"You've forced their hand!"
"Good. Now it will be revealed who works against me."
Acutely aware that he had become a third wheel, Gohan watched from the small dining table in the far corner of the Prince's bedroom as Prince Vegeta and Bulma argued. The Prince had come charging in, demanding Bulma find the link between the Council, the Colds, and First Strike, immediately. Expectedly, Bulma hadn't taken kindly to his tone of voice, and now the pair were quarreling at the foot of his bed.
Three bells had tolled at 1100 this morning, ringing into the harsh, vacuous white sunlight. Three bells to inform the Palace and the world that the King was dead.
Prince Vegeta had learned alongside everyone else as he met with Vejitasei's Judges and the bells rang their dirge. Gohan and Bulma had been shocked to find out the Prince's role as the "Right Hand of Darkness" wasn't simply a pet name; the Prince had been promoted to Chief Commander nearly a decade ago, unprecedentedly . To the military force and the Saiyans' delight, however, he'd refused to relinquish his combat position for the time-honored position, opting to continue laying waste with Vejitasei's ground troops while strategizing the lines of skirmish with the very Judges of the Saiyan Empire themselves. He was beloved, and he was indomitable. Vegeta had campaigned for seven Standard years, urging expansion and putting the fear of god into those planets whose only crime was hoping to remain neutral and unaffected, while his father was to helm the Empire at home.
Instead, his father lay ill in a black tower, above an isolated metropolis in a vast desert, and his empire went on without him.
A messenger had interrupted the designs of the Judges and the Prince, sprinting and stumbling into the room just as the three bells sang. Vegeta had bolted to his feet.
The King had been found dead.
His servants had been slain.
And, most unsettling, his crown had been "liberated."
Vegeta had immediately instructed the City Watch to be on high alert, and his galvanizing of the city's forces was already making the Council squirm. They feared a military coup. The castle sat hushed and rigid with paranoia. With the King gone, the rules that their daily lives had obeyed were nullified and now open to redefinition. And who might rewrite them?
Bulma watched the Prince tensely with her arms crossed as he paced.
"It was a Council member."
"You have no evidence of that," Bulma countered, again, and they started up the familiar round of arguments.
"I need information, and I need it now!" The Prince was seething down at her. "What good are you to me if you cannot supply me with information when it is most necessary!"
To her credit, Bulma had been trying. She'd slept fitfully, and Gohan had opened his eyes at 0500 to see her sitting in the corner on the carpet, the laptop's harsh light bathing her pallid face as she typed manically in the dark.
"Miss Bulma?" Gohan's voice had drifted across the room, sleepy, hushed. She didn't act as if she'd heard. "Bulma?"
Startled and wide eyed, Bulma had glanced over in his direction as if she'd forgotten he was even in the room. "Yeah, kiddo?" Her voice was strained and tired.
"Have you gotten anywhere yet?" He rolled onto his side, pulled the blanket up to his chin.
"Almost there. Almost."
If there was anyone in the universe that could do it, it was Bulma, Gohan was sure of it. But the Prince wanted results now.
"I can't just hand you over information like I have it tucked in my back pocket!" She threw her arms up in exasperation. "Your being a Prince doesn't just force things to appear out of nowhere, you know!"
"The same woman who absconded with Saiyan military documents to hand them over to First Strike," he replied silkily, stalking forward, "cannot steal information from First Strike?" He shrugged, a pantomime of thoughtfulness. "Or is that you simply don't want to? Is it simply that you bide your time until Vejitasei is weak, and Vejitasei's enemies can strike," he purred, one step away from Bulma, who bent back from him, mouth parted.
Gohan could see it visibly impact Bulma as she realized just what kind of crime she'd committed against the commander standing in front of her. She'd stolen military documents. She'd stolen military documents straight from the source. And now she could not procure more documents.
"I'm doing all that I can!" She cried.
"I think when I finally kill you, I will take my time, and keep it nice, and slow," he crooned, his rumbling vocals a caress as he stared down at Bulma, who shook, face red. "A traitor's death."
"You," she huffed, balling her fists, "you are a delusional, arrogant megalomaniac! I've had it up to here with you!"
Gohan's palms had grown sweaty, and he didn't know if he should try to diffuse the situation or let them continue to forget he was there. Bulma and the Prince were often arguing, but no matter how much he threatened her, the Prince had yet to put a hand on her. As edgy as it made Gohan, worrying about protecting Bulma while knowing full well he was no match for the Prince, a part of him was growing confident that the Prince's every intention was to milk as much information and agency out of Bulma as possible, indefinitely. Arguing with her had become somewhat of a passing game to the Prince, and while Gohan didn't like seeing his friend used so, he couldn't say it was all for nothing. Vegeta didn't realize he gave as much information to Bulma and Gohan that he required of them.
And Gohan felt, even if naively, that Bulma's refusal to let the Prince walk all over her was good for the Prince, too. He didn't think the Prince had many people to tell him no, which wasn't good for anybody. And both the Council's imposition on his ascension and Bulma's reminders that he shouldn't splatter them all couldn't be a bad thing for the future Saiyan Empire.
Vegeta cut Bulma off from whatever she was tediously explaining and strode away, grabbing his gloves from his desk and tugging them on. "I must go speak with the Council now and discuss my coronation. There is no way that they would hold that from me," he scoffed, "but it will not come without them withholding something else."
"Go on, then. I'll just sit here and continue hacking the superior defenses of an intergalactic military organization while you go have lunch and discuss jewelry!" Bulma was livid, stalking back to her room to sit in the corner and angrily smash her fingers into the keyboard.
The Prince pulled on his cloak, clasping it at the shoulder.
Gohan swallowed his fear and stood more upright. "Prince Vegeta, sir," he asked politely, "it might be easier to work on this if we had something to eat."
"You'll get food," the Prince said leisurely, "when you've produced results." He sent Gohan a wicked smile before striding out the door.
Gohan's shoulders slumped, and he made his way into their temporary bedroom to find Bulma on the floor peering up at him intensely.
"Is he gone?"
Gohan nodded uncertainly.
"Good. The jerk. I can't wait to be rid of him." She was typing furiously, followed by the familiar, tinny beeps of a call spanning thousands of leagues of space.
Gohan frowned with concern. "Are you calling Mom?"
Bulma nodded, smile splitting her face, making Gohan uneasy.
"Bulma. I see you're still alive," ChiChi sniffed, and Bulma stuck out her tongue. His mother had always had high expectations of those close to her, and while Gohan liked to please her, Bulma didn't much care to.
The women, however, despite all their posturing, were as close as two estranged and lonely women on the same hard path could be; their love for Gohan, peace, and revenge superseded it all.
"I called because I need to know exactly where you are in the plan and to deliver news. How long until you leave?"
"Not much longer now." His mother's face looked as haggard as it did hopeful. "The Kai's are talkin' about it like it could only be a matter of days. They seem to be worried about something, but they won't tell Goku what the fuss is all about."
Bulma and Gohan shared a look.
He scooted close. "Hi, Mom."
"Oh!" ChiChi's face lit up. "Hi, Gohan! Are you already done with today's homework?"
He shook his head respectfully, but Bulma didn't try to hide her eyeroll. "No, not yet. But almost."
Bulma interrupted. "Have you heard anything about First Strike assisting us when you get here?"
"Why, no, I haven't. The Kai's don't talk much about them. Only the Colds and Saiyans." His mother shrugged dispassionately. "They must not have much of an influence on the Kai's plans."
"ChiChi, tell us what you know about the Colds and the Saiyans," prompted Bulma. "Anything, everything. Start at the beginning."
ChiChi scowled. "You know it all already!"
"We need to hear it outloud. You've heard many more stories than we have, rubbing elbows with Kami and the Kai's. Whereas all I've picked up is the old news from slavers and work reports. Begin like we're new to this, please. I need to review it all to make sure we're not missing a thing."
ChiChi frowned but concentrated. "Well, okay."
Bulma and Gohan settled down for the familiar story.
...
"King Kai told us a bit about the war when he and Kami first took us from Earth. He said the Saiyans and the Colds have been two superpowers for a long time now, and each one controls a half of the universe."
"Because the universe is infinite, there is always more room to expand," Bulma murmured sadly. "Always more planets to conquer, or exterminate."
"The Colds have had their hands on the Northern hemisphere for time out of mind, long-lived as they are, and have accumulated massive wealth. There ain't much resistance because their colonies frankly don't remember life without 'em, and would likely suffer economically if they were to part ways, though no one's looking to.
"But the Saiyans are comparatively new to this. The Saiyans had spent a thousand years as nomads, having lost their original home planet to their expanding star, which was making it uninhabitable. It's a shame, because it meant the previously planet-bound Saiyans bought some aircraft, keelhauled the other races on their new planet, and discovered what it was like to have to raid for supplies above atmosphere. They were a scourge on their galaxy.
"About 2,000 years ago, there was an exceptionally strong Saiyan. Nightmarishly strong. The Saiyans harnessed his brutal, excessive might, and they laid waste to many, many border planets and upended Cold outposts until they negotiated new lines in the universe. Now, with the 'verse carved out, the south going to the Saiyan desert warriors and the north solidly Cold territory, the two empires could rule independently and even with some courtesy and some trade policies.
"The Cold's, on the other hand, they're known for being avaricious, aloof, and shrewd. They lead long lives, and so they play a long game, a calculating one. And with their long lives, and what, with their asexual reproduction and lack of value for kinship, they're bored creatures. They've got a lot of time to move their pieces just so, and it's their pastime, their pride.
"While the Saiyans are completely contrary creatures. Neither sly nor subtle, the Saiyans take what they want directly with no concern for the consequence, only the prize. They have unsurpassed strength, the upper hand physically on most creatures in the 'verse as if some demented god bred 'em just for the purpose. Death is no hiccup to them. Death is indicative of an attempt, rather, and the attempt is everything. The attempt is what is Saiyan, and anything that is un-Saiyan is lesser than, and anything that loses is un-Saiyan, and what wins is divinely superior, while nothing's been strong enough to beat 'em. It's why they can justify it all.
"Since the mighty super-Saiyan two thousand years past, the Saiyans have begun real empire building, transforming from pirates, from reavers, to investing in infrastructure and technology, swallowing up more border planets, extending their reach southerly—and in that thrust, found Earth."
"Just another planet to be gobbled up," Bulma mused, her voice husky with melancholy. "I imagine every planet is the same, day after day, that you might get pretty desensitized to pleas for mercy."
ChiChi nodded over the vid com, looking at her lap solemnly. "The Saiyans have made it their prerogative to expand and grow their might so that they grow their tax base and work force, consensual or not. They whisper about a defensive stand against the Colds like some crier of the apocalypse. And the mistrust is not unwise. The Colds are devious, and so far removed that it's hard to discern just what they want. They do not suffer anyone to share in their wealth or status. So what are they amusing themselves with the Saiyans for? Are they just too far south to extend their military might to snuff 'em out without overextending themselves?"
"Perhaps they amuse themselves by watching the Empire implode from the inside," murmured Bulma dryly.
"That's a possibility," Chi Chi nodded.
Gohan's little voice seemed to come from nowhere. "What happens," he cleared his throat, "once the Saiyan Empire has been toppled?"
"The Kai's won't let it fall, honey," Bulma murmured, frowning as she chewed her lip. "It's too risky. They'd be inviting the Colds to sweep right in and lord over yet another hemisphere. It's an overture to tyranny. So they'll prop it up with a shadow government. Make sure it abides by the Kai's laws. Those who cannot go home will be given certs of freedom and work passes, and they can travel where ever they want in the universe on the Saiyan's dime as recompense. The Saiyan economy will be restructured. And then the Kai's will turn their set of eyes to the Cold's."
"Restoring balance is only half-complete once our work is done there on Vejitasei. Then it's into Cold territory, with every weapon the Kai's have at their disposal. Goku is just one of them."
"Cheech," Bulma interrupted uneasily. "ChiChi, we have news. Tell the others. The King is dead."
Bulma's voice held steady, but her face was sallow as she watched ChiChi absorb the news, ChiChi's mouth working soundlessly.
"It's only days now," ChiChi whispered. "Just days now, don't you worry. You guys get the signal, you take the shuttle, and you get the hell out of dodge."
Gohan and Bulma nodded at the vid com apprehensively.
Vegeta strode down the hall, nodding curtly at his guardsmen before sweeping into his quarters.
"What news do you have for me," he barked, gaining on the pair, who sat huddled together on the woman's bed. She lifted a sullen face in his direction, glaring, as the boy blinked at the Prince's sharp tone tiredly.
"You," he directed the woman, pointing. "In my room. I wish to speak with you."
"Yes, master," she grumbled resentfully, pulling herself off the bed achingly. He heard her murmur to the boy, watched her drape a blanket over his shoulders and ruffle his coarse black hair, before standing straight and walking to him, glowering.
He turned on his heel, led her to his desk, and slid into the wide leather seat. He undid the clasps on his cape with swift execution, and then grabbed for a folder a servant had left upon his desk.
The woman stood at attention with poorly restrained animosity. Her blunted hair brushed her shoulders when she shifted on her feet in impatience. He turned to hide a smile at her impetuousness, an indolent, smug pleasure derived either from her audacity, or because it gave him an excuse to discipline her.
"Let me guess: you have nothing to offer me."
He could practically hear her teeth grinding. "Not yet."
He surprised her by changing the subject. "You're a woman, are you not?"
Her expression of shock and recoil made him smirk, and this time he did not hide it.
"What the hell kind of question is that?"
"Here you are, living in my apartments, and you have not made yourself useful. If you cannot—or will not—give me answers on the doings and whereabouts of First Strike, then I'd think you would have begged for your lives with the juncture between your legs. After all," he grinned toothfully at her now, "here I am, a warm-blooded man—"
She choked, disagreeing with his opinion of his warmth.
"—and you, a warm-blooded woman."
The way he lingered over "woman" and it was as if he had ripped the door off the hinges that had separated them, suddenly painfully aware of the reality of the other's sex. The possibilities. Almost ten Standard years of pent up desire.
"If you are not my whore," the Prince rambled, signing papers nonchalantly and ignoring the trembling woman, blushing beside him, "then you must be someone else's. You do not put out for me, you put out for someone else." His pen idled, and then stopped, and he looked up at her, barbed smirk curling. "Why have you then not tried to seduce me?"
Her jaw dropped. "Why, why should I?"
"You do not wish to bed me?" His pleasure at her discomfort was etched all over his face.
"No," she croaked. "That's not my intention. Not even on my radar, buddy."
His smile was needle sharp now, broad cheeks crinkling his eyes with maleficent glee. "Not even if I offered you something in return? A position on the Council once it reforms, maybe? A night between those sheets"—his eyes flicked to the bed, now quite obvious beside them—"for a political favor down the line?"
She'd gone white, clutching her hands in her lap. "What are you suggesting?" She whispered.
"That that's the difference between you and those who rule now." He turned his attention to the paperwork in front of him, picking up his pen and scrawling his signature, large but compact, with smooth, flowing penmanship. She had not expected an intergalactic tyrant to have paperwork.
"You have a paradigm that you follow," his voice suddenly detached and patronizing. "As do I. Those who serve the Council have yet another paradigm, and it is not one that serves Vejitasei. It is not one that brings glory to our ancestors or sets a precedent for our future."
Bulma tried to control her shaking, twisting her hands together with her teeth clenched. "You're a traditionalist, then. A nationalist."
"I am not blind to the merits of expansion and partnership, so long as it does not supersede who I am at my center. Superior. A Saiyan. By blood, born in blood."
His gaze lingered on hers.
"Then by that logic, the Council is only doing what is at their core," she disputed. "At your very being. The hunt for power. The strength by which to use it, and brutalize others on your upward climb."
"They subvert their natures to grasp for power in duplicitous ways," he debated, his tone bored, even condescending. "That is not the Saiyan way. They plot against other Saiyans. Saiyans do not plot at all. We offer all living things a chance to fight back, because we lust for the fight itself, not the reward. Not this, this slavery, and this scheming, and this cowardliness." His nose wrinkled.
Did the Prince disagree with the slave trade? She found it hard to believe. "You're all the same," she countered. "You all want the same thing, don't you see? What you want." She didn't know why it bothered her that the Prince refused to see her point. She had to make him see. Up here in his ivory tower, he may have a grasp on the dogma but had not seen them warp in practice. Her slavers had had no desire, before they shackled her, to hand her a weapon and let her make at attempt for her life."You all act on your own urges, and your Empire has been built to support individual power plays from the ground up, because all violence is rewarded. Usurping simply indicates superiority. The Council is acting very Saiyan-like." He sent her a dark look, but she continued roughly. "You act like there's camaraderie in the Saiyan Empire." She laughed derisively. "There's only Saiyans tearing at each other's throats for empty titles."
"Everything we do has selfishness at its center," he proclaimed, looking up into her eyes from his paperwork, unruffled. "Even our most charitable actions are self-serving. You are an example of that. Besides, this is not for me. This is for us." She blinked, though he did not slow down. "For Saiyans across time and space. I do not do this just for me. I fight for my pride and the pride of all Saiyans before me. The Prince is merely a vessel," his black eyes bored into hers, willing her to understand, "and the accomplishment and pride of triumph is both secondary and necessary. But at least I do it for those who have fought for my continued survival, and not those who would bring it to an end."
He turned back to his desk, effectively dismissing her. "Think on what I said, Bulma." Her real name on his lips was jarring. "A favor might someday be all that stands between you and what you desire."
"I would never, never, s-s-sleep with you for political ends," she protested, face white.
"No?" He watched her under long lashes. "Then for what reason would you?"
Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.
"For affection?" The Prince sneered as if she had proved his point.
"I would never," she whispered harshly, staring at the wall above his head. "Because you cannot understand the concept of freedom or love."
The Prince leaned back in his chair, quill in his relaxed hand. "Love is a primitive phenomena, a hallmark religion of weaker races. Those whose eyes are on love and other crude concepts cannot climb. A more civilized and superior society knows that there is only the climb."
He leaned towards her, black eyes sharp, willing her to be convinced. "Look out my window, and you will see our building where we engineer children and then send them to conquer border planets without ever knowing a loving touch." He turned back to signing his papers indifferently. "Love is powerlessness. Our Empire's success is evidence of it."
"You're a monster parading as a civilized man," she ground out, shaking. "I would never sleep with you because it would be beneath me."
It was the Prince's turn to be astonished, watching the woman turn and stride to her room without waiting to be dismissed.
The room was wooly-thick and silent with the night.
Her laptop flashed, beeping erratically.
"I did it."Bulma blinked. "I did it!"
She hopped up, foot caught in the blankets nearly causing her to toss her laptop. Gohan lay unmoving on the opposite side of the bed, sleeping deeply. She bolted to her feet, striding out of her room and winding through the sitting room, heading straight for the Prince. He lay asleep on top the coverlets, arm draped over his face. He slept neither nude or in pajamas but in his suit, ever dressed for battle. She slid into his bed, crawling closer to him. "Vegeta," she urged, placing her hand on his round shoulder and shaking it a little. "I did it."
The Prince's eyes flew open and he stiffened. All he saw was the woman's face beaming at him, shadowed and drained in the light of her computer.
He cringed. She was in his bed, she'd snuck up on him—
"I know what's going on, Vegeta." Her eyes gleamed with elation.
He sat up fluidly, rubbing his forehead with the back of his bare hand. The woman took it as an invitation and scooted in close to him, shoulder to shoulder. He froze in shock.
"Oh, excuse me," she murmured, adjusting her hip and dragging his tail from under her bottom to place it behind her on the pillow. The Prince gaped.
"Take a look at this." She sat the laptop in his lap—in his lap—and hit a button. Hundreds of messages began pouring over the page.
His eyes dilated, and he stiffened again, this time with the electric shock of comprehension. "This is First Strike's message system."
"Yes." She nodded enthusiastically. "Everyone's," she explained, voice dripping with exhilaration. "Full access." Her timbre dipped low, husky and playful with success. "And the organizer's folders, here."
His eyes began flying over the words offered up by her fingertips.
"Vegeta," she interrupted, with less confidence this time, turning to face him. "They've made a deal with the Colds—and with unnamed Council members and Elites."
His eyes flew over the messages—hundreds and thousands of messages—before he turned to her in the half-light.
"The Colds have offered them cash. Lots and lots of cash, and positions on an intergalactic council. In exchange for Saiyan labor."
They stared at each other as the cold truth enveloped them.
"Look here." She leaned over and tapped a button. An e-mail popped up.
He read over it, goosebumps chilling him even as she narrated it.
"They mean to sell third class Saiyans, send them to purge planets for the Colds so that the Colds may sell them to distinguished, Cold-allied parties."
Each word seeded and roiled in his stomach.
"The Saiyan council members mean to profit because the coup passes power and legacy from your house to theirs. They'll found an oligarchy." Her voice rose. "To well and truly use Saiyans for their intended purpose—for chaos and destruction—as tools against the Saiyan Empire itself."
He breathed shallowly. Saiyan-blood against the Saiyan Empire. Success no longer in the name of their heritage and honor, but as shills and mercenaries-for-hire, as slaves for the glory and gluttony of their greatest rival.
"What are you going to do?" She murmured solemnly, watching him.
Every fiber of his being was shrieking at him to simply amble through the Palace and unleash fire on them all. There existed Elites with significant enough power levels, but not enough, not even all of them together, and all asleep in their beds. His power level had never been fully reached, and his well of power was deep, deeper than any other Saiyan in living history, deep enough to change the rules of the world as they knew it. He could exterminate them all. He could end them as quickly and thoroughly as pointing his finger.
"The coronation is the day after tomorrow," he said, deliberating. His eyes narrowed. "They would not plan a coup then, would they? They cannot hold me hostage, because they would not have public support. Without public and military support—"
"They may seek to just, kill you," she finished in a whisper. "Like your father. With no one to answer for their crimes. Or they may already have a convenient patsy in the wings."
"Then I must survive until tomorrow and take a stand in front of all."
She frowned, mind wheeling. "It could go really badly." She chewed her nails.
He nodded slightly. "You'll stay here. I will place guards outside the doors and windows. It's only a matter of might that everything goes smoothly. Once I'm crowned, I can dissolve the Council—"
"Vegeta, there's something else."
The words died in his mouth.
"I've talked to my friend. Goku is due to arrive with enforcements to mediate and peacefully settle things once you've been crowned. She's giving it three days."
Vegeta was already snarling before she'd finished. "I will not allow foreigners to dictate to me how my empire will be ran!"
"I think you can come to an agreement! All the Kai's and Supreme Justices want to see is power consolidated and evenly distributed so that no one else is needlessly hurt," she begged, although he looked thoroughly disgusted by the idea. "Vegeta, they're allies. They're offering you strength of arms. And once they've helped you stabilize your empire—and that doesn't mean keep you from your throne!—then they'll leave you in peace, and then excise the Cold Empire. It's a win-win. Vegeta, you have to believe me." Bulma clutched his shoulder. "They'll leave you autonomy, they'll leave it all up to you. I've spoken to Goku. He knows you're not a bad guy—"
The Prince abruptly bayed with laughter. "Not a bad guy?" He smiled, a malicious, forbidding, sordid thing, and she struggled not to shiver with the full weight of it on her. "Who is the one who is deluded now, little woman?"
Bulma's head shook back and forth convulsively, even as she admitted, "Yes. Yes, you are. I hate your bloody Empire, and I hate you, for locking me up, and for keeping me in the Science Wing waiting for my death, in tedium, for taking my home and my life away from me." Her voice rose, breaking. "You're a very bad man of a very bad empire. But you have the Empire's best interest at heart. You have a set of cards that can set the future up for stability in a way that it hasn't known for centuries. They won't get in your way, so long as you...meet some small demands," she finished weakly.
"I would be their puppet. I would advance their agenda. Absolutely not!" He growled, a deep, rattling thing billowing from inside his chest, and shoved himself to the edge of the bed to stand. "Whose side are you on," he growled under his breath. "I cannot decipher it."
"I cannot just be blindly on your side," she argued, standing and walking toward him. "You've barely fed us since you've locked us in this room! Real winning behavior! You've bought my loyalty with threats!"
"This room has protected you!"
He could see that she was fiercely angry, but he was mad, too, and just what about her loyalty? Hadn't she grown faithful to him?
"You will no longer speak to your friends." He turned toward the window. "You may no longer have contact with them."
She looked abashed. "I am not yours to command!"
She grabbed his forearm, yanking him to face her, and he went stiff under her hand at the bold gesture. "You can't simply cut me off from my friends because you don't like the reality of things! They are giving you every concession."
"Watch me." His arm bunched beneath her hand.
She craned her neck, putting her snarling face into his. "If you want me to work for you, then you better leave me my resources!"
"I don't have to give you anything," he snarled back, grabbing the hand on his forearm and gripping it tightly. "A meritocracy is what would please you, is it not? Well, you have not shown me that you might be trusted with freedom. You have not earned it. And you will stay here when your friends leave. And you will work for me. And you have no say in the matter."
Tears had sprang up in her eyes, face screwing with horror and anger. "How could you? You can't! I'm leaving with Goku and ChiChi!"
"I think you forget who rules here, 42019." He dropped her hand. "And it is not your Kai's. And it is not you."
"They won't leave without me."
"You are nothing in the broader game of thrones. They will concede you to me and negotiate for more important things." His eyes glittered with frenzied malice.
She clenched her teeth. "You can take whatever friendship has sprang up unbidden around us," she seethed, tears falling hot on her cheeks now, "and you can shove it. You can shove it!"
She twisted out of his grip, grabbing her laptop and hustling to her room.
Vegeta wanted her to walk away, he wanted her to flee because it indicated her surrender, but he found himself sprinting to her, dissatisfaction curling his gut. He had to have the last word, and he spun her around. "You will still report to me everything you learn in the meantime." He grabbed her wrist. "You will spend every minute on that vid com and earn your life."
"I will do no such thing, you bastard!"
Her eyes widened as his tail curled possessively around her thigh.
"You cannot tell me no," he hissed, squeezing. "Of all the people in the universe. You cannot tell the Right Hand of Darkness no!"
"No!"
And the sheer absurdity of their circumstances hit Bulma. For just a second, it was as if she looked upon them from above. Her face twisted with anguish and fury, his hand on her wrist, desperate to wrest submission from her. A dance between desperation and capitulation. And with that second of objective sight, she realized where she'd felt this way before. On a playground, tugged around by the hair by a bully who it was rumored only wanted her to return his devotion.
The Prince wanted her.
And he had absolutely no language to convey it.
She set her jaw and tossed her laptop onto a desk beside them, before testily brushing her palm against the fur of his tail, coiled round her thigh. He stiffened, watching her severely, teeth glinting in the moonlight. Bulma's fingers curled around it, and she gripped it, but loosely.
"If you want this partnership to work," she said, punctuating it with a little squeeze of his tail, and the Prince took in a sharp breath, "then you have to let me do what I wish."
"I will never."
She watched him with indecision, and then leaned in so close she could feel his breath hit her face, her eyes narrowing with determination. She was risking it all, she knew it, going out on a limb just to test a theory of confused interest from a heartless Prince. "Let me help." Her breath hit his lips and she watched them twitch. She scowled upwards into his face resolutely. "In my own way."
She was going to end it there. She was going to pull out of the battle having made her point.
But she wanted to know what his lips felt like in the dark.
And so she kissed him.
Though they'd kissed before, it had been mechanical, with only the heat of self-preservation. Though Vegeta's lips didn't move, she felt his body stiffen, his tail tighten. But he didn't push her away.
It was only the heat of his body in the dark, his soft lips, but unresponsive, and so she pulled away, shoulders slumping involuntarily.
Vegeta grabbed her by both arms and pressed her flat against him, planting his lips firmly on hers.
They kissed in the dark against the desk, the moonlight streaming beside them. His hand wound itself round her neck, his tail squeezing her thigh, and she kissed him fiercely with a hard mouth, the back of the wall catching against her hair.
His hands moved to grasp her by the shirt front and he was solid beneath her hands, wide and warm, the valleys of his collar bone under her fingertips. The fact of him so near, the smooth suit under her palms, and she opened her mouth to him with yearning. His lips parted after some hesitation, and she took the opportunity to encourage him, her lips on his cupid's bow, and then his lower lip, to taste both tentatively with her tongue in the pale pool of moonlight.
There was an answering rumble in his chest, but he pulled back. "Promise me," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the thick haze, a shadow with thick shoulders and inky hair, and the taste of him was in her mouth. "Promise me you will not betray me."
"I can't promise that," she murmured, looking up at his black eyes earnestly. "Because I have the right to make my own decisions and determine what's best for me. And I'm not convinced you know what's best for me."
"What I wish is most important, though," he cajoled, lowering his lips to her jaw. She drew in breath, eyes closing.
"One man's wishes do not a universe make," she chided.
"This man's does. And this man would keep you from leaving." His lips were hot, working slow against her neck.
"To keep me hostage...or to give me freedom if I stay?"
Even mouth to mouth with him, captured in his arms, he would not answer.
"Don't tell me," she replied sadly, disentangling herself from him and backing away. "I know your answer. And I can't agree to those terms."
He watched her with predatory awareness, but his tail unwound from her leg and he let her go.