A/N - Thanks to Adli for being ma Beta :)

Warning - This chapter contains strong language and sexual themes. If you hate this stuff, get out, and close the door behind you ... please.

Chapter Ten

Planet-Zero-One-Six-Zero

Hours could have passed and Bulma would have been none the wiser, wrapped up in a cocoon of muscular arms and radiating heat of the Saiyan Prince. There was no sleep. How could there be? Since starting this game she hadn't had a decent night of rest. She'd been too hopeful before, assuming that comfort would thus bring her slumber, but it didn't. Too much buzzed through her mind (pushing the fact of her imminent death aside), like how rhythmical Vegeta's breathing was, and how, very consciously, she was trying to match their inhales and exhales, creating a synchronised melody. The single candle on the mouldy windowsill had burned out, leaving them in the unamusable darkness. The only thing Bulma could see was her imagination wandering, luring her towards the darker crevices of her mind, the type of place were hate and guilt resided. She hated the position she had been left in. Hated it immeasurably. Even the word 'hate' didn't quite rumble in her head with the satisfactory effect. There had to be a stronger word.

For the one hundredth time, Bulma attempted to close her eyes and settle, shifting, sinking deeper into Vegeta's arms. He didn't move, thankfully. Either he was asleep, or he was deeply brooding like she was, immersed in numerous, tormenting thoughts. Everything that he did told her that he had somewhat of a conscience, tucked away beneath the steel shell of his exterior. Yes, she had witnessed him killing—murdering. The sadistic, sharp-fanged grin he wore while cracking Pui Pui's neck was too harsh an image to go back to, but he had been subjected to this just as she had, only he was a warrior. Before this game, Bulma had barely slapped another human being, let alone plunge a rock into the surprisingly tender casing of a man's skull. It wasn't a feeling she would relish. It was hideous. She was hideous. But it was all thrust upon her unwillingly. And, according to Mr Mystery, she wasn't as monstrous as she had made herself out to be. Not in the slightest. Oh, no, because she was 'pure'.

She sneered, squeezing her eyes tighter, scalding herself for letting her thoughts consume again. If she didn't get any sleep, she would be even more of a liability.

A firework of purple exploded within her mind's eye. The colours illuminated the four dark corners and gathered to create a lavender silhouette, moving swiftly close by. The energy source grew and evolved to a power far greater than Vegeta's. It was overwhelming, but soothing, because she knew to whom it belonged. Instinctively, she pulled her hand, which was encased by Vegeta's bronzed fingers, up to her chest, tugging his arm too. Vegeta stirred, but it was merely a heavily relaxed exhale, as he ensconced himself further, his breath hot against her mass of tangled tresses. Her skin tingled, and the feeling zipped from head to toes and back again, sending her dizzy. She hadn't forgotten about the strange relationship they had recently unveiled, but she needed solid answers. Unfortunately, Vegeta wasn't going to be the one to give said answers, so she had to deflect to Mr Mystery, who was, right now, in the sitting room, waiting for her.

Smacked with confusion, Bulma's eyes fluttered open. How did she know he was waiting for her?

To break free of Vegeta's hold without waking him was going to be a challenge, so slowly, she slipped her fingers free from his, one by one, and shrugged herself sluggishly to sink and crawl under his arm. But, as she moved a mere inch, his grip tightened, dragging her back into him possessively. She frowned like a petulant child, and with a little more force this time, wrenched free by shoving her body forward, breaking the lock he had on her. If Mr Mystery was in the next room, waiting for her, then she had to make a move quickly before he decided to vanish to wherever the hell he kept vanishing to. As she planted her bare feet on the freezing linoleum flooring, she took a moment to really prepare what she was going to say, whether it would be explosive or composed, liberal or a vicious onslaught. After all, what she had endured so far had been a living hell, so he couldn't expect her to be delicate about anything.

Straightening her tattered t-shirt, she stood up and paced into the sitting room to the welcomed image of a pleasantly amused Mr Mystery. He was sat formally, back straight, like he had an invisible string attached to his spinal cord, keeping him upright. His hands were crossed limply in his lap, depicting the envied image of serenity. The chair he had chosen to sit on was sodden with mould and moss, but because he was on it, it looked wonderful.

She stopped in the centre of the room, suddenly transfixed by the amount of candles lined against the walls. There was no time for distractions, so she shifted her attention back to his deep, lavender eyes, and she crossed her arms, partly for warmth, but mostly for a defence.

She narrowed her eyes. "You better not try any more disappearing acts, buddy. I want some answers," she said, subtly quaking.

He smiled, and it lit up her blackening heart for a fraction of a second.

"As you wish." He nodded gracefully, completely unfazed by the seriousness of the situation.

Dumbfounded, Bulma stood there with her mouth open a couple inches, as coherent sentences failed to form in her head. How could he be so calm? Here she was, shaking like a petrified puppy, and he was sitting there smiling? This guy was deluded. He had to be.

The smile formed into a wide grin, a mouth consumed by several rows of obsidian teeth, tearing Bulma away from her reverie. But his grin became wane and replaced with a line of disapproval as Vegeta walked in, choosing to lean against the farthest wall. Words were certainly not needed to express how much Mr Mystery loathed Vegeta. But for what? That was just another question she needed to ask, she supposed. No doubt, even with the right answers, she would become entangled in a mass of lies, or be misled into something even more grotesque and horrific than this game. That was all part of it. Who was she to trust when her days were so irrevocably numbered?

Soon enough, after glaring at Vegeta for a couple of sour seconds, Mr Mystery regained his charm in full swing, smiling wonderfully at Bulma, like they were two long lost friends, meeting at a dinner party for the first time in years. She, on the other hand, did not reciprocate this sense of glee, as she could not for life of her muster what there was in this world to smile about anymore. And, to contain her confusion, the crease in her brow furrowed even further, undoubtedly working towards a permanent wrinkle right between the eyes.

He opened his hands and said, "Well, what would you like to know?" and then proceeded to wrap his fingers around both arms of the chair. Bulma watched as a plume of dust particles escaped the fabric of neglected furniture, weaving without purpose through the sparse candle light.

Arms akimbo, she feigned the confidence she once had. "Who are you?" And, at the same time, tried desperately not to look back at Vegeta to see what he made of it all. What did she care if he thought negatively about the whole charade?

Mr Mystery's smile flickered, like a dying bulb. Even he couldn't pretend to be cheerful anymore. It was a contagion on this planet, it seemed. Sitting back, understanding that it was finally time to bite the bullet, he sighed, and retrieved a sliver of a smile.

"I am the guardian of this planet," he stated, the solemnity in his voice thickening and dragging each word out as if they had yet to be introduced to his tongue, like he was using them for the first time.

"What?" Bulma spurted without thinking, her arms flopping to her sides like two dead fish.

He chuckled, but it was a tired, overused sort of sound. This was not the same creature from a mere few moments ago.

"How do you think the Dragon Balls exist?" The thick mound of skin, where an eyebrow should have been, raised as he watched Bulma speculatively.

She suddenly felt overcome with the itchy heat of embarrassment. Of course she should have known that. The Dragon Balls back home had the same legislations. Right now Bulma felt almost ashamed to call herself a genius.

"He's lying," Vegeta said, his voice booming right down her ear, making her start and place a cold palm to her chest.

Vegeta was now standing seriously close to her again. But still, she was reluctant to give into the chance of looking weak, so her attention remained on Mr Mystery.

"Everything on this planet was destroyed fifteen years ago," Vegeta said scornfully.

Bulma couldn't help it this time, and spun round to see him, their faces too close for comfort. She could feel her features twisting with confusion, depicting her as even more of a downtrodden creature than before. "How—how would you know that?"

As the words crumbled from her chapped mouth, as did her composure, sending her legs as breakable as matchsticks. Choosing to sit down on yet another mouldy chair, she rubbed her temples with her knuckles, trying to get wind of everything.

"Say what you please, Saiyan. I don't expect you, of all the beings in this universe, to agree with my words."

Bulma looked up from her secluded, silent melt down, narrowing her eyes at Mr Mystery. Since being in his presence, she had noticed that he chose every single word carefully, almost meticulously, as if he were scared to let delicate information slip. Oh, she'd seen people act like this before on a daily basis; those highly paid scientists reeling off their ideas to her with smiles aplenty, until it came to crunch time and they had to reveal their extensive costs. At the moment, she might not be able to class herself as a genius anymore, but she was nowhere near being classed as a dunce, left to sit in a corner with one of those pointed hats on her head.

"Frieza. Does he know you're here?" The logical thoughts started forming, her confidence reviving groggily, like a bird in the spring time.

Mr Mystery scoffed and fidgeted, the agitation clear in his stiff movements. "Of course not. Only those who are pure can sense my life-force. Frieza still fails to understand the power behind the Dragon Balls."

Vegeta snorted unscrupulously, folding his arms firmly.

Bulma turned her head, only slightly, able to send Vegeta an indignant side glance, and then back to Mr Mystery. "So, what are you? What race were your people?"

By now, a couple of the candles had either burnt out or had been blown out by the occupants' insistent shifting around the room, casting a light veil of purple-ish shadow on the ceiling, which proceeded to sink with every dying candle. She could hear Vegeta moving restlessly.

"I am an Orling," Mr Mystery said quietly, pausing and taking a deep breath.

So, Bulma thought cockily, his cheery façade had truly crumbled. Around that fact, she didn't know why she felt so bitter about it, seeing as this creature was supposedly wanting to help her in some way; that's what she presumed, anyway.

His eyes met hers. "We are a cross between an Orlan and a Namekian," and he sighed deeply.

It hit her, full force, like she'd ran into a brick wall and smashed all her teeth. Of course. She saw it. Well, she didn't know what an Orlan looked like, but the ears, nose and mouth were startlingly similar to a Namekian. The only trait which had substantial difference was the white pigment of the skin, the protruding bumps on the forehead, and the black teeth. Words eluded her, but the Orling took that as polite understanding on her part. Orlan sounded vaguely familiar—it was straining her brain to recollect why.

"Yes. We shared this planet with a colony of Namekians on a secular level. They had left their planet because the threat of a purge was hanging over its head." Even he laughed at the irony.

Bulma began to put two and two together, her mind whirring away like a computer warding off a virus. "This planet?" she asked shyly, beneath a veil of thick eyelashes. Despite wanting the answer, she wasn't sure if she was prepared for it. The pulse in her wrists span out to her fingertips, making her tap her fingers restlessly.

The Orling frowned. "Planet Orlon."

An overwhelming tidal wave of nausea loomed threateningly above her head, as the name sank into her dry skin. She stifled a gasp with her palm, and leaned forward, allowing the springs in the chair to creak and croak.

"Planet Orlon," she mumbled, the name settling into her soft, spongy memory. She focused her attention on another flickering candle, one which lay in the very far corner of the room, right behind the Orling's chair. It was dying, and just before its light petered into oblivion, she looked back at the Orling.

"Planet zero-one-six-zero. That's right," she said, gingerly getting to her feet. "The planet's location in accordance with Earth. Capsule Corp used to ship deliveries here, I remember." She snapped her fingers. "That's why this is here," she said, enthusiastically gesturing to the surroundings. "And how I got all that stuff—the backpack. That was you?"

The Orling nodded.

Her eyes fell to the ground. "We're not too far from Earth then. Two, maybe three months travel, right?"

He nodded again, genuinely pleased for the time being.

Bulma shook her head and laughed incredulously. "I need to lie down." Rubbing her bangs off her forehead, she sighed, her eyes frosting over into a stare. The irritation from Vegeta, despite him not speaking it, was palpable, distracting her from what she really wanted to know.

A few blinks, and her eyes refocused. "Why are you helping me?"

The Orling stood, towering over her in a slightly intimidating manner. All the cheerfulness drained from his features as he approached, stopping a meter away from her. "Because I believe that you will do the right thing."

"Which is?"

He looked to the side dejectedly. "That, I cannot say, because it is yet to happen."

Bulma groaned, letting go of her hair, only for it to slowly sink back to the right position, because it was laden with so much grease. She'd had enough of all the cryptic nonsense. Why couldn't anyone ever be straight with her? A simple yes or no could go a long way. To be honest, she should have given him closed questions from the start. That way he couldn't meander his way around them.

"Anything else?" the Orling prompted sweetly, his eyes twinkling with promise.

Had he hoped for more? Was there more to be said?

She threw her hands up half-heartedly. "I don't know. Maybe."

"How about some tea, then?" he chimed politely.

Bulma gawked. "Tea?" and then sighed. "Ok, sure."

The Orling floated out the room, leaving her with the present situation lying heavy, like lead, on her shoulders, and Vegeta, of course, who was practically breathing his rage down her neck. So, she had to get it straight: This was planet Orlon, which homed both the Orlan and Namekian races (Or just a small portion of the Namekian race). Capsule Corp provided products to this planet (along with a couple others, who were significantly scant of technology, or any means to create any of their own), this particular Orling was the guardian, so in laymen terms, he was Orlon's Kami. All this information didn't stop her mind from regarding the fact that Vegeta knew more about this planet than he led her to believe. Judging by his edgy behaviour, she estimated that he was concealing something vital. But what? And why? Did it really all matter? All it could do was hinder her chances of surviving.

Absentmindedly, she traced her fingers back and forth across her lower lip, and stared at the ground, before being yanked back to reality by Vegeta's gruff voice.

"Whatever this freak says, it's irrelevant. It doesn't change what we have to do, which, I'll remind you, is to gather the Dragon Balls for Lord Frieza."

Bulma slowly turned to look at him over her shoulder, keeping her fingers on her lip, as the action somewhat soothed her nerves, working as a relaxant. She watched him carefully for any unfamiliar ticks. It had been almost four days, but she felt like she knew when Vegeta was acting 'off'. Would asking him really grant her the truth, though? Could she trust him? She shook her head, stretching a single blink out for the length of six.

"How did you know about this planet?" she said, dropping her arms to her side again.

Vegeta shrugged, his arms tightly folded. "Mindless words get around on Frieza's ship."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

"Get the backpack. We're leaving," he said, looking to the side.

"No, wait," she said, following him as he headed towards the bedroom.

Vegeta stopped, turned on his heels, directing his attention solely to her, with very little emotion crossing his features. "I'm not drinking this weirdo's fucking tea."

They both tore their eyes away from each other as the Orling wandered back into the room with only two cups of steaming tea in his hands. He narrowed his eyes at Vegeta again, persistent with making his hatred known. Bulma looked back from Vegeta to the Orling, trying to make her mind up about the possibilities their pasts each held.

She approached the Orling, Vegeta following behind, and gratefully took the tea, lavishing the warmth of the cup between her cold hands. Then a sudden thought seemed to entertain her curiosity. "Can't you gather the Dragon Balls yourself?"

He laughed and shook his head vigorously. "No. I merely watch over them."

She arched an unkempt eyebrow, dismissing the suspicion which was niggling in her mind. "How long have you been down here?" The place was so dilapidated. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Surely the mess around this place wasn't good to be inhaling. It was a good thing that they couldn't stay long, because the air, slathered in toxic fumes, would soon melt its way into her lungs.

The Orling took a thoughtful sip of his tea, hissing afterwards. "About … fourteen years," he mused, looking at the ceiling.

She shook her head again. "How are you even alive?"

Setting the tea down on the arm of the chair, he said, "Unfortunately, I've had no choice but to feed off the mutations on this planet. That is why my body has thus mutated from that of an Orling native. My race is smaller, as we were a planet that thrived off our superb vegetation. You might say we were all vegetarians, I think is the term." He smiled ruefully.

Bulma's heart sank with a thud. Desperately, she wanted to hug this Orling. His home had been wiped out, and he was left to wallow in its ghost. The thought provoked a longing to help, provide comfort, but just as she took a step towards him, rough fingers wrapped around her wrist and dragged her backwards.

"We're leaving."

What a stupid, idiotic, simple-minded woman she was. If it wasn't for he, she would be dead (as would he, but that was beside the point). Now, instead of laying at the bottom of a salt water grave, she was wandering around this Capsule home, talking to that thing, prying information which was of no use nor any of her concern. And he felt the need to take her away from all that. Something about him yelled imploringly to keep her as naive as possible, refraining her from knowing the information that could potentially drive her insane.

He pulled her into the bedroom with a little more force than he initially intended, twisting the skin uncomfortably on her tiny wrists. But she was yet to holler in pain like he expected, instead complying with his demand by keeping silent. He threw her forward, letting go of her arm, and watched as she stumbled into the empty space between the bed and the useless excuse of a window. Straight away, after gathering her balance, she charged for the doorway again, her eyes gleaming with delinquency. What a petulant creature!

With very little effort, he pressed both hands into the hollows of her collar bones, and pushed her against the wall adjoining the doorway, pinning her to face him. The room was free of candles, and her skin was illumed, like pale moonlight. Averting her eyes, and he noticed this with a strange, incessant flutter in his stomach, she stuck her full underlip out, only slightly, showing him a glimpse of the shiny, saliva slicked inner mouth of hers. He let her go, but she didn't move, nor did she look his way. This desert flower had lost the will to fight anymore. For that, he wanted to punish her, but that would only worsen their superfluous partnership.

"What are you doing?" he said, rubbing his jaw because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

Still, irritatingly, her eyes remained fixed on anything except the Prince of Saiyans. What a rude little bitch. Any other time and he would blast this idiot, but no, he had to remain placid … for now, though it was proving, undeniably, to be the hardest thing he had had to do. Roughly, he grasped her shoulders and shook her back to sense.

"Answer me," he spat, narrowing his eyes at her, as she eventually chose to grant him her attention. "You don't know who the fuck that thing is. He could, for all you know, be working with Frieza." Vegeta scoffed, then whispered, "A nice little trap for the pure, little Earthling."

Sucking her lip back in, she frowned. "He's not like that." Her body visibly tensed as Vegeta threw his arms up in mock defeat, almost swiping her face.

"That's absurd. You've known him less than five minutes-" he said, stopping abruptly, his eyes glossing over as the truth dawned on him heavier and hotter than a two tonne heap of molten lava. Why was he concerned? It was true, yes, that he too, had only known this woman for a matter of days, probably an even shorter time than that weirdo had been stalking her. Just the thought made him boil over in unnecessary rage. To ebb the unwanted emotion, he hit the wall with enough force to crack the plaster right beside her head, his breathing laboured with the stress of the unfamiliar feeling.

A tiny, cold hand rested, gingerly at first, on his chest above his heart, pulling him out of his dazed state of confusion. Wide eyed, he bent his head to look at her hand, how pale and filthy it was; how there were lacerations, no doubt from that desert creature, across the thin span of skin. A carnal need to lick them clean was pushing away the anger, and his dark eyes finally lifted to meet hers against the blackened room and damp silence. Keeping his eyes on hers, searching for what she was searching for, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, feeling the warmth of skin-burn, which had bloomed from his rough handling before, pulsing like a protest to his heavy touch. It was true, he wanted to get her away from him, rip her wretched human hand away from his royal self, but he also wanted to wrap her up and shield her from this nightmare.

She took a deep breath, her eyes wet with useless tears. "I'm sorry I led you here—and I'm sorry we're so far off track. But, Vegeta, you have to trust me."

She tried fruitlessly to free her arm from his strong grip, and he tightened it, sighing, but not from pity. There was no time for pity in this game. He sighed because he was stuck, once again, and like a spinning penny, he had to topple over eventually. From the start, he knew that she would pose a problem. The fact that they'd put him with a female was enough to tell him that this ride wasn't going to be as smooth as he had planned. And there she was again, spouting that crap about 'trust' and 'belief'; all words he had little regard for, because they were redundant in his eyes. That was evident, because he had been led to believe that they were in search of the dragon ball, not some lurking buffoon, who assumed he knew all there was to know. Well, that moron knew nothing—nothing useful anyway. His words were toxic to her ears. She was not to listen to anyone but the Saiyan Prince, and if she chose otherwise, let it be on her head, because he would not save her again.

Vegeta leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, unprepared for her vicious scent, and said, "I don't trust anyone."

Without warning, the soft press of her flaking, feathery lips met his, startling him, forcing him to retract. Her eyes were wild, as he reached up to rub the wetness from his lower lip, and then burnishing it between his finger and thumb. It was sweet and spicy, the kind of flavour deemed as moreish, and his body began to respond, awakening with languid delay.

Before she could apologise, he homed in on her like she was his one and only meal, forcing his lips upon her cherry-red mouth, pressing his body against hers so hard that she had to nudge up the wall for room to breathe. She gasped for air when he gave her a second, before she hungrily pulled his face down to hers, locking their lips together again, allowing him to taste her sweet, innocent mouth. All the pain and guilt flowed out of him into her, and she accepted it, running her hands through his thick hair, pulling lightly at the roots, sending zaps of desire through his nerve system. With unrelenting want, he ran his hands either side of her narrow waist, travelling upwards, catching the sides of her surprisingly full breasts, then positioning her arms above her head, all the while her soft moans of acceptance filled his ears, stirring burning movement in his loins.

It took him away for a single, solitude moment, except her presence was there too, vibrating around him with a harmonious buzz. It took him somewhere; another planet. Not this planet. Somewhere far away from here. Somewhere that tasted like freedom and hope, and he craved it, grasping at her fraying t-shirt, eagerly wanting more of those delicious flavours.

He didn't trust anyone. The thought was so abhorrent it made him feel sick. Taking it out in whatever form necessary was fine with him, and if it happened to be something as low as fucking this Earthling, then so be it. She was weak, nimble, and she was in his power, no matter what happened to them in the future. Even if they survived, he would make damn sure that she could never do this with another male ever again, because this was his right, no one else's. He was the one who had to contend with her during this game, exhausting him mentally and physically, begging him to question his own better judgement. He was a Saiyan Prince, a leader, not a straggling follower from some backwater planet.

With anger and desire mottled as one, he caught the soft, throbbing flesh of her bottom lip, and clamped down, drawing a bead of blood. She groaned behind clenched teeth, opposing his actions, but absorbing them, because she was yielding to him. Then he cupped her breasts, kneading them harshly, making her wince behind his feverish kisses, though her tongue coiling around his beckoned him to go on, to take this further.

"Ng," she uttered, before wrenching her mouth free of his, and pushing him feebly, allowing the cold to consume the space between their rasping breaths. "No."

There was a marvellous pink hue on her cheeks, bringing life to her dying face again. Her nipples were hard beneath her t-shirt, the tiny stubs poking through the thin material; he had felt them brushing against his chest, agonisingly, making him want to die if she wouldn't let him taste them. Like the shy juvenile from before, she looked towards the doorway, panting, feigning disinterest, while her body revealed what she truly, truly wanted; her entire face glowing with the same crave as he.

What the fuck was she looking at?

Vegeta followed her line of vision, and his body jolted when he saw that damn Orling standing before them, staring at them, like the shitty, little pervert he was. Instantly, Vegeta pulled himself away from Bulma's ready, sweating frame, and stormed out the room, leaving her with her little friend, because frankly, he couldn't give a shit anymore. And, if he didn't get out of there quickly, he would have killed one of them. All he had to do was decide which one would go first.

Dizzy and exposed, the cold rushing and weaving through the erect hairs on her body, Bulma stared at the disapproving lavender beacons, which glowered at her from beyond the pane of darkness. For a moment she had dipped her toe, delicately, into a pool of warm passion, and taken a handful of its sugary water, lapping and lapping. And then just as quick was removed from that place, and hurled dangerously close to the edge of death again. Back to reality. This game of Frieza's. Then there was the Orling, who, for some bizarre reason, had put his trust in her, yet she had nothing to prove that she was capable of being trusted. If this Orling knew the ins and outs of her, then he would know that she had cheated Vegeta into thinking he was going somewhere else, and that she once kissed a man in a night club when she was dating Yamcha, and that she once flashed an lecherous old man when she was sixteen. None of it, even if this creature knew, set right. It sat together like wet paper mache; a sopping, wet pile of lumpy lies.

The feel of Vegeta's reluctant hands wandering across her body made her want to scream for many other reasons as well as desire, and now he'd stalked off. But that was the point—he couldn't get far. Neither of them ever could. They had only surrendered to nature's calling, because they had been stuck together. Otherwise she wouldn't have even known his strange character. She crossed her arms, covering, and giving herself some dignity, though she couldn't hide her swollen lips and tinted cheeks. Without shedding a single glance at the Orling (whose name she was too scared to ask), she paced out, back into the dark dappled, flickering room, to plonk herself on a chair.

The game was important to her. Surviving was important to her. Chichi was important to her; not some tight-rope, physical relationship with a murdering Saiyan.

"Is Chichi still alive?" she asked, her voice a monotone, a ghost of her former confident self.

The ruffling sound of the Orling's clothes, as he ensconced himself on his chair, reverberated through the quiet room. Bulma then wandered where, exactly, Vegeta had gone off to. No matter where he was, he could hear every word being uttered in this house.

"Where is she?" Bulma said, a little more determination and authority in her voice, which, at that precise moment, made Vegeta stalk back into the room. Her eyes followed him, forcing her to twist her body slightly, as he stepped behind the couch she was sitting on, only to disregard her completely. A brittle pane of some yearning emotion shattered in her chest.

"Yes. There is a female Earthling."

Her attention was immediately drawn back to the Orling, who looked consumed by thought, gazing at his own shadow dancing against the adjacent wall.

"She's on the other side of the planet," he added, to answer Bulma's second question.

Her heart ached for her best friend in a way that both hurt and elated her. On one hand, Chichi was amongst the living, but on the other, she was across the globe. "Shit …" Bulma placed her head in her hands, shaking. "We won't get there in time." Everything she had worked towards so far, which, actually, had felt like a years' worth of painstaking labour, may as well have been flushed down the toilet, never to be seen again. Biting back the tears, she continued to shake her head, thinking more about the rhythm of the movement, than the harsh reality of her impatient demise.

"Yes, we will," Vegeta grumbled, and she could tell he was pinching his brow.

The Orling stood up, and the soft tug of the mouldy furniture fabric was audible from Vegeta gripping it so tightly. Bulma groggily lifted her head, allowing her eyes to adjust to the low light in the room, and the massive, looming figure of the Orling, who was now right in front of her.

"You can communicate with me telepathically. If you are in danger," he added sullenly, casting a poisonous, purple glance at Vegeta.

Bulma squinted, trying to muster the image before her, gluing her thoughts together to form a sentence.

'How do I do that?'

The Orling let a small smile slip his lips. 'Exactly right, Bulma Briefs.'

She frowned. "If you say it's because I'm pure, I'm going to scream," she snapped, clenching her fists.

Vegeta huffed and stalked away again, clearly unamused by their telepathic connection. It might have put a hollow dint in his plans, but she was quite content with it. So what if she could do something he couldn't. It wasn't like she harboured even an ounce of the power he controlled, so what was the problem? The more she could prove herself useful, the easier it would be to find Chichi.

The Orling chuckled, composed himself, and nodded, as if he wasn't programmed to express happiness. "You had better be on your way, before Frieza becomes suspicious."

Pacing through the hallway, his tail whipping violently behind him, Frieza was making his way back to Zarbon, clearly unable to leave that idiot under control for over an hour. Being Lord was becoming ever so tiring. If he could, he would give it up, perhaps hand it over to some other sad sap who wanted ultimate power. There would be plenty of takers, no doubt, but they would have to prove themselves against him. Seeing as most warriors had the sense to stay out of his way, Frieza sadly concluded that his reign wouldn't be reckoned with for an extensive amount of time. Maybe even forever. Slipping beside the point, he had been summoned with utmost immediacy, by Zarbon's whining shrill, that he had some delicious information about his gamers.

Choosing that his precious contenders had been getting up to something dirty behind his back, Frieza found it hard to resist the urge of knowing what could have gotten Zarbon's lacy underwear in such a twist. Frieza casually strolled in, controlling his temperamental temper, and his eyes locked onto to Zarbon, who stood to attention with one arm over his chest. The control panel to the side of him bleeped irritatingly. He would remember to destroy it before he left.

"Well?" he said, looking past Zarbon and beyond the large, crystal glass window at his own reflection. "Spit it out!"

Zarbon jerked his head to the holographic image of planet zero-one-six-zero. "Vegeta has been trying to relay some information, but it appears that his signal is blocked."

Frieza motioned for him to go on.

"Ah … The message is disjointed, but I've deciphered a few words," Zarbon said, coughing afterwards, and turning to a small screen, bringing up a black-lettered sentence amongst a piercing white background.

Frieza's eyes glanced over the words and widened with a mixture of curiosity and rage. So, it appeared, despite the sporadic updates, that Vegeta was ringing true to his word, but this bowl of mistuned information was indeed a handful of salt on an open, puss engorged wound. This was mainly because Frieza couldn't get the gist of what it meant. And why, in the name of King Cold, was Vegeta's signal blocked? That was an impossibility. The technology on this ship was flawless! Frieza vowed that he would condemn whoever had tinkered with his toys. But for now, he had to grab that scrawny Saiyan by the scruff of his neck, and drain the answers from him.

And if he had to personally intervene, then so be it.