Chapter 6: Darwinian Debate

"Shut up!" Bulma shouted, slamming the refrigerator door, nearly squashing Goku's head in the process, and taking a menacing step toward the extraterrestrial prince. Her voice was so loud that everyone around her balked, watching her with both caution and curiosity. Vegeta, however, stood his ground, arms neatly folded across his chest, a smirk curling delicately on his thin, warrior lip.

"Shut the fuck up!" Bulma continued unabated, aiming a deadly glare directly into his dark, bottomless pupils. "I am so fucking sick of you criticizing everything about me. If it's not the way I talk, it's the way I laugh. If it's not the way I laugh, it's the way I eat. If it's not the way I eat, it's the way I walk. It's always something – my clothes, my hair, my makeup, my purse, my jewelry, my shoes, my nails – fuck, if anyone's obsessed with my appearance, it's you!"

At this final statement, Vegeta's smirk slackened and he opened his mouth, ready to spit back a defense, but Bulma was steaming far ahead of him, so much so that the room of people around them had frozen. Goku stood bewildered by the shut refrigerator. Krillin's Tupperware had long been abandoned on the kitchen counter. Dende was standing off to the side, looking timid and uncertain. Piccolo had shut his eyes, either to meditate in peace or simply control his frustration with such blatant display of human and Saiyan emotions.

"You always like to think that everything can be solved with Darwinian perfection," Bulma positively snarled. "Survival of the fittest, right? Whoever is strongest is best! The winner! The fucking prince! But you know what, Vegeta? You don't even fucking get what Darwin is about. It's not survival of the fucking biggest six-pack and iron bench press. It's survival of the best-able-to-adapt-to-their-environment. And, believe it or not, there are some environments where Saiyan manliness is not desirable quality for survival. Sometimes, you need technology, invention, design, creativity. You problem solve with something other than your fists. You use your head and you think."

"You think I know nothing of battle tactics, woman?" Vegeta barked back. "Fighting without thought is known as button-mashing according to your pitiful culture. What I engage in is not that, but the art of combat."

"What the fuck-ever! That's not my point," Bulma said. "I'm not saying you don't plan your moves or assess your opponent or hone your technique… But at the end of the day, it is about pure brutality, and your lifelong rivalry with Goku is perfect proof of that." Bulma flashed her teeth at him in a victorious grin.

"Bring Kakarot into this and you'll regret it," Vegeta replied in a deathly whisper.

Bulma showed no restraint in whispering back, "I already did. Try to keep up with the conversation, will you? You're in an environment where verbal skills are the key to your survival, and it saddens me to see you devoured so easily."

Now it was Vegeta's turn to lose his temper.

For a moment, the room flashed from Vegeta's Super Saiyan flare. While it was just a crackle, like a single ember popping up from a campfire, it was enough to garner a small gasp from Dende, a "woah now!" from Krillin, and a threatening grunt from Piccolo.

Neither Vegeta nor Bulma paid them any mind, though. They were squaring off with each other only. For a full minute, they stood a yard away from each other, drilling into each other's gaze, and breathing through flared nostrils. Tension gripped their every muscle, from the sharply drawn tendons in their knuckles to the tightened pectorals of their abdomen.

Bulma was so worked up she could even feel a sheen of salty sweat forming on her upper lip. She chewed on it, biting down more than she intended out of her frustration, but never once taking her eyes off of Vegeta. Those black eyes. Black fucking eyes. Nothing but blackness. She didn't think of the good times during these arguments. Only the black memories: how he abandoned her during her pregnancy, left her to give birth alone, ignored Trunks for the greater part of his infancy. She didn't care about the time he apologized or the tender moments they shared. At times like these, there was only blackness rolling along in thick, opaque sheets endlessly through her mind.

She was reading anger and disgust in all of his features, until he suddenly cracked a grin. Bulma continued to stare. He had changed mood suddenly like this before. She could only anticipate what kind of low blow was coming her way.

"Survival in all environments may be impossible, but I have mange to adapt to far more than you," he hissed with delight. "I have conquered hundreds, if not thousands of planets and even though there have been some close calls, I have always survived on my own.'

"But what about you—a trembling, weak, earthling woman with more bark than bite? Even on your own home planet you require the protection of others who are… oh, why, stronger than you." Vegeta smiled viciously. "Even your race recognizes the merits of physical toughness. Power! So what does that make you? An evolved earthling or a lucky collection of recessive genes?"

"Fuck this!" Bulma threw her hands up in fury. "I don't have to put up with this shit." She looked at the other people in the kitchen and exclaimed, "Hello? Would anyone like to come to my defense here? Or are you just going to let him slaughter my self-worth on the spot?"

For a brief moment, nobody spoke. Then, Krillin quietly interjected, "Well, Bulma… if we did, wouldn't we just be proving his point?"

Bulm gaped at him, then looked at Goku, who gave her a half-nod, half-shrug that said, "he's right." She didn't even bother looking t Vegeta, who she already knew was bearing a nasty, triumphant grin.

"Fine," she said. "Whatever."

She pushed past Vegeta brusquely, fuming even more as his fingertips brushed along the curve of her buttocks, but she made no move to turn around and call him out on it. He was an incorrigible asshole, and she was done paying him any attention at this point. Thoughts of fury clouded her focus as she made curt, unyielding steps down the hall and out the front door. She grabbed her purse and her car keys off the hanging shelf in the vestibule without missing a beat, and was unlocking her hover craft when she realized someone was calling her name.

"Bulma!"

Turning on her heel deftly, she shot a cold glare at her follower. It was Dende.

"What is it?" she sighed with exasperation. Never had she wanted to leave this forsaken place more, yet how could she just turn away from the Guardian of the Earth.

"Bulma, I'm so sorry," he immediately said. "Please don't take Vegeta's words to heart. They were harsh and unnecessary."

"But not untrue?" Bulma retorted, her eyes piercing with fierceness.

"No, no," Dende replied. "Look, I understand emotions are running high right now and you are justified in feeling hurt. But we have to keep in mind of the bigger issue here. Frieza's mother is going to try to revive him and we need to find a way to prevent that from happening. I need your help, Bulma."

"Dende, I have no idea how to help," Bulma said sharply. "And, frankly, Vegeta's right." She tried not to choke on her own words. "Why come to me? When have I ever been of use to anybody?"

"Please, Bulma," Dende urged. "You are being too sensitive. Perhaps Piccolo was right when he say this was not the time or place to announce this – "

"I'll say." Bulma pursed her lip.

"—regardless, the cosmos have instructed me to summon you for help, Bulma Briefs. Not Goku. Not Vegeta. Not Krillin. You."

"I. Don't. Know. What. To. Do." Bulma blinked at Dende and held her hands out, empty palms facing up.

"And I know that!" Dende rushed to say before Bulma could open her car door and make an escape. "But that doesn't mean you can't figure— "

"Look, Dende. Seriously – "

"No, listen, let's talk again at Kami's Tower," he said gently, taking hold of Bulma's hand and giving her a soft, sincere look. Bulma was still feeling defensive, but this sudden act of kindness did lower her guard. "I know you're busy, but let's plan for a week from now. You, me, a private discussion with no interrupting egos. How about that?"

"I don't know…"

"You can ask all the questions you like," Dende continued, "and perhaps in the sanctity of the heavens, I will be able to glean more information with regard to the situation."

"Bulma rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. When she looked up, she looked at the sky instead of Dende, blinking away what appeared to be a welling tear. The moisture sparkled in the afternoon sun, like the shine on her hover craft and the freshly watered grass, and then seemed to retreat back into its tear duct. While she was obviously contemplating a reasonable excuse not to schedule a meeting with the young Namekian, her grim lip revealed her shortage of options. Finally, she nodded her head and shrugged.

"I guess. Alright," she said, pulling down her shades over her eyes. She peeked at Dende from behind them. "I have some time next Saturday in the morning, like around 9 o'clock. I'll fly my way over there, I guess. But no more than an hour – and if it seems like it's frigging impossible, which by the way is how it feels right now, then you're shit out of luck. I'm not helping. Those are my conditions and I'm not negotiating." She looked at Dende questioningly, daring him to challenge her.

He smiled. "That sounds fine, Bulma. I'll see you then."

Bulma made no reply. She got in her hover craft and turned on the ignition; the engine roared with life as she did and lifted slightly off the ground. She was just about to change the gear, when she saw Dende waving at her and pointing toward another approaching figure. She swore. The hover craft landed back on the ground, with more weight than was good for the struts. Bulma climbed back out of the vehicle, none too pleased.

"What now?" she cried.

"Oh my God, Bulma! What happened?"

It was ChiChi. She was looking anxious, in that motherly way of hers – her face drawn and worried, her hands either wringing each other or gripping the apron of her dress. Bulma completely forgot about all of their awkward encounters earlier and latched onto the gem of potential camaraderie.

"Get in," she said, pointing to the passenger door. "We're getting frapuccinos."

"Oh!" ChiChi looked surprised and turned to Dende with a bewildered expression on her face.

"Enjoy!" he smiled. "I like the vanilla bean ones myself." The hover craft engine was roaring again and rising above the ground. Bulma's stereo system burst to life too, with the fruity pitchy of a popular female vocalist. The window to ChiChi's side rolled down and Bulma shouted out, "C'mawn! I''m sick of this place. Let's go!"

"Alright, alright!" ChiChi scurried forward and hopped in. Before she could even buckle her seatbelt, they were up in the air and zooming far away from the Capsule Corporation campus. Dende watched them with a vague, mysterious look on his face. Before turning back inside, he muttered to himself, "What does the universe have in store for you, Bulma Briefs?"

To be continued

~Fina Arvanthol