A/N - This chapter is a bit gory. Well, it's not really, but there is some nasty stuff in it that readers may find offensive, so be warned! Enjoooooyyyyyyy.
Thanks to Adli for being my beautiful beta!
Chapter Eight - Day three
Ripe for Picking
Frieza's ship loomed over the blood-red planet that was Krula, the planet's contours dripping and congealing like a freshly mutilated piece of flesh. Thousands of fires burned, sending streams of blackened smog into the atmosphere and beyond. If Frieza listened carefully, he could hear the delayed screams of the inhabitants, coursing through the division between Krula and the empty depths of outer-space. It was a tiresome feat, having to endure the same painstaking sobs of each planet's demise, but someone had to do it, didn't they? So, Frieza sat back, a lion-like yawn stretching his ruby lips, and swivelled in his chair, away from the giant glass window which depicted the sorry sight of a crumbling planet Krula, and back to the matter in hand.
His eyes blazed with indignation as he leaned over the holographic image of planet zero-one-six-zero, its blue, jittering light, buzzing quietly, as if it knew to stay reserved under the tyrant's deadly glare; one wrong move, and it too, would be destroyed in seconds. What was really getting under Lord Frieza's skin was the lack of entertainment in his little game. It had been three days and the whole charade had gotten off to the most mesmerising of starts, seeing the loss of four teams already, but it had been twelve hours since anything remotely worth batting an eye at had happened, and he was becoming tired. There was no second option, Frieza was going to wait this game out until the time was over—that was his deal; his promise. It didn't mean he wasn't entitled to make it more interesting for the fans, now, did it? As it stood, he was quite a fair distance away from the planet itself, and perhaps his lab rats had forgotten the reason they were put on that mud ball in the first place. Not to worry, because he would remind them soon enough, when the time was right and the fruit was ripe for picking. But when he looked at the current game statistics, it was absurdly clear that his loyal monkey prince had gathered five dragon balls, without gaining so much as a kitten's scratch.
Frieza licked his lips, lavishing them with his poisonous saliva, and he leaned closer to the holographic orb, his face almost dipping into the planet's image. There they were—the three remaining teams. They were so far away from each other, and it would probably take them a lot longer than the four days they had left to reach each other, which meant no show. What fun was a game, if the participants cornered themselves? Cowards, he thought vehemently, his claws digging into the leather arms of his seat, rendering the material easily. He was a genius, a master of war and corruption, he knew what could and couldn't be done. He would think of something, but for now, he was exhausted. Three days occupying his time between ordering a purge on two different planets, and keeping an eye as the game on planet zero-one-six-zero unfurled, had worked its way under his sleek skin. He would rest, and take to the luxuries of his position of power by having a steaming bath, filled with the whores he'd had brought to him from the now long forgotten planet Krula.
His eyes glittered as they moved onto Zarbon, who was watching his Lord's every move with promise. It irritated Frieza. He still saw hope in the green warrior's eyes, the same hope he saw when he first took him in, straight after wiping out his mother and father, along with the rest of his putrid race. Whether Zarbon saw Frieza as a father figure or not was an anomaly, one which turned Frieza's stomach one hundred times over.
"Zarbon," Frieza hissed, getting out of his chair.
Zarbon's face lit up with high spirit. "Yes, your lordship."
"I am retiring for several hours, and in that time I want you to watch over this dreadful excuse of a game," he spat, showing very little regards to the tall, green fighter, who was practically heeling to him.
"Yes, as you wish, Lord Frieza," he said, dipping his head in loyal obedience.
Before sauntering out of the room, Frieza turned towards Zarbon once more, his lips curling into a sinister grin. "Make it interesting, if you can manage. And keep an eye on my favourite ape, would you?"
Zarbon could only nod, as just the tip of Frieza's tail, slinking out the door was left to see. The warrior physically relaxed, his dread ebbing as his adrenaline kicking in. Frieza had outdone himself once again with this game, and allowing him to take the reins for a while was the utmost form of flattery. He was honoured. Every fibre in his body racked with joy as he braced his arms either side of the metal control panel for planet zero-one-six-zero. His eyes traced the planet's outer shell, waiting to fall on the team he despised the most, the Saiyan prince who, even when dumped in the deepest pile of shit, still came out gleaming like a Krularian crystal. His eyes narrowed with determination when he saw the two yellow dots, unmoving on the East sector of the planet.
"Gotcha," he whispered sensually.
Lord Frieza had given him a task. He would not disappoint.
The anklet: a device so small and powerful, it had to have been created by the sharpest minds in the universe. If Bulma had been chosen as a contender in this game, because of her flawless ingenuity, then surely she, too, was one of the sharpest minds in the universe. With that fact labouring heavily in her mind, she found it hard to justify why she couldn't work the damn device out. She had spent hours twisting it and prodding it, only causing herself more harm over success. So far, she had tugged it so much in one direction that her skin had bruised immensely, leaving a halo of violet around one of the bolts. No pain, no gain, she thought, as she sat studying it further. It was such a simple-looking contraption, but at the same time, so intricate. One bolt and a ring of metal. That was it. But the only way to really get rid of it was to remove the rest of the ankle. Somehow, that wasn't so appealing, though more appealing than it had been two days ago.
She sat under the faint cover of a dying bush, its bristling branches scratching her bottom, forcing her to shift constantly, and deterring her from her moment of concentration. They had been on their way out of the city, Vegeta marching several paces ahead while she trudged in tow, wandering under the pelting rain. Just when they reached the outskirts, Vegeta halted their advancements with a single hand—a wordless order for Bulma's eyes. At first she thought it was another mutant creature lurking in the shadows, but when she twisted around to see nothing but the lifeless streets of the lost city, she calmed and allowed the real confusion to crawl over her. Vegeta told her to 'sit and wait for him, like a good little bitch,' and then he stalked off behind a building.
Bulma wanted to be mad at him—she did, but also couldn't help the knowing chuckle that fed its way past her lips, while she watched him turn a nearby corner. One thing crossed her mind: Toilet break. Well, it had been three days, and though she hadn't had her eyes glued to him, she still hadn't seen him take to nature's calling, at all. But, as she hunched underneath the gangly branches of her shelter, she began to notice the amount of time he'd been gone. It had been almost fifteen minutes, and she sure as hell wasn't going to wander round there looking to see what he was doing. The real point was her heart was still beating, so Vegeta's must have been too. Whatever scraps of a heart he actually did possess …
She sneered to herself as she pulled her boot back on, yet again, feeling the slither of the wet leather sliding up her pale legs. Since his strength had replenished from the sensu bean, Vegeta was practically dragging her along without a word or whisper. He very rarely looked at her, and on the special occasions that he did, it was only the snarl at her or send her glares laden with so much hate she could almost feel them piercing her skin. He didn't frighten her, though. What could he do? She said this to herself over and over, like a mantra. But who was she trying to convince? The anklet held the real power here, and with that on, he couldn't hurt her. Well, he couldn't kill her. She'd took so much of a disliking to the sullen warrior that she would much prefer to be killed by whatever roamed the city at night, than by his hands. His hands had undoubtedly been soiled with the blood of thousands already; she didn't need to give him hers, too.
Inconspicuously, Bulma pawed through the backpack, knocking aside the dragon balls with a soft jangle, and placed her fingers upon the single most alluring thing she'd found in the room they stayed in the previous night—a book. When the dawn had broken, and Vegeta had walked out the room, leaving the door wide open, it had allowed a blade of light to shine through. Amongst the mass of what looked like mouse droppings all over the floor, there was little of interest. Except the book, which had been lying in the far corner of the room, its brown, leather bound cover begging to be touched. Needless to say, Bulma had snatched it up and stuffed it in the bag before Vegeta could get wind of it. God forbid he found her picking up souvenirs on their journey.
Now, she had it in her hands, surprised by its immaculate condition, but also suspicious. She brushed a thumb over the front cover, wiping away a layer of dust, leaving a pathway of a shade darker. The writing on the front was of another language, but it left her wanting to read through it more, to delve into the morsel of this planet's history. By finding this book, Bulma was able to imagine the streets of this city when it was in its prime, overflowing with inhabitants going about their day, just like she did when she was on Earth. This book reminded Bulma that this planet did have life, and they were civilised and they read. Something tightened in her gut.
What happened to this place?
She shook it from her head, and carefully pulled back the front cover, flicking through the frayed pages. It was all scripture, every single page filled with this foreign language. Give her a few weeks and she could decipher what the words read, but now it was hopeless. Flicking listlessly through the pages, Bulma concurred with her instinct that it was some sort of religious scripture, like a bible. Some pages stood out, reading like songs or hymns, and some were just blocks of texts with the odd hint of speech here and there. Nothing of too much interest.
She sighed, and a blob of rain ran from the crown of her head, through her hair, irritatingly slow, and onto her forehead, before she wiped it away. She snapped the book shut, but something caught her eye as she did so. One of the pages at the very back had been bent, dog-eared, like a book mark. Her interest spiked again, and before she checked it out, she lifted her head, searching for any signs of Vegeta. Grateful to see that he wasn't coming back any time soon, she peeled it open, pinching the right page in place with her littler finger, and her jaw dropped at the image which was revealed—the first image she had seen in the book. It was a drawing, and darn good one, too. It was beach with a cove, and within the cove there was a very distinct cave, ominous, but inviting at the same time. The golden sands and deep, unknown crevices of the cave called to her; it sang almost, and her mind responded with such desire to know what was inside that cave that she broke out in a cold sweat. Unbeknown to Bulma, she had to get to that cave. Wherever it was, she had to find it, because something was telling her to. Something at the back of her mind, deep in the shadowy film of darkness, was screaming at her to find out where it was, but at the same time, she already knew.
"Where did you get that?"
Bulma jumped, slamming the book shut and tossing it back in the bag. Her eyes raked Vegeta's bulky frame until they met his accusing stare. She shook her head, standing up. "It's just some old book I found in that cellar," she said, trying to conceal the annoying stammer she'd picked up all of a sudden.
His eyes narrowed at her, judging her wrongly, like she was the one who had a mass murderous past. Then he turned, and paced off, without another word.
Bulma gawped at the Saiyan. What right did he have, giving her that attitude, when he had been up to God knows behind a building for twenty minutes? She was furious, her blood zipping through her body, cajoling her to do something drastic.
When she reached the aircraft, she'd already concocted a smooth plan, one which Vegeta would have to comply, because he wouldn't know otherwise. She needed to get to that cave. She still didn't know why, but it was a yearning she couldn't ignore, even if it meant her dying in the process. But there would be no way Vegeta would go off course for something so trivial and meaningless. To him, there was one goal. So she had to pull the veil over his eyes for a while. That while being as long as it took to reach her goal.
'Once it is done, come and find me.'
The voice played in her mind like a broken record.
So far her gut instinct had been on point.
Her hand trembled as her fingers traced the rough claw marks on her ship, 'Death is coming'; the words that could only be distinguished as a threat, but to her meant something more. They gave her hope.
"Check the radar," Vegeta said, leaning against the metal body work of the ship, one shoulder taking his weight. In any other circumstances, he just looked like a guy waiting patiently for a bus or train.
Bulma pulled the radar out of her damp jeans pocket, like she had mentally rehearsed, and smiled at Vegeta, who remained indifferent to her actions. She pushed lightly on the button that brought the device to life, but not hard enough to track the nearest dragon ball, and she used her high school drama skills to their fullest, sighing with feigned disheartened breath and slumping her shoulders.
"It's miles away from here," she said, keeping her eyes trained on the empty screen of the radar, hoping not to spark Vegeta's curiosity too much.
"It doesn't matter how far it is, you half-wit. We're going to get it, even if it takes the rest of our miserable existence," he barked, his lip curling to reveal glistening canines.
Bulma held back a gasp, grabbing the radar tight to stop her cowering. "Alright. It's—" She had to think on her feet, and at the same time follow her own guidance. "It's five hundred miles South," she blurted, shocked by the immediacy of the answer.
Vegeta held his hands up in mock appraisal. "That wasn't so hard, was it, little human?" he said in dark, suggestive tones, his eyebrow arching.
Bulma shivered, unsure whether it was out of fear, the cold, or something deeper than that.
Without any more distractions, Vegeta passed her, shoulder barging her with just enough strength to knock her back a pace. Bulma's eyes widened with shock, before narrowing with annoyance, and she jumped into her ship, taking her backpack and sanity with her. This could be costly.
Flying through the air at an abysmally slow speed was bad enough, but when Vegeta caught the acrid stench of a burning engine, coupled with the caterwauling of the woman, his fury boiled to an unreadable temperature. As soon as the smoke tickled his nostrils, he halted his travels and turned at just the right time to see the woman's ship plummeting towards the ground. They kept relatively low anyway, in case this was ever to happen, or if it disrupted their one hundred meter entitlement. So when he saw her burning to the ground, he did not fear that she would break their boundary, and he did not care for the little suffering her landing would cause. The real problem was that the ship was clearly unstable, maybe even permanently damaged. His eyes remained slits as he descended, and he landed a few seconds post her crashing into sand.
A spray of dust leapt into the air and floated down silently.
Vegeta touched down, apprehensively waiting for the few seconds it took her to compose herself and evacuate the smoking vehicle. Out of curiosity and nothing more, he checked her life-force, closing his eyes for a couple seconds. She was fine—just as he thought. Something about it didn't seem to sit right with him. The ship couldn't have combusted for no reason whatsoever, but then he didn't know the mechanics of an Earth built vehicle. Perhaps he had taken this Earthling's so-called intelligence to heart. Perhaps she was no more intelligent than a fly around shit. That wasn't true, and deep down he knew it. Begrudgingly, Vegeta noted that he would be nothing more than a rotting, stinking carcass, laying under a pile of rubble if it wasn't for the Earth woman. But he did not owe her anything. None of that was meant to have happened.
Bulma groaned, peeling her head from the ship's control panel, fumes floating aimlessly and gathering in her lungs. She rubbed her temple, pulling back her hand to see spots of blood. Great, another wound to go with the rest of the collection. If she did get out of this mess alive, she was going to look worse than Frankenstein's monster. Quickly, she grabbed her stuff and jumped out the vehicle and onto the sponge of wavy sand. The uneven ground beckoned her to flop to the floor, but she regained her composure as she stood back, solemnly eyeing the demise of her vehicle. Her heart sank as plumes of smoke snaked from the bonnet of the ship. This ship was the only speck of light she saw in this game, and even that had been cruelly snatched away from her. When she travelled in the ship, she felt alone, isolated, even though Vegeta was a few meters ahead. It felt like she was home, just nipping out to take a leisurely drive around the desolate scenery the Earth possessed. Everything about that ship screamed home. Now it was nothing more than a heaping wreck of roasting metal, ready for scraps.
She had to fix it. There had to be some way.
Vegeta was aiming his deadly stare at her again, and eventually she gave in and looked his way, wishing she hadn't, because he starting advancing towards her, disdain dripping off his heavy steps. She stood tall, squaring her shoulders, awaiting his arrival, but he stopped to drink in the sight of the sinking ship. Bulma's heart began beating quicker, and she was almost tempted to thump her chest with her fist to tame it. The last thing she wanted to show Vegeta was fear, even if it was minimal. What she was scared about, though, was the fate of her ship, and whether he was about to blow it up himself. She didn't know.
"I'm gonna try and fix it. Give me ten minutes to check it out," she said, turning her attention pointedly to the ship in question, avoiding the daggers being sent her way.
Vegeta wondered whether there was a conspiracy going on here. When he looked at the Earthling, he'd expected her to grovel and whimper, claiming that he would have to carry her the rest of the way, but he was stumped to see that her first plan of action was to fix something that, frankly, looked irreparable. It was pointless what she was trying to do. But something about it showed her in a different light. Time and time again, this woman surprised him, and he found himself allowing her to do what she pleased. Would he let her do this, too? His brow furrowed deeper. No, he would not, because he was not going to be shown up, not when his every move was being monitored by that great, lizard-bastard, Frieza.
The time wasted from sifting through the most futile decision had given human the time to open the ship's bonnet and lean in. He eyed her with distasteful scrutiny as she leaned deeper into the vehicle, the smoke channelling around her curved body, her t-shirt riding up revealing the soft dimples on the small of her back.
Forget it. She could have five minutes, and no longer.
Fifteen minutes passed and Bulma finally emerged from the bonnet, closing it with a heavy clunk. She wiped the grey grease from her face with her forearm, and she scanned the roasting, parched land for Vegeta, only to find him leaning against the other side of the ship. The bad news was the ship was broken, damaged beyond repair. Somehow there was a hole in exhaust, hence the grating rattling noise she'd been hearing for the last hour. The strange thing was that the hole looked like it had been made with something sharp, not just a case of corroding metal. What with all the rain, Bulma could have justified the exhaust becoming rusted and punctured, but the hole was too neat, too precise. With all the strange things that were going on, she didn't want to think about what may or may not have happened to her ship. It wasn't working anymore, and that was that.
She just had to think of an ulterior option.
"Well, it's completely bust," she said, throwing her hands out, defeated. "I don't get it. The hole in the exhaust—"
"Check the radar," Vegeta cut in sharply, straightening up, his face a mask of coldness and loathing.
Bulma thrust her hands on her hips, truly baffled how he could be so dismissive all the time. There she was trying to fix her only mode of transport, and the one thing he could think to say was 'check the radar'? She wasn't a robot whose sole purpose in life was him to tell him where to go next. She wasn't a satnav. She was a human being, and it was about time he treated her like one.
"Is that all you're going to say to me?" She shook her head, and rolled her eyes in disbelief. She needed to keep her composure, and keep him from knowing they were heading entirely in the wrong direction from where the next dragon ball was. "We're still too far, and now my ship is broken," she said, pointing to the still steaming aircraft.
The skin on Vegeta's hands tightened as he clenched his fists to his sides, trying not to send a bolt of energy right into this woman's face. There was too much confidence in her speech and demeanour when she was with him. At first she was like a petrified mouse, and he thrived off the fear he saw flittering in her blue orbs, but now she was talking to him as if he was a fellow human, throwing her venom slicked tongue his way. He exhaled. "You better find another one then," he muttered.
"What?" Bulma gawked. "I can't just find another ship. I don't have the resources. Do you think I can just magic up the right tools and material from thin air?" She huffed and threw her arms across her chest, subliminally pressing Vegeta beyond his limits.
"I don't fucking care what you do, as long as you get your scrawny ass into gear," he spat, inching closer to her, despite his best efforts. He couldn't allow her to talk to him this way much longer. Never, in all his time serving Frieza, had anyone spoken to him in such a manner. He would have decapitated them limb from limb before they could even think to speak to him like this woman was.
That fucking anklet was driving him insane.
Maybe this was all part of the test. To get him so riled up over this pretentious princess that it drove him to kill her without thinking. But he would never succumb to that. He always put himself first, and killing that woman would mean for him to slip down a notch. His rage wavered slightly, like a blazing fire in a thunderstorm.
"You need to watch who you're speaking to," she spat, turning her head to the side.
That was it, Vegeta thought, as he charged for her, full speed, seeing nothing but red. "No, human, you need to be wary with whom you are answering back to." He wrapped his fingers around her slender neck, pressing her up against the body of the ship, molding his body into hers.
She gasped, kicking her legs violently, but to little avail. She was far too weak to leave even a scratch. He was surprised at how much fight she had in her, and how easily he could potentially snap her neck, but he wouldn't.
Not now, anyway.
"You should count yourself lucky, bitch," he snarled, his hot breath catching her already scorching cheeks. "You saw the state Pui Pui had left that Namekian in." Words began to fail him when he saw the unwavering defiance in her eyes as she glowered back at him. It was as if she wanted him to hurt her, egging him on try his worst. He was squeezing hard enough to get his point across, but not hard enough to really do her any harm. One move, though, and he could cause serious damage.
Bulma's eyes narrowed as she looked into the black pools of her Saiyan assassin, seeing a bit more than the hate he so constantly displayed. She saw a flash of doubt, and maybe panic. Was he struggling with himself to make a decision?
He didn't know what to do with her.
"Would you prefer it if I treated you like that?" He stared into her widening eyes, a want to stroke her face, leering out from the darkness in his soul.
"You wouldn't," she rasped.
He let go, and she slid down the metal, instantly going into her pocket for the knife. She pulled it out and pointed it at his chest.
Dumbfounded, he looked down to see the tiny blade, and couldn't control the laughter that rumbled out of his throat. She looked so determined and fearless, but for what?
"You think that thing is going to save you?"
She frowned, pulling the knife back, a crimson hue slapping her cheeks. "It helped me get this far, didn't it?" she bit back, stepping up to him.
Her eyes shimmered at her words, like there was something excitable about saying them, like every syllable ignited a spark.
She felt like she could defend herself to some extent. Even if Vegeta did have the upper hand, she would go down fighting. He would not dissuade her from getting to that cave. It brought a darker side out of her, one she didn't know existed. Perhaps she was possessed with need. Whatever it was, she didn't want him pushing her around in the other direction, no matter how strong he was. He may have the upper hand in terms of strength, but she was still the genius here. And he could be outsmarted with simple tactics.
Vegeta failed to move away from her, as the animalistic growl left his mouth. "Let's see how much further it gets you," he said, and stalked off through the sand, leaving Bulma shaking. But, again, it wasn't from fear.
Two painstaking hours later, frazzling slowly under the forty five degree heat, Bulma dragged her aching legs through the flurry of sand, her leather boots heavy and her feet gloopy with sweat. Always behind and never ahead. That's where she was, squinting at Vegeta's heat-wave-engorged frame in the near distance. How, when Goku was so sweet, so generous, was this guy of the same race? It didn't make sense. Sure, they were different people, but surely they shared some characteristics. Vegeta was well built and had a thick head of jet black hair, similar to Goku, but Goku was much taller and his body didn't move as gracefully. There was a certain air about Vegeta. The way he walked with such purpose in every stride. There was no point in comparing the two Saiyans, because there were entirely different beings, but it was just another mind numbing thought that sat in her head. What else could she think about? She had to keep herself to herself at all times, especially while she had the guilt of the unwarranted journey to the non-existent cave in the midst of everything. At any minute she could blab the truth to Vegeta, and then God knows what; he'd most likely choke her to death, seeing as that was his favoured choice of attack.
He could've really hurt her before, but he didn't. That must've meant something. Was she cracking his hard exterior? There was definitely someone else hidden under all that bravado, though she didn't know whether she wanted to find out. A painful gargling resounded from her stomach, gripping and vibrating, roaring for food. She had checked the bag an hour ago, only to find that she'd ran out of supplies, having been far too generous to herself last night, by eating the remaining three capsules of dried fruit. That didn't even satisfy the burning hunger. To be honest, she hadn't planned on making it this far. When Vegeta was taken ill, Bulma had conceded with herself that she was going to die, so eating what she had left didn't seem like such a selfish thing to do. How was she to know the creature from her dreams was going to lend a helping hand?
Oh, she wanted to yell, yell at nothing just for the sake of yelling. She hadn't been able to let out her frustrations in a while now.
Hot fudge Sunday, with lashings of fresh, extra thick double cream.
Bulma groaned, looking back longingly at the stretches of sand, pitted with the lonely footsteps of two wanderers who didn't know each other. They'd walked so far she couldn't see anything but sand behind her. She was pretty sure her feet were blistered, too. The stinging on her instep was way too intense. To take her mind off her battered feet, she took in the rest of her surroundings. Sand, sand and more sand. Huge dunes to the left and right. They were walking in a valley of sand dunes, except there was nothing down the middle. Did this place look any different when planet zero-one-six-zero was thriving? Or was a desert always a desert?
Her attention was drawn to a dark green lump, poking out the sand, just to the left, nestled on the steeper slope of a dune. Blades of desert weeds cradled it protectively, trying to hide it from Bulma's hungry eyes, but in this place it stuck out like a sore thumb, screaming to be examined further. Vegeta mustn't have spotted it, because he'd passed it already, his stormy footsteps taking him elsewhere, but Bulma's eye raked the sight as she grew closer and closer to it. Languidly, she slogged over to it, her breath rasping over her dry tongue, and she dug up the slope. Her eyes widened, blue sparks blazing, when the green lump became more prominent to her deprived vision. It was—no it wasn't. Was it? A watermelon? It was a watermelon! Lying in the desert. The lime green stripes smoothed across its glossy skin only proved her guessing to be correct. Hurriedly, salivating, she threw her backpack aside and scraped her way over to it, hands clawing at the boiling sand, arms flailing everywhere. Vegeta's whereabouts had flown out the window, because this girl had found a watermelon. If her mind was playing tricks on her, then let it, but there was certainly no harm in trying to survive, was there?
Finally, she reached it, the giant fruit reflecting in her eyes as she stared, disbelieving its existence. It was a perfectly formed watermelon. A huge smile spread across her face, and she excitedly pushed her sweaty hair away before bending down to grab the delectable fruit. How she was going to crack it open was another question, but she was sure Vegeta wouldn't mind helping out, once he realised what it was she'd found. Her small hands barely covered the two ends of the fruit as she tried to tug it free from the sand. Either it was extremely heavy, or it was stuck at the root. She glared at it and bent her knees this time to get better leverage, and pulled again, nearly putting her back out. The damn thing didn't want to move. She pulled and pulled, the rivulets of sweat pouring down her face, but it wouldn't budge.
"What the hell are you doing?" Vegeta shouted, almost breaching their one hundred meters, his arms crossed and his face fixed with bewilderment.
Ignoring him, and growing insanely frustrated, Bulma booted the watermelon, hoping it would crack open and spill its heavenly juices for her to take. Nope, it was stuck.
"Nothing, Vegeta. It's nothing to do with you," she said, kicking again for good measure.
No way was she giving up on it. Her face was growing a deep shade of crimson, partly from exhaustion, but more so from embarrassment, knowing she was now under heavy scrutiny. Finally, she took out her knife and plunged it deep into the outer case, hearing a strange, demonic squealing, resounding from beneath the sand. Immediately, she retrieved the knife, and then her body went stiff, stricken with dread.
The floor beneath her started to rumble, easily knocking her backwards and down the dune in a tumbling mess. Dirt clogged her mouth and eyes, and she scurried to regain her balance, the floor quaking and sheets of sand cascading from the dune's peak.
Something latched onto her leg; thousands of needles piercing her skin, wrenching it and tearing it further down her calve. Bulma bellowed out, a searing inferno of pain engulfing, and she blindly began smacking her leg where she felt it the most. The thing pulled and pulled, screeching and squawking, until she relented, allowing it to drag her through the sand. Beneath hooded lids, she saw it. Its body was gigantic, striped green, covered in thorns, owning hundreds of legs, its mouth crammed with fangs and frothing saliva. It looked like a giant centipede, and she'd mistakenly been hacking away at the end of its tail. It was dragging her through the burning sand, and she couldn't think to scream anymore, but she wasn't going to throw in the towel. With all the frustration built up over the last day, she wrapped her hand around the knife, spluttering from the oncoming onslaught of grit, and began swiping and stabbing at whatever had locked around her leg. The crunching of her attack connecting with bone resonated like music to her ears. She jabbed continuously, hitting the target, rendering layers of flesh beneath the spikes, leaving it in a frayed mess, inches away from inflicting upon herself.
Globs of green goo spattered into her face and hair, but she overrode it, continuing to fight. Where was this thing taking here?
Her energy ebbed, and so did her will to carry on, and after what felt like hours of fighting back, she acquiesced to the creature, releasing her weapon in defeat, and throwing her arms back into the sand, letting it drift over her completely.
She was going to die. This was it.
The creature cracked and creaked, its shoulders began to spasm from side to side, and a pair of wings broke free from its glassy membrane, spurting sparkling green goo everywhere. It wasn't long before Bulma felt her body lift off the ground, the skin on her leg almost tearing clean off the bone. The hot blood ran down her calve, soaking into her jeans, and all she could think of was letting go. She wasn't going to get to the cave, and her questions were not going to be answered. Her body swung back and forth in the air as the creature took flight. Her world grew darker, and she let it seep into her blood stream, like a long awaited dream. All that she'd done in her life, never did she dream that it would end like this. It was actually quite funny.
She began to laugh as the wind lapped at her face, but her laugh became muffled and blotted out, when a pair of arms wrapped around her body, painfully ripping her free from the creature's deadly clutch. With a thud that knocked the air clean out of her lungs, Bulma's back smacked a bed of sand, and she was concealed in darkness—still alive.
What a sorrowful mess he'd gotten himself into. Vegeta covered the woman's body with his own, turning his head back to scan where that disgusting beast had taken its sorry self. But now it was plummeting towards them with such ferocity, he had to act quickly. Outstretching his arm, he cast a small ball of energy into its direction, which zipped through the air at the blink of an eye. It impacted just between the thing's temple, cracking its skull, and a firework of green gloop exploded in the air and proceeded to rain down on them. Vegeta whipped his head back round, burying his face in the sand, instinctively lowering his body down on the woman to cover her from the downpour of entrails. The splodges thudded against his body, bouncing off the hollow casing of his armour. Big globs of it dribbled down his arms, making him shudder. The rancid smell almost provoked a gag—like chlorine and … stale vomit—forcing him to press his face harder into the sand, all the while the woman remained relatively still beneath him. He could feel the warmth emanating just below his collar bone from her steady breath, the rise and fall of her chest, pressing against his.
It felt surreal.
When the last few drops patted against the sand, Vegeta heaved himself up onto his forearms, shaking the sand—and anything else—from his hair like a wet dog. Reluctantly, his eyes wandered over to the wide eyed woman, and it made the muscles in his chest constrict. All of a sudden, he remembered that they were out in the desert; feeling like he was picking up a fever. He could see her pulse fluttering in her neck, and his first thought was to place his lips over it, to feel it and own it, and have it all to himself. The smell of her skin wafted into his senses, making everything else seem hazy. She smelled like a meadow in the heat of summer, where the trees blew soundlessly and the birds chirped sweet melodies. Somewhere Vegeta desperately wanted to go.
Her eyes flickered with a spark of desire, and he saw it as clear as day, though it was only a fraction of a second.
She was attracted to him. After all, it wasn't surprising.
He found himself wanting to stay there, looking down at this woman and much more. He could feel the dark desire growing like a stalk, making its way out of his blackened soul and into his mind, transgressive, asking him to go beyond what he had set out to do.
There was a laceration on the woman's face, blood leaking from the tiny cut. His body tensed, and something twitched in his groin, as his hand acted of its own accord, running the rough pad of his thumb tenderly across her perfect, soft cheek, catching the red droplets. Nonplussed, she blinked as he carried out the action. He rubbed the blood between his finger and thumb, burnishing her essence into his skin. Any other time, he would have run his tongue across the cut.
She was like a wilted flower in the desert, so brittle and fragile, but still owned so much beauty. Underneath him like this, she was under his control.
Bulma couldn't breathe. She gazed up into his dark, brooding eyes, which were clouded with lust, and she found herself unable to think straight. None of her limbs would work. It was more preferable when he was strangling her. At least that way she knew to defy him, but underneath his powerful body like this, she didn't want to move. And it terrified her. Not because she wouldn't be able to push him away from her in her wildest dreams, but because she didn't want to. Him towering over her like this sparked something deep down, mainly in the pit of her stomach, sending flutters and waves of need into the tightly confound space she'd wound up in. Somehow he had closed off the rest of the world, leaving them isolated, and truly making her realise that he was here, not stalking off somewhere in the distance. They were both two living beings now. Now that he was paying her his full attention, she didn't know what to do with it. The heat rushed around her body, and she wanted him to close in on her, to take every inch of her, and help her escape reality for a while.
"I see your little blade didn't save you this time," he said.
Her breath hitched when he brought his full lips down to her ear, and he whispered, "You are more trouble than you're worth, Earthling," in silky, honey tones that made her body melt further into the ground.
He exhaled, and the warmth of his breath paralysed her, sucking her into the sand.
Something twanged in Vegeta's ankle, primarily from the anklet, but he was far too caught up to pay it much notice. But when it twanged again, he snarled, shaking it away like it was a bothersome fly nibbling at his leg. A big part of him knew that what he was doing was a bad idea, but he couldn't stop himself. Irritatingly, a sharp sting shot up his leg, causing him to arch his back. A set of crackling bolts of electricity snapped through the arteries in his leg and channelled through his body, rendering him writhing in agony. He rolled away from the woman and onto his knees, his hands feverishly searching for the root of the pain. It ran through his nervous system, vibrating at such a velocity Vegeta's brain started to swirl and his gut started to flip, churning up the remnants of stomach acid. It felt like someone had set him alight. He roared out, clasping his heart, as that seemed to be where the pain had focused. It was the woman. She had put some sort of spell on him. Witch-craft. And now he was paying the price. As quickly as the surrendering thoughts loomed, the pain subsided and petered out like a distant nightmare, and Vegeta was left panting under the leering desert sun.
"Vegeta, what happened?" he heard her soothing voice say, but it was no more welcoming than a smack in the mouth.
Her tiny fingers wrapped around his forearm, and he violently shoved her away.
He knew what had happened. The realisation loomed over him like a tidal wave. Frieza was still watching and controlling. He obviously deemed what Vegeta had done as miserable and weak, so this was his punishment. That fucking anklet. Why the hell was he even in this game? He'd been nothing but loyal to that wretched lizard, and what was the thanks he got? No, of course, he didn't get any. Instead, he got thrown out on his arse and placed with a she-devil, who had lured him into her wanton attacks, knowing he would be chastised for it.
"Get the fuck away from me," he hissed, levering off the ground, angrily slapping the sand and green slop from his clothes and hair.
His face was devoid of emotion as he stormed off, without giving her so much as a glance.
The language in the book was practically indecipherable. For starters, the pages were loaded with symbols and small images, not words. And secondly, it appeared they'd been purposely smudged. It was clear that someone had defaced the contents of it, for there were inky fingerprints on most of the pages. She delicately leafed through the book, her face crumpled in concentration. Occasionally, she flipped to the back page, reminding herself where she was heading, re-lighting the hope she was slowly losing. No matter how much you re-lit a candle, though, it was going to run out of wax eventually, until it was nothing more than a glistening pool of oil. That's how Bulma felt right now, no better off than she was an hour ago. Vegeta seemed to have calmed down, at least, and the distance between them wasn't as great as it usually was, though there was now a thick miasma of mutual uncertainty between them.
A feeling blossomed every time she thought back to him lying on top of her like that. She knew he had saved her to save himself, but a niggling ounce of doubt rested in the back of Bulma's mind.
No.
He was an animal; a murderer.
The way he looked at her, though. She asserted that no one had ever looked at her like that before, not even Yamcha. A projected reel of images flicked through her mind of Yamcha lying on top of her, smiling, as he gently stroked her face with the back of his hand. Bulma scrunched her eyes up, batting the memory away. Every so often she would get bombarded with memories of her past life, overwhelming her with emotions she knew to be of no use to her now.
The backpack felt heavier, though it shouldn't have been.
Her leg throbbed with pain, making sure she hadn't forgotten about its presence. To stop the bleeding, she had to use a make-shift bandage, by ripping the sleeve from her Capsule Corp. hoody, tear it down the middle and tie it around her leg. So far it had done the trick, but the material had lapped up so much blood that it had formed into more of a crusty cloth under the intense heat. It itched, doing more damage than good, but she couldn't waste any more time, not when Vegeta was hovering over the brink of a mental breakdown.
Pulling away from her reverie, Bulma's eyes focused back on the faded pages, the scrawl as it were, when it was suddenly whisked out of her hands. She looked up, startled, hands still holding onto an invisible book.
Vegeta flipped it over, his face twisting with irritation. "You think reading this is of any use?" He grunted in disgust when he opened it to see nothing but alien drivel on every single page.
"I don't know. What harm is it causing?"
The woman's motives were inconceivable. So what if she was presumably intelligent; she didn't have to pick up mindless crap like this, and expect it to come in handy. How did she even get hold of it?
"If it doesn't progress us further in this game, then it is not needed," he said teetering on the idea of whether to destroy it.
"Vegeta, give it back. It might be useful, but I don't know that yet," she said, her eye twitching with agitation that she so clearly wanted to release upon him.
"This," he sneered, opening it and pointing to print. "It's bullshit." He threw it on the floor, and turned to walk away when her whiny voice stopped him.
"You asshole. What is your problem?" she said, bending down to pick it back up. What was the point in that? Why couldn't he have let her be?
When she regained her stature, Vegeta was in her face, dark fires burning in his eyes.
"You're my problem. You better hope we find this dragon ball, before I get bored of this game and want to play another," he snarled, his eyes trailing down the length of her body.
Bulma gulped, but was torn away from his threatening advancements, when behind him she saw a glimpse of the horizon. Excitement knocked away the dread, and Vegeta saw an immediate change in her posture, turning round to see what had got her so riled up.
Deep in the distance, the ocean sparkled, light bouncing from the sun, hitting Bulma's iris. Had she got it right? Was the image in the book a mere walk away? She didn't know, but had to find out. A pang of guilt tingled in her heart, knowing she'd—in a sense—carried Vegeta along, leading him astray. Whatever, though. He deserved it after the way he'd treated her lately.
He looked back at her accusingly, an eyebrow arching, but his frown softening.
They locked eyes, and the silence taunted the both of them for a short while.
"It's beyond those sand dunes," Bulma uttered, holding the book protectively to her chest.