Thanks to Adli for proof reading :)
Depths of Darkness
Chapter Three
October 5th
This moaning was a little less disturbing than the noises drifting from outside the capsule home, but it was still keeping Bulma wide awake until the dawn came around again. Did they have the door open, or something? Bulma groaned, rolled over, and curled her pillow so her head was wedged between it and the mattress. It wasn't the most pleasant thing, hearing your ex and a strange woman fucking in the next room, especially when everything surrounding them was such a mess. That was the last thing on Bulma's mind.
Yamcha and Mina had been arguing all night about the news of Goku and Vegeta's whereabouts. The plan of action was devoid of any real thought or consideration towards anyone. It was all Yamcha's idea; to march in there head on, screaming and kicking up the ground. Of course, Bulma stepped aside. That night had drained her energy, and that news … she didn't know. She still didn't know. It had been almost three days since then, and feelings towards that particular situation just hadn't surfaced. Maybe she didn't want to think about it—Vegeta and Goku both in the same place, and had knowingly left her to be captured and tortured. All that wasn't meant to have happened, you see. The moment they loomed over Earth in that rickety old ship, Bulma sought after hope, joining forces with Goku and Vegeta. Now that idea seemed stupid, so stupid it made her snort indignantly. What an idiot. And that was why she continued to stare at the darkened wall of this gloomy room, listening to the animalistic lovemaking in the next room, and thinking about ... nothing.
Yamcha was loading the ship, hauling multiple bags of God-knows-what into the back. The rising sun shot blades of light through the reddened leaves on the trees, shimmering off the metal exterior of the ship, making it look more heavenly than Bulma could have imagined. She stepped out into the cold morning air, and took a deep breath in the wake of the long journey ahead. Yamcha could have flown them there in half the time, but said it wasn't appropriate with Mina around. Bulma didn't ask questions. She was sick of being palmed off with bullshit.
Leaves crisped and sighed under foot as she walked over to the ship. Yamcha stopped to look over, his features warming at the sight of her. She missed the gentleness of his personality, though it felt out of tune at that moment.
"The difference three days of decent food and sleep can make," he said, eyes focused on nothing but her.
She looked down at her feet like an embarrassed teen, avoiding the situation, and let the strap of her bag slip off her shoulder. What exactly was she supposed to say to that? 'Well, actually, I haven't had much sleep because of you and your girlfriend's wild bedroom sessions?' Of course she wouldn't vocalise that complaint. She opened her mouth to offer a stubborn thank you, when Mina breezed past and chucked a large duffel bag into the back of the ship, creating a disruptive racket against the controlled silence of the cold morning.
Yamcha's attention was snatched instantly. Bulma was grateful for that small miracle.
"So you are coming, then?" he said, narrowing his eyes as Mina rolled up her sleeves.
Mina tightened her crimson pony tail, and frowned at Yamcha. "Wouldn't miss it. I want to see the fucker who killed my parents," she said, and glanced at Bulma with a look that could pierce titanium.
Bulma didn't respond. She was fighting on the right side of the war, and unfortunately, what Mina had just said may well have been true. Though why she was giving Bulma an accusatory glare was beyond her.
Mina jumped into the back of the ship first, and Bulma strolled after her, head down, no complaints. Time would pass by, and whoever she was with didn't matter, because soon enough she was going to come face to face with Vegeta. Thinking about that shot blades of ice through her chest. How could someone so cruel and heartless provoke such prominent emotions?
Four strangling hours had passed in their monotonous journey over Europe. The ship chugged sporadically—a job Bulma could have tinkered with if only given the opportunity to do so. Yamcha had been babying her ever since she got here, keeping sharp objects out of sight at all times. Perhaps he wasn't worried about someone else hurting her … Perhaps he was worried about self-infliction. So far on this journey, Bulma had regurgitated even more detail about her time on Orlon: what the planet was like, what kind of wild life inhabited different areas, how Chichi had come in to the equation. All because Yamcha had persistently prodded her for more. He wanted to know more. He wanted to understand her pain … to share it. But she wasn't interested in his consoling shoulder to whimper on. That was pointless now. All Bulma could think about was how the Earth had coped in the year she had been gone, and what exactly happened when it was purged. No one seemed to remember, except Yamcha, yet he was keeping the information guarded.
He smiled, tightened his hands around the steering mechanism, staring vacantly into the endless line of blue sky. "It should be impossible," he muttered.
"Plenty of impossible things have happened lately."
Bulma drew her attention away from the window, hands numb from leaning against them. Mina was sitting in the back, rustling through some of the cargo like a raccoon. She'd been distracted by thoughts throughout the journey, and hadn't uttered a single word to either of them. Yamcha and Mina had an odd relationship. There was no denying the curiosity burrowing through Bulma's vacant head. If Yamcha wasn't going to talk about the state of the Earth, maybe he would talk about something else.
"So, when did you guys meet?" Bulma said, but as the words came out, the realisation of their pointlessness followed promptly after, making her wince at her own stupidity.
Yamcha remained focused on what was ahead, though his face grew a darker shade. Bulma sank into her seat as the silence chewed and gnawed. Why did she have to ask such a trivial question, when life was a wreck-
"About two months ago," Mina said, digging elbow-deep into a beige satchel. "He was a mess when I met him."
Aghast, Bulma turned back to Mina, then to Yamcha, waiting for a response. Yamcha did nothing more than look totally abashed. What was he ashamed of, exactly?
"Yeah—too busy helping everyone else, forgot about himself -"
"Mina—" he warned.
"Oh, shut up, Yamcha. People have problems. Get over it," she said, waving her hand.
Problems? Yamcha hadn't mentioned anything about himself in the last three days. Nothing. Bulma was being shut out. But why? If anything, she was to know any information possible. Regardless of her feeble inquisitions, Yamcha always digressed upon another topic, steering it back towards her problems, when in fact, he was the one who was suffering from the stab of depression the most. She saw the similarities back when they dated. Even then he would have kept his feelings under wraps; only the feelings he wanted to show. She hated that.
"You're OK now, though, right?" Bulma said, scrutinising another forked scar below his ear.
He self-consciously pawed at his neck, brushing dry, flaky fingers against his tarnished skin. "I'm fine," he clipped.
Just like always.
It was useless trying to fish for any more information about Yamcha when he was so blunt and awkward, so Bulma got up to stretch her legs for a bit, walking to the back of the ship to find something to eat. She could feel Mina's eyes trailing after her. Bulma crouched, found her bag, and routed through it for the bag of raisins she'd packed.
Mina crouched opposite her, almost inducing a heart attack just when Bulma found the treasure right in the corner of the bag.
"I know who you are," Mina whispered, leaning in.
Bulma stared, biting back the sarcasm that danced on her tongue.
"To Yamcha, I mean," she said, feeling the need to elaborate, also blushing.
"Oh—uh." Bulma continued to rummage through the bag, even though she'd already found what she was looking for. She just couldn't look this bizarre woman in the eyes.
"I don't know you. You appear out of thin air with the guy who attacked this planet … I don't trust it … I don't trust you," she hissed, acid trickling from every word. "You know, considering that before all of this, you and Yamcha had a thing going on, you don't seem to be showing much interest in him now. What did happen during your time in space?"
It was unclear as to what Bulma was more saddened by. The vexing knowledge that Yamcha had discussed his past life with Mina, or the clarity of her suspicion towards her. Who was this person crouching before her, poking her nose into Bulma's life when she didn't know shit about anything? The ship chugged again, hitting some turbulence, and it knocked Bulma out of her rotten daze.
She smiled and said, placidly, "Mina … I don't know you either—so I won't be discussing anything with you." She got up, bag of raisins in hand, and walked back over to the front of the ship to Yamcha, who smiled innocently.
Just outside the window, the trees were whipping back and forth like a manic crowd of people swaying at a rock concert. The ship gradually dropped, swooping lower amongst the foliage, but not enough to make contact with a single branch. She knew the route well, knew where the path led, knew where the opening in the forest would take them. Goku's house was set back and isolated from any other houses, which was completely understandable considering half the things the man got up to. He didn't want to draw more attention to himself. The world had seen it in the past, but flying around and shooting beams of energy at any given moment was still not universally accepted. The outback was for the best.
The silence that eroded the harmonious atmosphere was becoming unbearable, as Bulma sat curled up in the passenger seat, biting her stubby fingernails. When a little bald man, waving his arms frantically, mouthing something she couldn't yet determine, appeared in a clearing, her mood lifted, like a ray of concentrated sun-shine was being pumped into her heart.
Yamcha smiled as the ship juddered, beginning to land, and Krillin's warm and welcoming face grew more prominent, more recognisable. Bulma's heart fluttered. Krillin was smiling, still waving his arms, even though it was clear they'd seen the signal. She would never had thought it, but Krillin's face was the first thing that made her feel comforted.
They landed delicately, using Yamcha's expert piloting skills, and Bulma disregarded the mountain of luggage as she bolted out the door, across the grass, and straight into Krillin, who embraced her into a bear hug. Just what she needed. Never would she have thought this little creep would make her so happy.
Krillin laughed, pulled away to get a look at her, a twinkle of sorrow in his eyes. "You're back. And alive," he shouted, blasting her eardrums. He squinted at her figure. "A little on the skinny side, but—"
"Yeah? Well, food wasn't very plentiful where I was," she said, feeling a little perturbed by her own blasé tone.
Krillin's mouth opened slightly, but she stopped him before he could start.
"Don't ask," she said, shaking her head.
The last thing she wanted to do was go on about that again. She'd had enough with Yamcha, despite knowing he was just trying to be useful.
Krillin's attention was drawn to the clanging emanating from the open trunk of the ship, followed by Mina hopping out, wielding something shiny that she quickly slipped into her back pocket. Yamcha strolled out afterwards, hands in his pockets, like the ground was about to swallow him up. The wind was ferocious, whisking Bulma's hair into her eyes and mouth. She bunched her hair up and held it on the top of her head, keeping a close eye on Mina, who had vengeance bleeding out of her pores. Mina nodded at Krillin, sharing an acceptance of mutual friendship that made Bulma's heart sink a little. A year away from this world had branded her an outcast, almost.
They all stood awkwardly, unearthing soil with agitated feet, while the weather kept them alert. Goku's house was a mere couple of meters away. There were people inside there, people Bulma didn't particularly want to see. You would never tell, though. The windows were blackened, curtains drawn with no light trickling through, the only murmuring voices were created by the wind meandering through the forest. Bulma's breathing became harsh.
"OK," Krillin said, saving them all. "Before you go in with you fists up, you have to hear them out."
His words beckoned them all to lift their heads like obedient dogs.
"What?" Yamcha said, taking his hands out of his pockets, balling his fists.
Krillin blushed and stumbled on his words, sticking his hands up to defend himself. "There's a story behind this … that … I think you'll want to hear, Yamcha."
Bulma could hear her heart beat thumping in her ears, drowning out the howling wind, forcing her to focus on it. Not the words that polluted her brain, just the knowledge that she was still alive, but somehow detached.
Mina pushed past Yamcha, and stepped up to Krillin, dwarfing him with her six foot stature. "Oh yeah? Is that the story involving this guy who killed millions, and left Earth to rot?"
She sneered, easily knocked Krillin aside, and barged into Goku's house, holding aloft a ball of orange energy. Bulma's mouth was dry, watching as yet another energy harbouring maniac waltzed into her life. Was there anyone normal left?
Yamcha bleated pathetically and ran in after her. "Mina—"
There were two very prominent reasons why Bulma did not want to enter that establishment: People who had betrayed her were probably lounging in there like nothing had ever happened, and the doleful fact that the woman who was once in total control of how that house was run was no longer alive. It would feel empty without hearing Chichi shrieking about the amount of dirt Goku had walked in, or without the steam billowing from the open windows as she cooked inhumane portions of food for her Saiyan family.
Krillin could no longer wait for Bulma to dither upon a decision, so he traipsed on in, shoulders tied together as he awaited what kind of disaster was being unfolded in there. After hearing no crash, no explosions, Bulma took a deep breath, steadied herself, and went inside, struck by the familiar smell that the room held. That homely smell each house seemed to have, making it unique but familiar. Dust glazed everything in the hallway, pictures were almost unrecognisable under the layers of dirt and neglect. It brought a lump to her throat, but as the short hallway expanded into the open-plan living space, she dislodged the lump and focused on whatever the hell was going on in here.
In the middle of the room, stood Mina, energy ball still stuck in the air, resting on a shaking palm. To the side, standing and poised for something, were Goku and Gohan, whose eyes did not move from Mina, despite Bulma's belated, mouse-like entrance. Again, she felt like a side-act, an interruption in the midst of a show she hadn't been invited to see. There was another like her, though, hiding behind the main characters, shrouded by the main performance: Vegeta. She glanced at him for longer than intended, gathering the sight of him, his vitality shining like a beacon. He was leaning against the wall that led to the bedrooms, one foot propped up against the doorframe, his eyes fixed on an unimportant spot, avoiding eye contact with anyone, especially Mina.
Mina's hand shook and the energy dissipated, as did her courage. She was nonplussed, unable to take her eyes away from Vegeta. Bulma flexed her fingers, then dug them into her palm to keep herself restrained. No one did anything to stop the situation progressing.
What were they waiting for? A fight to break out? Why couldn't they put out the fire before it ravaged everything in sight?
"I know you," a small, distant voice muttered.
It took a few seconds for Bulma to realise that the voice belonged to Mina, who seemed to look wilted and cowardly with her shoulders touching her ears.
"Why do I know you?" she shouted, real tears appearing in the corners of her eyes.
Bulma bit her lip, watching the scene unfold into something she hadn't expected. The blood in her fists was pulsing, nagging for her to take action and swing them in someone's face. And when Vegeta disregarded Mina's shrilling voice, refusing to give anyone an ounce of his attention, Bulma spun on her heels and stormed out of the house impulsively. She didn't belong in there. That was clear. With crystallising clarity, she knew she didn't want to be in there. Not at all. No way. Her existence in that very house was unnecessary, as they were all happy to continue without her.
The second she stepped out the door, the wind slapped her in the face, throwing her hair up and everywhere like a dishevelled blue halo above her head. It was like she hadn't escaped from Orlon at all. It was as if she had died.
She sat on the stone step, brushed the tough bristles of the battered 'Welcome Home' mat with her knuckles, cutting the skin far too easily.
He didn't even look at her. Not once. Yes, there were a lot of things happening to all of them, but she just thought, for a single moment that-
Tree branches swayed across the footpath, scattering it with leaves that weren't necessarily ready to let go; still green, still alive. She felt too angry to go back in there. She opted out before it had even begun. The truth was still miles away, and she'd forgotten to care.
She started when someone plonked themselves next to her, and she glanced up beyond the mass of hair that straggled across her eyes.
"Bulma," Goku said, and smiled weakly.
She looked away.
"I know this looks bad, but—"
"I don't want to hear it. Any of it. You get that?" she snapped, whipping her head back towards him.
Goku sighed and bravely scooted closer to her, but lightning anger made her shove him back, consequentially doing more damage to herself than Goku, making her more irate.
"Get away," she said, standing up.
"Woah. Why?"
"Are you kidding?" she said, snorting with fake laughter, looking down at Goku with wild, fiery eyes. "You left me in that ship—I was captured and tortured. They thought I was working with Frieza," she shrieked, gripping onto her hair. She looked over her shoulder, into the open doorway, before adding, "I think they still do."
That thought had been resting in her mind the moment Yamcha conceded and took her in. Something was off. And she was right to stay wise to it.
Goku remained seated, his boyish features hardening as he took in to consideration someone else's pain. Despite having done something horrendous, every time she saw his face, she saw purity and innocence. That really pissed her off.
"I'm sorry. I had to get Vegeta out of there."
Her eye widened comically. "Why didn't you take me with you?" She gawped for a second, then snapped her mouth shut for all the hair that was trying to funnel down her throat.
He looked up. "You needed to be found, Bulma. You're neutral ground. If they found you hiding here with us … well, that wouldn't have looked good."
His words were so flippant, each syllable slapping her hard across the face, mocking and slandering her intelligence.
"They could've killed me," she shouted, her palms twitching with rage.
She knew Goku was staying sat down because he was allowing her to have height over the situation. He knew the pain he'd caused, yet he couldn't show how sorry he was. He never could.
"Sorry. I didn't think you'd be hurt …" he mumbled, eyes downcast. "Yamcha helped, though?"
"This is unreal," she said, picking a stray twig out of her hair.
A painful scream cut through the howling wind, shooting dread deep into the pit of Bulma's stomach. It was Mina. Something had happened to her. Had Vegeta done something?
She darted inside to see Mina curled up into a ball on the floor beneath Vegeta's feet, while everyone else kept their distance, warily watching them. Mina's crying depleted into soft sobs, muffled by the carpet. Bulma looked to Vegeta, who was still yet to douse anyone with his precious attention, before something stopped everyone's train of thought. Mina stood up, rubbed her nose with the sleeve of her jacket, and walked away.
"Mina—" Yamcha said, latching onto her sleeve.
She shook free from his grasp, and scowled. "Don't touch me," she said and walked out.
"Someone better start fucking talking," Yamcha said, veins bulging out of his temples.
That was a side to him she'd never seen.
Goku brushed his hand against Bulma's back as he walked past. A gesture so casual and reassuring it startled her. But he joined the others, stood by Gohan, like the whole lot of them were mere props in this crappy screen play. Whatever had just happened was not going to be justified by any of these morons, especially not by the guy who stood cross-armed in the centre of it all. She couldn't stand it. The only person who held any ounce of sense was Mina, and she'd wandered off.
Bulma left the house again, too angry to start shouting at any of them, and too dumbfounded to make any sense, fruitlessly in search of one volatile woman, who, hey, could control energy. Something was drawing Bulma closer to Mina. Something intrigued her, peaked her interest, and it wasn't the fact that she'd just witnessed her sobbing on the floor in despair. Perhaps it was because she was sharing a bed with Bulma's ex-lover, feeling his arms around her like Bulma had once longed to do while stuck on Frieza's ship. Or perhaps it was because the whole situation was so fucked up, she didn't care what happened, so she just went with it.
The forest surrounding Goku's house welcomed Bulma's lonely soul, like a long lost friend, blotting out the ferocity of the wind, drowning the atmosphere she'd left behind in that house. She crunched on branches and leaves, ambling further and deeper amongst the trees, brushing her fingertips against cold tree bark. Goku had admitted it. It was purposefully executed. Vegeta and Goku's little plan. She didn't remember much about before that, other than an explosion. Never would she have suspected the two of them conspiring behind her back.
She stopped when she saw Mina huddled against a tree trunk, knees drawn up to her chest, tear stained cheeks and blood shot eyes.
"Mina?" Bulma said, clawing past a wavering cluster of branches.
"Don't call me that," she said, and sniffed.
Bulma tripped as she made her way towards her, clumsily jumping over jutting roots and branches. "Don't? Why not?"
"I don't know. Just don't."
Was there any point in asking what was going on? Bulma mirrored Mina's position nearby, close enough to see her features darken as she lifted her head, red ringlets of hair falling in front of her eyes. Two people so different sharing the same minute space.
"I'm sorry about before, by the way," she said, and laughed dryly into the crook of her elbow.
"If you don't want me to call you Mina, what should I call you?"
"I don't know," she uttered, and frowned like it left a bitter taste on her tongue. "I … I thought I wanted to kill him, you know. Your friend. But I couldn't."
Time stopped.
Bulma's stomach lurched. It was all unfurling before her eyes. The truth that was once being drip-fed to her was now cascading with untouchable force. And she sat, chin resting on her clamped knees, jaw set, teeth grinding together, waiting for a woman she'd known for five minutes to spill precious information about her 'friend'.
"Why?" she croaked.
Mina looked up at the thin tree cover, the streaks down her face more prominent in the late afternoon light, and she shrugged. "I don't know. When I saw him standing there, I knew it wasn't possible for me to hurt him. I physically couldn't do it."
"Jeez," Bulma said, sinking further into the ground, the dampness seeping into her clothing, stamping a palm to her forehead.
It had all just become one big joke, hadn't it? Was Frieza still watching? She hoped he was, because this was one not to miss. So Mina (or whoever the hell this woman was), the single person who strode into that house, declaring death upon Vegeta, was now as feeble and useless as everyone else? When Bulma saw Mina charging into that house, she hadn't really thought about the consequences. Too selfish, and thinking about her own problems. What if Mina had attacked Vegeta? Did Bulma ever consider that? The truth was, she had every confidence in Vegeta. She doubted that Mina would have landed a single punch.
"I didn't want to hurt him. I never … wanted to hurt anyone," Mina said, whispering the latter.
Bulma opted for total silence. There was too much to contemplate. It was all trying to barge into her brain, leaving no airspace to filter through.
"I had a life here… a family … a normal past." She cried again.
Bulma opened her eyes. "What?"
Mina never meant to hurt anyone? Did she mean Yamcha?
Mina looked up. "What do you mean, 'what'?"
Was it worth riling up such an impulsive person, when you didn't really know them, at all? Bulma shook her head, rested her chin on her knees. "Nothing. Never mind."
The trees creaked, beams of golden light spanned through the forest, casting halos on the flaky bark, and for the first time in a year, Bulma heard a blackbird singing faintly in the distance.
"Where is she?" Yamcha said, looking over his shoulder as Bulma approached.
The room was just as she'd left it; a dysfunction bunch of people lingering with little to no conversation at all. She wondered if they'd uttered a single word to each other yet, or maybe they'd stood in silence waiting for the wind to change.
"She wants to be alone," Bulma found herself saying aggressively, and allowing herself a millisecond peek at Vegeta.
"That's fine. They've explained what I need to know," Yamcha said, tight-lipped.
"Which is?"
"That we don't have much time."
Yamcha attempted a dutiful escape, leaving Bulma hanging by a thread to piece together what he was talking about, yet again. It meant nothing to her. She was so frustrated she stomped her foot like a toddler and spread her arms out to stop him going any further. All the occupants in the room, including your royal highness, looked over at her as if she were a minor distraction, an intruder in their secret boys club.
Knowing Yamcha's wilting courage all too well, Bulma knew he wouldn't push past her. He was a sap. That, she had remembered well.
"I've had it with people bullshitting. Someone tell me what's happening … Now," she demanded, folding her arms.
Vegeta watched her curiously, without making any attempt at being the one to explain things.
Gohan stood up, a little taller than she remembered, and said, "My Dad and Vegeta turned up here about three days ago. I didn't know who Vegeta was until now, but … I believe he's here to help." He looked to Goku for support, but he shrugged, obviously quite satisfied with his son's unsupportive explanation.
"Help? With what?" Bulma said, arms dropping to her sides.
"Oh, switch the lights on, woman," Vegeta hissed, his abruptness stunning her. "You think Frieza is going to let you live on your little planet again? He'll track us all down for revenge, and rip us to pieces." He huffed and crossed his arms.
It felt like the room was shrinking, or she was inflating. She tried to swallow, but her throat seemed blocked, the muscles unable to contract, frozen stiff with terror. This whole time she'd been wrapped up in the state of the Earth and how she slotted into its bruised equation, she'd forgotten that Frieza catching up to them was highly probable. And judging by the certainty in Vegeta's voice, it was going to happen soon. If anyone knew Frieza's motives, it would be Vegeta, for reasons she didn't want to imagine.
"No—he didn't know where we were going—" she said.
"Of course he knows. This is the first place he'll come looking," Vegeta said, talking down to her like he always had done, but somehow antagonising her more than it used to.
She shook her head. It wasn't true. A downpour of possibilities bombarded her. Had the Orling foreseen this? Had Vegeta? Who was on her side? When would Frieza come back? Did she have time?
"We need to fight back. Having Vegeta on our side gives us a better chance," Goku said, to which Vegeta grunted something unintelligible.
Bulma laughed raucously, clutching onto her stomach. "He's not on our side. He's on his own side."
Something in her words captured Vegeta's attention, trapping them together for a fleeting moment. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much abuse she wanted to hurl in his direction. How he had hurt her beyond belief. But she couldn't see its worth. What would she possibly gain from elaborating on the past, acting as if he had vegetated his way through it …? The glassy image of Frieza's contorted, rage-twisted face flashed into her mind. She was going to see that face again in a perfect light. Her hands trembled as she patted her warm face, trying to isolate herself from everyone in the room. Yamcha was standing close behind her, protecting her, maybe not even being aware of it.
"Frieza needs to be stopped. We need all the help we can get, Bulma," Goku said, adding a pinch of hope into a broth of pessimism.
"Who do you trust, Goku?" she said. "I still don't know how you're alive—and why. You went and left me to be tortured …" She shook her head, a sour grimace manipulating her features. "No. If Frieza is coming, you can do whatever the hell you want. I'm having nothing to do with it."
She turned to leave on a dramatic high, but stopped in the doorway for someone she owed some kindness to.
"Gohan, I'm sorry—It's good to see you, kid."
She walked out, kept walking.