Thanks to all my reviewers. I really enjoy all your comments, and I'm glad you're enjoying the fiction.
The last day at St. Georges was anticlimactic compared to the insanity of the second day. The lack of competition added to that general sense of calm, even if it was a false calm. Vegeta was particularly nervous; his father had not called last night, and the aberration from his normal behavior made Vegeta jumpy.
Normally the last day's event calmed Vegeta; the show jumping was something that he always excelled at, and it was a nice change from the hectic nature of the cross country course. Today, he was required to wear the red hunting jacket and the round, velvet-covered black helmet with the white britches. The horses had to have their manes and tails braided; a kind of pampering for his horses that normally would have made him swell with pride at their beauty. But he couldn't enjoy it, at all.
His nerves didn't help in his morning run on Red, who was high-strung enough. It didn't help that the announcers had said introduced him as "Red Valentine of Briefs Stables, ridden by Vegeta Saiyan." The low murmur that had flown around the grandstand had made Vegeta flush from the tops of his shoulders to his high hairline. Still, the chestnut accounted well enough for himself, though Vegeta knew that it wouldn't get him into the Grande Prix.
Even better, Kakarrot's morning horse did well, too; Warland Conqueror would go to the Prix, and while Kakarrot's other horse, Silver Surety, was already qualified for the Prix, the odds were good that he'd actually place. Vegeta tried not to think about Master's chances, had he not been lamed.
With so many competitors out of the running, Saiyan Stables was sweeping the event, with nearly every horse in the top thirty, and well over half in the top twenty. Vegeta felt as through this were cheating, in a way, yet he knew that his father wouldn't care, and that was a relief in its own way. After all the other things that Vegeta and his brother had done to anger his father, their success overall would mitigate some of his anger. Or so Vegeta hoped; there was really no telling with the old dragon.
Bulma watched the television all morning, her eyes glued to the special coverage of the St. Georges Classic. When Red came onscreen, Bulma tried to watch her horse, but her eyes were on his rider. The stoic face, tight with concentration, had done such strange things to Bulma as she had watched; had turned her stomach and made the blood rush to her face. As Red came down over the last jump, his form perfect, Bulma grabbed her buzzer.
"What do you need?" Chichi asked, sitting up in her chair.
"I want to get checked out," she said in answer. Chichi frowned at her, and Bulma said, "You have a horse to ride, and I want to see the afternoon rides."
Three hours later, Chichi and Bulma were hurrying into the barn. "Get yourself ready," Bulma said, reaching for the latch on Priss' door. "I'll get her."
"Hey! Who are you?" The two women turned to see a man approaching them, a scowl on his face.
"I'm Bulma Briefs," the blue-hair woman snapped. "Who are you?"
"I don't know you," the guy said, "either of you. I can't let you touch that horse."
"Chichi!" Goku's call ended the conversation abruptly; as Goku rushed up to greet them, the guy moved away, walking attentively up the stable. While Chichi and Goku hugged enthusiastically, Bulma glanced around the stable, noticing the changes for the first time. There were more people around, lots more, and some hired security milling about the area. There was an aura of protection around the stables, tinged with paranoia. And someone was in Flawless' stall, a tall black horse that was clearly of Warlander get.
"I see you didn't waste any time," Bulma said coldly, waving at the stall.
Goku looked at her in confusion; Chichi frowned up at him, her eyes asking him to clarify. "I… oh! Yeah, we've moved everyone into A, B and C," he explained. "You know, because it's more secure."
"More secure?" Bulma asked pointedly.
"From the saboteur," a familiar voice rasped behind her, and Bulma turned to see Vegeta. The red jacket encasing his torso was particularly attractive with his dark coloring, Bulma noted. Her heart pounded and dropped into her stomach at the same time, and she felt the blush creep up her face.
"Oh, that's right! You guys didn't know!" Goku said, slapping his forehead. Quickly, Goku gave them a recap of what they knew.
Chichi looked shocked, but Bulma's mind didn't give her time to be shocked. She skipped straight to rage, as one thought entered her brain: Someone killed my horse. Vegeta gave her a silent nod when he saw her anger; his dark eyes seemed to agree with her silent promise of vengeance.
But there was no time for that now. Goku and Bulma prepared Precision Timing for her afternoon jump, and Chichi got herself ready. Vegeta was preparing one of Saiyan Stables' horses when Bulma moved to the other side of the horse, reaching for the girth of the saddle he was placing. Vegeta shot her a look that she couldn't read, but she didn't care. She had to do something, and she was working up to it. "Thank you, for all you've done," she finally said, as he finished adjusting the bridle.
"You already said that," he said, his voice and eyes distant.
"Right. In the hospital," Bulma agreed quickly, nodding. There was a moment of heavy silence before Bulma licked her lips and forced herself to say, "Would you like to do something? After the event? Something… non-horsey?"
Vegeta looked up at her, his eyes and face unreadable. "No," he said shortly. Taking the reins, he led the horse down the center aisle to its waiting rider.
Bulma struggled with the rejection for a moment. Finally, she felt herself calm down, enough, at least, that she could function. It hurt, but she'd been expecting him to say no, on some level, and it was his loss.
It still hurt.
The loudspeaker announced Priss and Chichi, and Bulma put aside her own concerns for a moment. She had to get somewhere where she could see and cheer.
Pushing through the crowds, she came to the entry gate, just in time to see Chichi nudge Priss into a slow canter, moving into the ring. Over the grandstand, a clock began to track the time. But it wasn't the clock Bulma wanted to see; it was her friend, who she couldn't see because of the crowd at the gate.
Bulma pushed her way forward until she was to the fence that blocked the back area with the stables from the arena. From there, she was rewarded with the image of Priss taking the first jump, a four and a half foot vertical perfectly. "Go, Chichi!" she shouted, refraining from turning it into a deep bellow that might get her in trouble. There was a stuffiness to this sport that Bulma found irritating, but she still loved it. Even now, knowing that Flawless was dead, she still loved it.
The sudden loss of her horse became real, and Bulma pressed her hands to her face, sobbing quietly. To never touch his soft nose, or rub his forehead, to never feel the surge in his body as he rose into the air, fearlessly launching himself over a jump – Bulma cried for all of these losses. It was unfair, brutally unfair and the whole world had to know it. Thoughts of vengeance might have come to another, but Bulma was caught in her world of grief, crying hopelessly.
Cheers and clapping rang through the arena, and Bulma looked up – she knew that sound. Chichi rode back through the gate, one fist punching the air in exaltation. Wiping away the tears that spilled down her face, Bulma pushed back through the crowd, to find her friend. "Chichi! You were… wow!" she exclaimed, grabbing her friend in a tight hug.
Priss tossed her dark head, as if in agreement, prancing in place. Chichi moved to quiet her, even as she saw Bulma's tears. "Thanks," she told her friend, knowing that no other words were sufficient. The two women hugged, again, still friends, despite their trials.
Everyone but me, Bulma thought again, staring around the room. Her wineglass, only the second of the evening, rested in her hand, neglected.
The after-party was always a great event. Food and drink had been flowing for three hours now, and it was clear that many of the revelers were infrequent indulgers. Of course, it may have been more embarrassing to still be on your feet with a steady gaze, a quiet implication that you were quite the booze hound. Or, in Vegeta's case, a tee-totaller, Bulma added silently, watching him from her peripherals.
Chichi, on the other hand, was eagerly drinking and dancing with Goku, her face red with exertion and a liquid buzz. Bulma smiled sadly to see her friend having so much fun. It was good, but there was that horrid little thought tormenting Bulma.
Everyone but me.
Everything had been so turned on its head. Chichi had come not expecting to make it, and here she was going to the Grand Prix. So many of the riders here, celebrating their qualifications to the Show of All Shows, were here only because of another's petty evil. In fact, one of the people here was probably the cause of all her pain.
With a grimace, Bulma set down her glass and moved toward the door. She couldn't stand to be in the same room with the person responsible for Flawless' death. And even if they weren't in here, she honestly wasn't in the mood to socialize at all.
The dirt path to the stables was a ribbon of silver in the darkness, and Bulma followed it mindlessly. Checking on Red seemed better than hanging out at a party she wanted no part of, anyway. With a sigh, she glanced up from the path at her feet to the barn.
Her feet stopped. A dark form lay slumped on the ground, and Bulma forgot to breathe for a moment. With a hard swallow, she stepped forward, touching the form. It was one of Dawson's security men, and Bulma looked up at the stable.
There was someone in there, slipping into a stall.
He killed Flawless. The thought came unbidden to her, and Bulma snatched up the guard's steel flashlight, the heft very comfortable in her hand. Had Bulma thought, she might have stopped herself. But she wasn't thinking about anything other than the way Flawless used to whinny at her when she stepped out of her house, and the way that he had liked to roll on his back the second he was turned loose in the field. These images and more gave her the courage to creep into the barn, her blue eyes blazing with barely suppressed fury.
Unlike her last late-night excursion to the barn, she was dressed more appropriately in steel-toed work boots and jeans. She tiptoed into the barn, keeping her head down and her jaw clenched.
He was in Master's stall, trying to raise the vein in the horse's neck. His other hand held a needle and syringe, and Bulma nearly lost her mind with rage. Bad enough that they would take her horse from her, but to hurt Vegeta's further! With a silent grimace, she swung the flashlight through the air and connected with his head.
Bulma worked with animals that weighed ten times what she did, on average. She was no weakling, and she was further backed by rage. With a grunt, the assailant sank to his knees and flopped onto his side. Bulma delivered a savage kick to his back while he was down; Master snorted and danced away from them, upset by the violence in his stall. "Sorry, baby," Bulma muttered, dropping the flashlight and grabbing his ankles. Without much care regarding what she pulled him through, Bulma hauled him out of the stall and flipped him onto his back.
She didn't know him. Bulma was sure that she should; it wouldn't make sense that a complete stranger would be interested in hurting horses. She was expecting it to be a competitor-
A hand snatched her arm and spun her around; Bulma saw the barest flash of movement before a gloved fist slammed into her face. It was her turn to sprawl to the ground, but unlike the first guy, she was still conscious. It took a moment for her to recover; when the man leaned over her, she was cognizant enough to kick at him. Her boot caught him in the face, knocking him back and earning her enough space to scuttle back some.
I'm in trouble, Bulma realized as she scrambled away on hands and knees. A hand grabbed her ankle, and Bulma fell onto her elbows as he yanked backwards. She was making strange noises, and over her whimpers, she could hear the horses starting to panic in their stalls as they became unsettled by the noises outside their stalls.
He got a better grip on her foot and pulled her backwards again; Bulma rolled onto her back and kicked again. This time, he caught her foot and pushed it against the wall. Both of his hands were full, so Bulma did a crunch and punched him in the face. His head snapped to the side and Bulma twisted her foot, freeing it.
A familiar concerned nicker rang out nearby, and Bulma realized what stall they were in front of. Without hesitation, she took a long shot and reached up, flipping back the latch. The door slid open as she pushed it with her free foot.
The chestnut inside squealed and lurched forward; Bulma shielded her head as Red tore out of the stall, rolling his eyes and tossing his head. Her attacker lay right in his path but the terrified horse didn't pause. He ran over the man, bucking and kicking as his legs encountered the body before him. The man screamed as twelve hundred pounds of panicked horse ran him over; even after Red had dashed out into the darkness, he continued to make awful noises.
Bulma drew herself up and sat against the door, panting. She needed to go after Red, make sure he was ok, but she made herself check out this guy, too. He was also unfamiliar, and the blue-hair woman cut back a sob. Would she ever find out who had killed her beloved horse and why they had done so?