Bulma replied, flatly.
"Very well, then I suppose he could stay in the locked office near your quarters. I left it unused since your disappearance, but it couldn't be more useful now. I would prefer he be kept away from the residents when necessary, they don't appear too fond of him as of yet. Though, I'm certain those attitudes will adjust upon knowing him."
Bulma swallowed hard, "I'll run that by him."
"Excellent!" Her father stated with a clap of his hands. He seemed as blissfully scatterbrained as always.
Scratch ventured out from under the bed and approached Bulma cautiously. He slunk away a few steps when she reached a hand out towards him. After a moment of scrutiny, the cat sniffed at her finger tips before allowing her to pet is smooth fur. Her purred audibly.
"Your young companion would be of any relation to Goku, would he?" Her father inquired, to her surprise.
"Uh, not that I know of, no."
"Hmm, interesting," he replied with constant skepticism, "He reminds me of the young lad, though far more vigorous."
"I suppose so," Bulma agreed, knowing Vegeta may not take kindly to such a comparison. After a moment of studying a poster about robotics on the wall, she changed the subject, "Has there been a lot of commotion on the surface lately?"
"Other than your return, the need for a full lock down has been infrequent. I can't say I have heard of anything significant in the past few weeks or so."
"Good," she replied, nodding, "I was thinking that maybe we should make another supply trip in the next few days."
Bulma was uncertain of her father's feelings towards gathering the Dragon Balls. He probably felt there existence to be inane. To spare him, she hid her intentions behind a partially truthful guise. And felt awful for it.
"That would be productive plan, I think," he replied as he studied the contents of a notebook, "We require medicine, in particular."
He sounded bitter with the latter statement. Perhaps he feared illness; he had lost much because of it.
"Then, I'll prepare for it immediately," Bulma ventured towards the exit, waking the keypad.
"You, my dear?" Concern flooded his tone. She paused,wincing at a pang of anxiety in her chest, "I believe you are more than capable... Forgive me, I suffer from a father's concern for his daughter. I doubt I could survive losing you again."
"I know, dad, I just..." Bulma held her breath for a moment, swallowing her stomach, "I need to do something though. I'll take care of myself this time, I promise."
Dr. Brief studied her face with that same skepticism.
"I won't go alone," She reassured him as she searched for a reason to earn his blessing, "Vegeta will go with me. He's strong enough, I know he would change everyone's concern about him if he were to help."
He seemed to take solace in her reassurance as he took her hand and kissed it gently.
"Very well, dear," he agreed with minor anxiety, "I will do my best to help you prepare. In the meantime, I encourage you to continue resting. Also, I will do what is within my power to repair Mr... what was the boy's name?"
"Vegeta," the frequent use of the name felt odd on her tongue.
"Ah, yes, Vegeta's battle clothing since it seems extremely versatile. I'll have temporary attire for him in his new quarters," he paused to study her, "Ah, it truly is rejuvenating to an old man's soul to see his daughter after so long."
Bulma examined his aged face for a while. She wished he had his optimism. He had lost much, yet he continued to smile. He turned his head slightly, baffled by her extended stare. Embracing him, she offered a farewell to him and a mewing Scratch before exiting.
"Thank you, dad."
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