Thanks to Adli for proof reading :)
A/N - Hello. Hope everyone had a nice time over the holidays. It's a new year, which means a new perspective on life. Well, that's what I think. Whatever happened last year is now a cherished memory, whether it be good or bad. I wish you all the best of luck for the upcoming year.
I'm so excited to write the next few chapters of this story. I do appreciate that there isn't too much V/B interaction, but I assure you it is what it is, which is essentially a Vegeta and Bulma fiction. I promise you, and I can only implore that you stick around and see the rest of the story unfurl.
Btw, I recently finished watching Legend of Korra. And 'that ending'. Hmm. I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. Anyone else watch it? Thoughts? Concerns? I'd love to know!
Depths of Darkness – Chapter Four
Our World
October 5th
Scenarios batted back and forth in Bulma's head as to how the situation could be any worse. What if (and this had appeared at the forefront of her brain for the past two hours) she hadn't been abducted, hadn't been snatched away. Would she have been helping out in the gallant fight to restore the Earth? Would she be alive? And would she have still been with Yamcha? Yes, there were plenty other, vital things she could have been pondering upon, but that very particular idea was becoming aggressive, like an abscess about to erupt. And where would it take her when she realised the truth? The truth slipping further away. She would be fine if she never caught up with it, truthfully. Just kept it in sight, but only so close the she could make the blurry silhouette, and not the sharp outlines.
She grabbed the closest thing to her, which happened to be a gangly, spindly tree branch, and pulled hard out of frustration. The branch didn't yield to her display of temper, but resisted, using its tiny splinters to chop into her palm as her hand ran down the length of it. She yelped, pulled back and inspected the art work of horror it had left behind, slashes of red and slivers of wood stuck in the skin. The wind had picked up since she had stormed out of Goku's house with no mind as to where she was headed. It made these familiar woods seem less inviting, like the wind was trying to push her back in the direction she came. She never meant to walk this far. The air was too close in Goku's house. It owned the ambience of a courtroom negotiating the case of a mass murderer, which wasn't far off.
She needed air, though the darkness was creeping in from all corners, encircling her, making her ears pick up on sounds that she definitely wouldn't be hearing walking in the crisp morning sun. Denuded trees rustled and groaned, bending back and forth, the wind manipulating their usual solid stature. She narrowed her eyes into the distance, seeing no leeway in the ongoing foliage, while stepping up the pace, mindful to stick to a trodden, mushy path she knew had once been so clear to follow. This was how her world had changed. The past had been erased. Seeing Earth again should have brought back a flurry of treasured memories, but the scenery had changed so much, smeared by careless hands, that she barely recognised it anymore. The people were different, too. They barely resembled humanity at all. A part of her wondered something so absurd it made her shake her head from her own curiosity.
A crunching sound reverberated, intertwining with the wind. Bulma whipped around to see a figure heading towards her at speed. Before she could turn to run, something weighted ensnared her ankles, trapping them together and knocking her to the ground. Her chin cracked against a tree root as she hit the floor, so hard that she clamped her teeth onto her tongue, piercing the muscle. She gargled on her own blood, wriggling around on the floor, trying to loosen the grip on her ankles as the blackness encroached. She couldn't pass out. Not now.
Footsteps slopped against the emulsified leaves and muck, drawing to a close inches from her head. She kept her eyes shut, playing the coward as she waited for the worst to come. There was nothing she could do. Blood sat in her mouth, building in a warm pool underneath her tongue, making her want to vomit, pulse pounding in her ears. Pain rendered her ability to move, sending her rigid, lying in wait like prey.
There was a deep sigh of relief or sadness; she didn't know, before a voice said, "Take whatever you want, but I'm having her teeth."
The words floated around her like a bad radio reception. What did she just hear?
"Like hell you are," another voice said, closer than the other.
"You don't get to decide that, remember?"
There was an interruption of footsteps thrashing together. "Don't forget who you're talking to, bitch," the first voice hissed. "If Jo finds out, that'll be it for all of us."
She felt the Earth giving way as a foot stopped right below her ribcage and propped her up from the soggy ground, while hands scrambled at loosening the laces on her shoes. She groaned in protest, but it was fragmented by the red slime pouring between her lips. Bulma opened her eyes, could see the battered red sneakers of one of her attackers, the laces all frayed and undone, mottled with dirt. Nondescript in this world.
Jaundiced light emblazed and blinded her, wiping out the image of the grotty sneakers, leaving her to rely on sound once more. The heavy thump of bodies dropping hitting the ground made her open them again, albeit only slightly, but enough to make out the lifeless face of another human being a mere meter away from her. It was a man, his pupils dilated and surrounded by red veins, while his tongue had flopped out of his mouth leaving a drying string of saliva across his ruddy cheeks. He didn't look too old. Not old enough to be a corpse.
Something was fumbling at her restricted ankles, releasing them. A rough hand grasped Bulma's wrist and hauled her to her feet, forcing her to make amends with gravity once again by remaining vertical. The pain in her mouth intensified as the cold wind laced around her face, isolating the problem. It took her a few seconds to gather her surroundings again, accumulating evidence of the situation that had taken place, accounting for the tiny chunk of her tongue she'd chomped off. Dried blood itched the corner of her mouth when she tried to grimace, resentful to let her be at peace for a single second. Mina stood in front of her, displaying a look of total disgust at Bulma's appearance. She knew she was bound to look rough, but did Mina have to be so blunt?
Mina grabbed a fist full of moist leaves from the floor, and thrust them in Bulma's face. Bulma stiffened as the damp smell of rotting nature took place as the only thing in existence, before gingerly accepting the clump of pulp to dab against her mouth.
"You need to learn to fight if you're going to survive here," Mina said, smearing the leafy residue from her hands onto her trousers. "These … people … they're everywhere, and you're a walking target."
The three bodies lying on the floor hadn't moved, only clarifying the worst. Bulma wasn't a stranger to death anymore. In fact, it was unusual if she went a day without some poor soul dropping dead. Just another day. That notion didn't stop the fear gripping her every bone. What had just happened to her? And why had Mina saved her? She guessed Mina was simply passing, looking for a free way to vent her anger. Yet she was still hanging around, waiting for something.
Bulma peeled the leaves from her face, and said, "You can control energy—teach me."
Was that what Mina wanted? A reason to justify her lingering presence? Bulma was handing over the olive branch, for reasons she couldn't herself clarify, to the mysterious woman who had formed a romantic relationship with Yamcha. How the world had changed …
Mina looked at Bulma dubiously, summing up the proposition, or the inclination of it. "You're a genius, aren't you? Teach yourself." She huffed, spat out a tress of hair that had been swept into her mouth by the lurking wind.
"Having brains means nothing anymore," Bulma conceded with a sigh, her tongue feeling like it was about to drop off every time she spoke. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
Mina thought for a second. "I'd like to know that myself. Your energy flared, and for some reason I rushed over here. Maybe you're important somehow. I don't know."
Bulma didn't know whether to be touched or suspicious by the jarred explanation, looking back to the bodies of the two men and one woman sprawled amongst the dirt. Shade crept up as the sun cowered behind the clouds, leaving the already dark woods even more haunting than before. They were both still stood there, allowing the weather to wash over them, the tree branches to dance lithely above their heads, while they idly pondered their own existence. Tormenting thoughts were manipulating Mina's features, and Bulma knew exactly what was going on.
"You're not going back?" she said, finally releasing the clump of leaves to powder to the floor.
"I haven't decided yet," Mina said, looking over. "It didn't feel right being with them. Like I didn't belong there. And as for your friend—"
She clutched her shoulder and closed her eyes; an action that to many would display pain. But Bulma saw something else, something that sparked unannounced jealousy in her heart.
Mina shook her head, opened her eyes. "I haven't decided." She glanced at the bodies, unmoved by their lack of life. "We better move before whichever group these were in begin to wonder why their friends haven't returned." And she walked on, letting Bulma decide her own fate.
Like she had done for the past few months of her life, Bulma followed a stranger, placing her delicate trust into unfamiliar hands, knowing that little good could come out of it. They trampled back through the woods, Bulma a few steps behind, letting the silence soak into fresh wounds. Something was biting at Bulma's throat, and it wasn't the numbing pain of her swollen tongue.
"Tell me," she said, breaking into a jog to get to Mina's side.
Mina gave her a sideways glance of disinterest.
"Tell me what happened to Yamcha."
Mina grinned sardonically, looking straight ahead. "Showing some interest now you know your fancy man is a remorseless killer?"
It felt like a tonne of lead had dropped in Bulma's stomach, ceasing any further movement. The words were so hollow, careless, and true that it made her want to scream into the open air. It wasn't something she didn't already know, though, was it? Vegeta had never held back on showing his dark side. Even when they first met, he was quick to wrap his hands round her throat and threaten her with death. But that was before she knew the slim details of his personality, before she had accepted his tempered past, and before she had slept with him. So her feelings for Vegeta were so plainly obvious, were they? Because if they were to everyone else, why weren't they to her?
Mina stopped pacing, begrudgingly looking to see what had happened to Bulma. She laughed when she registered Bulma's nonplussed reaction. "Oh, anyone with an ounce of sense can tell what's gone on between you two. I don't blame you, either," she declared shamelessly. "You don't hide it too well, though. Might want to reconsider your tactics."
Mina plonked her fists onto her hips. "Bit of a contrast from sweet, heroic Yamcha, don't you think? No, no, I totally get it. I get it."
If it wasn't for the pain and missing portion of flesh, Bulma would have bitten her tongue to stop herself verbally abusing this woman for taking delight out of something so trivial and unnecessary in the present.
"I'm not talking about Vegeta now," Bulma said, affirming the redirection of the conversation.
Mina pulled a face at the sound of Vegeta's name, and remained silent, before turning around and stomping off again, no further questions asked, no further remarks spat.
It hadn't occurred to Bulma, during the throes of aggression, just how far she had actually walked from Goku's place. She knew these woods well, had treaded their depths many times in the same state of mind through no fault of her own (usually due to one of Chichi's rants), but now they were different. Blemished by the past year. She'd been speed walking to stay at Mina's side for a while, trying to muster why Mina hadn't taken off and returned to Goku's house by herself in a fraction of the time. All Bulma could do was watch the coiled red locks of Mina's ponytail swinging side to side with each step she took. Something had twisted Mina's bravado, shaking her character, revealing something a little less rough around the edges. It was Vegeta. The thought created an unpleasant emotion. Did they know each other? The only reasonably explanation would be that she caught sight of him when the Earth was being invaded. But then, she wouldn't have dropped her battle-axe so soon and ran away, not when she was so prepared to fight.
A buzzing emanated inside Bulma's skull, a feeling so bizarre she tried to shake it out of her head. It felt as if she was about to black out, like nausea had taken control and was pulling her downwards.
Mina stopped, balled her fists. "We have to get back."
That was where they were headed. Bulma was fully aware of that, so why did Mina have to belittle her intelligence in such a way? The buzzing became louder, growing in ferocity, punching into her eardrums. It gathered in the front of her mind's eye, and then separated into over a dozen tiny yellow dots, as if she was gazing down at a dragon radar, viewing the oncoming number of lifeforms. The yellow dots were drawing closer, before she realised it, the brown and green Earth of reality coming back into focus. They were being ambushed.
Hollering sounded from all around them, as Mina sprinted off ahead, her heavy footsteps fading out of earshot. Bulma followed, bracing against safety obscuring tree trunks, slipping, allowing multiple branches and thorns to scrape against her face and arms. It didn't matter. Her breathing shook in her chest painfully as her pace increased into an Olympic-level sprint, taking her away from the foreign energy levels slowly but surely.
It had probably gone up in flames. Every last piece of it; the history that it heralded simply by looking at its exterior—gone. It was all falling apart, and what could she do? Nothing. Goku's house had become just another fuzzy memory.
The light bulb flickered, and the room suddenly felt a lot cooler. It wasn't her room, of course, so that feeling of sanctuary wasn't helping her ensconce herself in the misery of this life, but it was the place she could be alone for a while and think as clearly as was possible. When she had finally reached Goku's house, lungs about to implode, they had already sensed the danger and were ready to go. The one thing Bulma had had time to account for was the lack of Mina. But that was all she could do—wonder—when Yamcha grabbed her by the wrist and took off with her clutched to him like a baby chimpanzee. The group had dispersed into different directions, supposedly to keep the intruders off the scent. Now was all about waiting, biting fingernails and scratching skin until it became weepy and sore.
Going back to Yamcha's newly placed capsule house wasn't the brightest idea, but everyone was given its location, and were directed to meet back within the hour. It had been two hours since then, and no one had returned, no energy levels could be traced. It didn't surprise Bulma to see Vegeta take off without a second glance. But it played on her mind. She sat on her bed, picking at the sheets, pinching them into a small tent shape and letting them sag back into something more miserable and fitting.
There was a light knocking at the door that picked at her strained attention span. Yamcha peered around, gathering the sight of such a useless woman reaching the peak of her self-loathing. He didn't say anything as he stepped in, shut the door. Bulma turned back to the rumpled bed sheets, trying to muster up the image of a face, like you would when looking up at the clouds on a summer's evening, waiting for the inevitable consoling from the man she could barely look at anymore.
But no words came, making her, after consideration, give in and drink in the slumped sight of him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the carpet, a distant look in his eyes. Another cut was glaring at her from his neck, right below the scar she had spotted on their way to Goku's house. How had he gotten himself in such a state? And why was she still being kept in the dark about everything? She needed to know the facts, and was tired of people trying to shield her from the scary outdoors. She'd seen it, and yes, it was horrific. Very horrific. But she wasn't going to pretend it didn't exist, nor was she going to hide in a corner and cry. She was only in this damn room because she'd been plonked here like a raggedy old toy in a 'lost and found' closet.
Yamcha brought his thumb up to his mouth and chewed at the skin around his nail, eyes still focused on the same spot. He'd obviously come in here for a reason, so why didn't he just spit it out? The more she looked at him, the more she felt for him. Sorrow was grappling her heart and pulling it against her ribcage. The things he must have seen. Friends must have died before his eyes. At least Bulma hadn't had to see any of that, except Chichi. To her, it was just a message that had been relayed, allowing her to hold onto the frail belief that maybe it wasn't true.
"I'm sorry," she found herself saying, throat tighter than she expected.
He looked startled and slightly perturbed.
"I'm sorry I haven't been here."
Yamcha stopped biting his thumb and laughed disbelievingly. She was taken aback by the outburst. The acoustics of this room hadn't been used to such a sound; it was odd so soon after an edgy silence.
"Bulma. What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you—" He rubbed his temple, lifted his shoulders. "When are you going to stop apologising for things that are out of your control? You're saying sorry for being abducted and thrown into some murder game to fend for your own life. Do you think before you say these things?"
"No, that's not what—""
"You can't think like this anymore. What's happened has happened because of some sick fuck. That's it. End of story," Yamcha said, breathing a huge sigh of relief, or disbelief—she didn't know.
"I don't know what's happened to you while I've been gone … but it must've been horrible. I feel like, like I should have been—"
"It wouldn't have made a difference, you being there or not." He sighed again, but this time it felt resigned, opening the gates to emotions he had no intention of sharing.
"So many people died, or vanished. I didn't know what to do. They looked to the few of us who were capable of doing something, but their needs were too strong, the tension growing too fast when they realised very little could be done when we'd lost so much. The poverty, famine rising to levels that couldn't be helped by a handful of people." His voice grew thicker. "The world was crumbling apart. I couldn't do anything, but felt like I had an obligation. I didn't sleep, didn't eat, had nowhere to go … It just all felt like a nightmare. Everyone I loved had been taken from me. And I was left in this place that was once my home, everyday waking up to the memory of that day."
Tears were in his eyes as he swallowed, indicating that there was no more to be said on the matter. Bulma didn't know if she could take any more. No more needed to be said, the outlines were thick enough. They had both experienced something brutal, which no matter how much they tried to skip around it, was still raw. There was no disposition as to how they were going to survive one day to the next, but somehow, having Yamcha sat in the same room as her, made it seem that little bit less destitute an idea. He'd never opened up to her like this. And it was a bit overwhelming seeing someone you thought you knew act beyond their own nature.
"It's different now. I have reason to keep fighting," he said, dashing the tears away with the back of his index finger.
Mina …The woman who had yet to return.
"I still can't sense her energy," Bulma said, briefly closing her eyes.
"Who?"
She frowned. "Mina."
Yamcha gave her a slight glance, before looking at the floor and mumbling, "She'll come back. Don't worry. How's your tongue, anyway?"
"Swollen. Sore."
The door slammed shut. Bulma jolted upright from the sofa, a drowsy film obstructing her vision and sense. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and ran her hands down her face, slapping her cheeks lightly to bring herself to life again. Rustling and inundated footsteps came from all around her before she could pick her head properly.
They were all standing there. Krillin and Mina at one side of the room, busying themselves digging through a rucksack, and Vegeta, Gohan and Goku stood closely together, like a bunch of misfits who'd mistakenly walked in on a 'We're all Earthlings' party. As her eyes adjusted to the halogen overload, she noticed that the entirety of the left side of Vegeta's face was smeared with blood, or something of the same pigment. The physical effect it had on her was tormenting. Her heart constricted with shock at the thought of him getting hurt, when that should have been a simple concept to banish. If it were the other way around, and she had been hurt, she sincerely doubted that Vegeta would have given a rat's ass.
From across the room, with brief intervals, Mina kept glancing over at Vegeta, a worried expression on her face. Worried for herself or for him? Bulma held her breath to find her question being answered without having asked it, when Mina removed herself from the room, heading down the corridor. Vegeta, as usual, didn't bat an eye, though Bulma guessed he was fully aware of this effect. It made her all the suspicious of everything and everyone.
"Aha," Krillin said, twirling aloft a tiny metal tin.
No one, except Bulma, gave his triumph a decimal of consideration, to which his demeanour shrivelled and he plonked himself down at the kitchen table. The excitement in Krillin's voice at finding something familiar sparked some excitement of her own. There was somewhere she needed to go, somewhere she needed to see. The only place that really mattered to her. Home. Whether it was intact or not wasn't the point. It needed to be visualised to be believed. Pressing the matter upon the others wasn't going to bode well with the general wayward plan of action, so she had to think. Yamcha was right, in a way: she had to stop apologising. She had to think carefully, and do what she wanted. How was she ever going to survive? Wherever they went, guaranteed safety was an impossibility. Even sitting in this capsule home, tucked in a cave behind a waterfall, people could still sniff them out.
Like magic, Yamcha sauntered into the room, quickly clocking everyone who clogged up the air space with little reaction. A relieved smile would have been sufficient, but no emotion was given away as he went straight for the kitchen cupboards to get a grey, chipped mug. Krillin watched with vague interest, shying away from his theatrical performance before. As she looked around the room, it became a little embarrassing acknowledging what they seemed like. They were like a dysfunctional family, all squashed into the same room and forced to hash out whatever problems they had. Except, no one was willing to talk. They would rather sit amongst the dewy tension, let it dampen their clothes, weighing them down as they moved around.
It was stupid.
Bulma stood up and met Yamcha as he emptied a bottle of peculiar, green-looking liquid into the mug, and then took a quick gulp.
"I have a proposition to make," she said.
He wiped his shiny lips with the back of his hand.
Why had it become so hard to talk all of a sudden? There was no way to pussy-foot around it either. She leaned against the worktop, bracing both arms against the egg-shell surface.
"I want to go to West City. I need to go back. Just to see it."
"It's too dangerous," he said, shaking his head and plonking the mug in the sink, presumably for someone else to wash it later.
Everyone else in the room had hushed and was listening to a conversation that had nothing to do with them. The blood rushed to Bulma's cheeks when she saw how intently Vegeta was glaring at both her and Yamcha.
"I know how dangerous it is out there. I'm not stupid. I wouldn't go alone."
"So you'd put everyone else at risk, too?" he said, whirling back towards her.
She snapped her mouth shut. "Yamcha. My Dad's lab might still be there."
"Believe me, Bulma, I've surveyed West City thoroughly. There's nothing left. A few clumps of dirt and broken buildings, maybe, but Capsule Corp is barely an empty shell. You don't want to go back there." He took a deep breath, signalling for the argument to end.
It wasn't going to end. Their arguments never did end well. She remembered that much.
"I need to see it," she said, watching the fury flicker in his eyes.
"No."
"There could be valuable supplies," she shrieked, allowing the subdued anger to travel out of her body at full force. If the others weren't listening before, they were now.
Yamcha turned his back on her, drummed his fingers on the kitchen table for a moment.
"Get some sleep, Bulma. You're too tired."
It was too soft to be an order, but the wary, dull tones in his voice told her that he was too proud to admit that it was his tardiness that was getting the better of him. She could have demurred, argued until she drove herself parched and exhausted, but it wasn't worth it. Perhaps he was right. The power of suggestion could do many things. It might have been the room and its occupants, some of which she wished weren't there … or did she? Maybe that was the driving force behind her plan of action. Nevertheless, she wanted some space to think, to plot, because Yamcha may have assumed it was over, but he was far from right.
With no indication of how much time had passed, Bulma rolled over and shut her eyes once more, letting the unsteady weight of sleep attempt to take control of her mind again. She was too lethargic to sense the other energies in the house, so the sound of her own door creaking open and clicking shut made her stiffen with fright.
"Hey," the voice said, which, if they were going to kill her, wasn't a very sinister thing to say.
She rolled back onto her side to see Mina at the side of the bed.
Bulma sat up, squinting to make sure it was Mina.
"I overheard your little argument before," she whispered.
"Oh. That. It's fine."
She wanted to say, 'Oh, Yamcha gets like that sometimes,' and 'you know how he is,' but it definitely wasn't appropriate.
"No," Mina said, crouching. "I think you might be onto something."
The sheets were suddenly whipped clean off the bed, leaving Bulma uncomfortably cold. Before she could say anything, Mina was back at the door, turning the handle.
"Get ready. We'll both go."
After a quiet consultation with herself, Bulma decided that if she wanted to go and risk her own life, then that was fine. Even despite Mina running off on her in the woods, Bulma couldn't justify her reasons to not trust this woman. Maybe it was her being the only other woman around. Mina wasn't the one in danger, was she? It was evident that the girl could take care of herself when it came down to fighting. Bulma got changed into her yellow tracksuit, grabbed an empty rucksack, and met Mina in the corridor. They crept soundlessly through the house, avoiding coming into contact with any of the others, and were soon enough met by the whooshing sound of the waterfall the house had been hidden behind. Bulma stood gazing at the water glittering as the moonlight shone against its penetrable wall. The tiny cave had been transformed into something beautiful and majestic by everything natural. Earth had been ripped apart, but Bulma was correct in assuming that nature and everything above it would prevail magnificently.
She strode onwards, getting to grips with what she may or may not see once she arrived in West City. She didn't know where they in relation to the city, but they were still in Japan.
"And where are you going?"
Bulma and Mina turned round, like kids caught skipping school.
Vegeta, arms crossed over his shirtless chest, sweat glistening off his skin, was leaning against the wall of the house.
Bulma cursed herself for not having noticed his disappearance from the house. By the looks of it, he must have been training, which they'd been warned about, as it was practically like sending off flares to those who could sense energy. Yamcha had warned Bulma that, over the past year, people had adapted and picked up certain survival tricks. Some could master energy, to a degree, but many could sense it. He explained that someone must have taught them how to do this, because there was no other way. It had taken him years to connect with that part of the brain. But, then, Bulma remembered it had only taken her one night to sense energy. Something Vegeta had taught her.
"You wouldn't understand," Bulma said, trying to take her eyes off him.
Even Mina, who was ordinarily so composed and bolshie, was stumped by Vegeta's intrusion. She was pale, mouth set into a firm line. He definitely had a disconcerting effect on her.
"And you know this?" he said, unimpressed.
Bulma kept her mouth from hanging open in surprise. Was he trying to engage in conversation? For his own benefit, yes, but so. She watched him shift his weight onto the other foot, seeing the bulk of his figure remain strong and steady. The image of a man she had once believed in, and stupidly enough, trusted. It was disorientating to think that the person stood before her was the same person who protected her back on Orlon. Almost worrying. Because Vegeta was, in fact, the same person, just in a different light.
"I thought I did," Bulma said.
Vegeta's eyes widened the tiniest fraction, enough for her to lose ground of what she was supposed to be thinking. She wanted to remain stood there, scrutinising his every nuance of emotion until she could finally distinguish whether or not he gave a shit about anyone anymore. But someone was pulling her away. Literally. Mina grabbed Bulma's wrist and dragged her through the waterfall, leaving the distorted image of Vegeta for another day. At least.