Thanks to Adli for beta-ing this chapter :)
Contending with Darkness
Chapter 16
Running water. Real, hot, running water. It dribbled down every inch of her body, passing over the smears of muck and grime, and blood. There was so much blood. It was barely recognisable anymore; mixed with all the other grot. Blood that could have possibly belonged to Thomas, from several days ago, ingrained into her pores. Apart of her new, darkened soul. And it should have shattered her, made her fall to her knees in despair, maybe beg for death to finally take her, but it didn't. She still stood on rippling joints, allowing the water to cleanse her outer shell. Nobody had to know what was happening on the inside.
That was until the empty gaze from Vegeta's cold eyes entered her mind again. She slumped forward, pressing her palms and curling her fingers against the steam slicked tiles, and dragging them down as her knees finally wobbled allowing the long awaited fall. A raspy sob pushed from the back of her throat, bringing up agonising pain along with it. The blood and dirt swirled and pattered until it slipped down the gurgling plug hole, drowning the sound of her frivolous cries. What was she crying about? A few hours ago she wouldn't have condoned such a thing. In this world there was no room for tears, because they got you nowhere. It was a short-lived, momentary emotional blip, which she would soon look back on in shame, so she stopped, groped through the steam engulfed cubicle for the knob. Bulma would have been sat in silence if it wasn't for the odd, petering rhythm of the last few drops coming out of the faucet, each droplet reminding her that time was ticking away; that Goku would soon be awake.
A delirious smile swept across her face as she stepped out of the shower and stood in the middle of the washroom, hair pushed back and plastered to her shoulders, waiting for the lecherous cold to molest her naked skin. That feeling of helplessness, as air crept up the length of her body, was all too familiar, bringing her back to her time spent with Vegeta. It was somewhat pleasurable now, like a distant memory clearing her mind of any obstacles … of anything that the Orling had told her mere moments ago.
"Just tell me what's going on," she said with a dejected sigh, never taking her eyes away from Goku, who was floating in a mass of gloopy green liquid.
There was a cracking in the Orling's voice before he spoke, as if he was too timid to cough up all his deepest secrets now that the time had well and truly arrived. "As you well know, my planet has been purged."
Bulma peeled her eyes from Goku to see the Orling gesturing towards a foggy window that was no bigger than a small television screen. It overlooked a panel of land, which she could only decipher to be a swamp, with its' limited expanse covered with long, gangly green reeds, rich and deep in colour; there must have been an ample supply of water. She looked back to the Orling, his worn, chalky skin, and suddenly wondered about his age, or, in fact, whether he did age at all.
"Fifteen years ago, Frieza sent some of his warriors to strip Orlon of all its inhabitants, to harvest it. Unfortunately, the planet failed to pick up a decent price … and was abandoned. Why Frieza didn't simply destroy the planet, I have yet to understand." He shook his head, closing his eyes, and took a deep breath. "During this time, deep in the midst of the purge, I sought an escape plan—acquiring a ship that had been carelessly left, and used it to travel as far away as possible." A bitter laugh left his mouth. "I assumed that if I escaped, my people could be revived through the power of the Dragon Balls."
Bulma's eyes searched the metal floor. "But … How were you not found—tracked down? Frieza must have been curious about one of his ships magically disappearing."
His eyes blazed into hers, his nostrils flaring. "Frieza has very little regard for anything but himself. The planet was purged. That was all he needed to know. My existence was unknown. This was before he knew the history of Orlon, you must understand." A deep simmering air was left between them, as he paced over to Goku to peer into the glass, like her friend was a magnificent, one of a kind creature in a zoo.
Something about the way he ogled at Goku didn't sit right with Bulma.
Through the other side of the glass, her eyes met his wavering, ghoulish face, and it really hit her how alien he actually was.
"I've been waiting for someone like you for fifteen years," he whispered, a glimmer of sharp black fangs peeping from beneath a slightly curled lip.
"For what?" Bulma said, her throat clogged with the same fear she'd been lumbered with the first day her eyes met Vegeta's.
The Orling stepped away from the glass, straightening his cloak on his shoulders, picking delicately at the material. "To save my planet."
Fear was quickly absorbed by outrage and itching irritation. "I can't. I can't even save myself."
"You'll do the right thing."
"Stop saying that!" she shrieked, her voice hollow in such a big lab, the perturbed silence interrupted by the soft popping of bubbles in the tank. She planted the heel of her hand onto her forehead. "Goku's supposed to be dead. I just don't get any of this anymore."
It wasn't often that Bulma felt out of her depth with comings and goings, but when it did she felt marooned, and fizzed into a meltdown, and right now was definitely not the time. It was too cumbersome; all the questions, all the answers, and she still couldn't wrap her head around it. It was left as a blank canvas or an empty word document. Only the blinking cursor, or twinkling of glossy paint on the end of a brush was left to jog her memory. It wasn't enough.
"Frieza has taken and replaced your memories," the Orling said, and sighed. "Goku never died. That was what he wanted you to believe."
It took all of her restraint not to scream at this know-it-all alien.
He smiled sardonically, before composing his facial features into something more indifferent. "I cannot answer for Goku. I found him unconscious by your ship. I believe he'd tried to send a message."
"Death is coming," she mumbled, her eyes brightening for a fraction. "I thought that was you?"
"A white lie on my part." He shrugged, as if it was OK, as if he hadn't left out an excruciatingly important detail.
"This is too much … way too much." Bulma stepped backwards, thinking of Vegeta, his face constantly appearing in her mind like the remnants of a nightmare. The only part she could vividly recall. It shook her bones, reached deep into her chest cavity and gripped her heart, threatening to tear it free and release her from all of this.
"You're weak," the Orling kindly stated, lifting his arm to point towards the hall way. "There are hot showers and food. Please, replenish your energy."
She gawped at him. "Oh, I'm fine, 'cause you can heal, right? Left that bit of information out, too, didn't you?" Her eyes narrowed as she regarded him distastefully, before stomping over to him, facing him head on, adrenaline soaring through her system.
"So, let me get this straight. This ship is Frieza's, and you've had it for, what? Fifteen years, huh? So, it must have some sort of invisibility shield, otherwise Frieza would have found you by now, and that would have been end game for you, buddy. So you found Goku stranded by my ship, took him away without telling me any of this, and have been lying in wait for the right moment to abduct me?" She grinned. "You can understand why this isn't sinking into my insignificant, tiny human brain, can't you?" It felt refreshing to vent some anger out on this bizarre and slightly beguiling creature, with the hint of knowledge that there was something sinister lurking beneath his benevolent outlook.
Forgetting that he could see into the depths of her mind at any given time, Bulma scrunched her eyes tight and hissed when he took a daring step closer to her, stripping any adrenaline fresh out of her veins with a very precise and skilled hand.
"I am the guardian of this planet. Whatever ulterior motive you assume is 'lurking' you are in fact wrong, Bulma Briefs. I simply believe that you will do the right thing."
It slipped off her skin like a sheet of warm liquid, pooling soundlessly onto the floor as she stretched her arms and legs, pushing her palms into the headboard. The new found strength in her bones was remarkable. It had somehow increased her energy source tenfold. Never had she felt this kind of strength before. It tingled in her finger tips, and throbbed in her muscles, begging to be used. Lying down wasn't benefiting them in anyway. None, whatsoever. She stared at the ceiling, the velvet material affixed upon it, sinking into an air-filled mound in the centre and gathering around a small chandelier. This room belonged to someone important.
Vegeta?
She didn't want to think about it. Taking her mind off him was the best thing she could do, but she'd only found that sleep allowed her to do so. Upon waking, during that brief moment of bland fuzziness, where you couldn't remember where you had been or what had previously unfolded, Bulma would sigh contentedly, shifting in the haven of sub consciousness and back into consciousness. But then, like someone crashing trash can lids together, her memories would reawaken, sieving every unwanted image back into the gaping hole of her mind. There was no knowledge of time anymore. Supposedly Goku was awake by now, but judging by the lack of ruckus, she guessed that hadn't happened yet, so she had rolled over and forced herself back to sleep.
Self-belief pushed her upright, finding herself face-to-face with a huge, marble-framed wardrobe. Upon opening it, her heart sank even deeper than was possible at the sight of all that navy material. The same material Vegeta had worn. Perhaps she was in the room that had once belonged to him. Despite being a slave to Frieza, Vegeta (if it was his room) had been gifted a more embellished quarter than the airless dungeon she'd been dumped in. There was an entire row of hangers, all with the same suits swinging ghostly on them. She picked one off, careful not to stretch the material too much, but upon feeling the sensation between her fingers, knew that material could in fact be pulled extensively. They were made to fit any size. Another idea that made Bulma marvel. Without further ado, she stepped into the tight material and hoisted it over her hips and breasts, which looked like they were beginning to shrink.
Moments later, she was aimlessly wandering the corridors of the ship, scraping her blunt nails along the walls and biting her tongue every time they caught on a division in the metal gratings. The corridors stretched, and twenty minutes of the same exterior, concaving, taking her round in circles, felt like hours, trapped in the same cycle. One corridor lead to another one, and before she could register where the hell she'd wound up, she wondered whether she was patently avoiding being reunited with her long, lost friend. But for what reason? Seeing Goku would mean thinking about Chichi, and then, if Bulma hadn't known of Goku actually being alive, did Goku know about Chichi's death? Would Bulma have to relive the torment, explaining every gory detail to him? The blame, and the guilt, was already resting heavily on her shoulders. Having to reel it off to Goku made it seem worse. That weight would crush her. It was her fault, after all.
Deciding to let the scene unfold whichever way it unfolded, Bulma backtracked, eventually taking herself to the entrance of the lab the Orling had taken her to previously. She took a deep breath, feeling her chest swell with the recycled air that had been pumped through the many, many air ducts. No sounds were coming from the room. Relief was prickling at her spine at the thought of Goku still floating around in that tank, but when she stepped in, a soft 'clink' of a glass being placed on a table brought her eyes to the centre of the room.
"Burrma?" Goku said, a mouth fullof food, his dark eyes bulging.
The doubt was immediately swiped clean from her mind, as her eyes swelled with brimming tears and heart pounded in her chest. Goku was sat in the same Saiyan attire as she, at a make-shift, metal table, which was topped with several empty plates, and a few empty cans of baked beans. He didn't even get the chance to swallow his food before Bulma charged and threw her arms over him, nearly knocking his bulky body off the chair.
"You—you don't even know how much …" she said, sobbing into the crook of his neck.
It took a moment, but Goku's warm hands found Bulma's back, and he patted her gently. "Are you OK?" he said, grabbing her arms, easily pushing her back to take a good look at her. His eyes stopped at her bare feet, focusing on the left one. "Your foot," he mused, frowning.
No matter how much time she'd spend washing the blood away, there was always some left. Granted, she'd purposely avoided touching where the anklet had been, not even wanting to look at it, which, still, she avoided, and disregarded Goku's concern.
"I'm fine." She sniffed. "Now, at least. I can't even begin to explain. I'm so sorry," she muttered, her eyes sinking to the floor. Goku still had his hands clamped on her shoulders. She guessed she was going to tell him, regardless of what the devil on her shoulder wanted her to do. If she didn't do it now, the guilt would eat her up and spit her back out as a lump of sticky blood and broken bones.
"About what?"
"You – you don't know, do you?"
He cocked an eyebrow, and Bulma saw that he had a glob of tomato sauce stuck in the corner of his mouth. He was still that innocent little kid, but she couldn't help see the Saiyan resemblance. The dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. She had to look away.
"Chichi," she said.
Goku let go of her arms, leaving a bereaving coolness on her shoulders. She looked back to see him staring at an empty plate on the table that was dotted with a few bread crumbs and a pool of congealing tomato sauce.
Blood prickled in her cheeks as her composure was chipping, revealing the squidgy inside of her guilty soul. "I couldn't stop it … I tried." Explaining anything was inconceivable. No one could paint the picture of last week. Even if she started from day one, important details would be scrapped for the sake of her sanity. Besides, she didn't know how much Goku already knew.
His fists were clenched in his lap and his jaw was set. "It wasn't your fault, Bulma." His eyes met hers, and his hardened features softened again as he smiled wanly. That—that was it? The news of his wife's death, and that was it?
"How do you know?" she blurted.
He shook his head, frowning again. "I was there …" he said, with an undertone of incredulity, scraping his chair back and standing up, making her feel the size of a child in comparison.
"No, you weren't," she said, beginning to feel bilious.
It looked like Goku had had enough on the subject, as he'd left a tin of un-opened macaroni cheese, which was uncharacteristic of him. There was a long pause, before he sighed. "Bulma, I saw my wife die. I think I'd know that. It was in my own home, for—"
"What?" She took a step back, everything gathering together like a swarm of killer bees. "Frieza … Oh, no."
"Bulma? What's going on?" Goku placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her again.
"Frieza—he implanted that memory into your mind … Chichi didn't die on Earth; she died here."
One thing Bulma could recollect with impenetrable confidence about her friendship with Goku was his tendency to go AWOL. When the water levels rose too high, Goku always wandered off and took time out to do whatever it was he needed to do. Many times, he had come to Capsule Corp to get a break from Chichi, choosing to spend time eating the plentiful pastries her mother would to prepare just for him and his crazy appetite. So after explaining her sad story from start to finish, Goku had sat silent, contemplating his next move, while Bulma chewed the inside of her mouth until it tasted tangy. Apparently he had no recollection how he got on the planet, didn't even remember scrawling 'Death is coming' on her ship, or anything before waking up in the lab. Ten minutes he had sat in silence, before getting up and leaving her stranded in the lab, staring at the empty regeneration tank and wondering how she'd fallen into such a deep, depressing rut. Oh, yeah, that was right – Frieza had done this to her, to Goku, to Vegeta, and to everyone else.
The street was unrecognisable, clogged with billows of smoke, pluming out of broken windows, joining the mass of grey in the sky. The smoke hung low, and she had to shield her eyes to stop it from stinging as she ran blindly, trying to find the domed building she called home. The briny stench of rotting meat was fresh in her nostrils. Out of the fog, a figure wobbled towards her, its silhouette stout and more ominous with every advancing step. The oxygen stalled in her throat as she contemplated running back.
"Help," the voice shrieked.
Bulma looked back over her shoulder at the impassable grey wall, and when she looked back, the figure had morphed and taken the form of a young woman, her blond hair matted with blood, the crimson liquid drenching what was probably once a gorgeous yellow sun-dress.
Instinct told her to help the woman, but she couldn't move. The toxic heat enveloped her as the woman stared, her wide green eyes watering. Bulma stood idle as a gigantic, looming figure started to appear behind the woman, towering over her small, five-feet-something frame.
"Help me, please," she said, spreading her bloody palms out in front of her for Bulma to see. "They killed him. They killed him!"
"Ach," was all Bulma could bumble before a crack resounded throughout the empty streets, and the woman's body flopped to the floor, her hair draping over her face.
With all her strength, Bulma sprinted back the way she had come through the smoke, inhaling the polluted air, feeling it scratching her lungs. Her heavy steps took her from concrete to grass, as her breath rang loudly and chest convulsed in protest. Trying to recall the correct sprinting method she had been taught during track practice in high school, she swung her arms in sync with her legs and ran, pushing herself unremittingly to get as far away from that dead woman as possible. None of this was happening.
Something heavy hit her foot and she flew forward, burning her knees on the waxy grass. She closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for the pain to hit her, but she still breathed; she still lived. Whatever had got in the way was stationary. It was probably just a rock. She had no idea where she was in accordance to home, so she could've have miles away. Breathless, she sat up, swung her head in all directions, seeing the bulges of flames flickering on the grass, little black patches of cindered lawn, rocks and clusters of crumbled plaster. Then she saw it, the thing she must have tripped on, the lifeless eyes looking past her. She shook uncontrollably, and wretched until a slip of smoky bile crawled from her throat and flopped onto the grass.
It was a man. And he looked a good few years younger than herself. What were probably once bright blue eyes had faded, and his skin was twisted and scorched at the neck.
A pair of hands clamped around her head, holding it in a fleshy vice, before yanking hard.
"Vegeta!" She sat up, drenched in sweat, shaking and disoriented, groping in the darkness for anything around her. "Vegeta," she whimpered as the tears flowed.
There was a groaning from the bottom of the bed.
"Vegeta?" She squinted.
"Bulma? What's going on?" Goku said, sitting up, scratching his mass of ruffled hair. Without waiting for a reply, he climbed to the top of the bed and brought her into his chest, where she wept.
It had been so long since someone had been around to comfort her. Vegeta never opened his arms out for a hug, and Chichi had behaved distant for reasons Bulma still couldn't justify. The only thing she found in Vegeta was a mutual, carnal agreement. Being with Goku, inhaling the scent of his skin was the only familiar gift of home she had left. The Orling had barely crossed her mind, but she couldn't care less about him, frankly.
The piercing atmosphere in the room sank to a more comfortable tone, after Goku had switched the light on, and Bulma had stopped shaking. He had come back. Even after the horrific discovery of Chichi's death—Goku had come back. They sat on the bed, Bulma with the satin sheets wrapped and pinned under her armpits, while Goku sat cross-legged, next to her, picking a long blue hair from a pillow.
Bulma swallowed. It felt like there was a pitch-black cavity in her chest that was widening with every passing moment of not knowing what was happening to Vegeta. The likelihood was he was being tortured by either Zarbon or Frieza himself, for a number of reasons, the purpose of the game exempt from those. Vegeta had shown kindness with Bulma. She saw that now. He could've battered her to a pulp, treated her like dirt, which, granted, wasn't far off the way he had initially behaved, but as the time passed on, he redirected his pain. There was a hint of respect with everything he said, and she could see the derision dissolving when he looked at her. At first she wanted nothing more than to be rid of his presence. That was before she glimpsed his history, the weathered pages behind the leather-bound cover.
He didn't deserve the life he was in.
"We have to save him," she said, cocking her head to look at Goku.
"Who? The person you were shouting before?" Goku's brow furrowed. It wasn't a look she could get used to. He'd always looked so youthful and untarnished in her memory. "What were you dreaming about?" he asked, steering the topic onto another unearthed path.
She shrugged. "I don't remember much. Smoke, people screaming … I don't know, it's gone."
"I don't think those are dreams, Bulma. They're memories," Goku said with such conviction it made her skin prickle into thousands of goose bumps. His eyes met hers. "I've had them, too."
The fear of the rumour being true had always resided in her gut. Deep down, she knew it to be true, but no one liked admitting their fears, did they? Somehow, the pain didn't strike with viper-like speed, as she'd expected. It sat dormant, swilling in her stomach acid. She opened and closed her hands in her lap, listening to the slight whistling from Goku's nostrils as he exhaled.
"Earth was purged, wasn't it?" she said, her breath shuddering after saying the forbidden words that meant the death of everything she once knew.
Anticipation boiled in the air as Goku withdrew the answer slowly. "I think so."
Her mom, her dad, her boyfriend, Chichi … Gohan—all dead. All but piles of ash lying across wasteland. Maybe not even that. Maybe Earth had been blown to bits. Then there'd be absolutely nothing left. That idea seemed a little easier to swallow.
"We have to help him," she mumbled again, watching out the corner of her eyes as Goku angled his head towards her.
"We will. Frieza will pay for everything he's done."
Startled, she snapped back to focus and stared at him.
"Frieza will pay, Bulma," he said, eyes locking onto hers.
Flakes of blood were scattered across the bleach-white floor, leaving a woodchip pattern before his blurry vision. His limbs ached as the energy was drawn out of him, drop by drop, and transported into the metal contraption that had been drilled into his ankle for the past week. Above him, he could hear murmuring and stomping of the other warriors on the floor above—just another corridor filled with rooms where they would lay their enslaved souls at night. How appropriate it was that Frieza would situate this room underneath where they slept at night. Screams rang as clear as cloudless sky. That would keep them awake at night. At least Frieza had had the decency to allow Vegeta to dwell on the other side of the ship, right by his side where he belonged.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Vegeta. I just want a little word. You and I," said Frieza, his thin voice sinking into Vegeta's ears like a whisper in a dream.
He lifted his head and tugged on his restricted wrists, which were clasped in metal shackles behind him, as was his neck. The obscure film in front of his eyes wouldn't falter, and all he could see was the sleek frame of his tormentor standing a few meters from him, the contours of his muscles wobbling with every shaking breath Vegeta took.
"Oh," he said, clucking his tongue. "I suppose you're angry about the energy draining business. You can't blame me for wanting to take precautions, now. Your power levels were rather high since the last time we were face to face. It would've been risky to do anything than remove the brunt of it. That way, hopefully, you'll cooperate with what I have to offer you."
Vegeta heard the slurping of liquid as Frieza took a swig of wine.
"Now … what was I going to say … Oh, yes. Bulma," he said, flicking his tongue after the vowels in her name.
There was a dull twinge in Vegeta's chest at hearing that foul, lecherous monster utter her name. It made the muscles tighten, as he tried to restrain himself from thinking about her, of thinking about anything to do with her. But hearing Frieza spit her name like it was poison, sent the blood quivering through his shrivelled veins.
Frieza clapped. "Marvellous. I didn't think it was possible, but Zarbon was right, for once." Frieza came right beside Vegeta and picked his chin up with the tip of his leathery tail.
Vegeta blinked, fighting to keep his eyelids propped open to stare into the ruby eyes of the bane of his existence.
"Tell me, monkey, how does a slip of a creature like her get such a response from you?"
Vegeta narrowed his eyes to slits.
"Did you have these feelings after you stuck your slimy, mangy cock inside her, or before?" Frieza said, spitting flecks of red wine onto Vegeta's cheek.
"I ask you to do one thing, and you disobey me. Zarbon requested the honour to end your sad life, but I wouldn't allow it, no. No, I have something better for you."
Frieza finally let his tail drop, and Vegeta's weight fell forward, his arms nearly ripping from their sockets. It was then he heard the bleeping of a machine, beckoning him to turn to his left.
"You brought me six Dragon Balls, so I won't be killing you today. But, you did not find me seven, befriended the Earthling, stowed yourself away from surveillance for an entire day, failed to mention the remaining resident, and amongst all that, you schemed against me." Frieza placed his glass down on the floor and crushed it under foot. "You underestimated me again, Vegeta. The power I have over you and every other sap in this universe. You cannot and will not live your life a free man."
Pressure began building in his forehead as the words penetrated his mind. Every word Frieza spoke, he used his bond to imprint it into Vegeta's brain, etching it into the tender muscle. It felt like a thousand needles scraping against the inside of his skull.
"From now on, everything I require you to think, you will think. Everything I ask you to do, you will do. Everything I want you to say … you will say."
Vegeta howled in agony, twisting his shackled hands, ripping the skin on his wrists until the metal connected with freshly exposed bones. The blast of energy ebbed almost instantly, leaving Vegeta hunched forward, shuddering with the rage he couldn't exude.
"This machine," Frieza said, tapping a large metal cabinet with an abundance of blinking lights. "Will drain your energy until you have no choice but to surrender your will and succumb to my demands again."
Again, the padded leathery texture of Frieza's tail met Vegeta's skin. It was a tender gesture, stroking up and down, wiping the pain away. Vegeta should have swatted him away, but his power had faded to a blip. Instead, his pride slipped from his grasp, and he sank to the ground.
"There, there. Any pain caused will be of your own doing. Soon enough, you will be allowed out to play again. This time, there'll be no mistakes."
The last thing Vegeta heard before slipping into oblivion was Frieza's feet crunching on the chips of glass as he exited the room.