Careful to keep out of sight, I decided to keep a high altitude above the car. The further up I was, the less chance they had of seeing me. On and on they drove, taking unnecessary routes, probably hoping to lose me. It's really rather pathetic how smart humans think they are.
It certainly wouldn't have occurred to me to offer the salesman a ride out of there. However, Bulma was Trunks' mother and therefore had a very defined sense of decency that I had obviously been spared. I gave her credit for reacting so calmly. Anyone else would have panicked and caused a scene. She'd probably saved the lives of many of those townspeople by merely escaping quietly to safety. The car pulled into a suburb, and Bulma dropped off her friend. Such a caring person. What a waste.
I waited in a nearby tree as Bulma made sure the salesman made it inside all right. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, she sped off down the street. I jumped down from the branch and bounded after her, landing silently atop the car. The irony of the situation was almost appalling. She was taking me right where I wanted to go. I chuckled, stretching out and laying down on the roof of the car. My hair whipped about my face and I felt as though I was trapped in a wind tunnel. It was a strange feeling but I enjoyed it regardless, unable to wipe the smirk off my face.
I expected Bulma and her son to live in a Capsule Corp. mansion: extensive and high tech. To my surprise, the car pulled into the driveway of an small and unimpressive building. A well kept flowerbed stretched from the drive way to the front door of the house. The grass was a bit unruly and the garage was littered with spare parts and projects, but it was obvious Bulma loved her home. Teleporting from the car's roof to yet another tree several meters away, I saw Bulma climb warily out of her car. She cast a glance around, her keys still clutched in her worried hand. Satisfied that she'd escaped, Bulma Briefs locked her car door and headed towards the front door of her home.
The door closed with a bang, and I found myself atop the car again, my hands on my hips. This was Trunks' home? This is what he fought so desperately to protect? I'd seen more worthwhile trailers and mobile homes. Shaking my head, I hopped down from the car. My eyes flicked from machine part to machine part, inspecting the garage. There was nothing too interesting here. Bulma had a regeneration tank of her own, and what looked like the spare parts to a gravity room. I laughed in spite of myself. She was still clinging to the battered parts of her past husband's precious gravity room. How pathetic. I recalled how easily the metal room had smashed to bits, how simple it had been for 17 to destroy the only thing that could have given Vegeta the upper hand against us.
Bulma had a work bench against the far wall of the garage. It was old and worn out, missing tools and it stood at sort of a slant. How could a supposed genius like Bulma allow herself to use such a disgraceful bench? I ran my fingers over a hammer, a screwdriver. Who cares anymore? I asked myself. Who cares about some old has been these days?
Just then something caught my attention from the corner of my left eye. A photograph had been pinned to the wall just above the work bench. It looked even more tattered than anything else in the garage. Leaning closer, I reached up and pulled it down, wiping it clean with my sleeve.
The picture had been taken by someone who apparently had no idea how to operate the camera. Their thumb had been captured in the upper right corner, and the photo itself had been taken on a slant. Nevertheless, whoever had taken it had at least gotten their subjects in the picture.
It must have been older than the bench, than the garage. Bulma, looking much, much younger, was leaning against what must have been Vegeta. It had to have been him. I could have recognized that hair anywhere. He was looking away from the camera, his arms crossed tightly across his chest just like always. The only difference I noticed was the conspicuous absence of the scowl upon his face he'd always seemed to wear. He almost looked at peace, perhaps just too embarrassed to look into the camera lens. Looking closer at the picture, I noticed they weren't the only ones posing. A certain small, lavendar haired boy was clinging to his mother's arm, only half of his shy face poking out from behind her waist.
I stared down at the photo in my hands, smoothing the edges with my fingers.
"God dammit."
Shame enveloped me and I tore the photo in half, again and again, until my hands were full of shredded paper.
Several minutes passed and I merely stood there.
"God dammit!" I said louder, throwing my outstretched hands into the air. The remains of the picture fluttered down around me, settling on the floor of the garage. Pieces landed on my shoulders and around my feet. I caught a glimpse of Trunks' shy face on one of the shreds before it joined the others on the floor.
The door leading from the garage to the house opened and I suddenly remembered where I was.