Chapter 9
Powerless

Bulma woke up when her alarm clock blared its good morning. Groaning, she reached her hand out from under her blanket and shut it off only to roll over and try catching a few more minutes of blissful sleep. But she couldn't sleep any longer; it wasn't that she was feeling lively and awake, but she knew she had to get up and get ready for work. She couldn't afford to be late again. With a deep sigh she threw off her covers and sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of her bed. Giving her alarm clock one final glare, she stood up and shuffled to her bathroom for a hot shower. Really that was the only part of the morning she could thoroughly enjoy.

But, as with everything she enjoyed, she couldn't delight in it for too long. The water only stayed hot for a few minutes before quickly going from lukewarm to frigid. She barely had time to get herself clean before she was shivering and stepping out of the shower, wrapping a warm towel around her body. "Stupid water heater," she muttered bitterly as she started drying her hair.

She looked at herself in the mirror as she combed her hair, promising herself as she did many times that she would cut it short so it wouldn't be such a bother. She couldn't keep spending so much time every morning on hair maintenance. 'Oh well. Maybe next week when I have time off.' Bulma finished by tying her hair back in a bun and brushing her teeth. That done, she went back to her bedroom and opened her closet door to find clothes to wear. It wasn't a hard decision since she didn't have much choice in the matter. With another sigh she pulled a powder blue knee-length dress with a stiff white collar out and tossed it on her bed as she went to her dresser to get her underclothes.

The sun was barely peeking over the horizon, dimly lighting her room. She stopped in front of her window and looked out at the city. It looked cold and gray, but she knew outside it was blistering hot already. If not hot, it was definitely humid; summer mornings were always miserable, especially for her hair – another reason to get it cut short. Pushing her thoughts about the weather aside, she finished dressing, frowning at the wrinkles in her dress, and walked out of her bedroom. She turned left down the short hall to the kitchen and flicked the light on.

Dirty dishes were stacked by the sink. She had been too tired the night before to wash them. 'I'll get to it later,' she vowed. Her stomach rumbled impatiently as she pulled a bowl out of the cupboard and filled it with cereal. When she opened the refrigerator to get the milk out, she groaned when she saw that she was out of milk. 'Of course.'

With a half-hearted shrug she grabbed the carton of orange juice instead and upended its contents on her cereal. Not her favorite breakfast, but it would have to do. She sat down at the table and hastily ate her cereal, hardly taking the time to even taste it – not that she wanted to. As soon as she was finished she tossed the bowl on the stack of dishes by the sink and hurried to the front door, only taking the time to slip on her white sneakers and grab her purse before going outside.

As expected, it was hot, and she had to walk twenty-one blocks. "Wish I could take a taxi," she sighed wistfully. It was a passing thought she entertained nearly every morning, but she knew she couldn't take a taxi every day. And taking a bus was out of the question; none of them would take her to her destination at this time of day. Locking the door behind her, she started down her front walk to the street and turned right. She checked her watch and felt a rush of panic flood through her when she saw how late it had gotten.

"Shit. I got to hurry." Raising her eyes to the heavens, silently imploring why she was always running late, she increased her speed to a light jog.

She went three blocks before turning left down another street. She hopped from one foot to the other as she mentally begged the light to change so she could cross without getting run over. After what must have been ten minutes (it was only two) the light changed and the "Don't Walk" light changed to "Walk." Bulma took a deep breath and ran across the street, no longer interested in conserving energy. She had to get to work on time; she had already been late two times that week. 'Strike three and I'm out.'

The baseball analogy brought a faint recollection of another life she lived. At least, it was a life she might have lived if she hadn't been so headstrong in all the wrong ways. Maybe she could have dated a famous baseball player – maybe Yamcha! She didn't care much about baseball, honestly, but she could put up with marrying a rich athlete like him. And he wasn't too bad looking either. She shook her head, determined to quit her daydreaming. There was no sense wishing for something she could never have.

Well, she couldn't have it if she kept going down the road she chose three years ago. For so long she always wanted to follow in her father's footsteps, invent things and work at Capsule Corporation, maybe even take over as president someday. But she doubted that would ever happen now. No, her parents were far too disappointed in her to ever accept her again. Hell, they practically kicked her out of their home when she told them she didn't want to be the president of Capsule Corporation someday. They were so disappointed… But damn it, didn't she have the right to choose her own life? So maybe she was throwing away something her father worked all his life to achieve, what of it? Why couldn't she work something her whole life to achieve on her own, not on daddy's coattails?

'I could have been rich and famous.' She snorted and rolled her eyes as she came to a stop at another intersection. 'I could have been like a celebrity.' Another thought she refused to dwell on. She went across the street when the light changed and went two more blocks before waiting to cross the street to her right. Inside, she felt like she had known fame once. Only as Dr. Brief's daughter, though, a child prodigy. But she fell out of the public eye when she said no to Capsule Corporation. It was almost like being the heir to a throne; saying "no" just didn't work. She got what she wanted, anyway. She was making her own life, albeit a terrible life. Making it from one day to the next was a challenge, and sometimes she was afraid she wasn't up to it. Back when she was still the Bulma Brief she had not a care in the world. Enough money, loving parents, a comfortable home, servant bots, the outlook of a steady and prosperous job, the admiration of men… now she had, well, nothing. Except maybe the perverted leers of creepy men.

She went seven more blocks before she finally reached her workplace: a dumpy old diner in the slums of West City. The few patrons were regulars; she hardly saw anyone who didn't come at least every other day. Most of them were older people, retired old factory workers or former stay-at-home moms. They kept to themselves for the most part, quietly sitting in the booths with a lit cigarette slowly smoldering into ash without them hardly taking a drag. Bulma didn't mind the clientele, but she hated the management. Well, really, the owner of the joint.

Mr. Zimbardo was a portly man, short and balding. His brow was always sweaty, his sideburns always greasy, and she was sure he only owned one shirt because it always looked dirty and wrinkled. His shoes squeaked when he walked and his thumbs were always hooked on his belt, which counteracted its pathetic attempts to hold up his pants. Physically unappealing, his attitude was even worse. His staff was small; aside from Bulma there were only four other waitresses, two cooks, and a busboy who was likely too young to have a job (but no one dared mention it). Bulma doubted he could keep many people working for him if he treated anyone else as poorly as he did her. Maybe he resented the fact that she was more educated than him. Maybe he was just a misogynic old bastard who took pleasure it treating women like dirt. Either way, he was constantly breathing down her neck, waiting for her to make a mistake so he could viciously call her out on it, and he was coming up with some new excuse to dock her pay almost every week.

As soon as she walked in the door she heard his gravelly voice bellow her name. "You're late again, Miss Brief!"

She scowled at the patronizing way he said her name and shot back, "Sorry, your highness, I got held up by traffic."

"An attitude like that'll get you fired," he warned her for what must have been the millionth time. Bulma just rolled her eyes at his empty threat as she went to the sink to wash her hands and put on an apron that was hopefully not too soiled from the previous day. Once she was ready she grabbed a pen and notepad and went to her first table to take the order of an old man who always wore a trench coat and grimy fedora and carried a black umbrella. She figured he was at least always prepared for inclement weather.

"Good morning, Mr. Brady," she said as cheerfully as she could when she stopped at his table. He looked up at her and grinned, giving her a show of his lack of teeth. At first it had disgusted her, but over the months working there she learned to see the smile in his old, gray eyes that lit up with his happiness. "What'll you have today?"

"Oh, I suppose the usual." He shrugged a little and grinned again.

She smiled back and wrote down the same order as she did every single day. There was really no point in asking what he wanted, but she was sure if she ever put his order in without asking the old jokester would say he wanted something else instead. "Alright, I'll be back with some coffee in a minute."

Her morning passed much as it always did, waiting tables, bearing the insults thrown at her by Mr. Zimbardo along with the occasional lewd comment, and sharing the latest gossip with the other waitress on duty, Margie. She was an old woman with a slightly hunched back, her hair always in a wild perm dyed blue, and hot pink lipstick staining her thin lips and often her front teeth. She had worked at the diner for nearly thirty years, about as long as it was open, and had seen it change owners seven times. Somehow she stuck with the place though she constantly spoke of wanting a better life. Someday… she always dreamed of someday…

There were days Bulma could hardly stand to listen to Margie listing her regrets. So many of them sounded like her own mistakes it made her feel depressed and hopeless. What had she done? Now, at the age of twenty-five, she could have been a researcher or maybe even vice president of Capsule Corporation. She might have finished her doctorate in computer engineering, maybe even found a job somewhere else using her skills. Just because she didn't want to take over the family company didn't mean she had to start at the bottom of the ladder, did it? What the hell was she doing working at a diner that would be better suited for demolition than food service?

All because she didn't care for the power her inheritance could bring her. She didn't want any of that. She didn't want to deal with politicians, begging for government funding, she didn't want to direct other people, guiding the department heads in their projects, and she didn't want to answer to the board of trustees. She was an independent woman, and while she enjoyed tinkering around in a laboratory inventing some new whatchamacallit, she didn't want to do it under her father's wing. She wanted to go out into the world and be her own person, find her special niche on her own. She had thrown everything she could have had away on a whim, and now she only lived to regret her decision.

What a fool she had been! But it was far too late to change the course of her life. Bulma Brief, no matter how brilliant or how many degrees she had, was disgraced and unwanted by the scientific community.

"Bulma, dear, is something the matter?" Margie asked. They were in the back alley running behind the diner on their lunch break. Margie was sitting in the only chair – a plastic lawn chair – and Bulma was leaning against the wall.

Bulma looked over at the older woman and shook her head sadly. "Nope, I'm fine." She sighed before taking a long drag of her cigarette. "Everything's peachy."

Sometimes she thought she had reached her breaking point. There was no way she could go on living like this. She could go back to her home at Capsule Corporation, get down on her hands and knees, and beg for her parents to forgive her idiocy and take her back under their wings. They were kind, compassionate people, how could they turn away from their own daughter? Really it had been her choice to leave home. They hadn't actually thrown her out…she sometimes liked to replay her memory of the day she left and make herself believe they had been pushing her out the door, but really they hadn't. No, they definitely expressed their disappointment, their desire for her to follow the path they chose for her, all that. But they hadn't thrown her out. It was more her guilt that made her walk out and never turn back.

'I'm such an idiot.' She berated herself all the time now, something she never would have done before she walked out. There had been no reason. Maybe she had been egotistical, even narcissistic, but she thought she was perfect and never made any mistake worth regretting. Oh, how things had changed since then.

"Honey, you can tell me what's on your mind."

Bulma smiled a little and shrugged. "It's nothing big. I just miss home, I guess."

Missed home, missed her life, the what-could-have-been's. Loved by all, raised on a pedestal for the world to worship. She imagined herself sitting at the desk in her father's office suite, feet kicked up on it while the board members trembled before her. The mental image seemed so real, as if she were seeing something that had really happened sometime in the past. But that wasn't possible. She had never held any power there, even though she was Dr. Brief's daughter, the heir to the corporate empire.

Still, whether it was real or not, she got a good feeling from it. She was a brilliant woman who could take Capsule Corporation to new heights, guide it in any direction she chose without her father's help! But she hadn't wanted to. At least, not before anyway… Now she wasn't so sure about that. Now the power sounded wonderful. It was tantalizing, but it was out of reach. It would always be out of reach. She was the prodigal daughter, the disappointment, the rebellious child. No one would ever take her seriously even if her parents did welcome her back home.

When her lunch break was over, Bulma went back inside and resumed the task of waiting tables, clearing them off when patrons were done eating and cleaning and setting them for the next dejected soul to trudge through the door. She was tired and her feet ached by the end of her shift, but she couldn't take another break or slow down. Mr. Zimbardo was still watching, always anticipating a bout of laziness he could use as an excuse to cut her pay. He was merciless, and she had definitely seen him taking her tips from time to time, but there was nothing she could say about it. In this world, this pathetic, dingy world, he had the power.

And she had none. Bulma Brief was powerless.

During the long walk home she allowed her mind to wander, flitting from one thing to the next, never lingering on any memory too long as they became too painful. Sometimes an image or a phrase would flash through her mind like the broken memory of a dream, but they were few and far between. If anything she hated them the most because they made her think about what she could have had if she had made better choices in her life.

Bulma was thrown back into reality when a big man bumped into her, nearly knocking her over. "Hey, watch it!" she yelled, "Do you know who I am?"

The man looked her up and down once before scoffing. "Do you think I care, lady?"

She balled her small hands into fists and stamped her foot, her name on the tip of her tongue and ready to shoot at him. But he had already turned and continued on, completely ignoring her. She felt tears forming in her eyes but forced them back, taking in a deep breath and holding it a few seconds before releasing. No use getting worked up over something like that. He didn't know who she was and didn't care. Just like everyone else in the world. Even if she were to tell him her name, what difference would it make? According to the world she might as well have never existed. So what if she was beautiful and intelligent? Since choosing not to do anything with her gifts she made herself into another nobody, just a woman on the street equal with everyone else – or lower. She turned and continued walking toward her trashy apartment, shoulders sagging and head hanging.

'I hate my life.' She felt tears rising again and had to brush them away with the back of her hand. 'No, can't think like that.' To keep her mind occupied instead of letting it lead her into self-pity and despair, she started counting her steps, always careful to avoid the cracks in the sidewalk. She didn't know why, but she hated stepping on the cracks. Always had.

'You would choose mediocrity?' The question came unbidden, and she couldn't shake it from her head no matter how hard she tried. Mediocre. How else could she describe … everything? She was born for greatness, but here she was living a lonely life in a downtrodden apartment working a minimum-wage job that hardly paid the bills. She didn't have time to make friends, and even if she did she didn't have time to maintain relationships; despite being beautiful and charming she was still single and she figured she always would be. She'd be an old maid like Margie, smoking cigarettes until her lungs filled with tar and she could finally die. No one would remember her, no one would mourn her passing. Wasn't that the ultimate mark of a mediocre, meaningless, terrible life? No one was there to love her, no one was there to care if she lived or died. She made no impact in the grand scheme of things, and the lives she touched were little better than hers, if not worse. Who, other than her, would ever notice if Mr. Brady no longer came to the diner every day? If he no longer wandered the streets wearing his fedora and swinging his umbrella at his side? Was that what she was like? Ignored, forgotten, unseen?

As she neared home she was better able to rein in her negative thoughts. Her excitement grew as her hands itched to resume work on a few of her little pet projects; though she no longer had the limitless resources of Capsule Corporation at her disposal, she managed to purchase a few small devices and tools that she could disassemble and turn into something new and useful. Well, they had the potential to be useful if she could ever finish them. The problem was finding the parts to complete the projects and saving enough time and energy to actually work on them. But today had been particularly horrible and all she wanted was to lose herself in one of her brilliant inventions. When she was a block away from home she could no longer contain her eagerness and started running.

She nearly tripped over her feet when she came to a stop at the front step of her duplex, suddenly having a sense of foreboding when she saw it. The front door was ajar and the lock looked like it had been broken. Swallowing, she slowly pushed the door open and peeked inside, hoping that if there had been an intruder, no one was still there. "Hello?" she called.

There was no answer, so she pushed the door open the rest of the way with her shoulder as she stepped inside. She flipped the light switch and groaned with the pale fluorescent light illuminated the ruins of her home. From her standpoint it appeared the whole place had been ransacked. "No," she squeaked, "no, no, no! This can't be happening!"

Casting aside her earlier caution, she ran to her bedroom where she worked on her inventions, praying to whatever deity might listen that they hadn't been found. Not that she had a particularly clever or safe hiding place for them, but who would think to look in a beat up cardboard box in the back of her closet? Okay, granted, it might look like she was hiding something, but who would… she threw her closet door open and fell to her knees, reaching all the way to the back and feeling around for the box. Her heart sank when she felt an empty space where the box was supposed to be. The box that contained the only remnants of her former life was gone.

A raging war of emotions rose in her chest until she felt like she could hardly breathe. Her breathing turned to ragged panting as she stood, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "Damn it all to hell, that was all I had left," she hissed. Her whole body trembled as she stormed out of the bedroom, ignoring the chaotic disarray, and headed for the kitchen to use the phone. Though she knew it was probably a hopeless endeavor, she was going to call the police and report the burglary and maybe even get her stolen items back. She wasn't concerned about money or any other "valuable" things that may have been taken, all she wanted was to have her inventions back so she could finish them, patent, and sell them. Maybe they wouldn't have the Capsule Corporation backing, but they would practically sell themselves anyway.

She heard the phone pick up, then a calm, feminine voice say, "West City Police Department."

"I would like to report a burglary." Bulma slipped into her cold business mode as soon as the conversation started. Her emotions dulled to a low, burning ember of anger and shock, allowing her to keep a clear head and report all the details necessary for a solid police investigation.

"I'll need your name and address."

Calmly, Bulma provided all the information required, remaining patient through the drawn-out process. She could hardly sit still through it, though, and started tapping her foot impatiently and balling her dress in her fist. Finally, after at least twenty minutes, Bulma hung up the phone and heaved a deep sigh filled with the last dregs of her panic.

She thought the police would come right away. But after waiting two hours and they still hadn't shown up, she called the police department again. The only information she could gather was that her report had been filed and someone would be on the way as soon as possible to talk to her in person and take a look at the scene of the crime. She was reminded not to touch or move anything around while she waited. Bulma grudgingly agreed before hanging up the phone again. She crossed her arms over her chest and trudged through her small living room, careful not to trip over the floor lamp that had been knocked over or get her feet tangled up in the blankets strewn around the room.

"Why me?" she muttered sadly. "Why did it have to be me?" She knew she didn't live in a good neighborhood. Burglaries weren't uncommon and she was privy to the gang activity and drug-dealing that went on in the back alleys. She was new to the area, but she wasn't naïve. But, it was where she could find affordable housing that gave her at least some privacy, and it was relatively close to work. Originally she had taken the job at the diner to tide her over until she found a more suitable career elsewhere, but soon she had grown into complacency and despair, and she was too tired and depressed to bother searching for better employment.

'I can't keep living like this.' It wasn't the first time she thought this, but it never felt more true than now. Now, when she had really lost everything, now that she had no hope and no way of bettering herself without some help, she knew that something had to change. She imagined herself returning home, kneeling at the front gate of the old Capsule Corporation compound and begging her parents to come outside and greet her, let alone welcome her inside, back home where she belonged. She could see them standing there, looming over her, scowling and scoffing at her pathetic pleas for mercy. Who was she kidding? She walked away from them years ago, who was she to go back and expect forgiveness?

Almost another whole hour dragged by before the police finally arrived. Bulma was already at the door waiting for them by the time they reached her front step. As tempted as she was to comment on their tardiness, she held her tongue and greeted them civilly, then showed them inside to look around.

"What a dump," one of them muttered loudly enough for her to hear. She knew he didn't just mean the fact that the place was torn apart by the burglar. Again, she refrained from lashing out verbally though she desperately wanted to.

The two policemen hardly looked around before they told her they probably wouldn't be able to find the perpetrator and that there had been a string of similar burglaries in the area over the past few months. Overall, they weren't very helpful, even condescending. As they walked out, Bulma thought about hurling something heavy and possibly breakable at the backs of their heads, but she figured that would get her into trouble she couldn't afford to deal with. She heaved a weary sigh once the door shut behind them.

"Well, that was a pointless waste of time," she remarked dryly. She wrapped her arms around herself and choked back a sob as she was struck by another bout of hopelessness. The likelihood of getting anything back was about nil. She lost more than money and possessions; she lost months of hard work, time and money spent scrounging for usable electronic parts, and the chance of getting a patent to her name within the next year. Just when she was beginning to think she might have found a way out of the rut her life had gotten stuck in, someone knocked her back down.

Her legs were no longer able to support her weight as she looked around her home. It was a mess, she had nothing left worth having, and no one would help her. She was alone and powerless and no one cared. Her misery was compounded by the fact that she knew she didn't have to live this way, that she chose this path instead of simply accepting the glory and grandeur she could have inherited.

As she sank to her knees she had a vague recollection of a conference room with a huge mahogany table in the middle; several men were seated around the table listening to her with rapt attention. Then she was standing in a laboratory surrounded by a small group of scientists explaining something to them that they had observed in their experiments. Last, she saw herself sitting at the desk she recognized from her father's office; she wasn't working, wasn't talking to anyone, but she was reclining in the chair with an air of unshakable confidence and strength. This was the role she was supposed to play, her reason for living, and she had thrown it away carelessly. Perhaps the memories were merely imagination, but they felt too real to ignore. Maybe at one time she doubted that running Capsule Corporation was what she wanted, but now no doubts remained. But now… how could she become president now?

Tears blurred her vision as she looked around the room once more. 'I can't go on like this.' She shook her head until her inner voice was screaming, 'I can't live this pathetic life! I can be so much greater!' Gritting her teeth, she stood up and calmly walked to the front door, grabbing a jacket on the way out, and left the duplex for the last time.

Without a single backwards glance she headed for the Capsule Corporation compound. She longed to see the famous yellow domed building surrounded by well-tended gardens. More than that, she longed to see her parents, the two people she loved most who she hadn't seen since she left so long ago. It wasn't long before she broke into a light jog, and then a few blocks later a full run. She gasped and panted as her lungs burned for air, but she pressed on until her legs could no longer carry her. She tripped over a curb and fell to the ground, scraping her knees, but with pure determination driving her she pushed herself back to her feet and continued on. By the time she reached her former home it was twilight; the scarlet sunset had dimmed and the sky was darkening to indigo in the east.

Bulma shivered a little as she came to a stop in front of the gates of the compound. Never before had they looked so imposing. 'You will come crawling back to me, begging for a second chance.' Her hand stilled over the call button as the words flooded her mind. Who had said that? She couldn't remember, but she was sure someone had told her that at the time she chose to leave. But it had been so long ago…she frowned, biting her lip as she considered turning back. It really was hopeless. She could never go back. And yet… she looked across the expansive lawn and felt a sharp pang of regret and yearning, a homesickness she had been repressing for months and years.

"Well, whoever said it was right," she murmured. "But I've got to try." She took a deep breath and pushed the call button with unnecessary force.

Bulma took a step back from the gate and ran one hand through her hair. Did she look presentable? Kami, who was she kidding? She was a wreck. Tired, messy hair, sweaty, she stank of cigarette smoke, and she was still wearing her waitress outfit. She shifted her weight between her feet and wondered if she should leave before someone could answer. She had come too hastily. She wasn't ready for this yet.

'I may be willing to have mercy on you. But only if you are willing to give yourself to me.' The memory almost came as a relief, but she was unsettled by the darker undertones. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and exhaled slowly. "Mind, body, soul," she breathed, hardly knowing what she was saying.

"You will be mine," another voice continued. A dark, raspy voice filled with malice and amusement. Bulma looked up, not sure when she started watching her feet, and shook her head when she saw who was standing with the gate open behind him. She would recognize him anywhere, though she couldn't remember who he was or where she had met him before. All she knew was that he was not the person she wanted to see. She came seeking to beg for forgiveness from her parents, not him!

He chuckled as he watched her backing away from him. "You aren't happy with the life you have chosen, little woman?" He sounded almost concerned. Almost sympathetic. But the look in his obsidian eyes betrayed him. She knew she couldn't trust him.

"I – I'm fine… everything is fine. I don't mind it." She wished she sounded more convincing.

In one swift motion he was right in front of her with his arms wrapped around her, mocking a comforting embrace. Her body tensed, feeling his hands gently stroking her back. "Come now, woman, you know that's a lie. You want – need – the power you once had. I can give it to you, if you just—"

"I can't sell myself to you!" she cried. Tears stung her eyes and for she hardly bothered fighting them. They poured down her cheeks and soaked into his shirt. "But I can't – I can't take it anymore. Please, give it back, give me back my life! I don't want to live like this, I can be better and I can do so much more if I only had…" she trailed off as she ran out of breath.

He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. She wondered how he could always look so serious and yet amused at the same time. She held his gaze despite wanting to avert her eyes. "If you only had what, Bulma?"

"Power."

A/N: Unrealistic? Perhaps...but that's not really the point. Anyway, the next chapter is refusing to be written, and it doesn't help that that other story I mentioned wanting to be written has decided it is going to be written. So great, I've started yet another story. How many is that in the making, not including this one? Six? I really need to focus. Ugh. Oh, and bonus points to anyone who can guess why I chose the name Mr. Zimbardo for the owner of the diner. Anyway, review please!

Beta'd by lilpumpkingirl