Disclaimer: Woops! I totally forgot about this for chapter 1... I don't own Dragonball Z.
Bulma
Year 750
She has stopped looking at herself in the mirror. A year on this ship has left her looking sallow and sickly. The standard tech clothing consists of nothing more than wide shoulder guards and a baggy white robe that covers her from the neck down. It makes her feel like shit, but at least the men here don't look at her like they used to.
She knows that it's partly to do with her hair. She's gone to great lengths to avoid Zarbon since he punished her for talking back. She runs her hand self-consciously over the short prickly fuzz that covers her scalp and wants to scream and cry in frustration. What pisses her off the most is that the bastard knew exactly how to get to her. Every time she sees her reflection she remembers the warmth of his breath on her freshly bare neck, the way he'd held all of those severed blue locks in front of her while whispering "Now who has the prettiest hair of all?" The fucked up, self-obsessed bastard.
At least she has science. Now, like every day, she falls into her routine, getting lost in the data on her screen, in the blueprints for various devices. She finds joy in the feel of a tool in her hand, in seeing a piece of machinery come together. So far she has focused on making the medical equipment- regeneration tanks, life support systems, surgical machinery- more efficient. She avoids the question that routinely pops into her head- what will she do when she is asked to make weapons and torture devices?
She is terribly afraid of the answer.