Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z.
Bulma
Year 753
She can't stand to be back in her old room – the same room she was given when she was first taken from Earth – and so she opts to eat her dinner in the empty lab. There seems to be far less techs on board this time, and it makes her nervous. She wishes, fervently, that she was back on Frieza 71, sitting underneath the overcast sky rather than in this darkened room.
She stirs the gruel around on her plate, picking up spoonfuls of the lumpy goo and dropping them back into the mixture. She has no appetite tonight and is certain she can't stomach the stuff after all she's seen in the day.
Plate set to the side, she leans her head against the window beside her, staring out at the blackness of space. She is exhausted, both physically and emotionally. She feels sick, feels the stress choking her from the inside, the fear wrapping around her very core. She was so numb the first time she was here – too shocked from all that had happened on Earth to do nothing but follow orders – but that was years ago.
That numbness is gone. She feels as if so much has been stripped away from her, layers and layers, leaving her raw and exposed. She closes her eyes, and her memory of the day comes flooding back.
Blood, covering the floor, covering Frieza's feet. Frieza's cruel smile, red irises piercing her as he listens to her report on weapon development. His voice, asking so casually, can she handle his latest project? The torment within her – the desire to say no, she won't do it, she can't do it, it's wrong. Her steely voice, cool and calm, her simple "Yes, Lord Frieza," ringing clear.
Frieza's laugh as her knees buckle under the pressure of the ship taking off. Her realisation, as she sits in the middle of the throne room in the puddle of bloody vomit spilt by his last victim, that they are leaving Frieza 71 for good.
The crushing thought that she is nothing but a pawn in this tyrant's game.
She blinks and tears roll silently down her cheeks. She is not the kind to give up and die – she's been through too much shit already to give in now – but she grieves for the innocence she has lost. She is as guilty as any of the soldiers on board, for she will never refuse Frieza's quests. She'll build him his device, just as she built him his guns and his bombs, his murderous tools for the masses that swear allegiance to him. She has chosen her life over others.
Her food has gone cold, and she throws the entire plate in the bin, swinging her legs around and off the bench she's been sitting on as she does so. She gasps as she looks to the door; there is a figure shrouded in the darkness, watching her. She stands frozen as he steps out of the shadows towards her, the handsome face, dark eyes and hair becoming clear.
She recognises him at once. Vegeta, the Saiyan Prince, the boy she watched heal all those years ago, the man she saw beaten and bloodied today. It was his blood that she knelt in as she bowed before Frieza, though he is fully healed now, and stalking towards her. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at her, and she has the distinct feeling that he considers her easy prey.
"You're Frieza's new favourite tech." It is a sneered statement, an accusation. She shifts, standing taller against his scrutiny, and meets his gaze head on, though her heart is thrumming wildly. She is thankful, at least, that they are the same height. She purses her lips and returns his glare as his words register.
A tech. She hates being called that. She has a name, though hardly anyone ever bothers to use it. "My name is Bulma," she says, fighting the urge to squirm under his direct gaze.
He snorts derisively, and a muscle jumps in his jaw. "What's your latest project?"
The question surprises her enough that she steps back, stunned for a moment. "That's… that's confidential information," she replies, disliking the sudden look in his eye. In the four years since her abduction she has not once been questioned by a soldier like this. They're not supposed to care about her work.
He takes another step towards her, and she moves back instinctually. Her backside hits the wall behind her; a moment later she is trapped as he braces his arms against the wall on either side of her.
He's close enough that she can smell him, all male and testosterone, and her heart beats faster again. Her eyes focus on his full lips as they pull into a mocking smile. "Perhaps I should beat it out of you?"
"What, like Frieza beat you today?" she bites out, her voice all venom as she does her best to translate fear into anger. He pulls back with a snarl, and though he hides it quickly, she knows she's hit a nerve.
"I have to go," she hisses, and surprisingly, he lets her pass, their shoulders brushing ever so briefly. The contact makes her shiver as she strides quickly across the room, resisting the urge to run. His eyes are on her – she can feel it – and even after she is down the hall and locked inside her room the chill on her spine remains.
She forces herself to take deep breaths, leaning against the inside of the door until the feeling dissipates. When she feels calm enough she pulls her shoulder guard off over her head and drops it on the floor, slipping her white tech robe off a moment after. Fingers shaking, she removes her bra and throws it on the bed, staring at the white underwire as if it is a bomb, or a loaded gun.
With a sigh she sits on the bed and picks up the offending underwear. There is a bulge in the wide elastic band, just beneath the two cups. She lifts the little flap on the pocket she has sewn, and removes the miniature capsule hidden inside. It sits, tiny, within the centre of her palm; a technology that Frieza and his men thankfully never discovered when they razed her home to the ground.
"What's your latest project?" she whispers to herself, quoting the Saiyan.