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Chapter 9: Naked

Carol fell back into the chair, relaxing her arms in a deflated manner. Shutting her eyes, she allowed herself a moment to make sure the diagnosis was correct before turning to her concerned friend patiently awaiting a response, "This man should be taken to a clinic."

"What's wrong with him?" Bulma leaned forward, panic reflecting in her pale features.

"I think it might be meningitis," she sighed, "It took me a while, but he seems to be displaying many of the symptoms, albeit in a bizarre way."

Her friend cocked her chin with a confused gesture. The disease rang with a familiar serious tone, "Isn't that a rare illness?"

"It is rare, but not entirely unheard of. It can manifest as a simple bug, and normally healthy people can even be infected without ever getting sick. Which implies that he is either not healthy or he has sensitivity to the disease. It's hard to tell. Although, in all of my years here, I have never personally seen an adult case like this, so it's feasible that I am wrong." She knit her brows in concentration, still earnest to doubt the conclusion as true, "How long did you say he had this fever?"

Honestly, she had no clue how long he was sick. She landed in her private airport, half swamped with residue from the past monsoon, guilty and extremely tardy from when she informed Vegeta of her return. Two, perhaps three, weeks was far different than nearly four months. No media had caught attention of his presence though, and she permitted the belief that mass murder had not yet occurred during her absence. It was not until she reached her little village that she sensed a problem. The restaurant owner and his wife waved frantically as her jeep passed, running up to recap the past weeks' events and how suddenly her unusual friend collapsed along the river. The men quickly summoned the unloaded truck back to them and managed to convince the driver to return Vegeta upslope. Since then, the cook and her family checked on him as often as they could and attempted to cool the intensifying delirium with the old ways in which they knew how. Too little effect.

"At least a week from what Lao Zhu told me."

Carol's face sullied, "You mean others have been near him?"

"I can't always be here, Carol. He collapsed in Maoping while helping Lao Zhu and the others rebuild the berm. Since then, his daughter has been caring for him until I returned."

She inhaled sharply, "We need to quarantine this place. Bulma, this could be the beginning of an outbreak."

"Wait," Bulma pulled a hand up, aware of what the doctor was going to suggest, "Let's not rush this. First, how do we treat him?"

"Uh, I think it is obvious. We need to get him to an infirmary and have spinal tap done to test which kind viral or bacterial infection is causing his condition," Carol ground out while pulling at her notebook. Bulma had known her since their college days. She was earnestly trying to avoid a destined engineering degree while the other woman vied for the opportunity to get into medical school and help the less fortunate. Bulma figured her as a bleeding heart, but ostensibly came in handy when her friends got themselves in tough situations. Never once questioning in her gullibility except when it was possible that whatever ailment she discovered might afflict others. That was how it had been with Goku.

"I can't do that," Bulma noted quietly.

Carol snapped back up to her, "Bulma, he could die. I'm surprised he's lasted this long with the fever." When she arrived, rushing through the door of Bulma's home, the scientist had already placed the man in an ice bath to reduce the burning sensation emanating from his body. Injections filled with anti-inflammatory agents were immediately given.

105.7 Fahrenheit.

"It's going down, isn't it?"

"That's not the point. It could easily go back up. Worse, he could have irreversible brain damage from prolonged exposure like that."

She stubbornly pushed on, "Can you conduct the spinal tap here?"

Her friend dropped her jaw and shook her head rapidly in frustration, "No! He has to be immobilized." The stern visage continued causing the doctor thoughtfully closed her book, "Who is this chap?"

"That's not important."

"'The hell it's not."

"Look, will you just help him?" The woman implored anxiously, halting the questions then and there, "You are the only person within a thousand kilometers that can conduct any sophisticated tests, and we don't have time to dick around if it's this urgent."

Carol was quieted momentarily by the outburst, alternative solutions blazing through her head, "All that I have on me is penicillin at the moment. He needs a more aggressive antibiotic, probably several since we can't identify the suspect microbe."

"Fine. Give me whatever I need and I'll take care of him."

Her friend chewed on her cheek, concerned about Bulma's hasty endangerment of her patient before sighing into the demand. No amount of fighting would solve the current dilemma. Slowly, she reached into her bag and retrieved a metal box to her lap. Within it were several vials and sets of syringes, each with a disinfectant cap, "Let me take a blood test. I'll run it to make sure he doesn't have anything else and get back to you tomorrow or the next with the rest of the medication." She pulled out a small brown bottle labeled with a lengthy chemical term Bulma scarcely could pronounce, "I'll leave a vial of penicillin and some naproxen to alleviate as much of the fever as possible. Bulma, it's important that we reduce his fever."

"I know," she gently held the bottles and needle.

"If he has a convulsion or his pulse drops or anything, call me immediately."

"I know."

"Bulma."

She looked up at Carol, who already began her decent back to the guest room. The short, sandy hair was disheveled and she appeared so tired with a saddened expression drawing subtle lines in her forehead. It hit the doctor then that her friend's apparent recklessness was really overshadowed by a stronger sense of remorse. Suddenly, there was nothing Carol could say beyond a pitied expression as she continued down the hall.

She quietly opened the door into the small room. The cream drapes lessened the starkness of the light coming in through a large bay window to one side and soft morning rays fluttered the walls. Her patient appeared so out of place when she focused on him lying immobile in the bed. He certainly did not look Asian. In fact, she had a difficult time placing his features in general, and was even more befuddled with Bulma's refusal to enlighten her.

He was in a similar state of unconsciousness from when she arrived, which frustrated Carol because it meant that she would not be able to get a description of his complaints directly. So many diseases exhibit analogous enough signs that the deadliest of them could come off as a basic cold. She checked his breathing and reflexes. He was certainly dehydrated and the initial diagnosis was heat exhaustion. However, as she emplaced the intravenous catheter into his hand, she noticed minor bruising around the base of his neck, likely resultant from cranial swelling. In conjunction with the testimonial fever, her hours of deliberation were reduced to only several frank choices.

Cautiously, she sat on the edge of the mattress, and pulled up her syringe and vial to draw blood. The I.V. was taped in place, providing convenient access for any injections necessary. Still, she could not help her fascination and paused to watch his chest slowly puff and flatten. She dared to reach and trace his defined hairline as though she were following the edge of a painting. His sharp features left a familiar European tone; his skin shade slightly darker than her own. Romanian. Greek perhaps, had those countries still existed.

It was not the first time Bulma let someone stay in her home, as the doctor had been called there previously to aide with other ailments or accidents among people as distinctly strange. The young wealthy scientist also took keen interest in protecting and caring for the villagers surrounding the property, and Carol was funded the moment she graduated medical school to start a practice east of Yichang. There was always work for her here. Always people who needed her.

It was not her place to inquire who these people were. However, Bulma's own enigmatic life lead to wariness after a while. As long as she had known the woman, they never shared family holidays, nor did they ever delve too deeply in the other's personal endeavors. It was as though Bulma was never really interested and was either too busy or too consumed by her own issues to connect with the world around her. In the end, she still gave credence to the abilities of others in remembering Carol's desire to do good, and brought her to the forgotten country so that she could better the residents with her breadth of medicinal knowledge. With that, she was appreciative.

Shaking herself from the contemplation, she quickly set back to attaining answers. Blood was better than nothing.

She felt the calculating stare before she saw it.

"Who are you?"

He spoke with a lilt of a local native. The doctor, slightly caught off guard by this, held herself still while studying the more lively expression and comparing it to the one she so closely regarded moments before. His eyes carved more life than his body was willing to exude.

"I am a friend," Carol responded in the same language while extracting the needle. Vegeta recalled hearing that phrase somewhere before, but was unable to place it. Another loud noise skittered past his eardrum, pain shooting up the side of his temple, causing him to wince and shorten his breath. The doctor's smile was replaced with worry as she knelt up to gently touch the base of his neck, "Does this hurt here?"

The tenderness in his scalp was almost too much take and he jerked away. Carol pulled a small tube from her belt and turned his face toward her. The physical contact sent nerve endings firing in his cheek, akin to a numbing sensation. Vegeta vainly fought her off, but even the tiny British woman's strength was greater and she pulled him back toward her again with ease.

"Can you see me?"

He nodded shyly. Her voice was calming.

"I'm going to point a light in your eyes, so don't be shocked." As quickly as she spoke, she pulled the tube upright into his left eye first. Then right. He squinted, followed by quick readjustment to the bright spot hovering over his vision.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Vegeta shook his head, licking chapped lips. The doctor searched close to the bedside for the cup of water she left herself hours prior, leaning back in moments later with clement grace. He had no energy left to fight as every fiber in his body screamed from her touch. Senses were heightened and dulled in unity with the ebb and flow of electrical defaults slipping inside his skull. The sounds were almost as unbearable as the prickling sensation of the water sliding down his throat.

"I think you have an infection that is affecting your brain," Carol's soothing tenor brought him somewhere near reality again. He could only make out hazy notions of long brown hair curling over her slight shoulder beyond the still glaring bright dots detracting his vision. Vegeta clenched his eyes shut to alleviate the oppressive stress.

Carol continued to stare, slowly considering her prying. She hated doing this Bulma, but her conscience could not handle the alternative, "Can you tell me your name? Where you're from?"

"I have to leave," he croaked, again nudging away from her to push up from the mattress. The doctor insistently countered his movements, to her success and his astonishment, as she lightly tucked the comforter around his arms and torso.

"No," she shook her head and knelt down to him, "You need to rest."

"But-"

"Rest."

She shushed him with fingers to his lips and smiled again, now regretting her own curiosity. Vegeta obeyed only because he had no other ability to move, rapidly losing consciousness with each successive mouthful of air. She held the syringe up to reinsert the cap, followed by a tap of the serum baggie. She would need to leave several more of those as well when she returned.

"I will need to get similar samples from the residents that have been near him. More than likely, they will also need to a series of antibiotics," Carol returned to the front room with her cargo. Bulma still sat on the edge of sun panel facing out the window. The vials were clutched desperately in her petite hands. "I'll try my best to process this and get back with more medication by tomorrow. Will you be alright?"

Bulma turned and swallowed down tears, nodding mutely.

The pained expression resurfaced along with a more intense grimace as Carol sincerely wondered the affinity of her friend, "Bulma, I hate to ask this of you, but I have to know. For my own conscience."

"What?"

She pursed her lips together, rethinking the question. Normally she did not pride herself in digging into her friend's business, "Is this man a terrorist?"

Bulma nearly balked. The query was not that unreasonable, however, considering he was an obvious foreigner with unknown origins, of which she was seemingly overprotective of. Since the fallout, agencies responsible for the most heinous of the biological and tactical warfare fled and hid in remote countries ironically most devastated by the War itself. Limited technology, even once repaired and upgraded, was unable to track many of the groups and over decades, their existence faded into text books recapping the most recent events in human nature. Yet, their presence lingered. Recent demonstrations in Asia and the Middle East were perking up again. Peace never lasted forever, and eventually they all came out of woodwork, something of which Bulma personally understood.

After a moment of reflection, Carol pressed again, "When I was in there, he awoke. He kept saying something about needing to leave, but that was rejected easily enough."

Her friend looked back through the paned glass and readied herself to lie. Even though Vegeta did not seem like a recognizable threat, that did not mean he lacked terrorist-like intentions, "No. He is not," she returned to Carol, "I'm sorry to get you so involved in this and not inform you. This is not your responsibility."

"Ah, this is what I do and I'm glad that you called," she laughed with fake comfort. The answer was inadequate, but she was not willing to press it further.

Finally retrieving herself, Bulma walk her guest to the door. Brief cordial goodbyes were exchanged, and finally she was alone.

This was too reminiscent of Goku. Bulma cringed. All she wanted to do was keep Vegeta here until she was assured that he would remain civil. Until she was able to get to know him better. In due course, let her friend find the answers he needed as well. Then she could take him back and discuss the technology. If he wished to leave after that point, there was no way she could stop him. However, this was not at all what she had in mind and pressing concern obsessed that she might never be able to get the information so vital from him. Even if he survived, she feared that he very well may no longer wish to cooperate after such disregard for his livelihood. She felt personally responsible for him, for it was her land, her charity, and her oversights that could make it more difficult for both of them in the long run.

Creeping back to his room, she followed the instructions laid out for her to the tee. A series of injections had already been administered to reduce the fever, and the last attempt proved to have brought it down somewhere near 102°F. She hoped that this additional medication would continue the process in a more speedy fashion. Slowly settling her own nerves to a rational level, she assessed the situation more logically. It made sense that a viral or bacterial attack would head straight for his brain, especially considering the spinal augmentation she was so intimately aware of. Bulma thought back to her biology days, the same courses in which she met Carol and a handful of other researchers she kept in touch with over the years, semi-diligently taking notes as the professor yammered on about migration of diseases and new species. Immigration of certain mammals during the last ice age assured the mass extinction of many groups in North America. Really, this was not all that different, and she humored herself at the thought that the illness Vegeta suffered from was probably none other than a flu strain.

Several days passed without much change. Carol returned even more concerned having deciphered the patient's unusual blood type. She had encountered this before with one of Bulma's acquaintances and a motion was made then to move him quickly enough to a hospital for treatment. Much to her surprise though, Bulma did not seem all that distraught with the news, nor did she make any further effort to relocate Vegeta. The antibiotics were seemingly affective, and although he had not regained consciousness since Carol's first visit, the fever was reduced to a manageable temperature and all else appeared normal. That was fine in her eyes.

The heiress, in the midst of all this, had to force herself to work on the patents again. She returned to the main branch in Tokyo and collected the files as requested just prior to retreating to her summer vista. Her father was right – the deadline was fast approaching with the entire project a mess. Although hypothetically sound, all of the practical applications failed, destroying the product once it was used. The Fidel Group, much to her dismay, had also changed parts of the blueprint in effort to solve the mounting problems without consulting the corporation and neglected to document all their procedures.

Sighs and grumbles spewed randomly with every page read and re-read for clarity. He should have called her in earlier.

The diverse field of quantum physics brought about many new truths in the beginning of the twenty-first century. Just before the War, the newest models predicted innumerable co-existing planes, each reacting to its own set of physics and mathematics, yet interacting to define one single existence in which every being in the universe shared. The complexities on an individual level suggested that each life form contained their own paradigm based on perception of this illusion and that the mere interface between individual realities solidified what humans considered real.

This was the theoretical background on which the 'capsule patents,' among many other recent inventions emerging from Capsule Corp., were based on. The simple acceptance that an electron could appear in two separate places during a single instance in time was enough to attempt an expansion on the theory to involve entire atoms and even complex crystalline structures. Polymorphic objects. The question came about as to whether complete alternate realities existed at all and if it were possible to seek those planes out.

In practicality, the corporation was not so interested in this, although the scientific revelations were no doubt mind blowing. It was like looking at Buddha or God in order to understand that consciousness itself was no different. The true scientific explanation on which all religion was vying after. Instead, Capsule Corp. desired to apply the principles on a more fundamental level. Alter or control reality such that the environment could be manipulated. The capsule patents were designed to do just that by allowing the user to capsulate an object of nearly any size into a compartment the volume of a horse pill. Likewise, this user could take the object with them and make it reappear whenever desired.

It was like having a dimensional portal in the palm of one's hand.

The bubbling irony that humans could potentially control reality but still could not travel faster or become mightier than the confines of the universal laws governing their illusion was lost on Bulma. Her brain always hurt if she thought about it for too long.

These capsules were simply to displace reality or confine it so that it was more portable. Since Bulma was a child, this research was the center top secret project where the company was diverting most of its assets. Secretly, she knew this venture was why the founders chose such a unique name for their global identity. Big business never gave away their trade secret. Metaphors were enough.

Now finally, after so many decades of research and wealth expended on it, the invention would make a very real appearance during the next fiscal year. Its disrobing would change the world forever. Nobel Prize hung in the air and she could smell it.

But first, all of the bugs had to be identified and worked out with an added pressure of a cut-off date looming. Then again, the difficult path always worked well for Kobayashi's one and only child. Yet another defining trait in a series of geniuses, each accepting their fate openhandedly.

Thus far, there were two major issues that the young scientist could identify. The first was the production of the capsule itself. Although the object was successfully displaced, the matter in this plane did not entirely disappear. Instead, residual gravity remained, resulting in a capsule that was proportionately heavier relative to the dimensions and specific gravity of the object displaced. This meant that a small cm-size cube of steel would be indistinguishably heavier when capsulated. However, encapsulation of larger meter-size items would double or triple the original mass. Industrial companies could still use the invention for storage, but everyday consumers would not see the benefit in a three hundred kilogram capsule just to transfer a single table.

The second problem laid in the decapsulation process. The displacement and sudden expansion of space around the object resulted in a lot of excess energy, and several near fatal explosions occurred during the first three trial runs. The Fidel Group considered that certain objects just could not be capsulated, especially volatiles. This limited the use of the capsules to items that did not contain flammable substances, which was just about everything short of raw metals. Plastics, electronics, processed chemicals, waste products, and organic material burned up upon reentry, defeating the purpose of the invention if it was to be applicable for general use.

Bulma sat back with a threatening yawn, her stomach reminding her that it was late afternoon. The advantage of her private home was that it remained quiet, a solace away from the busy city and distractions that inevitably awaited every time she ventured out of the bedroom or personal lab.

Quickly finishing her own rice and stir fry, she made way to check on her guest. Vegeta was progressively getting better, although remained comatose. Three times a day, she would check on him, going down a check list of techniques mastered under Carol's tutelage. Pulse, blood pressure, temperature, I.V. and baggie, antibiotic. Occasionally, she would sit in the adjoining chair afterward and casually watch him. In some ways, it was a welcome defocusing tool when she lost a battle with her current foe in the form of a thick binder poised and open on her desk. He was not all that bad to look at, even if he was as foreign as they come. He certainly seemed less menacing asleep. An infrequent mutter or shift in his position was the sole sign alerting her that he might be actively dreaming beyond the motionless state she had become used to by this point. She claimed the nightstand and set up the familiar doses. Leaning down nonchalantly, Bulma clasped his hand in place and prepared to insert the needle.

Her vision failed her and the next thing she knew, her face was thrust down into the mattress. The body moved beneath her, as the same hand jerked away, grabbing the back of her neck. She tried to struggle against the sudden force, but screamed out instead as her arm holding the syringe was twisted harshly toward her. Cracking sounds originated from within her wrist.

The growl accompanying his voice responded in a cold sweat down her spine, "Do not touch me."

Breathing was too difficult and she bent her chin down to free her nose and mouth enough for shaggy breaths. The hold tightened, nails digging acutely into her neck. In a gurgling cry, "Stop!"

"What are you doing!" He demanded, pressing the edge of needle dangerously close to her temple. Her breath constricted further, fear flourishing a far too memorable scent for his comfort. Bending her wrist back and rapping it on bed, the narrow object was thrust from her lax grip, and Vegeta wrenched her scalp up to face him. Teeth grit. Eyes bore.

"I am tying to help you!"

"What is that!"

"It- it's a needle."

"What are you doing with it!"

Her eyes widened. The pain was so intense. He was so close that she could hardly think past the heat of every syllable passing his lips.

"Answer me!"

"You were sick! Very sick. That," she barely motioned to the edge of bed, "has medicine to help you get better."

He continued to stare incredulously, still convinced that she was lying. Memories flooded back with the mysterious image of brown locks and a soft voice reminding him to rest. Things were attached to him. A very bright light. He hesitantly looked around the room before staring back at Bulma, less anger consuming his features.

The rush of adrenaline pummeled her sense of judgment, and she spat the command at him, "Let go of me."

In a snap, he complied. Her body fell limply to the ground only to recoil into the fetal position on the far end of the room. Cradling her arm, rage clicked as she slowly stood, "What the fuck is your problem?"

The exercise in restraining her took all of his energy, and pulsing from the headache resumed its course. Every nerve tightened in his back, his only consolation was the now distanced hum in his ear. He sat back against the bedpost, taking in the surroundings with much more caution, and all but ignoring her words.

Bulma was only getting started, "You indignant, pathetic cretin! You come here with every intention of causing harm only to be given more credibility than you obviously deserve. I saved your worthless ass and this," she pointed toward her wounded hand, "this is the thanks I get? They were right. I should have locked you away. Given you back to the 'authorities.' You could be their lab rat then. Trust me, it would have been a huge scrape off my nose rather than risking my ass so that you could stay alive. You made a promise to keep civility! But being alien keeps you from holding those sorts of bargains, it seems." Pacing helped reduced the onslaught of insults building in her throat consequential from the pain shooting up her side. The enduring panic pumped through her chest like a tiny, fluffy bunny. A scared bunny. Still, it was not quite enough, "I thought you were adaptable. How is it some more advance thing like you can get so sick anyway, huh? Fucking asshole…"

"What is wrong with me?" He quietly interjected.

She stopped the tirade and sneered at him, "Have you even heard a single word that I've said?"

He rubbed the edge of his temple, closing his eyes, "How long have I been out?"

Emotional moderation claimed her once again as she collected herself for more a amiable approach. Air forced its way out of her nostrils, a repetitive hiss coincident with her heart beat. She had to calm herself. He was very ill, after all. Irrationality came with that sort of thing, "You passed out along the Yangtze about two weeks ago. You've been in and out since."

"What is wrong with me?" He repeated.

Sitting in the arm chair for more support, she curtly replied, "Well, you probably caught a bacterial strain of some sort."

'Bacteria' had no translation. He opened an eye in her direction. The light was so bright in the room, "I do not understand."

She raised a fair eyebrow, "You have an infection. I imagine that is what is causing the headaches? Lao Zhu mentioned to me that you were suffering for a while."

The old man. The cup of tea. The reassuring expression that he would be ok, even though truth ultimately defied his words. If she was honest, then he did catch something and it was messing with the implant components. If the medicine she claimed was there to help him, then it would rationally explain why the throbbing was receding since the last time he was fully aware.

"That antibiotic is meant to kill the infection," Bulma managed to rise again after a very long pause, considering how she should handle the situation now that her 'guest' was awake. She could not in good conscious leave him unaided. It would prove her entire motive wasted, and therefore, she had to reason that pride could afford to suffer a little for the just cause. Gearing her jaw out of its death grip, she resentfully muttered the phrase, "Are you hungry?"

Vegeta did not answer, remaining still against the bed frame. A concentrated expression formed on his brow as he stared forward at an invisible dot on the other side of the room.

She would only go so far, though. There was no way she was going anywhere near him again without some kind of warning. An exasperated sigh huffed before taking a careful step toward the bed, "If I come near you, are going to pull this shit with me again? I just need to retrieve the syringe and then I will be out of your hair."

Again no reply. Bulma was beginning to see a behavioral pattern from their first set of conversations on the plane. Risking further injury, she inched to the side of the bed and snatched the object before stepping back to edge of nightstand.

"You still have to take this medicine, Vegeta." The remark resonated with striking finality, suggestive of her unwillingness to administer it herself. She did not like the idea of being attacked. That was why her personal friends were all very good at what they did, "Are you going to let me give this to you, or are you going to continue being an ungrateful ass?"

Both eyes shifted toward her with an intense glare.

Instantly, Bulma shrugged her shoulder and dropped the syringe in defiance, "Fine. You're smart, so do it yourself."

With that, she left, chiding her actions and naïvety the entire way.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Attention was given to her arm first. Although extremely sensitive, she could bend it with most of its full range, refuting the notion that it was broken. Wrapping the slender wrist with gauze and tape, she gathered herself enough to at least provide Vegeta with the basics and leave him alone. She lacked the patience and time for this sort of drama.

When she returned to the room, he was in the same position as when she left. The only thing that suggested he was awake at all was the slow clench of his jaw line as she entered and the fact that he was still looking intently forward. She had no desire to stick around, quietly placing the tray on the side table with a water carafe and soup before exiting in the opposite direction. Work demanded her attention, for which she dived into with great fervor if it meant ignoring the potential threat brooding next door for the evening.