Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.
A/N: Thanks again for the reviews!
Vegeta
Year 755
He settles into the pilot's chair, taking the ship's controls in hand and switching off the autopilot. The planet glows blue and green before them, and he gives the thrusters one last push, beginning their descent.
Entry runs smoothly; he's piloted a similar ship before, and although it's been years since then it feels natural. He ignores Raditz, who stands hovering, keeping a watchful eye over the flight. Vegeta knows it drives the man mad to sit back and let someone else pilot, and he smirks, finding humour in his subordinate's discomfort.
They glide over blue oceans that remind him of Bulma's eyes, and he can't help but glance at her out of the corner of his eye. She remains belted into her seat, her back turned to him and her shoulders set in angry defiance. In the days since she revealed her connection to Raditz' brother she has spoken to him only when absolutely necessary, her usually animated voice devoid of all emotion.
The situation pisses him off, and all his pleasure at flying the ship dissipates as he goes over their conversation again. The fucking thing has been playing on repeat in his head for days, and it's driving him mad. In the heat of the moment he'd scared her, and the gnawing sensation in his gut over that fact is unpleasant. He doesn't like feeling guilty.
He'd been furious that she'd kept information from him. It wasn't her right to decide what he could and couldn't know – not in this agreement that they had, not when a Saiyan was involved. She's lied by omission. And something in the way she'd spoken about Kakarot had driven him mad – he'd watched the way she looked up at the picture of the boy, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and felt absolute pure fury bubble in his core. She'd said she loved the boy like a brother. Fucking hell.
And he knows that part of his anger stems from the fact that they lost another Saiyan without even realising it. Frieza, as usual, had been one step ahead, smoking out any Saiyans that had been sent on infiltration missions as infants. He knows of at least two other Saiyan children that have died at Zarbon's hands – both female – and the loss of his race eats away at him like nothing else can. What good is a Prince without people to rule? What use is his Saiyan pride when their planet is nothing but dust?
He wonders if there are any others out there – save his useless brother – and whether the woman could have gathered such information from Frieza's databank. It's a thought that's plagued him often in the months since they escaped.
He remembers the way Zarbon gloated about the death of the second girl, the child's severed head hanging by her black hair in Zarbon's grip, her eyes open and sightless, her features dull and bloated with rigor mortis. "Proof for Lord Frieza," Zarbon had practically purred, "because we can't let you monkeys breed. I'm confident she was the last female, though there's still a boy or two to hunt down."
He'd attacked Zarbon at that point, and almost died in the ensuing fight. That was not long before Bulma had arrived on Frieza's flagship for the first time.
A growl bubbles up his throat because, as usual, his thoughts lead back to her. He flies the ship low over grassy green planes, landing it at the edge of a forest that stretches as far as the eye can see. He can see already that it's a good place to make camp; there's a river nearby, and the grasslands and forest should provide ample food for them all. Combined with the plants Bulma purchased on their one and only supply run after Culampu, they are well-set to live comfortably on this empty planet.
He has a long way to go before he reaches Frieza's level in power. They're likely to be here for a while.
He rises from his chair, turning towards Bulma. The men have already disembarked, eager to start their hunting. He's given them three days leave on the proviso that they report back if they find any undocumented natives hiding about, and he doubts he will see either of them before sunset on the third day.
"I'm going hunting," he tells Bulma. "Lock the ship if you leave. I'll be back at sunset."
"Sure," she replies, her back still turned. "Have fun torturing things to death," she adds, and there's just enough judgement in her tone to get his hackles up.
Damn her.
. . .
The cool wind feels good after months of recycled air, and he takes in big, gulping breaths as he rises high above the ship, taking off in the opposite direction to Nappa and Raditz. He finds his first victims within a minute, a herd of lumbering four-legged mammals that tower over his frame, and a cruel grin breaks out on his face. He's going to enjoy this.
He strips off quickly – hunting is messy, and they have limited clothing supplies – leaving his spandex and boots hidden behind a rock. The wind tickles his balls, and he throws his head back and laughs. It's been too long since he has done this.
He springs forward, a growl rumbling low in his throat, and runs beside the herd, scattering the animals in all directions as he goes for the largest one. It shrieks, its four eyes rolling back in its head as he jumps at it, kneeing it in the side. Its legs give way and he wastes no time in tearing at its throat with his teeth, drinking the hot red blood that gushes from a severed artery, the animal's legs still churning in the air. It's metallic and salty and refreshing, and he leans back, crowing in delight as blood covers him, staining his bronze skin red.
Blood alone is not enough to sustain him, and he tears at the animal's fur with his hands, the skin coming away easily to reveal layers of fat and red meat. He bites at it with a snarl, barely chewing each piece, until nothing is left but hollowed bones. He sucks out the last piece of marrow, and leaves the remains where they are, taking to the air in search of more prey.
. . .
He retrieves his clothing as the sun dips towards the horizon, turning a corner of the blue sky bright red. The colour is similar enough to Vegetasei's skies to jar him, and he dresses quickly, eyes focused on the ground. He's bathed in a lake he found earlier, a refreshing change from the chlorinated water of the ship.
As he flies back to the ship he catches a whiff of smoke in the air, and increases his speed, the idea of the ship burning and leaving him stranded here giving rise to panic. Relief floods through him as he sees that the ship is still intact, and he flies over it, heading for the plume of smoke in the distance.
It's Bulma, and he watches from high above as she adds another log to the fire she has built. He drops, landing silently behind her, examining the spit she has put together with metal rods salvaged from her scraps, the carcasses of two small animals, gutted and skinned, roasting over the fire.
The woman can hunt.
Still, she's too careless with her surroundings, completely unaware of his presence in the dimming light as she sits on a rock beside the crackling flames. The last of the sunlight catches on her blue hair, for once worn loose around her shoulders, and the beauty of her form is striking. She looks natural in this setting, and he wonders how similar this place is to her home planet.
He wants her.
"Bulma."
She shrieks, jumping to her feet and whirling around, her gun in hand. He dodges a shot aimed at his head – at least that's improving – and smirks, crossing his arms in front of him.
"Fuck!" she hisses, clutching a hand to her chest. "Don't do that!"
"Then don't be so unaware of your surroundings, idiot. You'll get yourself killed."
"Yeah, well, you'd be dead if you didn't move so fast," she grumbles in reply, and it sounds as if she wishes she'd hit him. "I can shoot a gun, you know." She levels a steely glare at him and drops the weapon at her feet. "I'm not helpless," she adds, tipping her chin up and crossing her arms.
"Hn," he concedes with a nod.
"And I'm not beneath you Saiyans," she continues. "I may not have your strength or speed, but I am fucking intelligent. I can make machines you can't even dream of. My weapons can be just as deadly as your ki blasts. It was my plan to escape Frieza." She pauses, her eyes searching his face. "I need you to see me – to treat me – as an equal. If you can't do that, then – "
"I know," he says, the words falling from his mouth before he can stop himself. It's the closest he'll ever go to admitting that he already ranks her higher than his men; he trusts her opinion far more than those fools. Her eyes search his face once more and find what they're looking for; her hostility dissolves, her shoulders slumping. She breaks eye contact, her gaze settling on the first stars appearing in the clear sky, before finally looking him in the eye once more.
"I'm sorry I kept the information about Goku from you," she says with a sigh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Raditz told me what Frieza's been doing to all the Saiyan children he finds. He told me what Zarbon did to that little girl. It's… beyond upsetting. It's not nice to be the last of your kind, but to have that..." She trails off with a shake of her head.
"No," he replies, and realises for the first time that of course, she does understand what it is like to be the last of her kind. He wonders suddenly if it bothers her that there are no Human males left. The thought unsettles him more than it should.
"Is that why Zarbon took part in Earth's purge?" she asks, her voice quiet in the cool air.
"I don't know. Probably."
"So Goku would have been killed, regardless of whether I was there or not?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to, because she's already drawn those conclusions herself. She turns away, her face twisting as if she is in physical pain, her fists pressed over her heart.
"Bastard," she curses quietly. He can't tell whether it's directed at Zarbon or Frieza. Perhaps both. He watches her profile; the flickering fire throwing light and shadow across her delicate features. She is entirely different to the Saiyan women he remembers from his childhood, and yet there is something familiar about her steely determination, her resilience and utter refusal to be beaten. Had she been born a Saiyan…
He cuts the thought short – it's a dangerous one. Everything, it seems, is dangerous when it comes to her. He turns, heading for the ship before he gets himself in real trouble.
"Vegeta!" she calls, and he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Tomorrow we'll test the gravity belt," she says, the wind hollowing out her words. "I'll see you in the morning."
It's a peace offering. He's not accustomed to this, but he nods. He'll take what she's willing to give him.