Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball/Z/GT. Obviously. Gee, what were you people thinking??
A/N: This'll be the last update for a while ... sorry. For those who didn't read my profile, finals are coming up and they're a bit more important than updating. So, until February, see ya' later! I'll miss you!! ^_^
Damsel in Distress? Not Likely!
Chapter Three: "Negotiations"
Trunks' cry woke Bulma from a restless slumber. She had been tossing and turning all night, the words of the Captain echoing through her mind.
"Tomorrow, the General will see you. I could tell you everything he will, but I think he'll want to tell you himself," the Captain shrugged. "It's policy."
Bulma fixed the man with a cold stare as she sat in an armchair in her new quarters. Trunks was lying on the bed, having his afternoon nap, dressed in a new set of clothes the Captain had provided for him. "Listen, sir, I'm grateful for this room and everything, but I can't forget that I am being held here against my will. Not to mention, you shot my son with a weapon that has who-knows-what as side effects."
A muscle in the Captain's cheek twitched. "I already told you, I don't wish to harm you or your son. I was merely trying to keep the number of casualties among my subordinates to a minimum. I doubt the General will be pleased to discover that one of his officers was killed by a child."
"Three men," Bulma corrected, smiling tightly. "Last night, when we were captured, Trunks killed two. I shot nine."
The Captain's eyes widened. "Really? Blade forgot to mention that."
On the bed, Trunks began to stir. The Captain glanced at him, then folded his hands behind his back. "Give him some water — that should help ease the headache he had earlier. There shouldn't be any other side effects."
Bulma raised an eyebrow. Something in the Captain's expression was evasive when he'd said that. "I don't like the sound of that. What other side effects, Captain?"
The man scratched the back of his head nervously, and Bulma noted that he wasn't affecting a very military air at the moment. "Well, sometimes nightmares can occur. He should be fine, but if in the case that nightmares do happen, tell the guard outside your door to get me."
Bulma nodded. "I will be sure to do that, Captain," she got up and went over to Trunks, who was struggling to sit up. "Believe me, I will."
The Captain's mouth quirked at that, perhaps in an expression of amusement, and he turned to leave. As he reached the door, however, he glanced back over his shoulder. "You might want to clean the blood off your face and out of your hair. The General won't be pleased if he knew my men had abused you."
Bulma's lip curled. "I see. Thank you for your concern."
His shoulders hunched, as if Bulma's remark had stung him. "Well, it's true. Make sure you get lots of sleep tonight. You'll want your brain to be in fully-functional order for tomorrow."
"Really?"
"Really. Please, as a word of warning — don't downplay your genius tomorrow. The General knows the extent of your intelligence, and if you try to pretend you're stupid, he won't be happy."
Bulma raised an eyebrow. "What? What does my intelligence have to do with anythC"
"I've said too much already," the Captain shook his head, and left the room. Bulma heard the door beep as the electronic lock clicked in.
Bulma shook her head, and she turned to Trunks. "Trunks? Trunks, honey, are you all right? Wake up!" she shook him lightly, but the little boy tossed in her arms and cried out, not hearing her or waking up.
His tiny face was soaked with sweat, and his newly-acquired pajamas were sticking to him. (How the Captain knew Trunks — and Bulma's — clothing sizes was more than mildly frightening.) Tears streamed down his face, and Trunks' expression was filled with fear. "Mama!" he cried out, "Papa! Goten! Come back!"
Bulma left Trunks on the bed for a minute, and she strode over to the door. There was a panel below the light switch, and Bulma punched the "call" button angrily. Within a few seconds, the watch-guard answered, sounding a little sleepy. "Y-yes?"
"My son is having nightmares," Bulma said sharply, "The Captain said to tell you to call him if this happened."
"Uh . . ." the man sounded skeptical, but Bulma pounded the door with her fist.
"NOW!" she shouted, and from the hall came a noise like the man had jumped in surprise. "I don't know what the Captain will do to you if he finds out you disobeyed him, but I doubt it will be good!"
There was a few seconds' pause, then the guard replied, "All right, I'm going. Don't have a heart attack," he muttered.
Bulma paced back and forth across the bedroom, knowing that it would be impossible to wake Trunks herself, muttering slightly obscene threats and imprecations against the Captain for firing the weapon in the first place. When the door buzzer finally sounded, Bulma was about ready to chew her arm off, she was so agitated. Hearing Trunks screaming for her, Vegeta, and Goten and being unable to wake him was more than she could bear.
Throwing on a housecoat that had been in the closet (How long have they been preparing for this? she wondered idly), Bulma hit the intercom button. "If you're the Captain, come in. If you're not, don't bother," she snapped, though she knew she had no choice if the person on the other side of the door really wanted to come in.
"It's the Captain."
Bulma stepped back from the door as it slid open, and the Captain entered, in full uniform. Bulma grinned to herself as the sudden image of the man sleeping in uniform sprang, unbidden, to mind. "Well, your nightmares happened," she raised an eyebrow, leading the Captain over to Trunks, who was thrashing back and forth and crying. Though she could have imagined it, Bulma thought she saw sadness creep into the Captain's expression.
He flicked on the bedside lamp and perched himself on the bed, then pulled Trunks into his lap. "Hey, kid, it's all right," he said soothingly, brushing Trunks' damp hair off his forehead. "Nothing's going to hurt you," the Captain took a small syringe from a pouch on his belt and filled it with a clear, blue liquid.
Bulma let out a small yelp of protest at the sight of the serum, but the Captain just smiled. "Don't worry. This is the antidote for the nightmares."
"'Don't worry'," Bulma snorted, "I've heard that before. But I don't have any choice, do I?"
"Not really," the Captain lifted Trunks' arm and carefully inserted the needle into the boy's flesh. Trunks' face scrunched up for a second, then he relaxed. The Captain smiled and put the syringe and bottle of serum away, then he propped Trunks up on his shoulder and rubbed the boy's back gently.
Bulma watched them for a few minutes, noting how the expression on Trunks' face eased into one of calm and contentment. "You have children," she observed.
The Captain got a reminiscent look on his face. "I did. A daughter," a small smile touched his expression, and he looked at Trunks. The little boy had curled one hand around the Captain's neck in his sleep, and was now breathing peacefully. "You should be proud of your son."
"I am."
The Captain shook himself, as though to remind himself that he was a soldier who was holding the two prisoner. "Yes, well . . . did you happen to notice if your son was saying anything?"
"He was calling for me, his father, and his best friend," Bulma explained, shuddering as she remembered the terror that had filled every nuance of her son's voice as he screamed. "He kept calling for us to 'come back'. Why?"
The soldier nodded, as though Bulma had reaffirmed a thought of his. "As I suspected. Generally, the nightmares are of one's biggest fears. It seems your son's worst fear is of being alone, without his family and friends. They can be quite frightening — that is why I always keep this antidote on hand."
Bulma looked at him, and a few thought processes ran through her head before she spoke. "You sound like you've been on the receiving end of that weapon before."
"Once or twice. I was the General's lab rat, when I was first drafte — that is, when I first volunteered for the army," the General shivered suddenly, and in a quick motion he handed Trunks back to his mother. "The symptoms should be completely erased by now. It shouldn't happen again, but if it does, call me. Now really, you must get some sleep."
"I'm going to try," Bulma promised, and she stood up, still cradling Trunks. "Thank you for helping Trunks," she paused, then asked timidly, "What happened to your daughter?"
"I'm not sure what you mean," the Captain's voice was cold, impersonal. "Nothing happened to my daughter. Good night, Briefs-san," then he smiled, as though to take away the sting from his words. "Let me warn you, ma'am — don't talk back to the General. He won't shoot on low power, and there will definitely be no antidotes."
Bulma frowned. "If it were just me, I wouldn't listen to a thing you said . . . but I don't want my son in any more pain."
The Captain smiled, acknowledging that this was the correct response. He glanced around, as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping or watching, then he took the pouch from his belt and set it on the bed. "Keep this, just in case. Fifty milligrams for low power, and an additional fifty for each increase in power. Use a full syringe for top strength, in case you aren't sure."
"Thank you again," Bulma followed him to the door, and she watched as the man halted before going outside.
"Please be careful tomorrow," the Captain warned her, and he made a move like he was going to ruffle Trunks' hair, but thought better of it and returned his hand to his side.
"I will, Captain."
The Captain frowned. "Captain Entare, Briefs-san."
Bulma smiled in spite of herself — despite the fact that this man was the leader of the troops who had killed her parents, she couldn't help liking him a little. Especially after how he acted toward her son. "I will, Entare-san."
******
"Get up, Briefs!" came an angry, female shout from outside the door, as a heavy fist pounded on it. "Time to leave."
Bulma straightened Trunks' hair one final time, glad (not for the first time) that he had been born with her hair, not his father's, then stood. Holding Trunks' hand and glaring at him when he tried to mess up his hair, Bulma punched the intercom. "We've been up for an hour. What do you want?"
The person on the other side of the door — whose voice Bulma recognized as belonging to Blade — sounded surprised and not a little miffed. "Well . . . get out here, then!" the doorlock clicked, then the door slid open and Bulma came face-to-face with the barrel of a submachine gun, with Blade's stony face behind it. A full complement of guards was behind her.
"Please," Bulma scoffed, picking Trunks up. "Are you that afraid of an unarmed woman and a six-year-old boy?"
"Don't play innocent," Blade growled, shoving Bulma into the centre of the armed cadre. "I've seen you kill my comrades. I won't let you get away with it again. I'm warning you — one move like that and I'll kill you. I'll say you jumped me, that it was self-defense. None of my men will contradict me."
"I wouldn't give you that pleasure, thanks," Bulma sneered, shooting a glance at Trunks to see how well he was handling things. The little boy was merely looking around curiously, taking in the details of the hall, with its metal walls and floors and inexplicable air of order.
A few minutes later, Trunks spoke up. "Is this a military place?"
Blade, who was walking beside them with her gun pointed at Bulma's head, looked startled. She tried to cover it up with her usual expression of indifferent rage, but Bulma saw it first. "What are you talking about, boy?"
Trunks shrugged. "It just looks like it. I was looking at one of Gohan-san's books one time, and this reminds me of a picture I saw of the Red Ribbon Army base."
"Shut up, brat," Blade snapped, ramming Bulma's head none-too-gently with the weapon. "Don't make me hurt your mother."
Trunks just looked at her, and though his expression was calm his eyes smouldered with warning. "Don't say that," he snarled, his childish voice sounding menacing despite its high-pitched tone. "You saw what happens when somebody hurts Mama."
"Someone would just shoot you," Blade argued back, "Then what would you accomplish?"
"Get me really mad and you won't get time to shoot me," Trunks wrapped his arms around Bulma's neck protectively. "Just try it. I dare you."
Blade's face contorted with anger, as she realized she was fighting with a six-year-old — and losing, to boot. "Shut up, brat!" she shouted, and swung the butt of her rifle at his head in an attempt to knock him out for the time being.
Bulma saw this coming, and without thinking she swerved her body to the side, intending to get Trunks out of harm's way. She miscalculated, however, and the weapon slammed full force into her upper arm. Feeling the bones snap beneath the blow, Bulma cried out in pain and dropped Trunks, sinking to her knees and clutching her left arm. Tears streamed down her face as her arm throbbed, feeling as though someone had set it on fire.
"Mama!" Trunks yelled, picking himself up off the ground and scrambling to her side. "What happened?"
"I think my arm is broken," Bulma gritted. "No, I know it's broken. No, Trunks, don't kill anybody," she added hastily as rage transformed the boy's features into a mask of anger. "I'll be fine. I just need the bones to be set, that's all. Come on, kiddo, let's go see the General . . . but you're gonna' have to walk now."
"That's okay," Trunks grabbed her good hand and started walking, shooting her concerned glances. He looked up at Blade, and Bulma saw an expression on his face that she had seen on Vegeta's a few times. "Mean Lady, you're a —" what followed next was a word unfit for print.
Bulma's eyes widened as Blade hissed in outrage, and she clunked Trunks lightly on the head. "Trunks!" Bulma scolded, "Where did you hear that?"
Trunks' anger disappeared, and he grinned, one hand behind his head in a comically confused gesture. "From you. You call Papa that sometimes, remember?" he ducked his head sheepishly. "Or was I not supposed to listen to that?"
Bulma just laughed, the humour of the situation taking her mind off the pain for a few seconds. Blade, on the other hand, was seething, and Bulma knew it was only the General's warning that she and Trunks were to be delivered alive that kept the volatile woman from striking them down. "Don't say that word again, okay?" Bulma chuckled. "Once you know what it means, then you're allowed to say it."
"What does it mean?"
"Oho-o-o no, you're not getting off that easily!"
"Aww . . . Papa would tell me."
"Daddy has a dirtier mouth than I do, dear boy. That doesn't count."
Trunks just giggled. "How come you can't wash Papa's mouth out with soap like you do mine?"
Bulma had to laugh at that image. "I've got my own ways of shutting him up. I don't need soap."
Trunks sang gleefully, "Mama and Papa, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-IC"
"Trunks!" but the rest of Bulma's indignant squeal was broken off as she winced in pain, holding her good arm to her chest and trying not to let Trunks see how much it hurt. It only needed one well-placed bullet and BANG! — no more Trunks. Clenching her teeth, Bulma managed to speak without the tone of her voice escalating as the pain increased. "Trunks, leave Mommy and Daddy's personal lives alone, okay? It isn't any of your business."
"Okay. But you like it," Trunks' little face had a wicked grin on it, one that Vegeta got sometimes when no one else was around. "I know you do."
"I don't believe you," Bulma laughed incredulously, "You're six! You're not supposed to know about stuff like this."
"With you and Papa, it's hard not to," Trunks countered wryly.
Blade glared at them. "Shut up, you two. We're here."
The light-hearted mood was doused as quickly as a bucket of water would put out a candle. Bulma gripped Trunks' hand tightly, glad that she had been able to get her son's mind off their dire predicament for a few minutes. "Let's hope this is short," she muttered, "I don't know how long I can keep my temper."
They were brought into a large room, again largely military in appearance, with a long aisle running down the middle, leading up to a high dais. Bulma could see a man standing on the platform at the far end of the room, but she couldn't see any details of him.
"Leave us, everyone," the man's voice boomed across the room. In orderly precision, each soldier turned and left the room. Blade was the last to go, but though she hesitated, she finally exited, as well — glaring at Bulma and Trunks the whole time.
Once everyone had gone, the man beckoned them forward. "Come here," his tone was genial, but surrounded by a layer of steel that suggested that the polite "request" was also an order.
Bulma all but ran up the aisle, her customary cowardice in the face of enemies forgotten in her anger at being taken away from her home. She was almost at the dais when the man held up a hand, indicating she was to come no further.
He was tall, about Goku's height, with blonde hair cropped close in military style. He wore an olive-grey uniform like the rest of his subordinates, but his ensemble included a jacket and a flat-topped hat, the style of which Bulma hadn't seen on any of the other officers. It was strange, but something about seeing all of the outfit together jogged something in her memory. Something about the —
All at once, Bulma stopped caring as the pain, rage, and frustration welled up inside her. "All right," she yelled, making Trunks jump. "What is going on? What is it that you wanted my dad and me to do for you, because whatever it is, you lost your chance when my parents died."
"Shut up!" the man snarled, and Bulma wondered for a second whether that phrase was mandatory in these people's vocabularies. "I have neither the time, nor the desire, to stand here and listen to you babble about your own petty problems."
"Petty?!" Bulma's voice cracked in disbelief. "My parents were killed by your men, and you call that petty?"
Trunks tugged on her hand. "Mama!" he whispered urgently, "Be quiet! It's not Papa — this man will hurt you."
A small growl rose from Bulma's throat, but she knew her son had a point. She argued with Vegeta like this all the time, and he was fifty million times stronger than this man could ever be, but there was one crucial difference; on no occasion would Vegeta even consider causing her even the least amount of bodily harm. This man had no such inhibitions. "Fine. Sorry."
"If I may continue," the man sent her an annoyed glare. "I am General Bouryoku. Briefs-san, you have been brought here because my organization needs you to do something for us. I am, you see, the leader of an army."
"Toldja'," Trunks let out a small grin of triumph. "I knew this was an army place."
Bulma frowned. "An army? But you must have incredible resources to come up with so much equipment! Which group are you?"
The man stabbed a finger at the breast pocket of his jacket, and it was there that Bulma saw the insignia. A red stripe, forked at both ends, with the letters "R R" in white — except that in this insignia, a large "N" was placed between the R's. "The Red Ribbon Army!" Bulma gasped.
"Neo Red Ribbon Army," Bouryoku corrected her coldly, with the air of one who is proud of his position and not afraid to show it. "Otherwise, you are correct."
Bulma found herself gripping Trunks' hand even tighter, until the little boy squirmed his fingers and tried to pull away. "But . . . Gero is dead! He's been dead for six years now! And the Army was disbanded long ago."
"What has that got to do with anything?" Bouryoku snapped. "He was an old man, and such people can only see so far. His vision was immaterial, his goals ridiculous. Our ideals are not his; hence the 'Neo'," ice-blue eyes narrowed, and he clasped his hands behind his back, feet together in a military stance. "No matter. Our goals are not your concern."
"What is, then?" Bulma stared up at the General, trying to keep her voice level, and if possible, edged with haughtiness and bravado. Unfortunately, her heart pounded in her chest so rapidly that Bulma was sure Bouryoku would be able to hear the beats, her chest tightened as she struggled to keep her breathing slow and regular, and her knees felt weak. She was the prisoner, and Bouryoku had the upper hand. No, scratch that; he had all the hands. There was nothing she could do against him.
Bouryoku was still eyeing her the way Bulma would have looked at a representative of a company Capsule Corp. was about to take over. "You are to build weapons. I know your skills as an inventor — you and your father's accomplishment of the Hoi Poi capsules when you were a teenager revolutionized this entire planet. I am using those skills."
The General's lip curled up in a feral sneer, and he stared down at her. It was very effective, and not a little intimidating. "You're going to make biological weapons for my Army. Weapons that will reduce a person's energy level to one."
Trunks made a noise that sounded like a kicked puppy, and it was obvious he knew what that would feel like. Must be the type of gun that Entare-san shot Trunks with yesterday, Bulma realized. "Why would you need weapons like those?" Bulma frowned, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Normal guns would be more than enough for any ordinC" her voice trailed off as she looked at Trunks. She thought of Son, who had defeated the original Red Ribbon Army when he had been a boy. She thought of Yamucha, Kuririn, Piccolo, Gohan, Vegeta . . .
Bulma sucked in her breath sharply. "You can't be serious!" she expostulated, eyes wide. "You can't expect me to make something like that. I know what that would do to my friends!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bouryoku raised an eyebrow, exacting an air of casual indifference. "Nevertheless, you will make these weapons. We have a limited amount of them ourselves, but not enough."
"No!" Bulma staggered a few steps backward, intending on putting as much space between herself and the man without making it seem like she was afraid. "I already told you, I'm not doing anything for you."
Bouryoku pulled his sidearm from its holster, and he pointed it at little Trunks. "This is one of the few functional bio-weapons we have, but it still has a substantial amount of power left," one thumb moved a small switch back, almost lazily, flicking off the safety. "Maybe you don't believe me?"
All pretense of defiance drained out of her then, and Bulma hung her head in defeat. Her friends were one thing — they could take care of themselves — but Trunks? No. She couldn't do that. Not to her son. "All right. I'll make them."
"I knew you would agree to our proposition," Bouryoku smiled, but the expression resembled a leering demon more than anything else, in Bulma's mind. "And, of course, don't even think about stalling to give your husband time to find you. I will expect a good portion of work done per day — otherwise, you will not be allowed to see your son."
"What?!" Bulma shook her head, the incredulity returning. She put a protective arm around Trunks' shoulders, drawing him close to her. For once, Trunks didn't make a face and pull away, and she knew he was frightened of these soldiers and their bio-weapons. "You can't take him away from me!"
"No one said I was going to," Bouryoku retorted. "I said, if you don't hand in your quota at the end of the day. Now go," he hit a button on the side of his dais, signalling his guards outside the room, and called, "Blade!"
The response was immediate; at the other end of the long room, the door slid open and Blade stepped through, weapon at the ready. When she saw nothing was amiss, the soldier snapped to attention, weapon against her shoulder, one hand to her forehead. Bulma thought she saw disappointment tighten the lines of Blade's face.
"Take them to the mess hall and get them something to eat," Bouryoku ordered, then glanced at Bulma. "Remember," he added in a low, warning tone. "Don't cross me. I don't like stooping to violence upon children, but if it's necessary, I'm not above it."
Bulma was about to retort, but she remembered Entare's words of caution, and kept her mouth shut.
Wordlessly, Blade flanked Bulma and Trunks, leading them out of the room.
******
Hmmm . . . well, maybe things aren't explained quite as well as Bulma wanted them, hn? The General certainly has Bulma in a bit of a choke-hold, though, doesn't he!
Next chapter: a sort of interlude. Vegeta and Yamucha take the night to rest, and Vegeta spends most of his time tormenting himself or thinking about Bulma ......