Thank you to Adli for being ma beta. She is fantastic :D

Contending with Darkness

Chapter 11 - Day five

Looking at her at that moment , there wasn't much to see. Everything about human nature was grotesque, yet so alluring all the same. She was the opposite of an oil painting, as the closer you got to her, taking in all the intricate details, the more vivid and controlled her image became. She was riddled with physical imperfections, the glow of her pale skin fading with every passing moment. And he, a Saiyan Prince, basking in the glowing light of physical perfection, was attracted to such a low class female as this?

There she was, anyway, with one leg up on the bed, balancing while she gawked at that damn anklet again, her eyes abnormally large. Time was ticking away ever so quickly, and she was swallowing it whole to study something which was both irremovable and unbreakable. He wanted to strangle her, so much. It was a yearning so desperate and forceful that he had to keep his distance from her at times (as far as he could get). But, sadly, he knew that even if he grazed her skin with his worn out fingertips, he would have to consume her completely, taking her with relentless force, until she could no longer move. That was not on the agenda, nor were most of the frivolous events that had taken place so far. The main focus was that they were halfway through this so called 'game', with only two opponents left to face.

He rolled his shoulders, then cracked his neck, as he stood in the shadow consumed doorway, between the sitting room and bedroom. The loud crick of his joints brought her shocking blue eyes to his standing, starting from his shoes and raking their way up his face, unfocused and glazed in thought. She had been like this for the best part of an hour now. Yet again, that Orling had vanished, claiming he had something vital to attend to. Vegeta didn't know what that moron was up to, lurking around the planet, but he did know that it wasn't anything to be overly concerned about. Besides that, though, dealing with her peculiar behaviour was just something else to falter their advancements, and he really didn't have the time to spare.

Her eyes flickered with inane curiosity, so before she could open her mouth to spout unnecessary crap, he cut her off.

"Do you want to die?" he said, keeping close to the doorframe, because his fingers were twitching, and his anger had the frequent tendency to spark from the littlest actions these days.

"I don't plan on it, no," she said, her voice brimming with certainty all of a sudden.

In that moment, her features softened, and he felt compelled by her once again, his hands relaxing at his sides. The way her lips curled at the corners, bringing the subtle creases under her eyes to life. Regardless, it wasn't the reaction he wanted to reel back from her. The fact of the matter was; she wasn't afraid of his threats anymore. Not that she had been particularly terrified to begin with, but even shedding an ounce of fear in his presence was enough to beckon him to rip someone limb from limb. At first, that was all he could thing of doing to this woman—to relish in the delicious downpour of her warm blood as he tore the muscles clean from her glossy bones. The only flavour he want to taste now was the sweet salt between her skinny, little legs. But even that seemed utterly detestable in the back of his mind.

It was a few heated seconds-her eyes locked onto his, like he was the only thing she could ever look at—before she reverted her wavering attention back to the device, using her scrawny fingers to pinch the skin, thus cajoling her own blood over the rusting metal bolts that were drilled through the bone. His face contorted with disgust. Any form of self-infliction was abhorred by a Saiyan. It was deemed as weak, not to mention useless. A warrior should only spill blood in battle—that blood being the enemies', of course.

The smell of iron was faint in the air. A swelling in his chest tried to usher him to stop her from harming herself, but he refused to be her minder. Soon enough, when she'd be on her hands and knees, taking in her last breath, he would give her the satisfaction of death, but not now.

"Messing with that thing isn't going to make a shred of difference."

She shrugged, non-committed to the half-hearted response. "No harm in trying."

The sound of her voice was hollow, though he knew her spirit had been lifted with the knowledge of her fellow Earthling's on-going lifespan. Perhaps she was feigning the hope she so determinedly held onto for the sake of his unruly temper? Nevertheless, time was of the essence, and there was now a thin rivulet of blood wandering down the anklet, over the protruding bump of her ankle, and eventually blooming on the mouldy mattress. Disgusting.

He removed his torrid gaze from her pathetic display, and muttered, "Evidently," before bending to pick up the bag, then tossing it on the bed, shaking her up quite satisfyingly.

The sound of the five Dragon Balls (his hope, his freedom, his glorious golden keys to immortality) jangling was like listening to the faint whisper of a beautiful song. No longer had it started, it had ended. They both stared at the bag, its tethered, navy material, the broken, rusty zip swinging back and forth like an old, weathered pendulum. Before long, the silence chipped at his skin, forcing him to ponder upon words that he didn't want to say to this female Earthling, so, to counteract it, he walked away, giving her—once again—more of his time.

It wasn't much, but it would get them through the remaining three days of their lives. Bulma stood straight, feeling the uncomfortable squelch of cold feet in damp boots, and she picked up one of the three cans of beans, which the Orling had had stowed away in the kitchen. After hearing the horrific confession of how he kept the groaning cry of hunger at bay, by eating the mutated, murderous creatures of this planet, she decided that he wouldn't miss a few cans of baked beans. They were out of date, too, though becoming violently ill didn't sound half bad, given her circumstances. At least that way she wouldn't have to continue.

But, no, Chichi was alive.

The label on the can she had in hand was crusted with rust, and shrivelled so much that she had to open one to determine its contents. The beans themselves looked OK, though they smelled ripe, almost sweet. She would hold her nose when the time came to eat them. These days she couldn't be too fussy. The times of being weighted on hand and foot had long been sucked up in the black hole of her past. Even if she was successful in this game, there was very little hope that she could ever go back to that. Earth might not even be there anymore, and God knew how she could ever get back there.

There was a shattering-like crepitation in the next room, making Bulma freeze, when placing all the items she'd scavenged in the backpack. Her fingers danced a solitary rhythm, tapping against the can, before she dumped it in the bag and ran into the living room, only to find Vegeta standing unusually close to the freshly returned Orling.

The living room was practically devoid of light. With no Orling to re-light the candles, the job became overlooked. Luckily, her eyes had endured so much darkness in this game that she could determine whose silhouette belonged to whom. They both swivelled towards her, gazing at her like she had interrupted an important business meeting between the two alien creatures.

"Your Saiyan friend doesn't seem too pleased with my proposition," the Orling said, straightening out his rumpled clothing with talons for nails.

Vegeta resumed an indifferent posture, teetering on the edge of a childish shrug. "There is no way. Don't you think you've caused enough destruction?"

The Orling laughed scornfully, baring his charcoal teeth. Bulma had never witnessed him being so hostile; it was unnerving to watch a creature who floated in a benevolent haze, to switch so easily.

"What proposition?" she said, looking at the Orling, but keeping a distant watch on Vegeta through her peripheral.

"To take you halfway to your next destination. My reasoning for being able to take you only halfway is the fear of detection. Any further and my sparse life force might become noticeable to a wanting eye."

"That won't be necessary," Vegeta spat, disregarding the Orling, and pacing towards her with hatred blazing in his eyes.

Her stomach swirled so rapidly she was almost sick. "Yes," she blurted, her eyes dancing from the Orling back to Vegeta. "Yes, it will."

Vegeta wrapped his fingers around her wrist. The unexpected contact made her jump, but the welcoming feel the gesture emanated sent her almost floating off the ground. Her voice softened as she shyly met his eyes. "Vegeta, I'm not going through that tunnel again."

The crease in his brow deepened at the antagonistic memory of her inches from death.

She closed her dry mouth in a frivolous attempt to moisten it again, but when Vegeta graced her with any physical contact, all the moisture in the world couldn't dampen her pallet. "Think of the time we could save," she muttered, looking to the Orling, who was scowling, his eyes now sinister slits, their purple irises darkening.

Vegeta let go of her wrist, turned away. "We could have been there by now if you weren't making futile attempts to disengage that device," he roared into the open doorway of the empty bedroom.

Usually, he would have bellowed those harsh words directly into her face, but now things were different. Something was different about him. Whether their heated kiss had anything to do with it was a valid question, but surely he saw it as merely a slip up? It wouldn't have happened if she hadn't been so physically weak, limping into the open arms of temptation. Maybe she had knocked his pride down a notch, and now he could barely stand to look at her without wanting to tear her to shreds.

'Right now, Bulma Briefs, you shouldn't be worrying about the Saiyan. You should be worrying about yourself.'

Her eyes widened as embarrassment pumped through her body.

'Isn't that a bit rude, reading peoples' minds whenever you feel like?' She chose not to look at the Orling. She couldn't, fidgeting in a faint miasma of her own, hot humility.

Vegeta spun round, glowering down at her, his lips tight like he was holding back an explosion of sulphuric words. His arm shot out to the side, pointing at the Orling.

"This freak has done more than enough. We're fine without him."

Containing her thoughts, Bulma simply nodded, her lips pinched together, and turned to the Orling, noticing, out the corner of her eyes, Vegeta's arm flopping to his side again. The hindering thought of having to push herself through that impossibly tight tunnel had been giving her chills the moment she was dragged back into consciousness. There was also a definitive reason why she couldn't go back there—she physically couldn't go back there. Anything to avoid going back through that hell again would be a blessing. Or would dying be more fitting, right now?

She blinked a few times, blinking away the painful dryness of tired eyes, and turned to Vegeta, the Saiyan who she had to place all her trust in, whether he was worthy of it or not. A shot of uncertainty caught her off guard as he gazed back at her, with an expectant frown plastered across his pristine face. Tears brimmed on her waterlines, but she swabbed them, their bitter warmth a welcoming sensation on her hands, making the desire for a hot bath even more prominent.

"Please, I don't want to go through that again," she said, sniffing any adventurous mucus that was threatening to drip.

Vegeta looked to the ceiling, and she could see that he was struggling with his conscience. It was such a sad and pathetic thing they had wound up in, being stuck together for the remaining days of their lives, having to consider every movement in case the other erupts and kills them both.

Before long, the Orling was at Bulma's side, reaching to lay a hand on her shoulder. Vegeta's jaw tightened, but he steadied his actions by crossing his arms. It seemed to be the Saiyan's default position.

"Do you know where to find your friend?" the Orling said, retracting his hand slowly, and desperately holding onto a waning smile.

"Yeah. She's quite far, but with your help—"

"Bulma," Vegeta grumbled truculently, shifting his disapproving eyes from the pealing plaster on the ceiling to hers.

Her eyes narrowed as confusion fed its way through her system. Had he just … It didn't matter. There had to be a way to meet in the middle. If Vegeta was plainly unwilling to allow the Orling to help them significantly, then he had to at least let him assist in some way, even if it was minimal.

"Can you just transport us out of the cave?" she said, and the irritated, quick movement of Vegeta throwing his hands up made her skin prickle with anger. It was obviously in his nature to rely solely on his own capabilities, so when offered help, he felt obliged to throw it back into the helper's face. This was nor the time or place to work alone.

"Of course." The Orling nodded, though she saw his shoulders slump only a touch.

He wanted to help so much more, yet all she could take was a slice. They needed all the help they could get, except, unfortunately, she had been partnered up with someone who made that incredibly tough. Judging by Vegeta's piercing silence, she decided they had come to a disgruntled, yet fair agreement, so she grabbed her bag and damp hoody, and prepared to journey on for the next Dragon Ball.

Trays topped with what looked like grey porridge, which in fact owned a salty, meaty quality, were taken one by one, by the masses of zombie-like creatures, to whatever spaces they could find in the expanse of metal chairs and tables that suffocated the canteen. Vegeta's nostrils flared as a particularly odorous warrior walked by, partly clad in black leather skirts, with a sheet of black fabric covering his marginally tiny head. This was meal time. Every day, the same shit. An hour a day, he was left to either join the sweaty montage of fallen warriors (slaves, as he liked to call them), or roam the empty corridors of Frieza's ship.

Conversation was never on the agenda. If anyone tried speaking to the Prince, he would beat them senseless, and whether he would stop in time to let them live was neither here nor there. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Very rarely did he venture into the canteen, because it made him feel sick to his stomach. A literal tearing sensation would occur in his abdomen, leading him to the nearest waste room to cough up his insides. On this occasion, with anguished amusement, his sightless gaze wandered across the packed room, and one thought ran through his mind: Lucky Bastards. You see, these soldiers, as much as they loathed the very presence of the Prince, were far better off in this God forsaken shit pile than he was, despite their copious complaints.

Raucous laughter and hearty jaunts flooded the room, while Vegeta stood, isolated in his own malice, guarded, and left without a single soul to trust. There were warriors slouched in their chairs, food dribbling from their stubbly chins as they imbibed jugs of the cheapest alcohol in the galaxy. Did they not realise their lives were on the line? Or did the idiots know this, and choose to act as if this so-called meal was their last? Either way, Vegeta never wanted to be a part of their feigned, jovial gatherings. And they didn't want him there, either. When he had stepped into the room, the tension and hatred towards him had been tangible, but when he made no move to torment, they continued on with their biddings like he wasn't there at all.

His lip stiffened; time was passing quicker than water through an open hand, and he chose that these creatures were not worth it, not worth his fraying time, or presence. He shouldn't have been there. It wasn't his place to be; stuck in a shit-smelling hovel with a bunch of low class warriors, who he could obliterate at the blink of an eye. No. It was such a distasteful realisation his face crumpled with disgust, as he proceeded to pass through the throngs of warriors, each casting a brave, yet subtle glance in his direction.

Vegeta stopped dead, his fists clenching to his sides, as the four speakers in each corner of the canteen crackled with the dreaded chime of an oncoming announcement. All the laughter vanished, replaced by the ear piercing sound of hundreds of chair legs scraping against metal floors. Every warrior was on their feet, standing erect with their chins pointing into their chests, a few of them noticeably shaking and sweating with anticipation.

"Good afternoon, little lab rats," Zarbon chimed over the mic. "Just a quick announcement."

A sharp intake of breath was heard from somewhere in the centre of the room.

"Vegeta is to report to Lord Frieza in his quarters immediately. That's Vegeta, to Lord Frieza, pronto. Spit spot, your highness." Zarbon snickered as the message drawled out, until there was nothing left but heavy silence.

Eyes were on him, all the eyes in the room, burrowing into his tough exterior, trying to crush him, and make him feel something. The only thing he could feel was emptiness. Even in his free hour, he had been called to do the most damnable of deeds with his tormentor.

The rubber of his gloves squelched, the sound echoing through the canteen louder, as his nails bore into his palms. He had no choice, no say, and no way out, so he squared his shoulders and strode out the room, feeling the stares and the accusing eyes following his every move. No one ever dared catch his eye, though, or there would be a debt to pay.

Inches away from leaving the room, a distant, sinister voice shouted, "Frieza's little lap dog, off to please his master once again," followed by a chesty laugh.

In the next couple of seconds, a quarter of that room was no more than a pile of charred bodies, left for someone else to clean up, while all the other warriors tremulously sat down in their metal chairs, and continued to eat their salty meals with shaking hands.

Vegeta's lip curled as he dropped his arm to his side, irritated that he had had to waste any energy on such cretins. It wouldn't be long before he would reign over this galaxy and the next. Going about it undetected meant he had to comply with Frieza's demands, but he was no one's lap dog. Never was, and never would be.

"You're not lying to me, are you?"

Tresses of blue hair draped lazily over her left shoulder as she cocked her head to the side, her brow screwing up in concentration as she held onto the bleeping device. If Vegeta didn't know better, he would have assumed he'd insulted her in some way or another, but, if he remembered correctly, which he always did, did she, or did she not lead him astray several hundred miles, at the expense of an entire day? The truth dawned on her wan face, gripping her loose shoulders and tightening her stance, so maybe she could feel a little less guilty. It radiated from her, though, clearer and darker than the task he had yet to finish.

The Orling had taken them—sidling away from the plan—several hundred miles towards their next destination, leaving them in a pleasant, fluorescent expanse, where waxy, purple grass became flattened under heavy metal boots. Before Vegeta had the chance to strike the mischievous pervert, he had dematerialised, yet again, without any explanation. The Orling knew what he had done, and would not walk away unscathed. So, according to the woman, they had only two hundred miles of sparse terrain to cross before they reached her so-called friend. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew better than to have such a useless form of acquaintance with any other living soul.

"No, I'm not," she said, shaking her head with vehemence, her bright eyes tugging at his bravado.

The sun glittered across the grass, helping to capture everything and anything in sight. If, on the off-chance, anything was to jump out and claw hungrily at this woman, he would know further in advance, and then he would … No, he wouldn't, would he? Protect her? No, he would slay the beast with utmost ease and grace, leaving her awed and struck motionless by his eternal prowess. Vegeta frowned, his thoughts cascading and whirling uncontrollably in a massive jumble around his overused brain. They wouldn't get the best of him again.

She approached him, side stepping, her arms clasped at her chest, the tender skin on her forearms gleaming in the late sunlight, revealing tiny, erect hairs. To get to the next Dragon Ball, they had to travel for several hours, yet she had no form of transport. He knew this was bound to happen sometime, so instead of dwelling upon the overdue, abomination of an act, he pulled her into his chest (she yelped, the stupid woman, from his heavy handling), wound his arms tight around her malnourished waist, and sped into the sky, leaving a swirl of dancing grass strands and grit behind.

A couple, strained hours later, thinking not of her gentle pulse under his palm, but of the direction which they were headed, Vegeta's determined and conditioned thoughts were interrupted by the hoarseness of her voice trying to break through the pounding income of one hundred mile per hour air.

"We should—" She coughed, spluttered in fact, keeping her head low, tilting her blue crown for him to steal several glances.

His hold on her tightened.

"We should land soon." Another dry cough. "If we want to go on unnoticed."

Her arms were attached so firmly, it made his head pound with contemplation. The violently quick image of him simply letting her fall was all too dream-like, though every time he got the itch to do it, an intensified image of her very much alive, her legs wrapped around his waist as he poured himself into her, strangled the previous thought, and left it lifeless in the corner of his mind.

What did she take him for? Of course he knew to land soon. Granted, he had been struggling to concentrate on their rate of travel, while holding onto a woman, who, a mere few hours ago, had pressed her wet mouth against his desperate and ashamedly relentless one. He hissed, sucking in the freezing air through his teeth. What had become of him? How could he have slipped so far below the depths of Hell?

He sharply and suddenly plummeted through plumes of damp clouds, the moisture gluing in globules to his face and arms the further he descended. Not a single utterance came from her as he bombed to the ground, landing soundlessly onto balding, black soil. Immediately, like a locked door springing open to spill all the indecencies inside, he let go of her, watched with slits for eyes as she stumbled from his grasp and dizzily wandered, clutching a skeletal hand to her abdomen.

She fell to her knees and heaved, regurgitated a creamy fluid that was dotted with lumps of the sparse food she had scarfed before leaving the Orling's hovel. The wind was violent, knocking clods of dirt and feathery weeds into her path as she sat there, scrunched up and mewing like a petrified animal, coughing her guts out. Vegeta sneered and forced himself to turn away. It was about time he had some space from her noxious presence, even if it was only a few meters.

The cloud cover was too heavy, the wind too wild, the air too dense. Every step too loud, every breath like a rumble of thunder. In any moment, a bomb could go off. But he could not sense the detonator. No life force was close by. Not a single pulse, except hers, was beating in his ears, which could only determine that they were either in the wrong fucking place, or something out of control was going to happen. When the sound of her clumsy footsteps stomped behind him, the area seemed to open up to him, the sheer unfamiliarity of it all. It appeared they had landed in some sort of built up graveyard, nothing like the downtrodden architecture he had witnessed before.

Thousands of headstones and towering statues, all spread across endless miles of dirt. Naked trees boarded the ghostly space, some resembling that of a childhood nightmare with their clawed branches and twisted, grimacing faces engraved in their trunks. He walked on, like he was supposed to, one foot in front of the other, step by step, being able to hear the gasp of decomposing leaves under his careful advancements. Something about the place was warning him, shouting at him to turn back, but he couldn't. Every gravestone was pristine, like they had never been touched by a brutal hand. But it couldn't be? How? There should have been nothing left.

"So that's what they looked like, huh," Bulma whispered, beckoning him to see what she was doing. Wasting more time, no doubt.

She stood before a stone figure of a creature, holding onto her hair as the wind tried to manipulate it into fluttering around her eyes. The figure was that of an Orling native, its long gown, the pock marks on its skin, the pointed ears and protruding lumps on the forehead. Other than the severe difference in height, it would have been an exact replica of that fucking magician Vegeta had had the displeasure of meeting earlier.

Vegeta reached out to grab her shoulder, when a feminine voice resounded deep in his skull, whispering the words only death could bring, setting Vegeta as motionless as the statue he stood before.

It was perfect, smooth, unblemished, and captured years of history into stone. The eyes were haunting. Despite it being an inanimate object, she felt like the eyes could see—could see her. They could read into her soul, all the shameful thoughts she had had over the last few days; thoughts about dying, suicide, sex and lust. Everything. The reason for these thoughts—Vegeta—had unmistakably come as a tidal wave. Never, ever, ever did she expect to attain any feelings for someone like Vegeta, and it teased her. Her own mind, leading her into a spider's web. Why would she do that? Why couldn't she just stop thinking like that, and gather some sense for once?

For a minute longer, she stared listlessly at the grey exterior of the past life on this planet, this lonely planet. Something sparked in the corner of her mind's eye, and bounced erratically like a disoriented blue bottle. Bulma closed her eyes tight, knocking the sound of the howling wind away for a moment, to focus on the flicker of light. It was red. A tiny dot, bouncing from one corner to the other. Very lively. Very alive.

You know when a day can go by like a dream, only a hazy memory of events that didn't seem concrete enough to be real? When flickers of black and white images fly past an unfocused eye, and you can't catch the gist of their meaning? Bulma became bombarded with so many vivid colours and words that it made the bile churn in her stomach.

Bulma spun round, suddenly enthralled by the sight of a nonplussed Vegeta so close to her, his eyes wild and mouth slightly ajar. His usual bronze skin had blanched, and his pupils dilated to pin pricks. He was staring at the ground beyond her feet, at first provoking her to turn, but there was only an eroding and crumbled headstone, with an inscription too distorted to decipher. All the fibres in her body started to jolt, the apprehension strangling her will to move. Somehow she managed to shift the backpack into a more comfortable position, as the weight of it was beginning to eat into her left shoulder.

She looked back to Vegeta, wanting desperately to shake some sense into him. "Vegeta?"

The wind ragged her hair so it straggled in her eyes, forcing her to smear the greasy locks back from her forehead. He had still yet to look at her. What was he doing? Where they about to die?

"Vegeta, what's wrong?" she shouted, stepping up to him, trying to get him to at least acknowledge her presence, without having to click her fingers in his face.

With a shaking hand, she reached out to touch him, when he sharply sprang back to life and grabbed her wrist, trapping the blood flow, making her curl closer to him in pain. The skin twisted, shooting roaring fire through her veins. Her knees buckled as she tried to break free, making her perform an awkward stumble towards him.

"What are you doing?" She pulled again, digging her heels into the crisp dirt. "You're hurting me."

His eyes refocused and shifted back to hers, and he snapped open his offending palm, releasing her.

In any other situation, Bulma would have ran at that moment. That wasn't an option. She had to stay, remain in the presence of this unpredictable, erratic and seriously dangerous Saiyan. Who was the enemy, really? Was Frieza such a villain in all of this? Or was Vegeta thousand times worse?

She tenderly nursed her wrist, wincing when she saw that the skin had split, allowing trickles of blood to escape the slivery cuts. She wanted to cry, but what good would that do? After thinking that perhaps he wouldn't hurt her again-

"Bulma," a voice shrieked in the distance.

She dropped her bleeding arm, forgetting the pain, and whirled around, her head darting from side to side, following the same life-force as before.

"Bulma," the voice squawked again, this time resounding from behind a prism-shaped crypt.

Bulma bolted for it, meandering through the different shaped and coloured headstones, the backpack bouncing off her spine. All she could see was the distasteful, grey prism growing larger and larger the closer and more breathless she became. These few days had really taken their toll on her physical capabilities. Back home, she could run alongside Goku for miles, but now, she could barely walk.

A glimpse of jet black hair shone from the back of the crypt, before vanishing behind it again, as if it had never been there in the first place. It was enough familiarity to send Bulma's heart racing. "Chichi," she gasped, stopping to catch her breath, clutching her knees.

The raven haired woman bumbled from behind the broken building, struggling with something, and muttering unintelligible words. Bulma grimaced, trying to take in as much oxygen as possible without straining her chest. When the rest of Chichi came out from behind the crypt, it became apparent as to what she was struggling with. Holding onto her, similar to the way Bulma had been detained, was a warrior of possibly seven foot (or more) in height, with an impressive mane of thick, black hair, trailing right the way down his back. Even from a distance, Bulma wanted to feel how soft his hair was. He was smirking at the dishevelled, struggling Chichi, amused by her fruitless exertions to escape.

"Now, that's a dumb thing to do," he said, shaking his head stoically.

"You let me go," Chichi said, scowling and trying to rip her arm out of its socket. "She's my friend."

"Friend," he sneered, the words dripping from his mouth like an unsavoury flavour, but he let her go—allowed her to go to her friend.

At first Chichi scrambled to the floor, clawing at the dirt to get back up, until Bulma met her half way, bringing her into a desperate embrace. Feeling another human was blissful. Chichi smelled like home, even despite not having been there for God knows how long, but it was real. Bulma just knew it. She gripped onto the back of Chichi's head, pulling her closer, feeling how frail and brittle her body had become, her hips digging into Bulma's sides. Again, she was quick to notice that both Chichi and her warrior were minus the clothing and footwear Vegeta and she had been provided.

So it was true—the Orling only favoured Bulma.

"I'm so happy you're alive. It's been awful," she said, sobbing into Bulma's hair.

Bulma closed her eyes, forcing back the tears, when it occurred to her that Chichi and her warrior couldn't possibly have come into contact with any other team, if she and Vegeta already had five Dragon Balls. A bitterness resided in her veins at that thought. Chichi hadn't been through even a shred of the hell Bulma had. Had Chichi been subjected to having another human being's blood rain over her, while plunging a rock into their head? She couldn't have.

Bulma pulled back, looking into her friend's wide, watery eyes, ready to tell her how she felt, when a gruff voice bellowed not too far beside them both.

"Prince Vegeta, you're looking just as shiny as before we were dumped into this heaping pile of shit. What's your secret?" the taller warrior said, folding his arms, setting his legs shoulder width apart.

Bulma looked back to Vegeta, who was mirroring his actions. "I keep myself clean," he said, shrugging.

It was like watching an old western film. The wind sending balls of tumble weed in between the warriors' paths, the distance whistle of rustling blades of grass, the cold silence between it all. Bulma held Chichi tighter as they both witnessed the scene unravel, the scene which would potentially kill either one of them.

Both warriors took a fighting stance, digging their heels into the ground. In a moment, an entire team could be wiped away forever. Chichi could die. Why would Vegeta do that? He wouldn't, would he? Bulma's body shook with adrenalin. She itched to dive in and separate the two, but what use could she be, really? The fight certainly would be cut short if she decided to jump into the line of fire.

"So, what now, huh?" the other warrior said nonchalantly, cocking his head.

Poised to run for Vegeta, Bulma loosened her grip on a whimpering Chichi, the nausea beginning to rear its head again.

'No, Miss Briefs, let it play out.'

She frowned, aware that Chichi was now scrutinizing her with narrowed eyes, the complexity of her friend's sudden bout of courage too much for the other woman to comprehend. Did she think Bulma had lost it entirely?

'I can't. They're going to kill each other! I have to do something.'

'Be patient.'

'I'm not just gonna stand here and wait for either Chichi or me to die. I have to move. I have to stop them. I have to-'

An incongruous pulsing in her temple, extricating all of her will to stand up straight, pulled her to the floor, where she didn't have time to feel the hard soil hit her wind-burnt skin, before exhaustion pulled her into a deep, subconscious state.