A/N - Thank you to Adli for scouring through this chapter!

Depths of Darkness

Chapter Two

October 2nd
Technically, Bulma hadn't set foot outdoors in three months, but had realised that that wasn't a bad thing anymore. It was better to stay indoors now, hide under the duvet covers and pray for sleep amidst all the noise outside. Bottles smashing, drunkards yelling at the top of their lungs that there was 'no Kami', and when the hours crawled by and the night spread across buildings like a deadly infection, the moaning ensued, painful, haunting noises to keep you wide eyed until dawn. She didn't know whether a brick was going to come smashing against the door, followed by a tirade of troubled souls, looking for anything they could get.

Bulma was lying in a comfy bed, wrapped up to her chin in thick duvet and blankets, everything she should want for a night of rest. But that was far from possible. What she had viewed before making it to Yamcha's capsule home was too much to blot out. The streets and buildings looked abandoned, giving the eerie loneliness of Orlon a run for its money. Rubble was all over the place, yet the majority of the buildings remained standing, though devoid of any windows or doors. Vines and weeds had grown over doors and passageways, making the entire place look like it was screaming 'keep away'. And that was what she'd decided to do. She'd seen enough. It seemed all too familiar to her, as if she'd been plonked back onto Orlon for round two.

Dawn graced the room beneath the small cracks of each panel of wood that boarded up her window. Thin motes of dust floated in the air, and she found herself watching them, entranced, able to block out the noise of a girl crying in a street not far away. Conceding to no sleep, she got up and headed for a shower, relishing in the hot water, twisting the taps to maximum heat until it blistered the skin on her back. Yamcha had left a pale yellow tracksuit in a neat pile on the bed, so she slipped into it and wandered around the rest of the house to gander at her father's creation.

This one was a bit more updated than the last. Eco-friendly light bulbs were fitted into the ceiling, letting the whole corridor stay aglow with a warming, soft orange. Dust still clung to wooden cabinets, carpets were scuffed and worn from over usage, leading into different rooms. The door at the end of the corridor must have been the master bedroom; must have been where Yamcha slept. Bulma jumped as a red-headed woman breezed past her, scrunching her hair up into a high ponytail while looking Bulma up and down. The woman continued down the hallway out of sight without a word, her faux casual demeanor transparently obvious with her hasty steps.

Bulma narrowed her eyes before following and ending up in the kitchen, where Yamcha was sitting at a metal table, sipping what looked like a cup of coffee. The smell of it drifted around the room, like it was persistently trying to make everything familiar, more homely. The noises outside had dampened against the sound of the red-headed woman clattering cutlery around, looking for something.

"You sleep OK?" Yamcha said, getting up and pulling a chair out for her.

"No," she mumbled, obliged and sat down as he walked over to the fridge.

She couldn't help but to keep glancing at the nameless woman, who had yet to utter a single word to her, and was completely ignoring her existence. It was as if she were a ghost, roaming the house, and only Bulma could see her.

Yamcha chuckled, his head buried in the fridge. "Yeah. Same. Sleep is a … uh … luxury you rarely get anymore." He pulled out a couple of eggs, which Bulma found quite odd.

She sat clasping the edges of the seat, letting the heated flooring travel from her feet to her head. "Are you in charge of something here?" she said, closing her eyes, feeling her face redden for reasons she couldn't understand.

Yamcha was sat back down again, pushing a bowl with two white, shiny, wobbling boiled eggs towards her. He chewed on the lower crust of a loaf of bread, having to use two hands to snap bits into easy chunks because it was that stale.

"You need protein. And we only have bread and eggs right now. There should be a food delivery soon, but … for now …" He coughed lightly, trying to swallow his food, and sat back in his chair while watching, smiling as she picked at the slimy eggs.

The red-haired woman huffed and slammed the drawer shut, giving up on her conquest of being background noise, and stormed off again, the thudding of her footsteps weakening down the hallway.

Yamcha smiled ruefully, failing to discuss the woman's allusive presence. "I helped pick people back up again—brought communities together—stopped some of the crime going on. They kind of look to me." He shrugged, too modest for his own good.

"As a leader?" Bulma said, spitting powdery egg yolk everywhere, inhibitions long gone. Even something as ordinary as a boiled egg reopened her love for food. The rubbery squelch of the egg white as she chewed into it was so satisfying she had to close her eyes for a moment.

"No. I don't think so. I just help, want to protect Earth, you know. Krillin helps, too—Tien … even Gohan," he said, like it was nothing.

Bulma opened her eyes. "Gohan?"

A day before, Yamcha had been sceptical of Bulma's sanity, witnessing her crying out for Goku who was supposedly dead. She still didn't buy that. Goku was alive and she knew it. But she didn't want Yamcha to believe she'd lost it, so keeping anything about Goku under wraps was for the best.

Yamcha nodded. "Yeah. He's been through a lot, that kid."

"Where are they?"

"They're in Japan," he said, running his hands down his face.

Bulma froze. "Then, where are we?"

"For now, we're in England, wherever the trouble is. Everywhere looks the same now, anyway. Just destruction. It's looking better than it did, though," he said, straightening up.

She swallowed the last slip of egg yolk, before saying, "I need to go home, Yamcha."

Without looking her way, frowning at his own hands clasped on the table top, he said, "There's too many issues to deal with here first—"

"Just give me a ship—I'll go myself," she implored, scraping the empty bowl aside.

"I don't think you're well enough yet," he said, shaking his head, his ruffled, morning hair a strangely comforting sight.

"No, I am. I feel fine. I need to see it. Even if it's been blown into a pile of bricks. I need to see it."

It took a minute, but Yamcha sighed and dropped back in his chair, pinching his brow. "Ach—OK, OK," he said, waving a hand. "Give me three days, and I'll go with you." His eyes met hers.

Her heart warmed, but the feeling was soon conquered by the suspicion that swarmed her mind. The uncertainty of reality was still there. It could all be a simulation of another world, Frieza feeding off her memories and all the connections to piece together another horror show for her to wade through.

"Alright," she said. "But I want to help." She held a hand up when Yamcha tried to demur. "Whatever it's like; I can handle it."

It was nice that he was trying to shield her from the treacherous outdoors, and really, she didn't want to venture out there, at all. Things were changing around her at a supersonic speed, and she needed to throw herself against it in order to keep up with it. This was Earth, her home, and she had to help in any way she could. Gohan was across the planet, alive. It wasn't as bad as she thought, despite many questions still being unanswered. Thoughts of Vegeta were pushed to the very back of her mind, because she didn't want to think about them … didn't want to think about him.

The ship came to an abrupt stop on top of a hill that overlooked what used to be a huge city, a sheet of gloom hanging over the building tops. Buildings were missing chunks of walls, and were leaning awkwardly to one side as if the city has been struck by a colossal earthquake. It was 5:30pm and the sun was setting already, casting a red hue over everything, including the extensive foliage that seemed to be creeping out of anywhere and everywhere. Mysteries of the planet's current state were still at the forefront of Bulma's curiosity, but she didn't know where to start. The plan was to just get on with it, think about other things, and stop her mind from scrambling away back into the past.

Yamcha helped her out of the jet, where she was lead towards two bulky men, all in similar clothing, who introduced themselves as Mark and Seb. No further words were exchanged as they trudged through dirt and shards of glass and metal, but Yamcha remained close by her side, glancing her way every minute or so. His fists were clenched as he paced seamlessly through the muck. The other two men gradually created a gap between the group, allowing Bulma some time to slow down and talk to Yamcha, see what was running through his mind.

When they reached the first decrepit stone wall, Yamcha let the other two men march ahead to survey the surroundings, crouching and beckoning Bulma to do the same.

"Who was that woman? In your house?" she said, breathing heavily, asking any old thing to keep her mind off the fear from what she might find in this city. The memory of roaming the deserted town on Orlon with Vegeta sprang to mind, obscenely flicking through the pain and vivid colours.

Yamcha slouched, looked behind the wall and turned back towards her, eyebrow cocked as if she'd asked him something outrageous. "Her name's Mina. She's been helping out for a few months now," he said distantly, peering beyond the wall again.

Bulma watched the profile of his face, the determination that drove him to lead a community of people onto the right path. He was a good person.

A woman's scream broke Bulma's concentration, the blood draining sound that could stop you sleeping for weeks. She pressed herself against the wall, suddenly not as confident as she had been before. Yamcha stood and pulled her up with him, gripping on the tender skin under her arm. She seized her breath, awaiting the misery ahead of her.

He held an arm out to barricade any further advancements. "Stay in my sight."

Bulma nodded, but continued to follow Yamcha over to an opening, which may have been a communal garden once. A giant stone statue of Queen Victoria stood atop a stone set of stairs, the back of her head and right arm missing. The woman was beneath it, huddled on the ground, sobbing into a tattered scarf, the skin on her arms and legs lashed with blood. They crept against the grit towards her, keeping a distance. Mark and Seb were nowhere to be seen. Bile started to rise in Bulma's throat as the woman's sobbing progressed into a wail, the horrible sound echoing around the dead city buildings.

The sun had set completely, dusk relaxing and surrounding the area with ensnaring darkness, confining them even more. Bulma couldn't take her eyes off the woman. Why was she crying? Why was she alone? She found herself idly walking towards her when Yamcha had to grab her arm again.

He nodded to someone in the distance, yanked Bulma backwards and whispered, "It's a set up."

It took a total of twenty seconds for the bodies to pour out of the shadows, wielding guns, open-firing out onto the street. Even a child had a knife clasped in his tiny hands as he ran towards them. Mark appeared out of nowhere, tackling three men to the floor, destroying their weapons with a blast of ki. Seb was moving around too fast for Bulma to keep track. She stepped backwards until she hit the sanctuary of the broken wall to hide behind. Yamcha had been eaten up by the action, immersing himself into the fight without a second thought.

It was all too fresh. Maybe she wasn't ready for this. These people, dressed in scraps of tattered material, were barely human. They bore animalistic traits, and this had happened in a year? Yamcha was right. Just as he had forewarned: she was unprepared for the changes on Earth.

A flaming bottle was thrown, and shattered beside her, releasing a toxic gush of blue fire. Bulma jumped back, the flames catching her right arm, and she howled in pain. The smell of burning alcohol clung onto her senses, even after she tried to ensconce herself behind another barricade.

What was she doing? This was no place for her. She may have thought Orlon had changed her, toughened her up, but not for this. What was this? The apocalypse? So the noises she heard the night before, the screeching and the moaning, were from these people? It couldn't be happening. This was her home.

Yamcha appeared, hanging over the barricade, black and red greasy smears down his face. His eyes were wild as he looked for her. "Get back to the jet. Go back to my place. Now," he shouted, hauled her onto her feet, and slapped the keys into her hand.

It didn't take much brain power to realise that that was the best option, but she didn't want to become a useless burden. Her pride was too strong, forcing her to stand her ground and deal with the situation at hand. But what could she do? There were things she could create, or build, but when it came to combat, she fell short.

He pushed her. "Go, Bulma."

Another explosion made the ground tremble, edging her forward, and on impulse, she sprinted to the jet, flicking up huge chunks of muck in her wake, leaving the fight behind.

Loose, rotting floorboards creaked as she stomped against them, waiting, constantly checking the watch on the kitchen table to see the minutes ticking by. Still no sign of Yamcha, or Mina. It had taken two hours to reach the house, which was tucked away at the bottom of a mountain, shielded by a curved lip of stone. Distant gun fire kept her alert, kept her treading the length of the house and back again. Caving to the pain in her calves, she sat down, and started biting her nails, encoding all the possible outcomes of that very fight. Yamcha could be dead. That was the worst thing. Getting over your parents' death twice was harrowing enough. The kitchen fell eerily quiet, so quiet she could hear the tiny ticking coming from the watch. She stared at it, the big hand making its way around the numbers, sweeping over time that could never be taken back or retrieved. Time in the desert, time in the cathedral, time plotting and killing the Orling, time being a normal human with problems that now seemed so laughably trivial.

She shook her head and closed her eyes. "No," she muttered under her breath, as yet more tears came.

The front door burst open, swinging on its weak hinges, welcoming a black and blue Yamcha back home. She shot up and ran over to him, stopping a few steps shy of him. From head to toe, he was plagued with ugly cuts and bruises, his top corner of his top lip swelling obscenely, like he'd been stung by a giant wasp. He back-heeled the door shut.

Somehow, he managed to smile, threw his arms out wide, gesturing around the place. "Welcome home, Bulma," he said, brushing past her, a sour stench clinging to his skin.

Without thinking, she clasped his forearm, stopping him from leaving her without answers. Outside that door, was an extinguishing civilisation, starting wars out of greed and desperation, a world so horrific, she begged for a director to appear and shout 'CUT', or for her to wake up and sigh in relief. Now that she'd glimpsed that world, she couldn't forget it.

Yamcha scrutinised the emotion Bulma was trying to convey, but the more he tried, the more confused he looked, leaving him little else but to ease her fingers off him.

"I better get a shower," he said softly, and walked away.

She didn't get it. The world had crumbled into a pile of disintegrating flesh, yet there was still electricity and hot water, and food. Somewhere, something was going right. Where was the source to this? The weak would perish and the brutish would prevail, conquering groups of people, until they accumulated a mass of depraved souls to wreak havoc on those who were supposedly trying to help. It had been a day, and already, Bulma had seen enough.

It took half an hour for Yamcha to reappear in a grey, cotton tracksuit, the bruise on his lip angry and glistening and weeping with fluid. He pressed his fingers to it tentatively, blenching as he felt the damage. Bulma hadn't moved, still sat at the kitchen table staring gormlessly at the egg shell pattern, making pathways through the flecks of colours to the other side of the table.

"Bulma …" he said, standing stock still, arms pressed at his sides.

Slowly, she looked up again, constantly bemused by how saddening his voice made her feel.

"I don't know what happened to you, but if you need to talk about it …" He trailed off as he moved around the kitchen to sit opposite her.

The thought of whining about her past seemed inappropriate when sat adjacent to a man who had just taken one hell of a beating. She wanted to ask him so many questions about the state of the Earth, instead of him evading the 'big reveal'. Perhaps if she did tell him a minute proportion of what had happened, it may benefit her in some unsettling, therapeutic way. And maybe he'd be more inclined to share information with her. Was that how it worked here now? Back while dating Yamcha, she remembered how he cherished his own thoughts a little too much, never leaning towards giving anything away whatsoever.

She sniffed, scraped the chair back and rolled the left leg of her bottoms, showing the two lumpy scars either side of her ankle.

"I was part of a game. We were paired up, all put on the same planet to gather the Dragon Balls for Frieza. We had seven days to do it, killing each other for them." Not waiting for a reaction, she pointed at the scar, the circular pattern it left on her pale skin. "We had an anklet attached to the muscles in our leg. It injected poison if we strayed too far from each other, or … if the seven days ran its course."

She pulled the material back over the scar, wanting to forget its very existence. The metal bolts might have been removed, but she could still feel the weight, the ghost of them, as if they were clinging to her for the rest of her life.

"We?" Yamcha said, sounding breathless.

Bulma exhaled through her nose, preparing herself to taste the name again. "Me and Vegeta …"

Yamcha continued to stare listlessly at her leg, despite the scar not being visible anymore, while he took it all in. The cogs were turning in his mind, and he asked to know more, more gory details, more about Frieza, and Chichi, and the other contenders. So she told him, taking two hours out of their delicate time. Of course, she omitted the weighty part about forming a mournful relationship with Vegeta. That wasn't needed in this recollection of events.

Once she finished, and couldn't find any more to say, parched and hungry, she had to sit back, like the story had taken its toll on her.

"Jesus … Bulma, I can't even imagine—"

Casually dismissing his pity with a flick of the wrist, she said, "I don't know what the truth is anymore. I don't know why Vegeta tried to destroy this planet. But I can guess who was pulling the strings."

The ticking of the watch filled the looming silence, before the harsh screeching of the chair absorbed it, as Yamcha jumped up. Before Bulma could protest, he threw his arms around her, almost pulling her out of the seat. Damp hair pressed against the top of her ear, and warm breath travelled down the back of her neck. Sense alluded her. Her mouth was full of his hoodie, saliva smearing it, tears catching against the material, all because she'd wanted someone to do this since the day Chichi died. There wasn't a particular smell to Yamcha anymore, though despite the shower, there was still an undertone of sweat between his collar bones. She found herself returning the embrace, squeezing them together, wrapping herself up away from the horrifying world outside. They stayed like that for a while, Yamcha awkwardly bending to reach her.

A striking at the door tore them apart quicker than a lighting strike. An ominous glow was beaming from outside and into the hallway. Yamcha sighed, looked at the wet patches on his top, and proceeded down the hall to answer the door.

A tornado of emotions whisked around her mind while he was gone, occupied by another urgent matter. But none of those thoughts could be connected to mean something solid. Everything was still a bit jarred. At least Yamcha knew that she hadn't had an easy ride, denuding her past to him. Retelling Chichi's death was harder than she thought. None of it felt real yet. Was Chichi sitting at home with Goku and Gohan, living a normal life? Or was Bulma so deluded by latching onto infantile innocence that it pushed her to disbelieve everything anyone said anymore?

The door creaked shut. Seconds later, Yamcha returned, trudging down the hallway, zombified and pale in the face. Even the bruises and cuts looked a little less brassy. He sank into his chair, Bulma watching, a halo of anxiety hovering above her. Expunged civilisations was clearly the least of their concerns judging by Yamcha's face.

"That was a … er … message from Krillin," he said, meeting her eyes. "They've found Vegeta … and Goku."