. . .
TEN DAYS
. . .
This isn't an equation to balance.
If she had just _, then _. Add more here, the result changes there. Propositional logic changes nothing. Bulma can't undo last night's catastrophe. She can't pick up all these pieces and put it back together the way it used to be. Without him, she's even more helpless than she was before. She can't compete with his desire for power when it's turned against her. For better or worse, she can't out-think the force of Vegeta's relentless motivation toward whatever climax he is headed for.
She is at work on Friday, but only her physical body is there, safety glasses perched on her nose, etch of the graphite pencil against blueprint paper. Mentally, she is time traveling. She's revisiting last night. Like a glutton for punishment, she replays it over and over.
She only has herself to blame. Her mind had been branding itself all over him prematurely. It'd been so good, what they'd had, she couldn't stop marveling over it. Like a convert, she had believed he was Good. Whatever had happened in his past had shaped him, but he'd grown. Last night she'd located herself in time and space again. She is waving hello from this new bleak reality.
She is the only one she can rely on.
He doesn't contact her at all on Friday.
She goes to work as if everything is okay in her totally normal world. She slips past her colleagues huddled at the coffee pot, where they're talking about the weather, their weekend plans. She closes her office door and walls herself off, tries to lose herself in her work. Classic Bulma move, only this time, it doesn't feel quite right, like a skin she's outgrown and shed, like forcing herself into too small a box. Her work used to be the only thing that fascinated her, but the boundaries of her mind have been thrown wide. How much had changed since she'd started running around with her next door neighbor, transformations so small to the naked eye, fractures impossible to perceive but which still ache. Now she's a different person with nothing to show for it—no comrade, no ball. It's surreal, acting as if nothing is shattering her inside. She drinks a cup of coffee like a normal person would do, this familiar ritual in a world that has gone completely bonkers. Harboring a big secret had made everyone feel farther away and brought her and Vegeta closer. Now it was just her and a hole he had left by his departure that she couldn't explain.
She drives home from work in a fog. The world is washed gray, rain coming down in a sheet. This is what betrayal feels like.
By evening, her brain is seeking to rationalize last night. She shouldn't be surprised by his behavior. Vegeta did, as his old colleagues said, what was best for Vegeta. Period. He'd helped her find her project because he was opportunistic and self-serving. Period. He didn't care more about her than he did power and pride, and she was surprised! Exclamation mark! She had known the man darkening her door step was trouble, but Bulma lived for trouble. She'd reaped what she'd sowed.
No one is walking up the stairs at 5:15 after work except her. No one knocks on her door through the evening. His house remains dark. She pulls away from her bathroom window, arms crossed in the dark, protectively turning away from that feeling again, like she'd been all day. Dimly she remembers he had a fight tonight. She was never really invited.
In bed, she tosses restlessly until the world blackens and her brain fuzzes around the corners, revealing a tunnel leading nowhere but to empty, gray, dreamless space, and fitfully, she sleeps.
. . .
A slant of light from her window lays feather light over her face. Only a few hours had passed, according to a glance at the clock, but it'd been enough time for her mind to integrate new program files, defrag, dump minutiae. Her subconscious had determined data or detritus, dispatching it, allowing her to see fresh.
"Don't fall on your sword or anything," she whispers out the window when he doesn't swing by in the morning to explain. He won't humble himself for her, reroute his plans for her.
Stupid that she'd expect him to. So what, they'd developed a nice shorthand, didn't have to say anything to know what the other was feeling. The heated looks, the harmonious teamwork. So what. She'd never met anyone like Vegeta. And now someone had gutted their secret language. Vegeta had.
Bulma doesn't sense it, but she has rounded a corner.
An angry woman is rattling the bars of the cage inside her.
. . .
NINE DAYS
. . .
Before the faint, autumn sun has even strengthened in the overcast morning sky, she hovers over her white board downstairs. The marker squeaks on the dry erase board. She empties her head of everything she'd learned—each player in the city, their strengths and weakness, and how they're connected, like some kind of macabre family tree. Steeling her jaw, she writes Vegeta's name down on the left. She writes Frieza's name on the far right.
She has only nine days left. Nine days to get this right. This time, she gets to be the one in control, the one breaking the cycle.
In the corner, on the stack of Physicists Weekly and haphazardly arranged sheet metal and wire, her phone rings. Yamcha, for their monthly brunch, which Bulma always dutifully answers and attends.
Bulma ignores it.
. . .
The little sedan putts at the stoplight, two cars behind the city bus. Bulma's eyes don't leave it as it lumbers down the far right lane, skimming the curb as it picks people up and deposits them through the center of the city. The heat doesn't work in this car, but she's pulled a beanie over her head, tugged gloves on under a baggy, unisex coat. The cold isn't worth her attention. There is only the bus, and the man who is going to get off of it at any second.
It's at 9th Street that she spots him, his tell-tale hair, duffle in hand. He's thrown a leather jacket over his black hoodie. Fitted athletic pants molded to muscled legs, black and white sneakers glide over concrete. He gives a long look up and down the sidewalk when he steps off, brushes the flat of his hand under his nose from the cold, and then heads down Baltimore. Bulma throws the car into park on the side of the street, pissing the car off behind her, and unbuckles her seat belt.
She follows him down Baltimore, past Elm, walking close enough to the storefronts that she can dodge inside if necessary. Anxiously, she dips the bottom half of her face deeper into the neck of her coat and pretends its against the cold. But Vegeta never looks back, always plowing forward.
When he turns into an old brick building, door swinging wide behind him, she stalls. She can't just walk in the front door, and there's probably bad guys in the back, too.
The fire escape seems to appear out of nowhere, beckoning.
At the top of the second floor landing is an old, metal door, cracked open. There's an ashtray on a rusty side table and a plastic patio chair. Someone's smoke spot. The door pushes open, silent on its old hinges. But even as cloudy as it is, light spills into the dark hallway, giving her away. She freezes.
No one is yelling or shooting at her, so she peeks in. Like a hand pushing at her back, a gust of wintry air causes her to stumble inside. It's as if everything is telling her she must do this. All the signs are here.
Her sneakers barely sound in the hall, but she tiptoes to be safe. It's very dim, musty with age. As she advances farther into the building, she can hear voices, and she cautiously slows.
But it isn't Vegeta's voice that gives them away. It's Tien's.
"I wouldn't have to tell you that if you'd just get over it."
Bulma nearly dives into the nearest closet, and cracks the door. She is indirectly across from the room that Tien's voice sounds from. She's pretty sure a mop bucket is poking her butt, and it smells like dirty mop water and chemicals, but she wedges herself further into the corner stubbornly and listens.
"I did what I was asked to."
Vegeta's voice does the weirdest thing to her. It's warm and gold as sunlight on her skin. It's a hand between her legs. It's a hair trigger: she can imagine herself locking her hands around his neck and shaking until his eyes become x's.
"No one asked you to do that." Tien is like the class know-it-all, disaffected and snotty until offended when challenged by another student. "You apply the rules only when you benefit."
"I'm not perfect," Vegeta snarls, already pissed.
Tien chokes on laughter. "Wow. You really have changed. Never thought I'd see the day."
Steps grow louder from the hallway. Bulma presses herself so hard into the inside closet wall she pretends she's melted into it. Whoever it is passes, and then says to the other men, "Are you getting soft on us?"
Piccolo.
"How much do we really have to lose?" Vegeta's tone makes it clear he thinks nothing.
"You're out of your mind," Tien complains. "You'll derail this whole operation. He'll never forgive you."
"The fight was a disaster last night," inserts Piccolo. "You idiot!"
She hears a chair shriek in protest, as if someone has leapt from his chair. Vegeta's snarl is dangerous. "Don't lecture me about the fight when you've been baiting me to do exactly that this whole time!"
"You handled the whole affair like shit!"
There's no protest from Vegeta.
"So you just decided to opt out of your contract?" Piccolo fishes. "On a whim?"
"I'm done pretending."
Something smacks the table. She's feeling crunched and achy, but she will do this all day if she has to if it means uncovering Vegeta's secrets. All year, even.
"There." Papers rifle, then a thud hits the table. "Roshi says he's got exactly what you asked for. He wants you to pick it up at 4." Piccolo's voice hardens. "He's not the only one going out of his way for you."
Vegeta makes a dismissive noise.
A chair scrapes, and Tien's voice pitches low, teasing. "Speaking of going out of their way for you, what's Dr. Briefs doing today, Vegeta?"
At her name, her breath stills in her lungs.
Dead silence fills the space between them all. She strains to hear, hair standing on end.
There's finally a scoff from Tien. "Exactly what I thought. You estrange everyone you meet."
"Curious that she wasn't at the fight last night," Piccolo observes. "Probably for the best. How the hell would you have explained it?"
"The only reason you aren't both dead," Vegeta drawls dangerously, "is because I need you."
"Cute. And the only reason you aren't dead is because of Goku and Kaioshin. Remember that."
"What can I do?" Vegeta erupts. "You can't have it both ways. You can't expect me to fall in line even as you take away all my rights. I'm not your beast on a leash. I'm not your penitent soldier! And I'm not your fucking lackey!"
She's never heard Vegeta yell like this before. Her brows knit together in alarm.
"Way down deep, you still think you're King of South City," Piccolo's smooth voice cuts. "You still expect to be worshiped. But here," he drawls, "you're a king no longer. Here, you have to play our game."
"Yeah? Well fuck your game." A chair scrapes backward, like Vegeta stands to leave. "And fuck this side."
"You can't be a lone wolf, Vegeta. You'll spin your wheels."
A chuckle that scares her. "Who said I don't have other options?"
She can hear his commanding tread down the hall, down a set of stairs and away from her, until silence envelops her, thick as a blanket.
"I think we have to consider," Piccolo says when the silence starts ringing in her ears, "a reality that Vegeta's turned."
. . .
Radio blaring, she leads the car to the Porno Palace.
It's early enough that, if she times this right, she can get what she wants while avoiding Vegeta.
The g-string cowboy is there at the counter, and on cue he gives her an appreciative look as she walks in. "Hey, city girl. Ever been interested in a country boy?"
Bulma is in no mood for men today. She does not have the patience to let this guy down gently. Thankfully, Roshi does it for her.
"I wouldn't, if I were you." He moves out from behind the curtain and regards them quietly. "This lady here has a man who's a little...possessive."
"That doesn't scare me off so easily," the cowboy says, winking. "It just adds an element of spice to the dish."
"Yeah? Explain that to Vegeta."
The cowboy's face goes stiff. "Nevermind," he says, and shakes his head as if he disagrees fundamentally with her choice, going back to what he was doing as if she was never there.
She turns to regard herself in the mirrors of Roshi's sunglasses.
"How are you, dear? I see you're alone. Come to take me up on my offer of a job?"
Her voice is perfectly rehearsed. "Vegeta sent me to pick it up. Something came up, so we're meeting up later."
Roshi regards her thoughtfully for a second, then gestures toward the doorway. "Want to come to my office?" His querulous voice is beckoning, soft.
She follows behind him, eyebrows coming down hard. If he suspects what she's up to and intends to lecture her, she won't have it. But she needs what he has. She fortifies herself for a fight.
In the little office—not as postmodern as Piccolo's, nor as barrels-and-crates as Tien's—Roshi shuts the door behind them. There's a girlie calendar on the wall, and a retro clock with a naked woman riding a rocket ship, her red lips pursed in an unmistakable "O" of pleasure. But there are picture frames, too, and a crocheted blanket thrown over a couch. Sunning on the window sill is a palm in a ceramic pot. A turtle in a terrarium pushes himself slowly to a bowl of lettuce under a heat lamp.
"I heard about Vegeta's fight last night," Roshi begins. He takes a seat behind the desk, and props up his sunglasses on his head to rub his eyes. Instead of the admonishing she expected, Roshi's eyes are ringed with concern. "Vegeta's full of piss and vinegar, we all know. He's always been rash. You can't just stop years of reinforced behavior, of thinking you're unstoppable." He takes his sunglasses off his bald head and wipes them with a cloth. His ankle rests on his knobby knee. "But he's a better man now that he found you."
Bulma can't help but scoff in surprise. "He's the same selfish jerk he was when I first met him," she argues.
"Why? Because he can't tell you everything?"
Bulma blinks.
What does Roshi know?
"Yeah, he may not be able to tell you everything. But I recognize a change when I see one. That man took a big risk last night." He puts his glasses back on, strokes his beard. "I don't know if he'll recover," he finishes quietly.
Just what the hell had happened last night? "He's a big boy," Bulma says instead, neutrally.
"Yeah. But he's burned a lot of bridges," laments the old man. "Whatever his reason, though, he's decided to trust in you."
Roshi seems to be genuinely concerned about Vegeta's welfare. Or there's just a chance, she reasons cynically, that he's only worried about the smoking crater Vegeta might leave behind when he finally turns. She could sympathize.
"What exactly are you trying to say?" She is nothing to Vegeta. He made that clear when he jumped ship.
Roshi tosses the manila envelope down on his desk.
She picks it off the table carefully, pops the opening, and looks in.
"I'm just glad he has you," Roshi finishes. "He had a troubled coming of age. Then that man filled his head full of lies. I doubt he's ever had anyone to confide in, that trusts him and that he can trust. He probably doesn't even know where to start." Roshi crooks his fingers under his chin, contemplating. "This has been an uneasy alliance. I'm glad he has you to ground him."
He apologizes and leaves her there in his office when a dancer cracks the door open and pulls him away with a question.
Bulma stares unseeing at the wall. No one is making any sense. She had no idea what the hell everyone is talking about. She's a smart woman, but all these half-formed clues, and she had nothing of substance to attach them to. Something was happening at an accelerated pace, and she couldn't keep all the pieces together with the speed of it.
It doesn't stand out to her at first. She sees it, parting from behind a curtain of mental fog, obscured by strain and distraction. There it is, nonetheless: a picture frame, with two familiar faces. Goku and ChiChi smile at the camera with their hands on a child's shoulders, who smiles shyly, front and center.
In the picture, the child holds a glowing orange ball with four stars on it.
. . .
Bulma drives around the city to quiet the yelling in her head. It's not working.
She eventually parks her dad's old, compact car, feeds the meter, and walks down the street. The brisk air claws through the fog of anxiety, but it's not sobering her. At a ground eating pace, she is seething.
She had dumped the contents of Roshi's envelope out into her lap before she'd left the parking lot. It had been a single picture of a painting, an old, Eastern mural on sun-bleached brick. A green dragon wound above wispy cumulus, his lower body sheltering several familiar golden balls. On the back, someone had written, "Seven."
There was more than just a single dragon ball. There were seven. Seven extremely difficult balls to locate, not just one.
Just how much had been kept from her? Everything? What did she know about her neighbor next door? "Nothing!" She curses, startling the guy walking past her as she slams her coffee cup into the trash.
Sadness hits her in a wave, and she has to sit down under its weight. How did Vegeta wedge himself under her skin so deep? Why had she let him, the possibility of him, so close?
The woolly autumn clouds dampen any chance of a spectacular sunset tonight. Night draws over the city uneventfully. On a cold park bench, the evening crowd and traffic pick up, and Bulma watches it dully. Saturday night in the city, the rowdiness growing with the approaching darkness. Her mission had been slamming up against her skull all night, beating its war drums furiously in her chest, and she takes a minute to just breathe.
Why couldn't things have just been easy? Why had everything gone to hell once she'd brought this ball home? The dragon balls were cursed; her life was evidence of that! Everything was getting worse and worse, and the crummiest part about it was that she'd find herself pining for Vegeta's company and support. She was so much stupider than she'd ever given herself credit for.
Feeling like she's hitting bottom, she gazes out on the street numbly. Life goes on, despite her problems. She sighs. The five stages of grief were being rolled like a dice, she was getting one every few minutes.
Her mind finally rests on a thought.
She should call Yamcha back. Let him know she's ok. He is one of the few constants in her life, and she feels poignantly at this moment that she shouldn't take that for granted. She picks herself up off the bench and moves toward the phone booth across the street.
The red lights from the tiny shop beside it wash the inside of the booth in cherry red. Bulma glances up at it as she draws a quarter from her pocket for the pay phone.
FORTUNE TELLING, it blazes.
. . .
The little old woman jerks the "In Session" sign down that indicates she is working and snaps the curtain closed to give them privacy. Shuffling across the room with a hunched back, she wears a loose, purple shirt with little silver beads and bangles sewn in, and her hair sticks out from behind her ears, dry as straw and reddish-purple from a boxed dye job. She is not a sweet little old lady: her jowls hang like a bulldogs and her lips have thinned and retreated into her toothless mouth. Bulma keeps distance between them as the crone leads them to a round table. Musky incense burns from a corner beside a real crystal ball and a couple of stacked tomes. There are paintings of ancient lore: dryads gathering water in streams under the watchful gazes of gods, dragons snarling over clouds, and a scroll that's unrolled to the floor. Crystals and gems glint on bookshelves, along with dried flowers, acorns, and what looks like chicken bones. The name the crone gave is Baba, and Bulma is reminded of Baba Yaga, with her wandering house on chicken legs and her taste for children.
The old woman takes a slow and pained seat onto a red cushion on the floor round the table, and gestures for Bulma to do the same.
"Bone telling, tea leaf and water scrying, palm reading, runes and cartomancy. I do it all. What brings you in to hear an old woman's doddering premonitions?"
Bulma is taken aback by the woman's frankness. She'd thought she'd get a pushy salesperson trying to hawk the mystical. Instead, the woman doesn't even seem happy to have a customer.
After a speechless moment, Bulma finally answers. "I'm in a very weird place in my life right now." She really doesn't know what to say. How to explain this uncertainty gonging through her? How to explain that the man she was falling for is working for the enemy? That a magical ball has been stolen from her, and now the whole city underground is looking for it?
"You are having relationship problems?" The old woman clucks her tongue.
Bulma colors. "No!" At the woman's hard stare, she backpedals. "Yes. But there's more to it than that," she protests.
The old woman puts an electric kettle on and lights a candle which sits in a copper dish between them. Bulma watches in fascination. As if signaling they are starting, Baba plucks a deck of cards from the table. "We will draw a minor and a major arcana for the past, present, and future. And one card for you. We will read all about your little relationship issues." Baba's voice dips in annoyance.
Bulma is struck with the weirdest disorientation. She doesn't know why she's here. Everything she's doing lately seems led by some unseen hand. She is not in control, not the one at the wheel. Something is driving her forward without any explanation.
Baba, with much fussing, eventually selects and places seven cards down. Three are close together, in pairs, and the last rests off to the side. Bulma's card, she suspects. She stares at it mistrustfully as Baba pours tea in two ceramic mugs.
Then Baba turns the first card over. "Two of cups," she reads. "Cups: the suit of relationships and connections."
Bulma frowns down at the card. She can't believe she's agreed to this. "What does that mean?"
"This is the beginning." Baba's finger taps the card face, where the silhouette of a man and a woman exchange a cup. Two winged snakes twist upwards from the cups. A lion's head floats at the top. It makes no sense to Bulma. Were they exchanging cups with snakes in it? Bad deal.
"A man and a woman meet. Between them, the staff of Hermes, with its twining snakes, the symbol of trade and communication. You recently met a man whom you had to negotiate a deal with."
Bulma blinks. "This could apply to anyone," she finally says. "Could have been the guy at the grocery store who I gave my change to."
"The lions head symbolizes sexual attraction." The old woman looks at her flatly from under heavy eyelids. "There's a lot of passion between you."
A nervous laugh escapes Bulma.
"You have recently began a relationship with someone, one that is mutually beneficial. A lover, or a business partner. You both share a vision, a pursuit, of business or of marriage." Bulma chokes on her tea, but Baba ignores her. "It's a partnership that requires constant respect and transparency to remain intact." She flips the card beside it without giving Bulma time to digest any of this.
Bulma looks at it like it has three heads.
"The Fool."
"Aw, man." Bulma mutters. "Is that me?"
"The Fool is innocence," Baba explains impatiently. "The Fool has began a journey, excited for new adventure. The mountains loom behind him"—she taps the picture on the card, where a wall of purple mountains shadow the Fool's path just down the road—"and the future challenges, but the Fool trusts where the universe is taking him. You have had an open mind, for personal growth and adventure. There is great potential, once the Fool starts his journey."
If the universe was sentient enough to set her up on this wild dragon ball chasing spree, it was probably laughing at her, too. Great potential, sure, but with very poor odds. Bulma presses her lips together, staring cynically at the cards.
The crone flips the third of the seven cards over. "The present, now. The middle of your journey, the both of you. Six of Swords."
Six. Her dragonball had had six stars. Dr. Briefs casts the thought away as anecdotal. Dr. Briefs needs less hoodoo and more evidence. Dr. Briefs' calm composure is hanging from a thread.
"Swords represent conflict, intellect, courage and change. You are in the middle of a great event that requires the best of what your mind and heart has to offer. The six of swords is about transition."
Bulma peers down hard at the card. It's more melancholy than the other two. A figure hunches over in a boat as someone ferries them across glassy, still waters. It's a portrait of grief and passage. Six swords float over the figure's shoulder, and even Bulma can feel the mental weight of their reckoning.
It was like the deck had aimed its satellite imaging right at her and Vegeta and zoomed in by a thousand. The card face seems hopeless. Were their hearts and minds just not constituted of the right stuff? Had the journey been doomed to fail?
Baba flips over the other card in this pair. "Ahh." Seriousness threads her voice, and Baba stares somberly down at this card, causing Bulma's spine to straighten. The reading has taken a turn. Clearly this isn't what Baba had expected.
Bulma's eyes widen when she sees why. 'The Hanged Man,' it reads at the bottom of the card.
The man hangs upside down by a rope around his ankle, a yellow circle behind his head like a halo. It all seems very medieval to Bulma, but still, here she is, hanging on to every word Baba says.
"Now, don't be alarmed. The Hanged Man is learning, not death. Like the Fool, he started out on a journey, but he has discovered something which will bring enlightenment, if he lets it. I have a responsibility when I draw the Hanged Man during a reading to encourage my client—or her boyfriend," she deadpans, piercing Bulma with a stare—"to surrender to the lesson. But surrender doesn't come for free." Baba's voice lectures in the hush between the scattered amethysts and the overgrown spider plants. "The Hanged Man must give up control to learn something vital. It may even call for martyrdom, but that's the price of the knowledge following through to its logical conclusion. And some might say, all knowledge is worth having."
Bulma watches the card as if it might leap up at any second and start marching toward her with a butchers knife. She feels like she's fallen down a rabbit hole. She can't imagine Vegeta martyring himself for anyone. He'd rather just hang there stubbornly.
"However," Baba's voice turns harsh. "The Hanged Man doesn't just always accept his lesson. He is depicted by hanging by a rope from his ankles because he is a traitor, unable to see the world how it is, only how he wants it to be."
Bulma meets Baba's gaze soberly.
"And if he misses his opportunity for self-sacrifice and learning, he loses everything, while thinking foolishly that he's maintained everything. It is the inability to change, the ego, which is death."
Bulma's heart is pounding. She places her hand over it, to keep it in.
"Now. The last pair. The possible future." Baba flips the card. "Nine of wands." The silhouette of a person clutches a wand, while several other wands hover over them threateningly. She couldn't have just had a more low-key future? There were wands attacking her now? Bulma sighs.
"They are weary, this person. They have fought many battles and must battle one more time. This is the final test. They must be resilient and strong, and have what it takes to overcome this final difficulty. They must keep pushing. The suit of wands is about passion, strength, boldness and freedom. They must not forget, this is what they're made of."
She flips the sixth card over. Bulma catches her breath.
On the card, a woman jumps, frightened, from the top of a tower. Behind it, lightning clashes. The tower itself has a gash in it, like at any moment, it might topple. Baba's voice is grim and solemn. "The Tower. The tower is change. But not just any change—upheaval. This is change birthed by destruction. It is an event that shakes you to your core." Baba locks her rheumy eyes with Bulma's. "There is no escaping it. But here," she points to the lightning, "even as the foundations of life come crashing down, here there are bolts of clarity, the Truth. You will be faced by whats real and what's not, and realize your beliefs were built on false misunderstandings. But the Tower is here to help. This event will set things aright, and you will grow stronger and wiser from it, but only if you dare."
Bulma isn't breathing. She grips her knee and stares down at the card.
Why had she thought this was a good idea again?
"The last card."
Bulma remembers the last card, and blinks down at it.
"Your card." Baba flips it. "Reverse Hierophant."
Bulma frowns down at it. A priest sits on a throne, casting his hand in a blessing. It isn't a very pretty card. "But I'm not religious."
"This isn't about religion. This is about learning," Baba clicks her tongue, and spreads all seven cards out in front of Bulma. "The Hierophant means you are following convention, letting traditions and other people's beliefs move you. You, however, have turned that upside down and on its head. Reversed it." Her wrinkled hand smacks the card. "You have become your own teacher, letting intuition guide you." The old woman's voice rises. "Keep rebelling against what others are trying to tell you is true. Changes need to be made, tradition needs to be bucked. This may lead to conflict, trouble with authority figures and those whose strength you subvert. But on this road, you must rebel, to reclaim your personal power."
Bulma's eyes gleam in the glow of the candle light as she gazes on her destiny.
. . .
She drives straight to the Moonlight.
She'd steeled herself for being under-dressed, but when she edges through the crowd out front and hears the music thumping every time the door opens, it's apparent.
It's Eighties Night at the Moonlight.
"Should I stay or should I go now?" The lead singer belts, drums booming through the building as she presses through the crush of bodies. "If I stay there will be trouble, and if I go it will be double." She gawks at the lights, at the crowd, at the front room as it opens onto the cavernous dance floor. There is teased hair and leg warmers, crosses dangling from earrings and shoulder pads, clashing neon and thick eyebrows! thick rouge! thick eye shadow!
She wedges herself through the crowd until finally she breaks loose, only to have to elbow her way to the front of the bar. When the bartender finally makes his way to her, she steels herself. "I want to talk to Goku."
The bartender wipes a glass. "Who's asking?"
She falters. Does Goku even know who she is? What leverage might she have against Goku, and his wife, the Grand Mistress, on their own turf? What the hell was she thinking, coming here? She's been ready to take Goku apart piece by piece. Now she had no idea how she was going to accomplish it.
She could walk away right now. She could go home, slip into her safe and cozy bed, and leave this madness all behind. Monday, she could tell the Defense Department that she had lost the dragon ball and just be done with this hunt and this anxiety...and with Vegeta. She could be done with it altogether.
And regret it every day. Her arched eyebrows snap together. "Tell him there's a Defense Department scientist here to see him." She tugs the zipper down on her coat, suddenly hot, and it yawns open. She is out of place here tonight, but she feels like the curtains have parted to reveal who she truly is: an unstoppable force.
Goku comes drifting up from a set of stairs behind the bar. His eyes are guarded and confused by the request, until they land on her.
He smiles, and it's dazzling. Gosh, how can a man's smile be so warm and inviting? It's so different from the other man she's used to contending with that she's a bit disoriented. "Bulma, isn't it?" He reaches out to shake her hand. "Or Doctor? I'm sorry."
This kind of support and optimism a woman could get used to! An ache lances through her. Goku and ChiChi are a power couple, and what were she and Vegeta? A fucking mess.
"You can call me Bulma." A smile slants helplessly on her face, the first time in awhile. "Is there somewhere we could speak in private?"
Goku gives her an shrewd look that is such a contradiction to the friendliness he'd shown just a second ago that it rattles her. She is reminded that this man is Vegeta's friend for good reason. All of Vegeta's acquaintances are dangerous, and this man was the closest one to Vegeta of them all.
And then he nods his head to the staircase. He leads her down.
. . .
Bulma'd come in hot, ready to shake Goku down. Why did he have a dragon ball? What did he have to do with this vast conspiracy to take hers? But now the viper that'd been snapping inside her is hypnotized into calm. She doesn't want to misbehave in front of someone who just seems so nice. She'd tried to come in with guns blazing, and instead, she proves to be a total softy. They sit on the corner of his boxing ring with a beer in their hands, her legs dangling from the ring.
Here is a man who knows so much about Vegeta. She has to pick his brain first. Like they always say, chit chat before sedition. "Vegeta has mentioned you two have a colorful history."
Weirdly, it's not awkward, sitting next to this big fighter in this empty gym. Where Goku lacks polish, he could make friends out of enemies in spades. He's so relaxed, so accepting. He treats her like an old friend. It's no wonder even Vegeta tolerates him.
"Vegeta and ChiChi go way back. Before he even knew me. You've probably heard the story."
"No, I haven't." She tries not to sound too desperate, about the man she's both head over heels for and is trying to outmaneuver.
"Well, ChiChi was the daughter of the Ox King. You might have heard of him?"
Bulma draws on her glass. "The famous mobster?" She licks froth off her upper lip.
"That's him. Years ago, he was a big crime boss on the east side, in the mountains. Vegeta's family and the Ox family were partners, so ChiChi and Vegeta knew each other as kids. It wasn't until ChiChi's father's compound was torched that he left that life behind. They barely made it out alive, so he decided to start a new life with his young daughter. They settled in South City, under Vegeta's family's protection."
So. Vegeta's family had been a crime family. "Vegeta said he'd been hired to kill you," she says. She can't keep the humor out of her voice. Only in this crazy new world where magic balls existed were things like that funny.
Goku laughs. "Yeah. It didn't go as planned, obviously. I was the first one who'd ever beat him. And then he kept me around just so he could keep fighting me."
She can't help the smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. She is imagining a dozen wacky scenarios where Vegeta follows Goku around demanding they fight. And what a happy ending: the two end up friends. She snickers. "He said he used to be scrappy."
"He was insufferable! He was always trying to fight me! ChiChi said he was snotty and hotheaded before Frieza. He'd been groomed to take over his family's fortune. Saiyan heir and all. But any kid would turn wild living on the streets like Vegeta had to." Goku's voice hardens. "And then Frieza got him, and well... He had to be cruel and cold-hearted just to survive."
Bulma's breath freezes in her throat. Frieza. Here it was. A morsel of information, right here in front of her, begging to be taken. All her questions could be opened by one key: by the man who had a dragon ball, too. She was like an adventurer, poised with her hands hovering over the golden relic just inches from her grasp. When she lifted it, would she walk away with treasure, or would she activate the booby trap? Should she ask the question she wanted to ask?—why is Vegeta scared of Frieza? Or the question she should ask—how did she get into Frieza's lair?
Bulma stares at her sneakers, her hands clasped around her beer. All these sob stories about Vegeta's past broke her heart. A crazy part of her asks, what would it be like if someone stuck around, when someone cared? What if it was her?
What, just so she could be rejected again? The doors in Bulma's heart slam shut. All the pain Vegeta had suffered didn't justify the way he'd kept her in the dark and used her to advance his own interests. "I'm sick of his selfishness, Goku," she grits. "He wants the advantage at all times, so he's never honest with me. He knows more about my project than he's letting on. And you know why?" She looks up from under a heavy scowl. "I think Vegeta is working for Frieza."
Goku clearly does not expect to hear that. A look passes over his face that spells disbelief...and then denial. He's surprised by her words, for sure, he's questioning why she might be led to believe that. But he doesn't crack. He doesn't agree. "You've been spending a lot of time with him lately," Goku concedes. His tone is a study in professionalism. She recognizes that he's humoring her and hates it immediately. "What makes you think that?"
"We finally found out that Frieza has my project, and he won't even pursue it!" She hops off the ledge of the ring and begins pacing. "He just shut the whole thing down! He wouldn't even talk to me about it, he just threw my bags at me and left."
Goku's frown becomes severe. His whole demeanor changes, posture straightening, muscles bunching, like he's being put together before her. Every cell in her body blares in alarm, reminded that he's a fighter, too. "Frieza has it?"
"Yes! And all our work, everything that led us here..." She tries not to choke up and gets angry with herself for being so emotional, when he never was. "He pulled out of our mission. I asked him if it was because he was working for Frieza. He didn't deny it, Goku. And he hasn't talked to me since." And here they came. The stupid tears. She points angrily at the floor. "He knows so much more than he lets on. And I'm tired of it!"
Goku turns a thoughtful gaze on her. "Vegeta hasn't been acting himself lately, I agree. Erratically, the other guys say. They don't trust him, he doesn't trust them. He was the bad guy, after all, until a few years ago." His gaze on her sharpens, and he carefully selects his words. "I don't always agree with Vegeta's decisions. He's still sometimes a wild card. He can still be reactive and proud. But I trust his nature. I trust the man he is underneath all of his mistakes. I've seen him at his worst, and I know what he actually wants and what was just forced upon him. And if it's a decision that affects you, like whether pursuing Frieza with you is the right call, then I'm certain he's made the right one."
All Bulma hears is that Goku isn't going to help her. Bulma is feeling her world fall to pieces. "So I should just give up?" Her voice is tight enough to break. "This is my life's work." Even she hears that there's more to it than that. She turns her blushing face away, teeth clenched. "So we should just let Frieza have it? Have you ever considered Vegeta might be gathering them for Frieza? Or," she throws out, "or for himself?"
"Vegeta would never go back to Frieza," Goku says with absolute certainty.
"I think you're underestimating his allegiance to any of us," she snaps, voice low and throaty. "And I don't pretend to think you've got my best interests in mind. What do you know about the dragon balls, Goku?"
Goku's face is carefully neutral. "I'm happy to assist you in any way that I can," he tells her slowly. He's too nice. Vegeta would be shutting the door on her already, telling her he didn't have to tell her anything. Goku thinks he can talk her down. He's got a lot to learn about her. She can't be 'handled.'
"If it doesn't involve you telling me the truth, then I don't want your help."
"Vegeta's told us a lot about you." At Bulma's deadly eyes slit in his direction, he holds up his hands. "About how generous you are. How driven."
How much she'd stupidly given up for no reason at all, how much she'd helped him with his nefarious plan, how he discarded her when he was done using her.
"He's mentioned how smart you are, how you could be intensely focused. He admires that about you, you know."
It's a criticism cloaked as a complement. It could have been something Vegeta'd said to her about a suspect they were staking out. Now she could be the old acquaintance he informed someone else of. "Intensely focused, bossy, stubborn, obsessive. Gullible," he'd say, to someone else. Her pacing picks up, and her mouth pulls into a silent snarl.
Then she stops. "Vegeta talks about me to you?" Her voice is strangled with suspicion.
"And Vegeta doesn't care enough to talk about anyone! So promise me you'll follow Vegeta's lead on this. You guys may butt heads...but you have to meet him halfway. It's critical that we're all on the same page with this issue."
"Yeah? Tell him that," she snaps, swinging her backpack over her shoulder and heading for the door without promising anything.
. . .
Bulma is fuming by the time she reaches the top of the stairs. She knows just as little as she did before, and she's basically been cut off at the knees. Goku won't help her. He's on Vegeta's side! No one cares about her feelings. No one cares that she'll be blacklisted from doing her life's work, like that scuzzy old scientist, Gero. No one has even tried to explain the facts to her, instead they'd cloaked everything in secrecy like she's too stupid to understand. No one cares that they hurt her by brushing her off. No one cares that they made her feel insignificant and unwanted by shutting her down in the hotel room.
She is just as alone and powerless as she was before. It's truly up to her now. She has no friends in this, and no allies.
The Moonlight had become even more packed and lively in the half hour she'd spent downstairs, and she has to squeeze through the crowd at the bar and zigzag across the dance floor, working her way to the exit. "Nothing lasts forever," Tears for Fears croons over the speakers. "Everybody wants to rule the world." She presses through, hitting an empty spot as she makes her way across, shrugging to readjust her backpack on her shoulder.
She is so deep in thought it takes her a moment to realize she'd walked right past Vegeta, who had frozen a few paces away, like he'd just done the same thing. Head canted in her direction, his eyes bore into her. Don't move, they say.
Her own eyes narrow, and fixing him with a stare of her own, she continues walking forward, breaking his gaze with a toss of her hair.
He turns around and threads his way through, after her. She picks up the pace, her heart rate picking up, too.
Maybe she'd been wrong about him this whole time—about thinking he was a good man who cared about her—and her instincts were shit and she was a woman with shitty taste in men. Maybe he'd been playing her since the start. Maybe he'd agreed to help so that he could keep her under his thumb, directing her where he wanted her to go, controlling her momentum, making sure she never found all the answers...because he'd wanted to make sure Frieza got what he wanted. He'd been trying to keep her right where he wanted her. Contained. Neutralized.
Maybe he won't stop until she is.
Her heart pounds. She glances over her shoulder. Despite the crowd, he is closing the distance behind her. Purple and pink rays of light from overhead swirl over them, fanning against the walls as the singer laments he's the owner of a lonely heart.
She is close enough to see the large doorway at the front. Freedom! Her escape!—when she is tugged backward. Feet skipping across the floor, she is practically picked up by her coat collar and lain against one of the marble columns that line the sides of the dance floor.
Hand gripping her wrist,Vegeta slips his other hand into his pocket. His face is a mask, but his eyes may as well have cartoon flames flickering in their dark depths. She's not going anywhere if he doesn't want her to.
"I believe you have something of mine."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
His gaze travels down and back up her body, thoroughly. "Looks like you're dressed for espionage."
"How I'm dressed isn't any of your business."
"Harsh words."
They are finally close again, close enough that, to anyone near, a man has a woman up against the wall, close enough to kiss.
She glares at him from under fiercely angled eyebrows. "Interesting fight last night?"
His eyes narrow. She got him. "It's shaping up to be a much more interesting day," he says, like he doesn't know what she's talking about. "Have an interesting chat with Roshi?"
"It doesn't concern you."
"If I'm the main topic of conversation, it does concern me. How did you know to head there?"
"A woman doesn't disclose her secrets."
"Hmm. And now you're at our old haunt." His voice lowers, lips twitching at the corner. "Miss me?"
"You wish. Now leave me alone. The mission is over."
Faint creases at the corner of his eyes crinkle as he assesses her. This isn't normal Bulma behavior. She is not flirting or lobbing insults back and forth with him for the pleasure of it. She is tidily shutting him down. Her voice is hard, her jaw set.
She can see the moment roll over him when he realizes she's upset with him. His hand falls from her wrist.
Now it's a more dangerous game.
He watches her carefully. "Who are you trying to convince that this is over? Me? Or yourself?"
"Hey, buddy," some guy with sunglasses on indoors has the gall to say to Vegeta. "Is there a problem here?" He's all long blonde hair, lean muscles and a narrow men's tank, and he doesn't hold a candle to Vegeta. Vegeta is just-crawled-out-of-the-pits-of-hell intimidating, one-foot-in-the-swamp that he crawled out of just because he likes it there. The guy must have a brain the size of a peanut.
Vegeta doesn't even look at him. He continues to stare at Bulma, because it's Bulma's move. She doesn't budge, but she recognizes the shift in power. Not that Muscles could bounce Vegeta from the Moonlight, but this is a distraction for Bulma to split, and, friends or not, she didn't think ChiChi would think too kindly of Vegeta hurting her paying customers. It's the perfect opportunity. Vegeta is watching her decide his fate. His face is a neutral appeal for reason. But she's just wild enough to throw a trap over him and glide out of the Moonlight, leaving him behind.
Vegeta senses it. "Call off your dog. Wouldn't want to get rid of me prematurely before I tell you everything I've found out."
Her eyes narrow. He's got her, and she knows it. "What does it matter anymore? We're over." Her eyes dash to Muscles. "This is over."
Vegeta levels her with all-consuming black eyes. "This isn't over, Bulma. You know it, I know it."
His words ring her like a bell. Information, the hard place inside her reminds her. That's the name of the game in this city. She just has to accept it. He is a fount of information.
She smiles at Muscles and rolls her eyes. "My husband invited his mother-in-law to live with us. I'm just pissed." Bulma's eyes crinkle with an artificially sweet smile. "That's all. Thank you."
Muscles regards Vegeta squinty-eyed behind his sunglasses. It's not subtle. "Okay. You let me know if you need anything else though." He pushes down his sunglasses and winks.
A woman and a man swing around Muscles. Crimped black hair teased high, the woman pops her gum around neon violet lipstick, glancing between her and Vegeta. "Oh, you two make such a cute couple!"
"We're not a couple," Bulma grumbles. "We're arch enemies."
"Then you available, beautiful?" The guy says, his own sunglasses perched on top his head.
"She just said she's married," Vegeta's voice rolls over them, annoyed.
"I don't have time for mother-in-laws right now," Bulma grits, and puffs up, fixing Vegeta with a laser-sharp stare. "I'm trying to bring down an evil villain."
Vegeta's own eyes sharpen, and they stare at each other tensely.
"Are you dangling the carrot in front of me, Ms. Briefs? I'm already on the hunt. There's no need to goad me to a chase. Why do you think I'm here?"
He was here for her. She takes a step back, and he takes a step forward. He won't let her get even a few centimeters farther away.
"Chase all you want," she argues. "Most men do."
His face flattens. "I'm not most men, we established that." His voice turns serious, and concern is etched around his eyes. "Where are you going, Bulma?"
"I don't owe you an answer. It's none of your business." She squares her jaw and backpedals.
Hands in his pockets, he circles with her, as if she leads him around on a string. "Wouldn't you know, it's exactly my business. What's wrong?" He asks grimly. His eyes search her, alert. "Bulma. Talk to me."
For a minute, she's startled. Vegeta looks concerned for her. How can I help? His eyes say, as they glance over the room for danger.
"Talk to you? I would have appreciated if you'd talked to me in the hotel room. What do you think is wrong?" She says through welded together teeth. "You disappointed me."
She's never seen Vegeta look so struck.
"Speechless, huh?" She swallows. "Because I figured you out?"
"What are you talking about," he asks carefully.
"You know what I'm talking about!"
"I don't know, tell me!"
"You know exactly what the dragon balls are," she hisses, drawing up close, baring her teeth in his face. "You've been playing me all along."
"I didn't know any more than you when you told me what your project really was. And what else do you think you know?"
She catches the riddle. "How much more do you know now that I don't?"
A resignation settles over his face, smoothing it, because she's pointed out his mistake. "Ah-hah!" She jabs her finger in the air, one foot behind the other, but he keeps the distance negligible between them, one step in front of the other as they make circles around each other and the marble column. "You've been stringing me along all this time. You never had any intention of helping me. You don't give a shit about me. You're just using me." Her voice strains, wounded. She can't help it.
"If that's what you've learned today," he argues, voice rough but eyes anxious, "then you're not a very good detective."
"Wow. Only you would jump on thin ice."
"You wouldn't have me any other way," he snarls back. "Bulma," he says, and it's the first time she feels like it's just him, the man, talking to her, the woman, with none of this bullshit between them. His face is drawn but his eyes plead. "Meet me upstairs in ten minutes. Third door on the right."
Face tightening, she comes to a standstill, a rejection poised on her lips.
"We need to talk."
"I've been begging you to tell me something, anything," she issues angrily. "Now you want to tease me? You can't buy me with information, Vegeta, no matter how much I want it. I won't be brought that low."
"I'm not trying to buy you, Bulma!" He balks, and for just a second, pain flashes across his face, as if...as if he can't stand being at odds with her. He is straight and solid in front of her, she could reach out and touch him, if she wanted. This ghost, haunting her, she could make alive again if she dared. "Please," the man who asks no one for anything says to her. The man who'd begged her to be his eyes and ears at the casino, but who told Tien he didn't do anyone favors. "Trust me just one more time. Second floor, third room on the right. Give me ten minutes."
He waits to secure her agreement, but she can tell he's on pins and needles. He asks; he doesn't take. She regards him with a mouth pulled taut with indecision.
She nods, quick, then looks away, swallowing.
He looks like he'd rather do anything else but leave her. He doesn't reach out and touch her again, though he wants to. Instead, he turns his body away to head toward the bar, toward Goku, maybe, until he's pushing in a straight line through the crowd and away.
Bulma's eyes water as she stares at the ceiling and then sighs, making her way toward the staircase, helpless to the strings men are pulling all around her.
. . .
It's been twenty minutes, and Vegeta still hasn't arrived. Bulma paces the room. She's regretting her concession now, letting him make a fool of her like this. She keeps telling herself not to give in to him. He knows he's her weakness. She's a smarter woman than this, except when her heart gets in the way, which is shaping up to be all the damned time.
It's not an office, but a sitting room, a lamp on in a corner, plush leather couches arranged around the center, bookcases lining the walls. It's a room reserved for friends and family, not for strangers pulled out of the crowd to be interrogated. Framed pictures line a darkened cabinet. She slows, eyes all over them, committing all of it to memory. Twenty five minutes past. She's twitchy with anger now.
There's a cabinet in the corner opposite of the lamp. Inside is the paraphernalia of someone's life, including a "Martial Arts Tournament" trophy. On the bottom shelf are photographs. In one she recognizes a younger version of Roshi, thick black hair but the same red sunglasses, a faded background of palm trees and ocean. There's another beside it that draws her eyes. It's in black and white, but she recognizes all the faces: Tien, leaned up against the hood of a car. Goku, smiling wide. Krillin with his hands on his hips, a smirk and sunglasses. Piccolo, straight backed and unamused. They're standing in front of an old car, outside a building which looks familiar but she can't place. And there, to the far right, Vegeta. He's not turned to the camera, but gives a side profile, arms cross over his chest, looking at the camera sidelong. He's too far away to be part of the group, but undeniably there for the same reason: a coordinated photo of the five of them. Her eyes linger over the photo a long time.
She only sees it because she picked up the photo frame. Its glow seems to make tiny sparks, as if she's unfocused her eyes, but as if it's only getting half-power. She would have never noticed it otherwise. She ceases to exist for a moment. Her heart and lungs stop working. Then her hand is closing around it, and her heart starts back up at a furious clip, beating a single chant: MOVE, MOVE, MOVE.
Bulma tucks the four star ball into her inner coat pocket, zips it up, and hurries down the stairs.
. . .
Her home is quiet, save for the fuzz of the heat pushing through the vents. Past midnight, all her rooms are dark and she leaves them that way. She undresses, slips on her robe and fuzzy slippers. Pushing her gasses up her nose, she slips downstairs to her lab. The computer comes to life in the dark, searingly bright.
Bulma jumps around the Defense Department's encryption hurdles to the classified database. It's laughably easy.
Each and every crime boss she's met so far is filed by name. She types in Piccolo's name first to test her hypothesis.
There are multiple pictures of Piccolo, from different points in his life. His biography is long, and engrossed, her eyes fly over the page, absorbing it. At the end, in red, is "STATUS: Z."
It's here, at her fingertips: the answers.
She types in "Frieza."
The page blinks. The scroll bar shortens; the page is long. Bulma starts to read.
Her stomach hardens as she reads it, her empty stomach turning sour in her throat.
When she's done, she stares emptily at the wall, feeling like now would be a great time for a cigarette if she were a smoker. If this monster has her ball—and if Vegeta is aligned with him—her odds are very poor.
Her fingers hover over her keyboard, caught on a feeling. For a pregnant moment, she wonders if this moment right now will be a line marking "Before She Knew Vegeta's Secrets" and "After." But, like a stone rolling downhill, nothing can stop her momentum.
Bulma types Vegeta's name, and pushes enter.
Before it can load, she's spun around in her chair.
And comes face to face with Vegeta, who bends down and smiles, showing teeth. "Hi."