A/N - Just want to mention a few things. I've changed the POV from third-person-limited to third-person-omniscient. I've done this to quicken the pace, so instead of getting one character's side at a time, you'll be getting both. Also, there is a big focus on the actual character's themselves in this chapter (a lot of emotions being thrown around!). Let me know if you like the old style better, and as always, thank you for sticking around! Enjoy.

Warning - Contains violence, sexual themes, and explicit language. It is rated M for a reason, yah?

Thanks to Adli for proofing this chapter :)

Contending with Darkness

Chapter 15

The body was a machine set on a timer. It could be built, tweaked, fixed, patched and tinkered, transforming into something unstoppable. It could harness great volumes of intelligence, the ability to begin and end, to give and take. Like any machine, it was powered by a generator. The centre of that power—the mind. The pillar holding and keeping balance. Without this fundamental component, the strength the body endowed would be rendered useless. But like any machine, it could be broken, smashed, dented, until it shut down.

The mind was where the real power lain, making Bulma stronger than any being Vegeta had encountered … probably.

"And how did you reach this conclusion," he said tersely, fixing a shabby glove on to his hand, his little finger peeping through a hole.

She shrugged. "It's a hunch. It just makes sense to me; I don't know."

How could you explain a hunch to anyone? It was an inexplicable feeling, one which nestled deep in your gut. It nagged to be registered, considered, whether you wanted to or not. If you didn't pay it some attention it would only burrow further into your stomach, rupturing your organs and leaving you in feeling empty.

Vegeta shook his head, dubious with what she had to say to him. A hunch was nothing. Facts were what mattered. "Like hell …" His eyes wandered indolently to the empty doorway leading out onto the living room. "Makes sense," he muttered. "There's no fucking sense in sense."

Bulma took a step forward, eyeing the tautness of his clothing, sticking to the solid muscles of his back like a second skin. She seldom looked at Vegeta closely. Never got the chance to really scrutinise him without his discomfort coercing her to look elsewhere. Now she couldn't stop. Moments ago she had him inside her. His warm body moulding into hers, his mouth on her skin, his hands and fingers roving parts of her that made her muscles tighten just thinking about. And yet, it had taken so much out of her. Just keeping a decent balance was proving to be a challenge.

Vegeta shot her a questioning look, seeing that insistent icy coating in her eyes every time the cogs in her mind rotated, turning for more untouchable answers, no doubt.

"When Raditz pushed me," she said, fiddling with her fingers.

That moment punched into his mind, like being stabbed in the abdomen with a rusty knife, and the attacker twisting it into his intestines. His body juddered at the notion of any man putting his hands on her, despite his best efforts to banish any sort of protective thought. But his mind was going against him now.

"I braced myself against him. His blood was all over my hands. Then … when I touched the anklet on Chichi, the metal, sort of, fizzed under my skin." As she described it, the pain reawakened in her finger tips, pulsating sluggishly.

"Bullshit," Vegeta spat, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"You think these blisters materialised from thin air?" She held her hand up for him to see.

His eyes narrowed at the grotesque bubbles on her fingers. An indecent thought cropped in his mind but he slammed it to the back, where he placed most of the unnecessary atrocities that seemed to clutter his brain these days. He looked away from her sharp stare, focusing most of his attention on the empty stretch of mouldy carpet beyond the division of rooms.

"Why my blood?" he said.

Bulma lowered her hand, every joint in her body aching. Then it felt like cold fingers were tracing circles up and down her back, forcing her to straighten it. She dimly felt around her lower back to find that the entire length of her t-shirts' material had been shredded, right the way up to the collar. It was just something else to throw on top of the heap of misery.

"Well, not just yours. I have a theory." She bit her lip.

"Great."

"Like I said before, every anklet is unique to each team. Intrinsically linked somehow."

He should have been listening to her words, but the thing that really trapped his attention was the tone in her voice. It was light, velvety, fluent and floating with such a smooth glib of enthusiasm. Only when she explained her ideas, and what was rustling in her head, did she vaguely light up. The melody her voice created could send even the most cynical warriors into a state of ease, like their life wasn't revolved around death and killing, but something else. Something more. There was a rosy hue trapped under the grey scabbard of her skin, and her eyes smiled despite the frown engraved into her knitted brow. He had never seen something so striking. And it made him hate his own mind.

"So, I think yours dissolves the anklet I have," she finished.

A sickly sweat cooled across her neck and shoulders as Vegeta stared at her unblinkingly. He was looking deeper into her, behind her words, searching for a flaw. She just knew it. Finally, his concrete mask dissolved, replaced by a hint of unease, as his fingers apprehensively pressed into his biceps. The silence between them both unnerved her and poured a warm slip of thirst down her back. She was about to say something to fill the awkward space, but he interrupted before she got the chance.

"When did you last eat?" he said, eyeing the length of her skeletal frame. Granted, she was still attractive. He wouldn't have fucked her otherwise. But there was no swathing up the malnutrition gnawing away at the remnants of muscle left clinging to her bones. It sent anger soaking into the pores on his skin.

She scoffed, aghast, tilting her head back, and showing her neck.

"That hardly matters right now—"

"Of course it matters," he said, the pain of unreleased anger piling into his lungs. He paced over, half minded whether or not to grab her again. But he knew that touching her mellifluous skin again would only lead to something else, and he could not waste any more time. He loomed over her, and she shyly looked up from beneath the straggling tresses of hair that hung in front of her eyes. He calmed, took a lock of her hair between his fingers, and sighed.

"You won't live another day if you don't eat," he said, his frown deepening as he became transfixed on the texture of her hair. It was laden with sweat and oil, but underneath that, there was a slither of satin, and it owned a fragrance similar to cherry blossom. Something different that he had only scented on another planet. Everything about her was alien to him.

She swallowed. "Vegeta … there's no food." And she took the strand of hair from his grasp, bringing his focus back to her face.

"There'll be some somewhere. There's always some somewhere."

Her heart pumped loudly in her ears, like the throb of speakers in a night club. Under his touch, she could dissolve. Everything could be forgotten about. Her impending death—forgotten. She wanted to wrap her arms around his waist and press her head against his chest, just to hear his heartbeat. To remind herself that she wasn't alone. He was with her. The prospect of removing the anklet held her freedom over her head like a twenty foot sign with blinding lights. But below that freedom were the terms and conditions. There were always terms and conditions. Without the anklets, they were no longer bound together. They could evade their suffocating company, and go their separate ways. Vegeta was all Bulma knew now. And she wasn't sure that freedom was selling itself as well as it should have.

A bright blue light lit up the room, casting glorious shadows on Vegeta's stern face, outlining his hardened features. She looked down at his palm to see a small ball of energy, buzzing lazily. It was beautiful, popping with electric flecks and different colour tones. It was like looking directly into the sun, gawping at the beauty but without the blaring intensity.

He crouched down, keeping his eyes on her. A nervous tweak tugged in the bottom of her stomach, as he crouched right down, his face inches away from where she sought to be touched again. Frozen solid, she stood, her eyes batting back and forth between the energy ball and his sultry gaze. Beneath that, there was something carnal and predatory, something she should have been petrified of. It only spurred her on further.

The hypnotising buzzing sound dulled, and it took a few moments before sense grabbed Bulma and she was forced to look at what Vegeta was really doing. She gasped as he used his own energy to slice his palm, opening a narrow stream of blood, which he quickly planted onto her anklet. The warmth of his hand zapped up and down her leg, and she wanted to buckle to the floor, to be at his level. There was a dry crackling and hissing sound, muffled by his palm. Her eyes widened as she felt the vibration traveling drilling in her leg. She panicked, stumbling backwards onto her behind, smacking the rough carpet hard.

"What are you doing?" she wheezed, partly excited, but wracked with fear. Not fear from Vegeta. Fear for him.

The energy ball dissipated, dropping darkness on her like a heavy duvet being flung over her head.

Nonchalantly, Vegeta lifted his palm up to inspect it. Across the expanse of his once bronze skin was now a coarse pad, dappled with putrid, weeping orange blotches. It wasn't painful, but it was irritating, like an itch. It was sticky to touch, so he tried not clench his fist when he let it drop to his side again.

Without a word, he stalked out of the room, headed for the kitchen.

"Vegeta."

He didn't look back as he stomped into the derelict kitchen, where rusted pots and cracked plates were littered across the floor. Moss and patches of blue mould was creeping up the white tiled walls, stretching like arms, reaching for everything. He gathered that the Orling wasn't fond of cleaning. He could have fucking kept the place tidy. In all his time spent on Frieza's ship, no matter how horrendous the conditions, Vegeta always managed to keep on top of hygiene. Presentation was always important to him. It reflected badly, no matter how extensively, if you didn't keep a place maintained to a decent standard.

He rummaged through one of the top cupboards, knocking aside a number of hollow containers with Bulma's company logo scrawled across them.

"Vegeta," she said again, alarmingly close.

There was a pull in his stomach every time she called his name. He wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. The contents of the cupboards diminished, as he'd chucked most of the empty pots and plates out onto the floor, creating a mistuned melody.

"What are you doing?" A hand landed on his arm and it sent a warm jolt through his veins. She needed to stop touching him.

The feel of him felt so natural to her now, like her fingers were made to roam his skin. It was the perfect balance of rough and smooth. He flinched, but settled, his arm still extended in the cupboard. He flung it backwards, shrugging her off, and his eyes flickered around the kitchen.

"That bastard," he hissed, slamming a palm onto the cluttered work surface, crunching empty 'dried food' wrappers together. He turned to her, eyes wild. "He knew, didn't he?"

"Knew what?" Absentmindedly, she took a step back.

"He's a fucking conspirator. Why would he have taken all the food?" Vegeta wanted to punch something. Someone. As long as the tingling in his knuckles abated.

Bulma didn't recall there being much food there in the first place. Besides, all of it was far out of date. Last time she touched the stuff, an hour or so later she fetched it back up again, leaving her feeling emptier than before. The stress lines under Vegeta's eyes started to show, giving away his nonchalant composure. That, and the fact he'd just battered the work surface, leaving a dip in the worn metal.

"I don't … know," she said, looking to the side.

Vegeta shrugged. "Well, that settles it then."

She cocked a brow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean no."

Bulma rolled her eyes. It was about time that someone started to speak to her in plain English. Yes, she was a genius, but all this cryptic, psychic nonsense was getting on her last nerve. "To what?" she demanded.

He charged up to her, about to grab her in frustration, but let his hands linger, electrified, inches away from her shoulders. "Look at you. The fucking wind could knock you down and kill you." She opened her mouth to speak but he honestly didn't have the patience to listen to any of her bullshit, logic or not. "Whether your theory works or not, doesn't matter. You're not spilling any of your own blood unnecessarily."

She wanted to laugh. "This is necessary. But, my blood?"

"No, it isn't."

An unexplainable source of energy warmed in his chest, forcing him to turn away from her. All the feeling made him want to do was cause destruction. But it was a different notion to that of pure thirst for violence. It was built on the bones of frustration, and he didn't know how to deal with it. But what was he to be so frustrated about? The anklet could finally be removed. She was right. His blood had dissolved the metal. Was he really frustrated because he wouldn't need to be around her anymore? A bite of pain chewed into his palm. He'd been clenching them so damn hard he'd eaten further into the skin, popping the blisters.

Bulma shook her head, unable to comprehend the man before her. Her future was drunkenly blurred, a mixture of what could be and what couldn't. But, right now, she knew she just wanted Vegeta to survive. For some reason, nothing else mattered to her. Everyone she knew was dying. Couldn't one person be spared? The anklet was an ingenious idea. Frieza was a callous monster, but he was brighter than she assumed; she'd give him that.

"Didn't you listen to me before? It's only your blood that can remove the anklet. Not mine. But it doesn't matter, 'cause once mine is destroyed, yours will be redundant. You'll be free," she said.

He shook his head, set his jaw. "The anklet means nothing to me. I'll never escape." He turned. "Frieza will always come looking for me. And I refuse to run."

There was such clarity and determination in his words it made Bulma well up with tears. She wasn't scared to show her emotions in front of him anymore. Too much pain and suffering was around the both of them. Saiyans may have thought that crying was weak, but Bulma knew that tears meant she was still sane enough to show emotion. She was still human.

"I don't want you to get hurt," she said honestly, stepping over the broken bits of plastic to stand in front of him. She placed her palm flat on his warm chest, feeling the delicate throb of his heart beating under her fingers.

He looked down at her scrawny hands, then her huge, watery eyes, and a small part of the rot in his heart crumbled away, leaving a little slip of light to bleed through the hole it had made. That's what she was doing to him—changing him into someone he was not.

"My wellbeing is none of your concern."

She looked pained by his words, her face crumpling with rejection.

"Of course it is," she said, curling her fingers into a fist on his chest.

The feel of the scraping sent a sudden chill through him, startling him. Since when was he affected like this by a woman? And an Earthling woman! He grabbed her hand, covering it completely with his own with the means of getting her away from him, but he didn't let go. Not yet. He needed to feel her for a little while longer, because it would be the last time. He glanced to the side, and a sense of relief washed over him. Any other view than her face was comforting to him, as it gathered the indifference back into his heart, clogging it back up again.

"Once the anklet has been removed, you'll stay here. I'll find the remaining Dragon Ball," he said.

She frowned, about to demure. It felt like she'd just been dropped into a cold river, and left to wash up where no one could find her. He dropped her hand, and the ravenous cold consumed her fingers once again. Without his touch, she felt at a loss. She couldn't be left down here alone. She could barely stand it with Vegeta being near. No way was she going to be left to sit around and do nothing. And then what? Wait for Frieza to find her? No.

"The Orling will come back for you. I've no doubt he'll be skulking somewhere."

"No," she said, folding her arms. "I hate it down here. I'd rather be outside, like a sitting duck, than left to rot down here."

Bulma didn't know what Vegeta was proposing, but she wasn't pining for him, and she wasn't suggesting that he be around her. Once the anklet was off, she could wander freely. Find her own way. Her own way to what, she didn't know. That was the deal breaker between them. It was still uncertain whether Vegeta was going to let her live or not. Either way, there was no exact response for it. Not after everything the last week had entailed.

"You're not making that decision," he said, glaring at her.

"Are you kidding? You think you have the right to tell me what to do?" She thrust her hands onto her hips.

"I don't give a shit what you do," he said, making a move to leave the room, too tempted to batter her into unconsciousness. At least that way she would stay put. That was who he was. Not someone who actually, for a second, thought about keeping another person from dying. She could rot for all he cared.

"Good, 'cause I'm not staying down here," she said bitterly, trying to shield herself from the fear knocking her down. What was she saying? She would be a goner out there alone.

He stomped away, his fists pinned to his sides. "Fine. See if I fucking care. If a mutant creature doesn't kill you, then the elements will."

Freedom should have sounded like an empty room, swirling with fresh air, where the windows swung wide open and rattled against the outside walls. It should have created that overbearing sense of relief, where you had to declare the sheer happiness that pulled against every muscle in your body. But it didn't. Blood had been spared, and was smeared down her skin, clustering in a dry crust around the decaying metal that was trapped around her ankle. Freedom sounded more like a dank attic, surrounded by thick motes of dust, making the air toxic and unbreathable. The anklet couldn't be removed entirely. Not if she didn't want to bleed to death. Thanks to Frieza's ingenuity, the bolts that held the anklet in place had been drilled through the bone. But, aside that fact, the ring locked around the outside contained the power, and the poison. If the outside link was broken, the main function for the anklet wouldn't prevail. It was still all theory, though.

Vegeta watched, clenching and unclenching his bloodied and punctured hand, as a purple liquid trickled out of the hollow casing of the anklet, where he had rendered the device. The liquid pattered onto her white foot, where she quickly bent down to scrub it away with a filthy sheet of material. Transfixed, he continued to watch unseeingly, as his purpose boomed in his temple, like an aggressive migraine. Even though she may have been uncertain about her little theory, he had no doubt that she was correct. No longer was obliged to be in her company, to watch over her like a bald eagle scrutinising its prey. Now, her death could ensue. The blue crown of her hair bobbed up and down as she scrubbed away vigorously, her backside perched on the bed. He could simply crack her neck. Pain free … apparently. No matter what difference he felt in the very corners of his soul, he was always a killer. It was in his genes. A simple instinct. She wasn't of his level; wasn't a comrade, or a warrior. Her existence was only categorised with the weak—prey.

He reached down, stopping her futile movements, and with his forefinger, tipped her chin back so that her galvanising blue orbs met his cold, calculating eyes. His eye lids dropped shut, as she stood up, and he ran his hand down her neck, wrapping his fingers around the slender muscles of her throat.

The function to breathe evaporated, and Bulma strained her neck, allowing him to make the decision. It had become a fact that her future was in his hands. Ever since crashing down into the snow storm, and seeing him braced upon the roof of the ship, she knew he would decide her fate. If she was going to wander alone through the deserted lands of Orlon, only to die belatedly anyway, Bulma was gladly willing to give her life to Vegeta. He would kill her, and no one else. The air was trapped in her throat, pressing for release as she waited for the final move, but it didn't come. She was left bereft, when he let her go, turned his back and left her standing alone in the dark.

Heavy footsteps, laden with guilt and despair, took him outside to the water's edge, where he glowered down at his still reflection. The candles had diminished on the inside, but outside there was still a neat row around the perimeter of the house, casting a hazy glow around the cave. His honeyed reflection still resembled the same cruel hearted killer who didn't give a fuck about anyone, not even himself. Then why did he feel so detached from that person? Rarely did he ever look in a mirror. He knew what he looked like. A Saiyan. A Prince. Yet that title was as thin and exhausted as tracing paper.

For the first time in twenty years, Vegeta really looked at himself, and couldn't determine what he saw. In his own black eyes, he saw his mother, long before his planet was destroyed. She was regarding him with the same questioning look she used to give his father when she disagreed with a decision made. Sorrow gripped his heart, trying to pull him down to the floor, but he fought against it.

Soft footsteps pattered across the damp ground towards him. He turned to look but had to turn away immediately. It was like seeing a corpse awakened from the dead. There were now dark hollows under her eyes were the skin was dipping into the sockets. He hadn't noticed that before. Perhaps he'd been blinded by her presence. The innocence wrapping around him until he was too restricted to move. Now that the anklet was broken, he could walk away from her. She wasn't his problem anymore.

"Now what?" she rasped, pulling the straps of the heavy backpack onto her shoulders. Vegeta had his back to her, his head dipped, almost as if he were praying. After considering her possible outcomes, Bulma decided to go out into the hostile plains of Orlon, and die trying to survive. That's who she was. No harm in trying. After waiting a couple of second for Vegeta to at least respond to her ominous question, she pulled the waist of her jeans up over her hips, which kept sagging down, and readied herself for that horrific tunnel again.

"When we get to the other side of the cave, you're on your own," he said.

She sucked in a lungful of air, knowing that separation was to come, but she tried to be calm and lean against ignorance. Maybe she could pretend that it wasn't happening. Maybe she could be childish about the whole thing, and assume that everything would somehow fall neatly into place. Pain would not envelope her, and life would go on. Carelessly would she walk away from Vegeta.

"If something happens to you—" he started, his words heavy with bitterness.

His tone pinched at her composure. "Whatever happens to me happens."

He glanced from over his shoulder, the weak candle light flickering off his cheek bone.

She shook her head. "I'm not prepared for any other outcome."

He frowned, unsure what the fuck she was blabbering about, but the tranquillity in her tone serenaded the churning in his mind.

"Promise me something," she said, her deep blue irises penetrating him, beckoning him to face her.

Promises were dangerous. It was very rare for Vegeta to promise anything other than death, and even that, evidently, he couldn't keep.

Bulma took a deep breath, remembering what she had been wanting to say to him for the past couple of days now. "Remember who you really are, not what Frieza has made of you." She paused, seeing his brow knitting together. "If you want to escape him, you need to start there." She shrugged.

He had nothing to say to her. It wasn't his job to watch her, or listen to whatever nonsense she spouted. It wasn't. Not anymore. So he turned to glare at his reflection again, except the water had rippled, leaving indecipherable slices through his face.

Flung out of the water by her wrist, she spluttered for air, stumbling for balance, but only managing to slosh more water into her eyes and mouth. Disoriented, Bulma released her grip of the backpack and stuck her arm out, waiting for exhausting weight to leave her grasp. He snatched it without giving her a single glance, and held it loosely in one fist, staring at the rain battering outside the cave's entrance. The temperatures of the capsule home seemed cosy compared to out here. Bulma clutched her body tight, and started when Vegeta stomped ahead of her, disregarding her ever being next to him at all.

She slumped to the floor, holding her knees, as unsolicited warm tears ran down her cheeks and rested in the hollows of her collar bone. She wasn't going to follow him. That was what they'd agreed. She decided to wait until he was out of her range, see if the anklet really was ineffective now, before she would make her own fruitless attempt to survive. A small, pitiful lump of laughter rumbled deep in her chest, but she held it down, resting her chin on her knees as she watched the Saiyan disappear out of her life. Anxiety gripped her, and rebellion told her to run after him and tell him how she felt, but that wouldn't work. She knew that. Feelings were useless in this horrific world.

Vegeta froze, his fingers squeezing the saturated strap of the backpack. Something flashed in his mind's eye. A wisp of gold laced with green. No sooner had he felt the ghost of energy, he heard the smooth, sarcastic tone of the creature he hated more than himself.

"I was beginning to wonder when the two love birds were going to emerge," the voice said, before Zarbon slinked into the entrance of the cave, lethargically checking his nails.

Zarbon's hair wasn't as immaculate as usual. The rain had washed straggles of it down his forehead, and droplets of water were trickling into his eyes, but he didn't react to it. This told Vegeta that Frieza had most likely fucked him over somehow. Otherwise, why would he have come alone? Being as unkempt as that meant something outside the plan had happened. Vegeta knew exactly what that was.

Bulma stood up, her knees quaking.

"Awh. Lover's tiff?" Zarbon said, his eyes meeting Bulma's, taking in her tear stained face.

Vegeta wandered why he hadn't been able to sense Zarbon's energy sooner. Had he been weakened so dramatically? The significant blood loss didn't help, but he had lost a lot more blood than that in battle and could still scent the enemies' foul stench from miles away.

"Frieza will be thrilled," Zarbon said, and grinned. "Even more so when he takes her for himself." His eyes lit up as they took in the length of Bulma's body. "This game is over."

She shivered, crossing her arms tight over her chest. She wanted the ground to swallow her up, and leave her in a pit of darkness to die. Before that, though, she needed to know Vegeta was going to survive. It was like a nightmare, seeing Zarbon. The last time she saw his flawless face was when she had been penned with all the other contenders. She remembered being wrapped up in his beauty even then. That kind of beauty extracted a different level of fear, somewhere deeper that shook Bulma to the core.

A dazzling moment passed, and Zarbon's tall frame materialised in front of her, sending her rigid. She screamed as he yanked her towards him, making her yield completely into the warmth of his body. A sharp crack resounded and echoed throughout the cave, and it took a few seconds before Bulma realised that the sound was Zarbon's palm connecting with her face, hard. The pain throbbed, making her dizzy, as he gripped her forearms, with no chance of her escaping. The metallic taste of blood met her tongue, and she closed her eyes, willing it all to end. Why hadn't Vegeta come to save her? She hated the need of being saved by anyone, but the thought slipped into her mind regardless.

No sooner did her feet lift from the ground, her face planted the cold, wet gravel. A gasp of air escaped her lungs, and the intense pain in her face continued to throb angrily. She didn't know what was happening, and didn't dare to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she might just fall asleep, and then whatever happened could happen without her being aware of any of it. Ignorance was bliss, after all.

A raucous scream pinched the inside of her skull, forcing her to peel her eyes open. With a sideways view, she choked on a sob as she saw Vegeta in the exact same position, staring back at her, except he had Zarbon's boot pressing down on his skull. There was blood spattered on his cheeks. He winced, finally closing his eyes, as Zarbon's laughter filled the cave.

She reached out an arm, taking a handful of gravel, shouting for Vegeta, but he didn't give her another glance. That was it. Vegeta wasn't going to survive. The one thing she wanted and she couldn't even have that. Feeling defeat, Bulma huddled into the foetal position, shaking with sobs, unable to take her eyes of the sight of Vegeta being crushed to death. His screaming reverberated around the cave and into her heart, shattering it. She was too weak. Too weak to do anything. Whatever fate waited for her, she was too weak to think about it. She wanted out.

Darkness descended, and a bony hand grasped her shoulder.

'This is not for your eyes.'

The afterlife was nice, warm, concealed in a yellow haze, and a marginal step away from peaceful. If it wasn't for the animalistic buzzing, similar to a bee or a wasp, Bulma would have been able to keep her eyes closed. But it beckoned her. That warmth cajoled the hairs on her arms to stand, and her toes to curl into a leathery texture. Gingerly, she slit one eye open, and winced immediately at the blinding white light that welcomed her. Repeatedly, she blinked, trying to get used to the intensity, until the halo above her head began to resemble a giant, square light fixture, surrounded by other similar metal panels. When her eyes finally adjusted, she sprang up onto her elbows, and had to stop immediately.

She'd never felt so healthy. All traces of pain had vanished.

Her eyes flickered around the room. If it was the afterlife, she was bitterly disappointed. Typical for her afterlife to be in a lab. There were glass cabinets cluttered with vials, filled with a rainbow of coloured liquids. Next to that, a large work bench with a sheet of paper covering it, the ends of the paper curving off the sides. The buzzing was coming from another glass cabinet, containing what looked like cryogenized chemicals and objects, including a large, purple foot.

"You're awake," a soft voice said, beckoning her to turn her newly flexible body around.

It was the Orling. She'd never seen a more inhospitable sight. As soon as she saw him, her hands trembled, and her mouth lost all lubrication, because seeing him opened up the paper-thin flood gates of memories. They all came crashing into her with such a force she dropped off whatever she had been sitting on and hit the floor, her hands slapping warm metal.

Vegeta.

She squeezed her eyes shut, recalling Vegeta's agony. She shook her head.

"No … no. No!" She shot up, tears brimming, and glared at the Orling. "Where the fuck am I? If I'm not dead, where am I? Where have you taken me?" She didn't give the Orling time to answer as she barged past him, storming out of the room, only to be faced with a long, curved corridor, blessed with plush red carpet that caressed the soles of her feet, and walls embossed with golden decor.

She stumbled. "I can't be here. Where's Vegeta?" she muttered, as she slumped into the wall, a cascade of angry tears running down her face. Was she deluded? High?

"You needed to escape," the Orling said, his voice coming from right behind her.

Flinching, her teeth clattered together. She spun round to face him. "Who are you? What makes me so special?" The fresh source of energy pumped through her body, spurring the wave of fury to the shore.

"You can't do that," she said. "You can't pick and choose who has the right to live or die!"

Nonplussed, the Orling took a step back, shaking his head. "That's not what I have been doing."

"Take me back," she snapped, grabbing the Orling's arm. "Take me back. I have to help him. Please."

"I can't."

She pounded her fist into his bony chest. "Fuck you! Yes, you can. Take me back now. You can't do this."

She knew she sounded like a stupid little kid, but she didn't care. How could he take her, and leave Vegeta to die? It just didn't make sense. For someone who seemed so benevolent, he was foul hearted and corrupt. Vegeta had been right.

A spark alighted in his lavender eyes, and he closed the small gap between them, really demonstrating the sheer volume of fear his towering body could create. Bulma shrank beneath him.

"I cannot take you back there. You will die if you go back."

She shook her head, swallowing. "I don't care." Being so warm was hard to get used to. She had grown accustomed to gripping onto her arms for warmth. Now she was too hot. "Why me?"

The Orling looked quizzical.

She knew he had answered these questions before, but she also knew that he was a bare-faced liar.

"Because I'm pure?" she sneered, followed by a sinister laugh. "What a sick joke."

His faced went slack with bemusement, and she found it intimidating, so she stopped. Purple irises lifted to the ceiling in anguish, before he stepped aside her and trudged down the corridor, throwing away his calm and respectful demeanour once and for all.

"Follow me," he said.

Begrudgingly, smearing the tears from her face, she followed his soundless footsteps down the loudly decorated corridors, passing several dark rooms, before coming to another brightly lit lab. Her mind swam with torturous thoughts of Vegeta. Was he still alive? Had he been taken captive? The best thing that could have happened to him back there was death, but something told Bulma that Zarbon would never give him an easy way out like that. If he shared a mind like Frieza, then Zarbon would've beaten Vegeta to an inch from death, then repeat the entire thing all over again. She couldn't live with herself knowing what Vegeta was being subjected to.

Her eyes were glued to floor, as they crossed from the corridor into the lab, her bare feet hitting meshed metal. There was lashing of coppery brown on the floor. Dry blood. The soft sound of bubbles popping reminded her of trips to West City aquarium when she was a child. Bulma snapped her head up, about to ask where the hell she was, when her mouth hung open, unable to spare any words for the new sight that stood before her.

At the end of the lab, bleached in white light, was a large tank. A stocky body floated inside, wired up to various tubes and drips, with an oxygen mask fixed on its face.

It couldn't be happening.

Bulma shook her head and looked to the Orling, who was staring intently at the body in the tank. She followed his gaze back to it, and the tear ducts that should have been exhausted from so much crying managed to fill up again. Without thinking, she sprinted to the tank and pressed her fingers into the cool glass, leaving greasy fingerprints.

"This is—" the Orling started.

"Goku," Bulma whispered, and then swallowed. "It's Goku."