Disclaimer: Insert witty comment about not owning Dragonball Z here.
The Music of the Night and the Wandering of the Eyes
Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour
Grasp it, sense it; tremulous and tender
Hearing is believing; music is deceiving
Hard as lightning, soft as candlelight
Dare you trust the Music of the Night?
Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth
And the truth isn't what you want to see
In the dark it is easy to pretend
That the truth is what it ought to be
Softly, deftly music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it secretly possess you
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight
The darkness of the Music of the Night +
Warm, brilliant sunshine beamed down upon the rounded building of Capsule Corporation, making the yellow paint positively luminescent against the lush plant-life gently swaying in the breeze. A lone figure stood on the concrete pathway leading up to the wide metal doors of the large estate, her cropped blonde hair rustling a little as she began her walk up towards the entrance.
As she stepped she held her right hand in her left, warily protecting it from the airborne perils that may attack it. Though she really had nothing to fear when on the grounds of Capsule Corporation, Eighteen was not one to take malfunctioning parts lightly. Malfunctions meant imperfections, and imperfections meant that she was not up to her normal standard. All precautions must be taken in order to stop or prevent any imperfections, was her judgement. She did not like to think of anyone being better than herself and therefore always aimed for perfection in everything she did. Her body was one of those areas. Though she could not remember the times when she had been fully human, she still maintained in herself a portion that still contained much of her humanity, including the burning desire to be the best that she could be. Robots and true androids did not contain that desire. They had no will to improve.
Nevertheless, she still clutched the offending piece of malfunctioning anatomy on her way up, wondering whether Bulma would be able to repair her hand, hopefully in time for any activities she might want to use it for. The piece had just gone haywire when she tried to use it, sending off a small shower of electrical sparks, much to the shock and dismay of the man on the receiving end of her touch.
She blushed when she remembered just who that was and what they had been doing together when that happened.
Finally reaching the front doors, Eighteen extended her finger to ring the doorbell, but was in for a nasty surprise when the hand just twitched and sparked, zapping the button and her nerves. With a muttered curse she snatched her right hand away and used her left to ring the bell, only to find that the encounter with her other hand had rendered it unusable. Growling, she knocked not all that softly on the door with her fist.
Not too much longer a bubbly blonde woman greeted the android with an, "Oh my! What a pleasant surprise! You're Bulma's friend, right?"
"Not really," Eighteen said dully, stepping in without waiting for the other woman to give her an invitation, "just her latest experiment."
"Well, Bulma's certainly outdone herself this time," the woman chirruped. "You certainly are a pretty young thing! It's so nice to meet you! I'm Bulma's mother."
"I know," Eighteen stated. "We've met before."
"We have?" Mrs. Briefs quirked her head to the side in confusion. "Oh I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you, Eighteen. I bet you want to see Bulma, don't you? Well, I'll go find her for you. Don't go anywhere!" she smiled, bustling off into another room laughing to herself, "Oh I can't believe I forgot who she was! I swear I'd lose my head if it weren't bolted to my neck!"
"I think those bolts are loose," Eighteen muttered to herself, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans.
"What's loose?" a male voice sounded from the kitchen.
Eighteen took a glance in the direction of the voice and, upon seeing Dr. Briefs, said crisply, "Nothing. I'm just waiting for your wife to find Bulma."
"Bulma? But she's not here," the old man said, petting the ever-present kitty on his shoulder. "She hasn't been in since . . . well, I actually can't remember when the last time I saw her was," he scratched his greying head.
"Really?" Eighteen raised a sculpted brow, peering through the doorway of another room where Mrs. Briefs was hard at work searching for her absent daughter.
Dr. Briefs followed the android's gaze and smiled affably. "Oh don't worry about her. Actually, I'm kind of glad she has something to do now. It'll keep her out of trouble. Goodness knows what crazy ideas that woman can get into her head."
*I don't even want to know,* Eighteen thought to herself before getting back to the original subject. "Do you know where Bulma has been, then?" she asked, pulling her malfunctioning hand out of her pocket and holding it in her other.
"Nope," the doctor said.
"And you aren't in the least bit worried?" Eighteen asked incredulously.
"Bulma's a big girl now," Dr. Briefs sighed with that regretful look in his eyes that most parents have when their child has grown up. "She can take care of herself. Her head may be up in the clouds most of the time, but I'm sure she's fine."
"So let me get this straight," Eighteen put her hands on her hips, "you can't remember the last time you saw your daughter, you have no idea where she might be, and you aren't worried because she's 'a big girl'?"
"That sounds about right," The old man smiled before it suddenly fell. "But, I'm more worried about her health as of now."
Eighteen's ears perked up. "What do you mean?"
"She's always off staring into the distance, you know?" the good doctor's brow furrowed. "She hardly comes home anymore, and she's started studying again. I'm beginning to think she's getting sick."
"Why would she start studying again?" Eighteen asked, confused. "I thought she was already a genius."
"I thought so too, but she's been looking up the darnedest things," he furtively looked around to see if his wife was anywhere nearby. "Thinks like 'death' and 'ghost.' She's even been searching old newspapers for things like the Tournament Ghost."
Eighteen was silent for a moment before she grumbled, "Well, I'll see if I can find Bulma and talk to her, but first things first. I've got a part malfunctioning here and I need her to fix it. It's not going to repair itself."
"Let me have a look at it," Dr. Briefs said, brought out of his funk by the opportunity to show his genius. Sensing Eighteen's uneasiness he smiled through his bushy moustache, "You don't trust me? Come come, my girl, where do you think Bulma got her aptitude for technology? Her mother?"
"Fine but if you mess up, you're a dead man."
"Understandable," he said, patting his kitty. "Follow me to my workshop."
Eighteen followed silently, still uneasy about having a man do the repair work, but even more uneasy about the fact the Bulma had not returned home since last night. As she passed down the hall to the doctor's laboratory her face reflected itself in a small mirror hanging on the wall and she was suddenly reminded of Yamcha's bewildering litany of:
"The mirror . . . right through the mirror . . . vanished . . . right through . . ."
His arms wrap around her in such a perfect feeling of comfort that she feels as though she could stay there forever. The world is empty and black around them, but within their proximity all they need is each other to make up their world. She looks up lovingly into his soft black eyes, gently brushing her hand over the scar on the lower portion of his face in a tender motion. The gap between their faces closes as he buries his head into her long, blue hair and she revels in his closeness. Nothing can be more perfect than this calm, tranquil feeling she has within her now.
The air around them suddenly ripples as a foreign presence makes itself known. A silent call breaks the serene silence around the couple, weaving around them on the thin threads of the emptiness around them, pulling them, wrenching them apart. A song heard only to one of them emerges and only one obeys the seductive, silent melody.
Bulma glides forward, her actions dictated only by the strange calling within her soul. More and more urgent it becomes, and farther and farther into the darkness she descends until she comes face to face with a figure that blends in perfectly in the Cimmerian surroundings. She inhales quickly at the sight of the pale, white mask disguising his true face, suddenly frightened and, at the same time, allured. His eyes gaze deeply into hers as his hand comes to gently grasp her own. Closing his hard onyx eyes, his face draws nearer to hers until his lips just tenderly caress hers and she can feel his warm breath upon her skin until . . . his entire form dissipates into the darkness surrounding.
She feels a hand upon her arm and whirls around, expecting to see her phantasmal siren, only to find Yamcha's tenderly pleading face. He draws her close, stroking her silken blue hair gently, calming her with each motion. Without words he vehemently denies the existence of that dark incubus and attempts to convince her that all she needs, all she wants, is right here, with him. There is no need to chase after that illusion, that dark nightmare of a ghost, for all she could ever wish or hope for is with him: Yamcha, her first and only love. He offers tranquillity, stability, comfort, and most of all, love.
She wants to believe him.
She wants to want this, wants to need this, but her soul wildly beats with the rhythm of that silent song that calls to her. All she can see is that demon's eyes gazing deeply into hers, all she feels is his hand gently grasping her own, all she knows is his warm breath caressing her skin. She looks away in shame of her thoughts, unable to bear to look at the man that she is silently betraying. She blinks slowly, casting her lustful eyes anywhere but to the man she loves.
Off in the darkness a figure moves without a sound, but his dark aura releases a melody that entices the soul and ensnares the senses. He disappears with a flourish of a dark cape, unwittingly snatching Bulma's attention as well. Hypnotized by the unsaid summoning, she pushes away from her love and rushes into the abyss encompassing.
As she races down this void she suddenly feels the walls close in around her, directing her on a single path that twists and turns in every way imaginable and some that are not. She is instantly reminded of another maze that she has been through, though there is no one staring back at her on the faces of these walls. There is only darkness, emptiness, and such a feeling of desolation that it makes it hard to press onward. Winding her way through all the tangled web of turns she finally comes to an abrupt halt as she finds her query.
He stands straight and rigid, as though agitated or alarmed by her presence. His eyes hold the look of one who has seen too much, done too much, and regrets that he does not regret. A sympathetic look in her blue eyes, Bulma wishes to show him a sign of hope, of redemption, and takes his hand in hers, putting it upon her face, cupping her cheek. His eyes look startled and dart wildly around within the dead sockets of the stark, pale mask. His hand seems to spasm at her touch, as though he is torn between succumbing to this gentle gesture or crushing what lies beneath his grasp. His breathing heavy, the inner struggle consumes him until he violently jerks his hand away from Bulma's face, backing away slowly, the silent song in the darkness now playing a crecendoing refrain of, *No pity for me, no pity for me!* Abruptly he turns from her and plunges farther into the labyrinth.
Bulma reaches out after her dark shade, only to be interrupted by a shout from Yamcha, who has followed her, concerned for her safety. Not wishing for him to see her in her wanton treachery, and still entranced by this spectre, she runs deeper into the maze after that illusive phantasm as her love calls after her. Faster and faster she goes until she can just barely see him up ahead of her, fleeing, not quite afraid, but unsure, of her. Finally she is just barely within reaching distance of his trailing cape when a solid wall suddenly crashes into the ground before her, cutting her off from the object of her pursuit. She backs away, startled, before she rushes at the obstruction with tears in her eyes.
Why does she cry?
She pounds her fists into the barrier with that question racing across her mind, increasing its intensity as Yamcha arrives, pulling her away from the obstacle, trying to soothe her. She keeps trying to resist, rushing to the barricade with so many questions driving her mad.
Why does she resist? Why does she obey? Who commands her?
Why does she not trust? What is this power controlling her? Who controls her?
What does she want? Is she surrendering? Who is she surrendering to?
Why does she cry? Who is she crying for?
Who?
Only as Yamcha pulls her away from the object of her beating fists does she realize that it is not a wall, but an enormous white mask, just like that of her own dark phantom. Her phantom . . . so often she does not think of him with a name, but now . . . now she knows the truth of it. Tears in her eyes, despair in her voice, she cries out the true name:
"VEGETA!"
And the mask cracks down from one dark, empty eye socket, so much like the tears now streaming from Bulma's blue eyes.
With a gasp Bulma snapped out of her strange dream. Groaning, she stretched out her limbs, only to be greeted with a sharp pain in her back. She winced as she rolled over, having just enough time to see that she had been sleeping on the stairs ascending to the elevated fighting ring before she crashed to the floor beside them.
"Ow," she said, staggering upward. She rubbed her back gingerly, glaring down at the offending steps mumbling something along the lines of, "stupid jerk could have at least carried me to a bed or something . . ."
Leaning on the elevated ring with one arm, she blinked as she tried to take in her surroundings, only to find herself surrounded in darkness. Too much like her dream prior for her tastes, she stumbled around, trying to find some sort of light switch, clinging to the walls of the cave and feeling around with her hands. Upon gliding her palm across one of the thick tapestries she remembered covered the entranceway, she pulled it open quickly, quite ready to be rid of this incorporeal darkness.
She nearly blinded herself in the process.
Light scattered in from the round hole in the ceiling, filtering down the vertical tunnel and somehow reflecting off the great mirror placed above the stadium ring replica, the result of such a vast amount of illumination being painfully bright. Bulma closed the tapestry as quickly as she could, plunging her back into blackness.
She slowly tried to blink her eyes back into the darkness, willing the stinging therein to cease. She felt around once more, this time searching for a thinner curtain, and upon finding it, held it in place as she drew back the heavy folds of the dark tapestry. The result was much more appreciable than the previous.
The dark, thin curtain that she had kept over the opening up to the labyrinth cast the light in such a way that everything remained in a sort of misty haze, like that of a dream. Something interwoven in the fabric of the curtain reflected the light in small, shimmering droplets, all ricocheting off the giant, unpartitioned mirror above the ring. Bulma looked around herself in awe of the beauty of the place. She could see that, though dark, the large tapestries draping off the walls of the cavern were not black, but a deep, royal blue lined with gold and flowing majestically down to the ground. Though unpaved or carpeted, the strange reflection of the light gave the floor an illusion polished marble tile, elegant in its crystalline splendour. The high cover of the cave seemed to take on the appearance of a vaulted ceiling, the stalactites transforming themselves into arc-boutants and the extending walls of the cave jutting in at regular intervals suddenly resembling fluted columns and stately caryatids. Bulma, still quite amazed by all the scenery, searched around to see if this place also included a decorative teacher to give her a guided tour, but, upon finding none, decided that he would not mind her having a go at spelunking.
She wandered around, looking at the strange shapes of the stalagmites, their forms taking on the appearance of statues that seemed as though you could stare for days and still see a different shape every time you blinked. Most of the area, however, was clear of these strange sculptures, making for easy manoeuvrability, and the illusion of a great foyer within a palace. As she wandered farther away from the fighting ring, she noticed a light mist swirling around her feet, tendrils clinging tenaciously as she stepped. Pressing forward, she cut through the haze curiously until she ran out of standing ground. Looking down, she could see a near endless expanse of space beneath, extending until it could no longer be seen in the thick haze. Feeling slightly acrophobic and more than a little dizzy from the height, Bulma backed away, eager to explore more of this strange place.
Turning around, her gaze fell upon the pristine form of the full-size replica of the tournament ring, the mirror encompassing the ceiling making the white tiles positively luminescent. Walking up the polished steps onto the elevated ring, she stared at the vast mirror above her, marvelling at the splendrous droplets of light cascading down from it. Thinking of her previous tampering with the curtains and the fact that this had to be sunlight from somewhere outside of the building, her mind boggled at the sheer geometry it would have taken to erect that maze of mirrors in the right places above in order for the sun and stars to reflect in just the right route to ricochet against the right spot and illuminate the entire cavern, not to mention the added challenge of enabling the labyrinth to move its walls without obstructing the light's path. Bulma whistled softly, impressed. She spun slowly around, absorbing in the place from her new, elevated location, when something that did not quite belong caught her eye. Stopping abruptly, she peered at it with a slightly confused tilt of her head.
In a slight grotto of the cave, near what might be considered a small kitchen, an untidy desk seemed to call out to her, its ransacked appearance tickling her curiosity. Hopping off the ring like an overly excited, inquisitive child, Bulma tread lightly to the desk stopping just in front of the rumpled newspapers, pictures, and other assorted items. Picking up one mangled piece of press, she managed to unfold its remains, only to find herself staring at the article she had read the previous night about a neo- Kold Mafia or whatever. The only difference, beside the rumpled factor, was that the disturbing picture she had seen was now nearly non-existent. Something slightly resembling a beast's claws had torn across the image, leaving only a few shreds behind.
Bulma set the paper down, her confusion growing even more and her curiosity far from sated. Walking down the desk to what seemed to be a chair covered in paper debris, she wondered how the rest of the place could be so tidy and yet this section be impossible to see the surface of anything. Tired of looking at almost identical torn papers, she began to search for other articles, her eyes skimming over this vast sea and her hand trailing inquisitively behind her. *Hmm . . . papers . . . papers . . . picture frame . . . papers . . . wait, picture frame?*
She stopped and ran her fingers delicately over the small, facedown surface. Picking it up gently, she blew some dust off the simple frame, turning it over a bit surprised at the broken glass that fell from its face. Squinting slightly, she recognized the browned image as a newspaper cut-out, an old one at that. A tall, regal looking man proudly held up a large, decorated belt above his head in one hand, his other supporting a small boy no more than five on his shoulder. His face sported a fierce grin while the boy held up a cheeky victory sign. Both looked like mirror images of the other. Below the picture was the faded caption of:
*(above) This year's new champion celebrates his fifth consecutive victory with his son (right)*
Bulma frowned a little in concentration. Staring at that little boy, he almost seemed familiar . . . as though she had seen him before . . .
"Woman, kindly keep your prying hands off my possessions."
Bulma snapped the picture down with a start. She looked up quickly at the voice, blushing slightly at her error. "Sorry about that."
He did not respond, but headed straight for the small kitchen area, nearly ripping open a cupboard fixed into the cave wall, and pulling out two slices of bread. Sticking them into the toaster, he waited a few seconds before pounding on the small countertop where the toaster lay. The toast popped up immediately and he swiped his hand over the appliance, whipping out a small plate and setting the toast on it in one brisk motion. He quickly stepped over to the small table nearby and roughly pulled out a chair, seating himself and beginning to devour his food at the same instant.
Bulma blinked. "Okay . . . I guess that's an 'apology accepted' then."
He swallowed the last of the second piece of toast and got up to get himself another.
After witnessing the strange display again, she asked him as he began to sit down, "Aren't you going to make some for me?"
He did not stop as he sat down again.
She walked over to the other side of the table, directly in his view and said in an impatiently louder voice, "Aren't you going to make some for me?"
He swallowed a mouthful of his food. "You've got hands."
Bulma 'hmphed' derisively and proceeded in making her own toast, not without a goodly amount of glaring on her part. After about five minutes of waiting for the toast to come up, not to mention the distinct smell of something burning, she turned to him quickly, a slight look of panic hidden well with her calm words, "Uh, a little help here?"
He, who had been lounging back in his chair with a smug little look on his face at her ineptitude, simply said, "Punch it."
"Punch it?" Bulma quirked a brow. "How will that help anything?"
A thin tendril of smoke emanated from the toaster.
He spoke slowly and deliberately as though instructing a child. "Pound your fist on the countertop and it will come up. Really, it's not that hard."
She did as she was told, a slightly disgusted, 'well-I-could-have-figured- that-out' look on her face. Sure enough, the toast eagerly leapt up and, too proud to admit she was wrong by making another, less burnt batch, Bulma took her charcoal and began to eat with only a slight grimace on her face. He simply chuckled softly, shaking his head at her antics.
Bulma swallowed. "Shut up. It's not funny."
"On the contrary," he grinned maliciously. "I find your incompetence *very* funny."
"*My* incompetence? You're the one who can't even fix a toaster."
"Why fix something that trivial?"
"Hmph," Bulma folded her arms. "What, do you not have enough time to fix your kitchen appliances?"
He leaned back a little farther in his chair. "Why yes. I have a very pressing schedule."
She looked at him sceptically. "Yet you can find time to build a labyrinth, a mirror that serves as a portal, and an underground empire."
"Yes."
"And you can't fix it in your free time like . . . oh, say . . . now for some reason?" she put her hands on her hips.
"Of course not," he scoffed, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It could take hours just to get the correct parts to fix it, not to mention dismantling it to find the source of the problem in the first place, and then the actual task of repair. I hardly want to spend that kind of time on a mere inconvenience."
"I could assess the damage in thirty seconds," Bulma stated smugly.
"Oh you could, could you?" he asked, unconvinced. "Let's see it then."
Bulma blinked at him once before getting up to dismantle the appliance. Whipping out her nail file from her pocket, she made quick work of one of the outer panels, revealing the inner workings. Peering inside with a practiced technological eye, she poked a slender finger inside, flicked a small spring, and gave a little calculating nod, all the while thinking in her head, *how did I get here?*
"There's a spring loose," she said, self-satisfied.
He frowned a little at having to eat his words and only said back, "That was thirty-seven seconds."
Bulma rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said, sitting back down at the table.
"Well, now that you've torn my toaster apart," he cleared his throat, "I guess we can get on with the training."
"Already?" Bulma groaned, her charcoal toast not having settled yet.
"Of course. Did you think you could get away with wasting more time?"
"Well, no, but . . ." Bulma stuttered, groping for a good reason, "but I haven't had a chance to change yet. I'm wearing the same clothes I was yesterday."
He grunted and reached into the folds of his cape, tossing her a capsule, which she caught, surprised. "It's your bag you left in the training room," he stated at her look of puzzlement. "Hurry up," he indicated that she go behind a large tapestry.
"You've got to be kidding," she mumbled, appalled that she'd have to change with such a small divider protecting her modesty . . . and she wasn't even permitted a shower. Her hair felt limp, her eyes felt baggy, and she was quite sure that she had a crick in her spine because of her sleep on the immovable steps of the ring. She gave him a dirty look as she pulled the tapestry aside for her to enter, plopping her bag on the ground and forcefully unzipping it. After she had near completely undressed, she was in the process of pulling on a fresh pair of pants, hopping on one foot to get them up the rest of the way, when she fell over, hitting her head on the wall behind her. She was quite surprised when it yielded for her.
Leaning her head farther back, she looked on with upside-down eyes at a room she had not seen in her little exploration bout prior. A dim, dank darkness like that of a prison, or tomb, seemed to settle in it, forcing her eyes in place with a strange, morbid curiosity. Turning over, she stood, hesitant to step into the strange room, as though restrained by some intangible force. Though dark, she could make out the faint impression of shapes in the shadows: a medium sized dresser, a nightstand, and what must have been a bed (though it was peculiarly casket-like in the caliginous chamber), all shrouded in black, funeral veil-like tapestries, their ghosted images doing little to ease her frame of mind. What disturbed her most about the room, however, despite the dreary lighting and bizarre feel it had to it, was the odd way the silence seemed to sing. But it was no ordinary song.
It sang Death.
The air around her suddenly grew very cold, and Bulma had no qualms about shutting the strange little opening wall. Changed and ready, she put all thoughts of the mysteriously puzzling room behind her, walking out to meet her increasingly impatient teacher. He gave her a glower.
"What?" she asked defensively. "It's not like I took *that* long."
"Whatever," he grunted irritably. Turning he peered through his mask over his shoulder at her. "We're wasting time. Hurry up and get on the ring again."
Bulma groaned. "Not again. I told you, I just can't fly. I *passed out* the last time for crying out loud! I just ca-"
"Shut up. I know perfectly well that you can't," he snapped. "That was made painfully obvious last night." A rebuke and a reprimand, though the latter seemed more directed toward himself. "However, I don't believe that you can be a *complete* incompetent."
"Then what *are* you going to teach me? How to throw a punch?" she put her hands on her hips. "I already know how to do all of that. What else can there possibly be to-?"
"Don't ever assume that you know everything!" he barked at her. "There is always, ALWAYS something that has been overlooked . . . some move, some technique, some consequence that you've forgotten. Always assume that you've made a mistake."
"Don't go giving lectures on overconfidence to me!" Bulma snapped back. "You have no right, you hypocrite!"
The eyes behind the mask smouldered. "Perhaps, but that does not change the fact that you shouldn't do it."
"Fine. But what are you going to teach me since I can't fly?"
"There are still many things for you to learn," he said, stepping onto the ring and tearing off his black cloak in one abrupt yet fluid manner. It fluttered to the floor beside the arena.
She climbed briskly up the stairs, still looking at him with a slightly haughty disbelief. "So, teach," she commanded, crossing her arms.
He unfurled his. "Hit me."
"What?" she blinked.
"You heard me. Hit me. When you can land a direct hit, you're ready to be trained fully."
Her jaw dropped down in shock and a bit of outrage. "You mean you haven't been teaching me seriously?"
"No."
"But . . . but if you've been taking me lightly this whole time, how the heck am I supposed to be able to hit you? I hadn't even *seen* you until yesterday."
His brow furrowed. "You trust your eyes too much." Tilting his head back he pondered a while until, "Fine. I'll make it a little easier for you. I won't use my hands to block anything, kick, punch, whatever. How does that sound?" he asked as he placed his hands behind his back.
"Does a kick count as landing a direct hit?" she asked, a little more satisfied with the prerequisites.
"Yes."
"All right," she said, then leapt into an immediate attack.
She struck out at his face, only to have him nonchalantly tilt it away. Irritated, she lashed out with her foot only to have him flip over her gracefully, landing on all fours like some dark animal, swiping a booted foot beneath her and knocking her to the ground. He shoot back up again and she rolled out of the way just in time to dodge another kick headed her direction.
"You didn't say anything about fighting back!" she ducked away just in time.
"Expect the unexpected. There's always something you've left overlooked." He stood up straight again, clasping his hands behind his back once more.
Blowing some wayward strands of hair out of her eyes, Bulma glowered at him, setting herself in a fighting stance before she launched herself at him in a flurry of kicks and punches, all of which were either dodged or blocked by he legs. He led her on a frustrating chase around the arena, her energy fading with every attack and his amusement growing. Finally she gave up, collapsing on her knees to the floor, her breathing heavy and sweat rolling into her eyes uncomfortably.
He landed casually in front of her his once again folding in front of him. "What's the matter, Woman? Aren't you having fun?"
She gave a feminine and unfrightening snarl, springing forward with anger afresh from his taunting. Her blue eyes tried to bore holes in the dark voids within that skeletal mask, her fists and feet flying at him from every direction possible. Her fury increased as his sardonic grin widened. She no longer struck with closed fists, but opened her hands into sharp, feline claws. One rogue hand lashed out at his mask, ready to rip it away, but was stopped immediately by a quick, gloved grip and an even quicker fist towards her face. She gasped and cringed, closing her eyes as the blow came closer to contact . . . and never reached its destination. She opened her eyes to see a fist hovering just inches from her face. She finally released the breath she had not known she had been holding.
"That blow could have taken your head off," he stated coldly, looking hard into her eyes.
She swallowed and nodded slowly, just now feeling the tightness around her hand cutting off the circulation. His gaze trailed slowly from her eyes to his hand, where he released it. His fist retracted too, folding itself with the other arm across his chest as he walked to the side of the ring to get his cloak.
"I'm sorry," she said, holding her hand gingerly.
The skull of a face looked back at her coldly. "You should be," he put on his cape.
"We're done?" she asked.
He grunted.
"But you haven't taught me anything! We can't be finished now! We-"
"You're too weak and too slow," he interjected. "There's no possible way you can win with tactics like that. I expect you to think about that for the rest of the day."
"What? What kind of teaching is that?!" she said indignantly.
"My kind," he gave a twisted smile.
"Ugh!" she stamped her foot angrily. "What am I supposed to think about? How badly I fight? Don't you have anything else you can tell me?!"
"You want it out straight?" he questioned, turning to her.
"Well, yeah," she blinked
He took a deep breath. "Like I said, there's no possible way you can win-"
"But-"
"Shut up!" he snapped. "There's no possible way you can win with tactics like that. You are incapable of making a good offensive fighter; therefore you must rely on defence. Because you are pitifully weak, you can't rely on any strength or speed of your own. You must use your opponent's abilities against him, guiding his strengths toward his weaknesses. You must also study his techniques and deduce the vulnerabilities therein. Think on that for a while."
She watched as he turned away, his cape lifting up a little behind him as he walked. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"Out," he answered in an irritated manner, continuing on without looking at her.
"Wait!" she called after him.
He stopped and looked at her through his white mask.
"Um," she said nervously, having forgotten what she was going to say, "thanks telling me all of that. I'll think about it for the rest of the day and later I'll use it to try and hit you again."
He gave a conceited little smile. "Like you ever could. Do you realize how slowly I had to move to fight at your level?"
Her jaw dropped. "You were holding back the whole time?"
"Woman, for all the times you claim to be a genius, your stupidity never ceases to astound me." He looked away. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."
"I guess not," she smirked. "I look forward to our next match, Vegeta."
He started harshly, slowly sliding his eyes to hers and drilling into her with a penetrating stare. An absolute silence permeated the air as she blinked back, surprised. His gaze held no irritation, no rebuke, no anger. They were empty.
"W-what's wrong?" Bulma asked, unnerved.
Vegeta closed his eyes slowly and opened them back up again. "Nothing," he said, turning away to leave. "Nothing . . ."
Puar was worried. Her tail twitched nervously and her paw shook as she raised the coffee mug to her mouth. The second night had fallen since Yamcha had left, and she did not like the look of it. The stars were smothered by a thick layer of clouds that refused to move and refused to rain, though seemed to tell that something momentous in the near future was to come. A light mist covered the neighbourhood, though it could only be seen in the yellow, isolated light from the street lamps. It was hushed and it was uncomfortable.
Puar's eyes began to droop despite the caffeine she was pumping into her system. Staying up for two nights straight was no easy task for a little cat. The room around her began to blur as her consciousness wove in and out of existence. She yawned and her head fell against the table with a soft thud just as the front door to the apartment opened.
Yamcha stepped in, his eyes unfocused and his movements slow. He shut the door and leaned against it, sighing as he tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. Closing his soft, dark eyes he pushed aside his exhaustion and managed to clamber his way over to the kitchen table where his furry blue friend snored gently. He gave a little tired smile at her. She was always there for him.
Leaning back in his chair he massaged his feet. It had been a long, long walk. He had sorted out, or at least attempted to sort out some of the recent events that had occurred:
One. Bulma had joined the team, and had done very well. Much better than had been expected of her.
Two. Bulma had informed him that she was taking lessons from a mysterious teacher, and by the looks of it, he was very, very good.
Three. She had disappeared into the mirror.
Four. There was a ghost in the stadium and it had tried to kill him.
Five. He was going completely insane over all of this.
*Why can't everything be like it was before?* he thought. *It feels like everything's collapsing all around me and I can't do anything to stop it. Bulma said she still loves me, well she didn't exactly say it but it was implied . . . she seems so far away now,* he put his face in his hands, looking across the table at Puar's even breathing.
*And what is it about this teacher of hers? Why does it feel like she's hiding something from me? Is he more than just her teacher? What isn't she telling me about him?* he ran his hands through his hair in a frustrated manner, clasping the short, black clumps in clenched fists. A dark thought descended upon him: a thought of the love of his life turning in gently to kiss a large, masculine hand cupping her face . . . a thought of her hair trickling through the fingers of an unseen man, pulling her closer to himself with each passing second . . . a thought of Bulma slowly and lovingly bringing her soft lips upon those of another, her deep blue eyes closing and letting the long lashes brush against the side of the man's face . . .
*Okay, so I'm jealous,* he let his fist fall against the table with a dull thud. He let out a soft, bitter laugh. *I'm jealous of someone I don't even know. I don't even have any proof that he's in a relationship with her. Why am I thinking like this? Why do I think I can't trust her? Why don't I trust her?*
It took him a while to realize that Puar was looking at him with her sleepy- cat eyes. "Yamcha," she said groggily, "I was worried (yawn) sick about you. I-" her eyelids began to fall again.
"It's okay, Puar. I'm fine. I just needed some time to think," he said. *Yeah, two whole days. No wonder she was worried.* He smiled and patter her head. "Go back to sleep."
She purred against his hand and cuddled into her front paws. Yamcha got up from the table and headed towards his room, stopping to look back at his sleeping friend. Smiling slightly to himself he thought better of it and scooped the little cat in his arms, carrying her with him to his warm bed.
*Sometimes I think I'm too nice for my own good,* he thought as he set her on one of his pillows, and he did not know quite why he thought that.
+ Taken from the highlights version of "The Phantom of the Opera", not the original soundtrack. While the background music of the original is nicer and fits in better with the mood, the lyrics of the highlights version fit in better with my version story. However, both are sung beautifully by Michael Crawford. That guy's the man.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whoa . . . that was a long break between writings. I hope my ideas don't hop around too much . . . there are a couple places where the gaps between paragraphs extended over months of time, so please forgive me if I seem choppy. Marching season is almost over, and after that I'll have much more time to do this. THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO SUPPORTED ME WITH THEIR REVIEWS. Don't think you guys went unnoticed. This probably would have taken a lot longer if so many people hadn't reviewed.
I hope that my next update won't take so long, but I can't make any guarantees. Even when band is over (perish the thought) my schedule is still pretty tight. Along with all the emotional trauma I've been having over my one-sided relationships, infatuations, and obsessions (namely who all my love poems are about), I still have a hefty load of schoolwork to do. That and I have a limited access to the internet and can't quite go online as often as I'd like to. I hate being isolated from all your great stories T_T
On the brighter side of things, I just had a birthday on the second of November. My friends are the best. I got an Incubus t-shirt and a cool sticker that says "Don't interrupt me when I'm talking to myself" from ZippyDragon*43, another shirt from my friend Wendy that says "often speaks out of turn", a book on learning saxophone (for jazz band and jazz band only . . . I'll be a die-hard clarinet/bassoon until the day I die) and some reeds from Stephanie, and a pair of Mr. Potato Head pyjama pants and a Vegeta action figure (he lights up and makes sounds! It's so funny! It sooo ugly it makes me laugh) from my friend Theresa. She laughed too. That thing is hysterical. Not that any of you care.
Also, I saw the musical "Phantom of the Opera" back up there in August. It was great, but I was a bit disappointed in the performance of Raoul. He seemed to showboat his vibrato too much. However, that did not change the fact that I got goose bumps when the chandelier went up and the overture played. The Phantom was played beautifully and Christine's voice was lovely. Carlotta, Piangi, and the Managers were a riot as always. Meg was crystal clear and Mme. Giry was a delightful old hag.
Anyway, that's all for now. I hope to write for you soon!
~Chunks
PS: Check out my favourite authors and stories lists. I think you'll find some great works there. Hell, you might even enjoy reading some of them.
The Music of the Night and the Wandering of the Eyes
Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour
Grasp it, sense it; tremulous and tender
Hearing is believing; music is deceiving
Hard as lightning, soft as candlelight
Dare you trust the Music of the Night?
Close your eyes for your eyes will only tell the truth
And the truth isn't what you want to see
In the dark it is easy to pretend
That the truth is what it ought to be
Softly, deftly music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it secretly possess you
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight
The darkness of the Music of the Night +
Warm, brilliant sunshine beamed down upon the rounded building of Capsule Corporation, making the yellow paint positively luminescent against the lush plant-life gently swaying in the breeze. A lone figure stood on the concrete pathway leading up to the wide metal doors of the large estate, her cropped blonde hair rustling a little as she began her walk up towards the entrance.
As she stepped she held her right hand in her left, warily protecting it from the airborne perils that may attack it. Though she really had nothing to fear when on the grounds of Capsule Corporation, Eighteen was not one to take malfunctioning parts lightly. Malfunctions meant imperfections, and imperfections meant that she was not up to her normal standard. All precautions must be taken in order to stop or prevent any imperfections, was her judgement. She did not like to think of anyone being better than herself and therefore always aimed for perfection in everything she did. Her body was one of those areas. Though she could not remember the times when she had been fully human, she still maintained in herself a portion that still contained much of her humanity, including the burning desire to be the best that she could be. Robots and true androids did not contain that desire. They had no will to improve.
Nevertheless, she still clutched the offending piece of malfunctioning anatomy on her way up, wondering whether Bulma would be able to repair her hand, hopefully in time for any activities she might want to use it for. The piece had just gone haywire when she tried to use it, sending off a small shower of electrical sparks, much to the shock and dismay of the man on the receiving end of her touch.
She blushed when she remembered just who that was and what they had been doing together when that happened.
Finally reaching the front doors, Eighteen extended her finger to ring the doorbell, but was in for a nasty surprise when the hand just twitched and sparked, zapping the button and her nerves. With a muttered curse she snatched her right hand away and used her left to ring the bell, only to find that the encounter with her other hand had rendered it unusable. Growling, she knocked not all that softly on the door with her fist.
Not too much longer a bubbly blonde woman greeted the android with an, "Oh my! What a pleasant surprise! You're Bulma's friend, right?"
"Not really," Eighteen said dully, stepping in without waiting for the other woman to give her an invitation, "just her latest experiment."
"Well, Bulma's certainly outdone herself this time," the woman chirruped. "You certainly are a pretty young thing! It's so nice to meet you! I'm Bulma's mother."
"I know," Eighteen stated. "We've met before."
"We have?" Mrs. Briefs quirked her head to the side in confusion. "Oh I'm so sorry I didn't recognize you, Eighteen. I bet you want to see Bulma, don't you? Well, I'll go find her for you. Don't go anywhere!" she smiled, bustling off into another room laughing to herself, "Oh I can't believe I forgot who she was! I swear I'd lose my head if it weren't bolted to my neck!"
"I think those bolts are loose," Eighteen muttered to herself, shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans.
"What's loose?" a male voice sounded from the kitchen.
Eighteen took a glance in the direction of the voice and, upon seeing Dr. Briefs, said crisply, "Nothing. I'm just waiting for your wife to find Bulma."
"Bulma? But she's not here," the old man said, petting the ever-present kitty on his shoulder. "She hasn't been in since . . . well, I actually can't remember when the last time I saw her was," he scratched his greying head.
"Really?" Eighteen raised a sculpted brow, peering through the doorway of another room where Mrs. Briefs was hard at work searching for her absent daughter.
Dr. Briefs followed the android's gaze and smiled affably. "Oh don't worry about her. Actually, I'm kind of glad she has something to do now. It'll keep her out of trouble. Goodness knows what crazy ideas that woman can get into her head."
*I don't even want to know,* Eighteen thought to herself before getting back to the original subject. "Do you know where Bulma has been, then?" she asked, pulling her malfunctioning hand out of her pocket and holding it in her other.
"Nope," the doctor said.
"And you aren't in the least bit worried?" Eighteen asked incredulously.
"Bulma's a big girl now," Dr. Briefs sighed with that regretful look in his eyes that most parents have when their child has grown up. "She can take care of herself. Her head may be up in the clouds most of the time, but I'm sure she's fine."
"So let me get this straight," Eighteen put her hands on her hips, "you can't remember the last time you saw your daughter, you have no idea where she might be, and you aren't worried because she's 'a big girl'?"
"That sounds about right," The old man smiled before it suddenly fell. "But, I'm more worried about her health as of now."
Eighteen's ears perked up. "What do you mean?"
"She's always off staring into the distance, you know?" the good doctor's brow furrowed. "She hardly comes home anymore, and she's started studying again. I'm beginning to think she's getting sick."
"Why would she start studying again?" Eighteen asked, confused. "I thought she was already a genius."
"I thought so too, but she's been looking up the darnedest things," he furtively looked around to see if his wife was anywhere nearby. "Thinks like 'death' and 'ghost.' She's even been searching old newspapers for things like the Tournament Ghost."
Eighteen was silent for a moment before she grumbled, "Well, I'll see if I can find Bulma and talk to her, but first things first. I've got a part malfunctioning here and I need her to fix it. It's not going to repair itself."
"Let me have a look at it," Dr. Briefs said, brought out of his funk by the opportunity to show his genius. Sensing Eighteen's uneasiness he smiled through his bushy moustache, "You don't trust me? Come come, my girl, where do you think Bulma got her aptitude for technology? Her mother?"
"Fine but if you mess up, you're a dead man."
"Understandable," he said, patting his kitty. "Follow me to my workshop."
Eighteen followed silently, still uneasy about having a man do the repair work, but even more uneasy about the fact the Bulma had not returned home since last night. As she passed down the hall to the doctor's laboratory her face reflected itself in a small mirror hanging on the wall and she was suddenly reminded of Yamcha's bewildering litany of:
"The mirror . . . right through the mirror . . . vanished . . . right through . . ."
His arms wrap around her in such a perfect feeling of comfort that she feels as though she could stay there forever. The world is empty and black around them, but within their proximity all they need is each other to make up their world. She looks up lovingly into his soft black eyes, gently brushing her hand over the scar on the lower portion of his face in a tender motion. The gap between their faces closes as he buries his head into her long, blue hair and she revels in his closeness. Nothing can be more perfect than this calm, tranquil feeling she has within her now.
The air around them suddenly ripples as a foreign presence makes itself known. A silent call breaks the serene silence around the couple, weaving around them on the thin threads of the emptiness around them, pulling them, wrenching them apart. A song heard only to one of them emerges and only one obeys the seductive, silent melody.
Bulma glides forward, her actions dictated only by the strange calling within her soul. More and more urgent it becomes, and farther and farther into the darkness she descends until she comes face to face with a figure that blends in perfectly in the Cimmerian surroundings. She inhales quickly at the sight of the pale, white mask disguising his true face, suddenly frightened and, at the same time, allured. His eyes gaze deeply into hers as his hand comes to gently grasp her own. Closing his hard onyx eyes, his face draws nearer to hers until his lips just tenderly caress hers and she can feel his warm breath upon her skin until . . . his entire form dissipates into the darkness surrounding.
She feels a hand upon her arm and whirls around, expecting to see her phantasmal siren, only to find Yamcha's tenderly pleading face. He draws her close, stroking her silken blue hair gently, calming her with each motion. Without words he vehemently denies the existence of that dark incubus and attempts to convince her that all she needs, all she wants, is right here, with him. There is no need to chase after that illusion, that dark nightmare of a ghost, for all she could ever wish or hope for is with him: Yamcha, her first and only love. He offers tranquillity, stability, comfort, and most of all, love.
She wants to believe him.
She wants to want this, wants to need this, but her soul wildly beats with the rhythm of that silent song that calls to her. All she can see is that demon's eyes gazing deeply into hers, all she feels is his hand gently grasping her own, all she knows is his warm breath caressing her skin. She looks away in shame of her thoughts, unable to bear to look at the man that she is silently betraying. She blinks slowly, casting her lustful eyes anywhere but to the man she loves.
Off in the darkness a figure moves without a sound, but his dark aura releases a melody that entices the soul and ensnares the senses. He disappears with a flourish of a dark cape, unwittingly snatching Bulma's attention as well. Hypnotized by the unsaid summoning, she pushes away from her love and rushes into the abyss encompassing.
As she races down this void she suddenly feels the walls close in around her, directing her on a single path that twists and turns in every way imaginable and some that are not. She is instantly reminded of another maze that she has been through, though there is no one staring back at her on the faces of these walls. There is only darkness, emptiness, and such a feeling of desolation that it makes it hard to press onward. Winding her way through all the tangled web of turns she finally comes to an abrupt halt as she finds her query.
He stands straight and rigid, as though agitated or alarmed by her presence. His eyes hold the look of one who has seen too much, done too much, and regrets that he does not regret. A sympathetic look in her blue eyes, Bulma wishes to show him a sign of hope, of redemption, and takes his hand in hers, putting it upon her face, cupping her cheek. His eyes look startled and dart wildly around within the dead sockets of the stark, pale mask. His hand seems to spasm at her touch, as though he is torn between succumbing to this gentle gesture or crushing what lies beneath his grasp. His breathing heavy, the inner struggle consumes him until he violently jerks his hand away from Bulma's face, backing away slowly, the silent song in the darkness now playing a crecendoing refrain of, *No pity for me, no pity for me!* Abruptly he turns from her and plunges farther into the labyrinth.
Bulma reaches out after her dark shade, only to be interrupted by a shout from Yamcha, who has followed her, concerned for her safety. Not wishing for him to see her in her wanton treachery, and still entranced by this spectre, she runs deeper into the maze after that illusive phantasm as her love calls after her. Faster and faster she goes until she can just barely see him up ahead of her, fleeing, not quite afraid, but unsure, of her. Finally she is just barely within reaching distance of his trailing cape when a solid wall suddenly crashes into the ground before her, cutting her off from the object of her pursuit. She backs away, startled, before she rushes at the obstruction with tears in her eyes.
Why does she cry?
She pounds her fists into the barrier with that question racing across her mind, increasing its intensity as Yamcha arrives, pulling her away from the obstacle, trying to soothe her. She keeps trying to resist, rushing to the barricade with so many questions driving her mad.
Why does she resist? Why does she obey? Who commands her?
Why does she not trust? What is this power controlling her? Who controls her?
What does she want? Is she surrendering? Who is she surrendering to?
Why does she cry? Who is she crying for?
Who?
Only as Yamcha pulls her away from the object of her beating fists does she realize that it is not a wall, but an enormous white mask, just like that of her own dark phantom. Her phantom . . . so often she does not think of him with a name, but now . . . now she knows the truth of it. Tears in her eyes, despair in her voice, she cries out the true name:
"VEGETA!"
And the mask cracks down from one dark, empty eye socket, so much like the tears now streaming from Bulma's blue eyes.
With a gasp Bulma snapped out of her strange dream. Groaning, she stretched out her limbs, only to be greeted with a sharp pain in her back. She winced as she rolled over, having just enough time to see that she had been sleeping on the stairs ascending to the elevated fighting ring before she crashed to the floor beside them.
"Ow," she said, staggering upward. She rubbed her back gingerly, glaring down at the offending steps mumbling something along the lines of, "stupid jerk could have at least carried me to a bed or something . . ."
Leaning on the elevated ring with one arm, she blinked as she tried to take in her surroundings, only to find herself surrounded in darkness. Too much like her dream prior for her tastes, she stumbled around, trying to find some sort of light switch, clinging to the walls of the cave and feeling around with her hands. Upon gliding her palm across one of the thick tapestries she remembered covered the entranceway, she pulled it open quickly, quite ready to be rid of this incorporeal darkness.
She nearly blinded herself in the process.
Light scattered in from the round hole in the ceiling, filtering down the vertical tunnel and somehow reflecting off the great mirror placed above the stadium ring replica, the result of such a vast amount of illumination being painfully bright. Bulma closed the tapestry as quickly as she could, plunging her back into blackness.
She slowly tried to blink her eyes back into the darkness, willing the stinging therein to cease. She felt around once more, this time searching for a thinner curtain, and upon finding it, held it in place as she drew back the heavy folds of the dark tapestry. The result was much more appreciable than the previous.
The dark, thin curtain that she had kept over the opening up to the labyrinth cast the light in such a way that everything remained in a sort of misty haze, like that of a dream. Something interwoven in the fabric of the curtain reflected the light in small, shimmering droplets, all ricocheting off the giant, unpartitioned mirror above the ring. Bulma looked around herself in awe of the beauty of the place. She could see that, though dark, the large tapestries draping off the walls of the cavern were not black, but a deep, royal blue lined with gold and flowing majestically down to the ground. Though unpaved or carpeted, the strange reflection of the light gave the floor an illusion polished marble tile, elegant in its crystalline splendour. The high cover of the cave seemed to take on the appearance of a vaulted ceiling, the stalactites transforming themselves into arc-boutants and the extending walls of the cave jutting in at regular intervals suddenly resembling fluted columns and stately caryatids. Bulma, still quite amazed by all the scenery, searched around to see if this place also included a decorative teacher to give her a guided tour, but, upon finding none, decided that he would not mind her having a go at spelunking.
She wandered around, looking at the strange shapes of the stalagmites, their forms taking on the appearance of statues that seemed as though you could stare for days and still see a different shape every time you blinked. Most of the area, however, was clear of these strange sculptures, making for easy manoeuvrability, and the illusion of a great foyer within a palace. As she wandered farther away from the fighting ring, she noticed a light mist swirling around her feet, tendrils clinging tenaciously as she stepped. Pressing forward, she cut through the haze curiously until she ran out of standing ground. Looking down, she could see a near endless expanse of space beneath, extending until it could no longer be seen in the thick haze. Feeling slightly acrophobic and more than a little dizzy from the height, Bulma backed away, eager to explore more of this strange place.
Turning around, her gaze fell upon the pristine form of the full-size replica of the tournament ring, the mirror encompassing the ceiling making the white tiles positively luminescent. Walking up the polished steps onto the elevated ring, she stared at the vast mirror above her, marvelling at the splendrous droplets of light cascading down from it. Thinking of her previous tampering with the curtains and the fact that this had to be sunlight from somewhere outside of the building, her mind boggled at the sheer geometry it would have taken to erect that maze of mirrors in the right places above in order for the sun and stars to reflect in just the right route to ricochet against the right spot and illuminate the entire cavern, not to mention the added challenge of enabling the labyrinth to move its walls without obstructing the light's path. Bulma whistled softly, impressed. She spun slowly around, absorbing in the place from her new, elevated location, when something that did not quite belong caught her eye. Stopping abruptly, she peered at it with a slightly confused tilt of her head.
In a slight grotto of the cave, near what might be considered a small kitchen, an untidy desk seemed to call out to her, its ransacked appearance tickling her curiosity. Hopping off the ring like an overly excited, inquisitive child, Bulma tread lightly to the desk stopping just in front of the rumpled newspapers, pictures, and other assorted items. Picking up one mangled piece of press, she managed to unfold its remains, only to find herself staring at the article she had read the previous night about a neo- Kold Mafia or whatever. The only difference, beside the rumpled factor, was that the disturbing picture she had seen was now nearly non-existent. Something slightly resembling a beast's claws had torn across the image, leaving only a few shreds behind.
Bulma set the paper down, her confusion growing even more and her curiosity far from sated. Walking down the desk to what seemed to be a chair covered in paper debris, she wondered how the rest of the place could be so tidy and yet this section be impossible to see the surface of anything. Tired of looking at almost identical torn papers, she began to search for other articles, her eyes skimming over this vast sea and her hand trailing inquisitively behind her. *Hmm . . . papers . . . papers . . . picture frame . . . papers . . . wait, picture frame?*
She stopped and ran her fingers delicately over the small, facedown surface. Picking it up gently, she blew some dust off the simple frame, turning it over a bit surprised at the broken glass that fell from its face. Squinting slightly, she recognized the browned image as a newspaper cut-out, an old one at that. A tall, regal looking man proudly held up a large, decorated belt above his head in one hand, his other supporting a small boy no more than five on his shoulder. His face sported a fierce grin while the boy held up a cheeky victory sign. Both looked like mirror images of the other. Below the picture was the faded caption of:
*(above) This year's new champion celebrates his fifth consecutive victory with his son (right)*
Bulma frowned a little in concentration. Staring at that little boy, he almost seemed familiar . . . as though she had seen him before . . .
"Woman, kindly keep your prying hands off my possessions."
Bulma snapped the picture down with a start. She looked up quickly at the voice, blushing slightly at her error. "Sorry about that."
He did not respond, but headed straight for the small kitchen area, nearly ripping open a cupboard fixed into the cave wall, and pulling out two slices of bread. Sticking them into the toaster, he waited a few seconds before pounding on the small countertop where the toaster lay. The toast popped up immediately and he swiped his hand over the appliance, whipping out a small plate and setting the toast on it in one brisk motion. He quickly stepped over to the small table nearby and roughly pulled out a chair, seating himself and beginning to devour his food at the same instant.
Bulma blinked. "Okay . . . I guess that's an 'apology accepted' then."
He swallowed the last of the second piece of toast and got up to get himself another.
After witnessing the strange display again, she asked him as he began to sit down, "Aren't you going to make some for me?"
He did not stop as he sat down again.
She walked over to the other side of the table, directly in his view and said in an impatiently louder voice, "Aren't you going to make some for me?"
He swallowed a mouthful of his food. "You've got hands."
Bulma 'hmphed' derisively and proceeded in making her own toast, not without a goodly amount of glaring on her part. After about five minutes of waiting for the toast to come up, not to mention the distinct smell of something burning, she turned to him quickly, a slight look of panic hidden well with her calm words, "Uh, a little help here?"
He, who had been lounging back in his chair with a smug little look on his face at her ineptitude, simply said, "Punch it."
"Punch it?" Bulma quirked a brow. "How will that help anything?"
A thin tendril of smoke emanated from the toaster.
He spoke slowly and deliberately as though instructing a child. "Pound your fist on the countertop and it will come up. Really, it's not that hard."
She did as she was told, a slightly disgusted, 'well-I-could-have-figured- that-out' look on her face. Sure enough, the toast eagerly leapt up and, too proud to admit she was wrong by making another, less burnt batch, Bulma took her charcoal and began to eat with only a slight grimace on her face. He simply chuckled softly, shaking his head at her antics.
Bulma swallowed. "Shut up. It's not funny."
"On the contrary," he grinned maliciously. "I find your incompetence *very* funny."
"*My* incompetence? You're the one who can't even fix a toaster."
"Why fix something that trivial?"
"Hmph," Bulma folded her arms. "What, do you not have enough time to fix your kitchen appliances?"
He leaned back a little farther in his chair. "Why yes. I have a very pressing schedule."
She looked at him sceptically. "Yet you can find time to build a labyrinth, a mirror that serves as a portal, and an underground empire."
"Yes."
"And you can't fix it in your free time like . . . oh, say . . . now for some reason?" she put her hands on her hips.
"Of course not," he scoffed, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It could take hours just to get the correct parts to fix it, not to mention dismantling it to find the source of the problem in the first place, and then the actual task of repair. I hardly want to spend that kind of time on a mere inconvenience."
"I could assess the damage in thirty seconds," Bulma stated smugly.
"Oh you could, could you?" he asked, unconvinced. "Let's see it then."
Bulma blinked at him once before getting up to dismantle the appliance. Whipping out her nail file from her pocket, she made quick work of one of the outer panels, revealing the inner workings. Peering inside with a practiced technological eye, she poked a slender finger inside, flicked a small spring, and gave a little calculating nod, all the while thinking in her head, *how did I get here?*
"There's a spring loose," she said, self-satisfied.
He frowned a little at having to eat his words and only said back, "That was thirty-seven seconds."
Bulma rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said, sitting back down at the table.
"Well, now that you've torn my toaster apart," he cleared his throat, "I guess we can get on with the training."
"Already?" Bulma groaned, her charcoal toast not having settled yet.
"Of course. Did you think you could get away with wasting more time?"
"Well, no, but . . ." Bulma stuttered, groping for a good reason, "but I haven't had a chance to change yet. I'm wearing the same clothes I was yesterday."
He grunted and reached into the folds of his cape, tossing her a capsule, which she caught, surprised. "It's your bag you left in the training room," he stated at her look of puzzlement. "Hurry up," he indicated that she go behind a large tapestry.
"You've got to be kidding," she mumbled, appalled that she'd have to change with such a small divider protecting her modesty . . . and she wasn't even permitted a shower. Her hair felt limp, her eyes felt baggy, and she was quite sure that she had a crick in her spine because of her sleep on the immovable steps of the ring. She gave him a dirty look as she pulled the tapestry aside for her to enter, plopping her bag on the ground and forcefully unzipping it. After she had near completely undressed, she was in the process of pulling on a fresh pair of pants, hopping on one foot to get them up the rest of the way, when she fell over, hitting her head on the wall behind her. She was quite surprised when it yielded for her.
Leaning her head farther back, she looked on with upside-down eyes at a room she had not seen in her little exploration bout prior. A dim, dank darkness like that of a prison, or tomb, seemed to settle in it, forcing her eyes in place with a strange, morbid curiosity. Turning over, she stood, hesitant to step into the strange room, as though restrained by some intangible force. Though dark, she could make out the faint impression of shapes in the shadows: a medium sized dresser, a nightstand, and what must have been a bed (though it was peculiarly casket-like in the caliginous chamber), all shrouded in black, funeral veil-like tapestries, their ghosted images doing little to ease her frame of mind. What disturbed her most about the room, however, despite the dreary lighting and bizarre feel it had to it, was the odd way the silence seemed to sing. But it was no ordinary song.
It sang Death.
The air around her suddenly grew very cold, and Bulma had no qualms about shutting the strange little opening wall. Changed and ready, she put all thoughts of the mysteriously puzzling room behind her, walking out to meet her increasingly impatient teacher. He gave her a glower.
"What?" she asked defensively. "It's not like I took *that* long."
"Whatever," he grunted irritably. Turning he peered through his mask over his shoulder at her. "We're wasting time. Hurry up and get on the ring again."
Bulma groaned. "Not again. I told you, I just can't fly. I *passed out* the last time for crying out loud! I just ca-"
"Shut up. I know perfectly well that you can't," he snapped. "That was made painfully obvious last night." A rebuke and a reprimand, though the latter seemed more directed toward himself. "However, I don't believe that you can be a *complete* incompetent."
"Then what *are* you going to teach me? How to throw a punch?" she put her hands on her hips. "I already know how to do all of that. What else can there possibly be to-?"
"Don't ever assume that you know everything!" he barked at her. "There is always, ALWAYS something that has been overlooked . . . some move, some technique, some consequence that you've forgotten. Always assume that you've made a mistake."
"Don't go giving lectures on overconfidence to me!" Bulma snapped back. "You have no right, you hypocrite!"
The eyes behind the mask smouldered. "Perhaps, but that does not change the fact that you shouldn't do it."
"Fine. But what are you going to teach me since I can't fly?"
"There are still many things for you to learn," he said, stepping onto the ring and tearing off his black cloak in one abrupt yet fluid manner. It fluttered to the floor beside the arena.
She climbed briskly up the stairs, still looking at him with a slightly haughty disbelief. "So, teach," she commanded, crossing her arms.
He unfurled his. "Hit me."
"What?" she blinked.
"You heard me. Hit me. When you can land a direct hit, you're ready to be trained fully."
Her jaw dropped down in shock and a bit of outrage. "You mean you haven't been teaching me seriously?"
"No."
"But . . . but if you've been taking me lightly this whole time, how the heck am I supposed to be able to hit you? I hadn't even *seen* you until yesterday."
His brow furrowed. "You trust your eyes too much." Tilting his head back he pondered a while until, "Fine. I'll make it a little easier for you. I won't use my hands to block anything, kick, punch, whatever. How does that sound?" he asked as he placed his hands behind his back.
"Does a kick count as landing a direct hit?" she asked, a little more satisfied with the prerequisites.
"Yes."
"All right," she said, then leapt into an immediate attack.
She struck out at his face, only to have him nonchalantly tilt it away. Irritated, she lashed out with her foot only to have him flip over her gracefully, landing on all fours like some dark animal, swiping a booted foot beneath her and knocking her to the ground. He shoot back up again and she rolled out of the way just in time to dodge another kick headed her direction.
"You didn't say anything about fighting back!" she ducked away just in time.
"Expect the unexpected. There's always something you've left overlooked." He stood up straight again, clasping his hands behind his back once more.
Blowing some wayward strands of hair out of her eyes, Bulma glowered at him, setting herself in a fighting stance before she launched herself at him in a flurry of kicks and punches, all of which were either dodged or blocked by he legs. He led her on a frustrating chase around the arena, her energy fading with every attack and his amusement growing. Finally she gave up, collapsing on her knees to the floor, her breathing heavy and sweat rolling into her eyes uncomfortably.
He landed casually in front of her his once again folding in front of him. "What's the matter, Woman? Aren't you having fun?"
She gave a feminine and unfrightening snarl, springing forward with anger afresh from his taunting. Her blue eyes tried to bore holes in the dark voids within that skeletal mask, her fists and feet flying at him from every direction possible. Her fury increased as his sardonic grin widened. She no longer struck with closed fists, but opened her hands into sharp, feline claws. One rogue hand lashed out at his mask, ready to rip it away, but was stopped immediately by a quick, gloved grip and an even quicker fist towards her face. She gasped and cringed, closing her eyes as the blow came closer to contact . . . and never reached its destination. She opened her eyes to see a fist hovering just inches from her face. She finally released the breath she had not known she had been holding.
"That blow could have taken your head off," he stated coldly, looking hard into her eyes.
She swallowed and nodded slowly, just now feeling the tightness around her hand cutting off the circulation. His gaze trailed slowly from her eyes to his hand, where he released it. His fist retracted too, folding itself with the other arm across his chest as he walked to the side of the ring to get his cloak.
"I'm sorry," she said, holding her hand gingerly.
The skull of a face looked back at her coldly. "You should be," he put on his cape.
"We're done?" she asked.
He grunted.
"But you haven't taught me anything! We can't be finished now! We-"
"You're too weak and too slow," he interjected. "There's no possible way you can win with tactics like that. I expect you to think about that for the rest of the day."
"What? What kind of teaching is that?!" she said indignantly.
"My kind," he gave a twisted smile.
"Ugh!" she stamped her foot angrily. "What am I supposed to think about? How badly I fight? Don't you have anything else you can tell me?!"
"You want it out straight?" he questioned, turning to her.
"Well, yeah," she blinked
He took a deep breath. "Like I said, there's no possible way you can win-"
"But-"
"Shut up!" he snapped. "There's no possible way you can win with tactics like that. You are incapable of making a good offensive fighter; therefore you must rely on defence. Because you are pitifully weak, you can't rely on any strength or speed of your own. You must use your opponent's abilities against him, guiding his strengths toward his weaknesses. You must also study his techniques and deduce the vulnerabilities therein. Think on that for a while."
She watched as he turned away, his cape lifting up a little behind him as he walked. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"Out," he answered in an irritated manner, continuing on without looking at her.
"Wait!" she called after him.
He stopped and looked at her through his white mask.
"Um," she said nervously, having forgotten what she was going to say, "thanks telling me all of that. I'll think about it for the rest of the day and later I'll use it to try and hit you again."
He gave a conceited little smile. "Like you ever could. Do you realize how slowly I had to move to fight at your level?"
Her jaw dropped. "You were holding back the whole time?"
"Woman, for all the times you claim to be a genius, your stupidity never ceases to astound me." He looked away. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."
"I guess not," she smirked. "I look forward to our next match, Vegeta."
He started harshly, slowly sliding his eyes to hers and drilling into her with a penetrating stare. An absolute silence permeated the air as she blinked back, surprised. His gaze held no irritation, no rebuke, no anger. They were empty.
"W-what's wrong?" Bulma asked, unnerved.
Vegeta closed his eyes slowly and opened them back up again. "Nothing," he said, turning away to leave. "Nothing . . ."
Puar was worried. Her tail twitched nervously and her paw shook as she raised the coffee mug to her mouth. The second night had fallen since Yamcha had left, and she did not like the look of it. The stars were smothered by a thick layer of clouds that refused to move and refused to rain, though seemed to tell that something momentous in the near future was to come. A light mist covered the neighbourhood, though it could only be seen in the yellow, isolated light from the street lamps. It was hushed and it was uncomfortable.
Puar's eyes began to droop despite the caffeine she was pumping into her system. Staying up for two nights straight was no easy task for a little cat. The room around her began to blur as her consciousness wove in and out of existence. She yawned and her head fell against the table with a soft thud just as the front door to the apartment opened.
Yamcha stepped in, his eyes unfocused and his movements slow. He shut the door and leaned against it, sighing as he tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. Closing his soft, dark eyes he pushed aside his exhaustion and managed to clamber his way over to the kitchen table where his furry blue friend snored gently. He gave a little tired smile at her. She was always there for him.
Leaning back in his chair he massaged his feet. It had been a long, long walk. He had sorted out, or at least attempted to sort out some of the recent events that had occurred:
One. Bulma had joined the team, and had done very well. Much better than had been expected of her.
Two. Bulma had informed him that she was taking lessons from a mysterious teacher, and by the looks of it, he was very, very good.
Three. She had disappeared into the mirror.
Four. There was a ghost in the stadium and it had tried to kill him.
Five. He was going completely insane over all of this.
*Why can't everything be like it was before?* he thought. *It feels like everything's collapsing all around me and I can't do anything to stop it. Bulma said she still loves me, well she didn't exactly say it but it was implied . . . she seems so far away now,* he put his face in his hands, looking across the table at Puar's even breathing.
*And what is it about this teacher of hers? Why does it feel like she's hiding something from me? Is he more than just her teacher? What isn't she telling me about him?* he ran his hands through his hair in a frustrated manner, clasping the short, black clumps in clenched fists. A dark thought descended upon him: a thought of the love of his life turning in gently to kiss a large, masculine hand cupping her face . . . a thought of her hair trickling through the fingers of an unseen man, pulling her closer to himself with each passing second . . . a thought of Bulma slowly and lovingly bringing her soft lips upon those of another, her deep blue eyes closing and letting the long lashes brush against the side of the man's face . . .
*Okay, so I'm jealous,* he let his fist fall against the table with a dull thud. He let out a soft, bitter laugh. *I'm jealous of someone I don't even know. I don't even have any proof that he's in a relationship with her. Why am I thinking like this? Why do I think I can't trust her? Why don't I trust her?*
It took him a while to realize that Puar was looking at him with her sleepy- cat eyes. "Yamcha," she said groggily, "I was worried (yawn) sick about you. I-" her eyelids began to fall again.
"It's okay, Puar. I'm fine. I just needed some time to think," he said. *Yeah, two whole days. No wonder she was worried.* He smiled and patter her head. "Go back to sleep."
She purred against his hand and cuddled into her front paws. Yamcha got up from the table and headed towards his room, stopping to look back at his sleeping friend. Smiling slightly to himself he thought better of it and scooped the little cat in his arms, carrying her with him to his warm bed.
*Sometimes I think I'm too nice for my own good,* he thought as he set her on one of his pillows, and he did not know quite why he thought that.
+ Taken from the highlights version of "The Phantom of the Opera", not the original soundtrack. While the background music of the original is nicer and fits in better with the mood, the lyrics of the highlights version fit in better with my version story. However, both are sung beautifully by Michael Crawford. That guy's the man.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whoa . . . that was a long break between writings. I hope my ideas don't hop around too much . . . there are a couple places where the gaps between paragraphs extended over months of time, so please forgive me if I seem choppy. Marching season is almost over, and after that I'll have much more time to do this. THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO SUPPORTED ME WITH THEIR REVIEWS. Don't think you guys went unnoticed. This probably would have taken a lot longer if so many people hadn't reviewed.
I hope that my next update won't take so long, but I can't make any guarantees. Even when band is over (perish the thought) my schedule is still pretty tight. Along with all the emotional trauma I've been having over my one-sided relationships, infatuations, and obsessions (namely who all my love poems are about), I still have a hefty load of schoolwork to do. That and I have a limited access to the internet and can't quite go online as often as I'd like to. I hate being isolated from all your great stories T_T
On the brighter side of things, I just had a birthday on the second of November. My friends are the best. I got an Incubus t-shirt and a cool sticker that says "Don't interrupt me when I'm talking to myself" from ZippyDragon*43, another shirt from my friend Wendy that says "often speaks out of turn", a book on learning saxophone (for jazz band and jazz band only . . . I'll be a die-hard clarinet/bassoon until the day I die) and some reeds from Stephanie, and a pair of Mr. Potato Head pyjama pants and a Vegeta action figure (he lights up and makes sounds! It's so funny! It sooo ugly it makes me laugh) from my friend Theresa. She laughed too. That thing is hysterical. Not that any of you care.
Also, I saw the musical "Phantom of the Opera" back up there in August. It was great, but I was a bit disappointed in the performance of Raoul. He seemed to showboat his vibrato too much. However, that did not change the fact that I got goose bumps when the chandelier went up and the overture played. The Phantom was played beautifully and Christine's voice was lovely. Carlotta, Piangi, and the Managers were a riot as always. Meg was crystal clear and Mme. Giry was a delightful old hag.
Anyway, that's all for now. I hope to write for you soon!
~Chunks
PS: Check out my favourite authors and stories lists. I think you'll find some great works there. Hell, you might even enjoy reading some of them.
