Chapter 5 - Storms Rising

For a moment, Yamcha doesn't say anything: his mind is too busy reeling from the fact that a man who should be buried under the rubble of a cheap motel is standing in the foyer of his fiancée's house.  Vegeta, on the other hand, knows exactly what's going on, and isn't the least bit shocked to see the man he has unconsciously marked a major adversary.

"Well, well, if it isn't "The Wolf."  Tell me; are you finally ready to test your strength against me?  You were so confident last night, but I wonder if you still have that chutzpah here, where your lackeys can't help you."

"What the fuck are you doing here, shrimp?" Yamcha hisses, buying a little time.  Come on, Bulma, where are you?  Shit, if you don't show up soon, I'll have to kill this bastard.  How the Hell will I explain that?

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"I have a right to be here.  Bulma's my girl, so this is practically my house.  You, on the other hand, are just scum that crawled out of some sewer."

"Actually, your lovely property requested that I stay here.  I may be a little off on this, given that I am just 'walking refuse,' but I thought that a gentleman had an obligation to honor the wishes of the mistress of a house.  Do things run differently where you're from?"

Yamcha's world turns red.  How dare this little mother-fucker act all high and mighty with me?  You'd think that I was the street shit and he was the fucking gentleman!  "Shut the fuck up!"

Vegeta smirks.  This is even easier than I would have thought!  I can't believe I let the bastard get to me before.  He's really just a coward…no wonder he cringes before the woman.  An idiot, too...  He rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, still keeping up the Oxford-man front.  "I do believe we still have some business to attend to.  I think that I may have insulted 'your' woman's honor in our last meeting.  I'm certain that you will want to settle this issue with me in a…gentlemanly way.  Shall we dance?" he asks, mock-bowing to his opponent.

Of course, Yamcha knows that he can't win a hand-to-hand fight, but he does have a few little tricks.  He's suddenly glad that he automatically strapped his favorite knife up his sleeve this morning.  He smiles when he thinks of the fighter's face after a death blow…

"Hello, Yamcha!  I didn't expect you to come…today…"  Bulma trails off, taking in the scene.  Well, this is interesting…

"Bulma, what the…I don't…why is…what are you…him?" Yamcha stutters, face purple, flailing at Vegeta.

"Well, Yamcha, I'm not sure that's any of your business."  She grins.  Wow, I didn't expect this, but it's a nice perk.

He can't speak.  He opens his mouth, but only a hissing sound comes out.  He gasps for air, then explodes.  "What the Hell is he doing here!  And don't give me that 'not your business' shit, either."  She stares at him; he's never sworn in her presence before.  "You're my fiancée, and I have a right to know what that asshole is doing in your house!"  He starts walking towards her.  For the first time in her life, she feels a little afraid of the usually timid man.  Then something odd happens.

For whatever reason, Bulma turns slightly, looking at Vegeta.  He's watching her – judging her.  She suddenly realizes that, should she back down now, Vegeta will always hold it against her.  If she gives in, if she lets Yamcha win, she will never be able to hold her own with Vegeta again.  She can't let that happen.  She won't let Vegeta dominate her.  She takes a deep breath, trying to inhale courage.

"Honestly, Yamcha, one might almost think you were jealous!"  She laughs, herself surprised that she sounds lighthearted, not nervous.  "You see, I've run into a bit of a snag.  My dear fighter here seems to be…how did he put it…good at making enemies?  I saw him crawling around last night – poor thing was shot through the shoulder!  He's fortunately recovering nicely; I suppose the wound wasn't really as bad as it looked.  All the same, I thought it would be best if he stayed here until the tournament.  After all, I'm not planning on going easy on your little Goku."  She smiles coquettishly, slowly walking up to him.  She places one index finger on his chest, directly below the dip in his collarbone.  "No," she whispers, "I want this fight to be…"  She tilts her head, looking up at him through her eyelashes.  "…breathtaking."

Yamcha simply stares at her, his eyes bulging.  He's absolutely frozen.  God.  Holy shit.  Dear God.  Fuck.  Shit.  My God.  Shit.  Sweet Jesus.  Shit.

Bulma fights the urge to giggle.  I never knew this could feel so good!  I really hope you're watching this, Vegeta!  Look!  Observe the almighty power I have over a man!  I hope you realize that I could do this to you!  Now that's something to think about: Vegeta completely at my mercy.  All the same, I can't really imagine Vegeta "at my mercy."  If I were to do something like this to him, he'd probably…  She cuts herself off as she feels blood rushing to her cheeks and…other, less innocent parts of her body.  Don't even start thinking like that, Bulma.  This is about Yamcha, not Vegeta.  She pulls herself away from her fiancé, acting as if nothing unusual has happened.

"Is there some reason why you wanted to see me, Yamcha?"

He breaks himself out of a lusty stupor.  "Uhh…"  Yes, I was going to tell you that your little pet fighter had suddenly perished…I guess I'll have to save that message for later.  "I just wanted to see your beautiful face, baby!  After all those fighters, it's hard to remember that life isn't really that ugly."  He smiles, but sends a rather pointed look at the man leaning against a wall.  "I'm really sorry about last night, and I thought maybe I could make it up to you by taking you to that art show you wanted to see."

"Oh, Yamcha, of course!  That would be wonderful!  I'll go get dressed."

"Wear something that would also look nice for lunch, darling."  And maybe this time I won't get interrupted before…dessert.

"You are such a sweetheart!"

Despite her cheerful façade, Bulma suddenly feels a little empty inside.  She notices that Vegeta has left the room, although she didn't hear him leave.  She pushes any strange doubts aside, and concentrates on the pleasant results of her little game.  Yamcha forgot about Vegeta without a fight, and both of them still know who's in charge!  This is perfect!  So why do I feel like something's wrong?

Yamcha smirks.  So, it isn't over yet, is it?  I can't believe the little bastard managed to escape that explosion.  It took out three of my men, but the target just got a small bullet wound.  He's pretty good, I'll give him that.  Still, I'll win in the end.  I won this little battle, and I will definitely win the war.  Bulma's mine, whether she knows it or not, and she'll learn to be less dominating.  It's only a matter of time.

In a guest room down the hall, Vegeta sits on his bed, folding his legs underneath himself.  I wonder if he realizes how strong-minded she is.  It's odd that they're engaged, given that he seems like the type who would put more weight in tits than brains…not that she doesn't have a nice figure.  She just has a lot more spark than I would have expected.  I never would have thought she'd be able to work him over like that.  I suppose she doesn't know who he really is or what could happen to her if she makes him angry.  He falls back onto the bed and stares at the ceiling.  Not that I care.

*****

"Shall I call a cab for you, Miss Briefs?"

"No, thank you," she says without betraying any emotion.  "I can walk home."

"Perhaps Master Yamcha can drive you home.  I'm quite certain that he would…"

"No.  I don't want to be more of a burden to him than I already am," she replies, bitterness sharpening her voice.

"Please, Miss Briefs," the short manservant practically begs.  "At least tell Master Yamcha that you're leaving!"

"I wouldn't want to interrupt his 'important meeting.'  Tell him I'll see him whenever he has a few minutes to talk with his fiancée!"  She stops, suddenly feeling ashamed of herself.  It isn't like Krillen's done anything wrong.  I have no right to yell at him because of something his master has done.  For that matter, this isn't really Yamcha's fault.  Still…  She sighs.  "If he wants to see me, tell him I'll be in Hyde Park for the rest of the afternoon."

Krillen shakes his head in surrender.  "As you wish, ma'am."

She tastes Chicago in the air outside as she sets out for the park.  She runs her tongue across her teeth as she thinks about her "date" with Yamcha.

The art show was wonderful, as always, although Yamcha was somewhat less than enthralled.  He always just tags along, studying my body more than the paintings and sculpture.  Usually, I don't care, but today it bothered me.  I felt as if he were parading me like a show horse.  She grimaces at the recollection.  Well, Bulma, you did bring that on yourself with that little number this morning, didn't you?  She sighs, silently cursing herself as she picks her way through the grime on the sidewalk, carefully holding her violet dress clear of puddles.

Lunch was nice, too.  He took her to an expensive restaurant, where he talked to her about their honeymoon over a light soup and neat sandwich.  He wants to take me to New York.  She weighs it in her mind now.  At lunch, it seemed like a marvelously modern idea, but now she feels less than satisfied.  While New York is a better center for the arts than Chicago, it isn't terribly different.  She has already been there several times with her father.  It would be much more interesting, for example, to see Paris.  At the same time, Yamcha is so terrible with foreign languages…perhaps it would be better to just go by myself some day.  She smiles wryly.  Yes, that sounds like the perfect honeymoon -- going to Paris by myself.

He drove her to his posh apartment after lunch, claiming that he had forgotten the brochures he wanted her to see.  She prayed that he really did want to talk, but...I worried that he had something else in mind.  Her suspicion was confirmed when he effectively stopped all verbal forms of communication.  Why does kissing Yamcha always have to be so...brutal?  And why can't he ever just kiss me?  For better or for worse, his impassioned assault had, with much foul language on his part, ended abruptly when Krillen knocked on the door.

Bulma doesn't notice the strange looks from passersby as she continues walking, unaware that her facial expression keeps changing as she thinks.  She chews her lower lip, confused and discomfited.  She, too, should have felt upset when the announcement of a meeting interrupted Yamcha, but she didn't.  Her anger and frustration were actually aimed both at Yamcha for touching her and at herself for not enjoying it.  She just can't forget what ChiChi told her months ago, when she first began dating Yamcha.

"Just remember, Miss Bulma, that you must behave like a lady.  Don't let him do anything dirty, do you understand me?"

"ChiChi, these aren't the middle ages.  I don't have to worry about saving my chastity.  Women today are free to do with their bodies what they wish!"

"That may be, miss, but if you let that man touch you, you'll be nothing but his...whore.  I don't want to see that happen to you!"

She has always had such a low estimation of him, Bulma muses.  I wonder if she realizes how much that has affected me.  Since that day, she has never been able to let Yamcha touch her.  The few times they haven't been interrupted, she has escaped by feigning illness.  It actually isn't much of a lie – making out with Yamcha just feels wrong.  She hears ChiChi's voice repeating that ugly word: whore.  Bulma really isn't that stuffy; she can imagine being intimate with a man.  Her problem is just...Yamcha.  She simply can't enjoy his caresses.  She has tried, but she always ends up nauseous.

I really hope a wedding ring can cure this.

*****

As the meeting with his "associates" draws to a close, Yamcha pulls aside an old friend.

"Say, Yaj, I'm having a bit of a rodent problem, and I was wondering if you could help me."

"What's in it for me?"  Yajirobe has never been a fan of circumlocution.

Yamcha laughs.  "No, Yaj, it's not that big of a problem.  I just need a little advice."

Yajirobe just looks him in the eye, unfazed.  "Lunch at my favorite place."

Yamcha rolls his eyes.  "Sure, whatever you say.  The thing is there's this little bastard who's been ticking me off.  Worst thing is he seems to have more lives than a fucking cat.  You hear about the explosion at the Hôtel Paris?"  In an attempt to sound sophistiqué, he pronounces it "the Hotelle Pair-eese."

"Yeah.  Took out a whole block.  So?"

"Guess who made it out with one little bullet hole?"

Yajirobe shrugs, nonplussed.  "Who'd you send?  Your average thugs are nimrods."

"He's a fucking street fighter!  A pissing drunk should be able to knock him off with a .22!  How the Hell is he still alive?"

"You want Piccolo?  It'll cost ya."

"Fuck off, Yaj, he's still just an asshole.  I'm not shelling out for your top assassin.  I just want a little help, ok?"

"I get lunch?"

"Yes."

"Okay, okay, jeez, what's up your ass?  Tail him.  Get a couple of your smarter bastards to follow him.  Find his fucking weakness…a favorite whore, a sick mom, I don't care.  Wound her, he can't run.  He'll have to fight 'fair and square,' meaning he's horse shit.  Have a third guy take him out from behind.  Really, Yamcha, what happened to the great Wolf?  This shouldn't be so fucking hard."

"Easy for you to say – you haven't met the shit," Yamcha grumbles.  Yajirobe shrugs and exits, chomping on a cigar.

Minutes later, Yamcha's talking to two of his favorite henchmen.  Yajirobe's plan is fairly simple, and it doesn't take long for them to understand what they're supposed to do.  They leave quickly and silently, not attracting attention for fear of raising questions about their boss.  They know the punishment for failure.

*****

Engrossed in thought, Bulma doesn't notice the signs for the park.  A breeze picks up, whispering through her dress, go home, go home, but she ignores it.  The wind becomes stronger: hurry, hurry, go home!  She continues on.  A deep voice from the blackness above rumbles one last warning to no avail.  Bulma just keeps walking, her body plodding on mechanically, step after step.

A sudden splash from the still-muddy roads finally succeeds in catching her attention.  She stares in disgust at her ruined dress, then looks around for help.  She realizes with a start that she has no idea where she is.

She doesn't let herself panic; after all, she has been walking in a straight line.  All she has to do is retrace her steps.  What makes her predicament frightening is the character of her surroundings.

Bulky, sullen-faced men stare at her, openly eyeing the thin, soaked fabric clinging to her breasts.  With them are women drenched in makeup and cheap perfume.  Glowing red clouds of cigarette smoke float through the air as the rain begins to fall.

Bulma quickly turns around and begins walking briskly towards civilization.

"What's the matter?  Need some 'elp, princess?" a prostitute jeers.

Bulma breaks into a run.