Big, big thanks to Adli for being such a brilliant beta.

Enjoy ^.^

Contending with Darkness

Chapter 18

During an adrenaline rush, the logical and fundamental cognitive behaviours are overridden, thus overbearing the mind with the least necessary course of action. Seeing Vegeta had created this effect on Bulma, so when he aimed a lightning bolt of fiery ki directly at her head, she failed to gain the sense of 'flight', instead choosing to stall, and wait for the outcome. Or, more accordingly, she didn't care either way, because the glassy-eyed Saiyan who had once enveloped her passionately, was now aiming to kill her … just as he had always promised.

Her t-shirt was snagged by something heavy, and her body was pulled, dragged and skidded across the marble floor, until her back smacked another pillar. For a moment, the room went dark, only for her to realise she'd been too afraid to open her eyes again.

"Hide here," Goku said in an unfamiliar, commanding tone. Still, she kept her eyes shut, and hunched into a ball as the ground quaked beneath her. She simply listened.

"Vegeta, right?" Goku said, his voice capturing the entire space of the ball room. "We can get out of here—help you. We don't need to fight—"

"Who the hell are you?"

The gravelly tone to his voice had shrunk to a painful scratching of his vocal chords, making every word sound exhausting. But it was his voice. The familiarity of it cascaded through the valves in her heart, make it beat faster.

"Is she opening her legs for you, too?" he said, and she could now see him, meters away from Goku, who had his back to her.

"What—"

"I don't care for whatever shit you spout … but enlighten me … Your face … It's familiar," Vegeta said, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"My name is Goku. I'm here to help you, Vegeta—"

Vegeta slashed an arm through the air. "Shut up! No one is going to help me anymore," and quicker than Bulma's eyes could untangle, the two of them clashed together, spraying a gust of chalk and air into Bulma's eyes.

He'd gone. She'd lost him. Maybe, just maybe, she could see remnants of the behaviour he first displayed when they met two weeks ago, but it was shallower than that now. There was such depth within his angst that it seemed almost tangible, like a miasma of poisonous hatred. And the worst part of it all—albeit quite selfishly concluded—Vegeta didn't even look at her once. Even while aiming for her, he looked beyond her, as if she was a mere obstacle in his way. Another enemy to destroy.

"Shit," she whispered, and shakily got to her knees, looking beyond her mass of hair at the wide surroundings, her attention drawn to the disregarded backpack only a meter away from her. That was what held the key. The slip of salvation. Even if the outcome wasn't desired by her, she had to try and do what was best for Vegeta.

She threw herself onto the backpack and rummaged through it, trying to avoid eye contact with the two people who were currently going to kill each other. The small capsule pouch was buried in the very nook of the bag, but she retrieved it, clasping it.

An eruption of marble snapped her back to focus, only for the unwelcomed image of Goku being pummelled to the floor to flood her vision. There was a painful tightening in her chest, though Goku appeared to show a lack of damage compared to Vegeta, who was panting excessively, pinning Goku to the ground.

"Frieza …" Goku muttered, his eyes flittering to Bulma.

"Why do I know you?" Vegeta demanded, scrutinising the other Saiyan.

Goku huffed, pounded his fist into the ground, and twisted his head to Bulma, his eyes locking onto hers. "Bulma! Now!"

The urgency in his voice only indicated one thing—he wanted the needle. With scrabbling fingers, she zipped the pouch open, flicked the safety cap off the needle containing green liquid, and launched it in Goku's direction, consequently misdirecting the throw in her haste. It clinked and rolled amidst the rubble, becoming dislodged between chunks of stone. Her mouth hung open and she flinched to go after it, when Vegeta wrapped his hands around Goku's throat, attempting to squeeze the air from his lungs as if his neck was a tube a toothpaste.

"Goku," she said, gasping but unable to move. The fear had grasped her ankles and rooted her to the floor. Once again, she had been rendered useless when she was needed most. All she could do was stare as Goku threw his arm above his head, blindly grasping for the needle, his fingers scraping against the floor.

Omitting fear was something Bulma had constantly tried to achieve, disconnecting her body from her emotions. This made her focus on Vegeta's face. The drag of colour in his skin, the sweat pouring down his forehead, the way his arms shook as he choked her friend. Vegeta was the victim in all of this, despite the obvious outlook. Amongst all the advertised anger and malice, the pain was radiating from him. And now, it was something he couldn't even pretend to ignore, because Frieza had taken that away from.

Before Bulma could register her own movements, she ran, one foot pounding in front of the other, towards the fight, her mind only seeing the gloss of the tiny, solitary needle.

"Goku," she shouted.

Vegeta seemed to break out of a trance, and turned his attention towards her, his eyes softening for a single, blank moment, ceasing her advancements. There was innocence in his eyes, like he'd broken free from Frieza's spell. She wanted to approach him while he was in this dazed state, but as soon as he was in it, he snapped back out of it, flying off Goku and backing into a wall.

What had happened to make him react so timidly? Then she saw what he was doing—scratching at his neck, pulling something out of it and lashing it to the ground.

"What was that? What the fuck was—" he said, his eyes fluttering shut as he stumbled forward.

Bulma looked to Goku. He must have, while she had distracted Vegeta, used the opportunity to grab the needle. That bilious feeling rose in her gut again. The sense of guilt she'd encountered on numerous occasions as of late. None of that mattered now, because Vegeta fell to his knees and was rasping for air as he fought valiantly to keep hold of consciousness. It was no use; that dose acquired ample substance, enough to knock out a Saiyan. Though Vegeta took twenty second less than Goku to fall.

Bulma shook away the scientist mentality and raced towards Goku and Vegeta's unconscious body. Goku's eyes were wild as he swept Vegeta up, throwing his limp arm over his shoulder. The distance between Bulma and Goku wasn't far, but somehow it reduced her to breathlessness, reading into Goku's expression and fearing the worst.

Her soundless question was answered when the ballroom doors swung open, and a large group of warriors seeped into the room, dispersing in the centre to allow their dominator to walk through. His slow, casual applause rang loudly in the demolished room. The slink of his movements send an upsurge of prickles against Bulma's back. Goku was by her side, Vegeta's slumped body hanging from his shoulder.

"Such a performance!" Frieza said, motioning to wipe a tear from his eyes. He stopped dead, the melodic tinkle vanishing from his voice. "Just as I'd hoped."

It felt as if the blood in Bulma's body ran cold, draining from her face and pooling around her boots. He'd been tracking them the entire time? How much did Frieza know? She supposed it didn't matter now. They weren't going to escape this time. Summoning the Orling would mean throwing away the next part of her plan. Even thinking about him was tarnishing it. All she could do was stare into the eyes of the creature who had destroyed her life.

Goku wrapped his arm around her waist, knocking her out of Frieza's hypnotic stare, bringing her attention to her friend, whose frown was so deep he looked like an entirely different person. Her mouth opened a touch, marvelling as Goku huddled the three of them together, pressing two fingers to his forehead.

"What do you think you're doing?" Frieza said, panic rising in his voice.

Bulma couldn't perform any other emotional response than to sob in confusion. What was happening? Was she about to die? Finally?

"Kakkarot! No!" were the last words she heard.

Bulma groped the metal-grated flooring, her warm hands relishing the coolness of it, before the nausea finally consumed her, and she threw up the slimy remnants of bile and stomach acid, scorching her throat. She hacked and coughed until the feeling passed, and her sense fazed back into her mind. Her eyes snapped open. The ripening smell of her own vomit caught her off guard, making her gag once more, before sitting back, taking a liberal look at her surroundings.

The ship. The Orling's ship? Or another sector of Frieza's ship. Either way, she had yet to die … again? If normality ever (she highlighted the term 'ever') found her again, she would surely pass it by. How many times had she been faced with death in the past two weeks? It was all her life consisted of these days. Surviving by the skin of her teeth.

A 'clank' reverberated around the room, startling her. Goku was behind her, shutting the top of the regeneration tank, where a battered and bruised Vegeta was now floating serenely, his face devoid of any discomfort. She placed a hand to her forehead as the unexplainable occurring events lumped together.

"What did you—" She shook her head. Were any of her questions ever good enough anymore? She tried again. "How did you do that, Goku?"

All she could remember was seeing the very purposeful movements—Goku placing two fingers to his forehead. He must have done something. It was the only plausible explanation.

He jumped down from a metal step-ladder, and shrugged. "I don't know …" He smiled a lazy smile. "I just focused on getting the hell out of there."

Was that it? Bulma gawked. It was typical of him to explain it through 'feeling' or a sense of 'energy'. Never would science shimmy into the explanation. Was it even worth questioning it anymore? The fact was they were away from Frieza, and the dawn of Bulma's sub-plan was rising. She had to exact it.

"That's – well, I don't know. Nothing shocks me anymore," she said. The only thing that shocked her was Goku witnessing her spewing her guts out and not showing a trace of embarrassment. She, on the other hand, felt disgusted with herself. But that was irrelevant.

The regeneration tank had been set for three days, making Bulma question Goku's motives. Three days? Frieza would surely find them in no time at all.

"Now what?" Goku said, giving her that hopeful expression she had valued in their younger adventures. The 'three day' optimism instantly rubbed off on her. If Goku believed they could get out of this mess, then she could, too.

There was just something that needed to be done.

"This isn't over yet," she said, reaching into her boot, retrieving the second needle, before running out of the lab and through the concaving corridor, until an empty bedroom resonated to her.

After days of exhausting regressed memories and images, she finally conjured a clear and succinct picture of the Orling, closing her eyes for absolute clarity. The bedroom was the one she had chosen to take up residence in while staying on this ship. It was where she formulated the most part of her plan, and where she had preferred to execute it. A soft draft caressed her skin, beckoning her to open her eyes. She'd summoned him.

Her confidence shattered as he stood before her, towering above her tiny frame.

"Bulma Briefs," he whispered, smiling and looking as astutely dressed as ever in a long, silk, purple robe.

Adrenaline shot through her. There was no time to think, as she launched her entire body weight in his direction, knocking him to the ground, before taking hold of the needle in both hands, raising it high up and slamming it down into his chest. The entire time, the Orling remained calm, welcoming her actions, worsening the effect towards her. Hot tears ran down her face as she bestrode the Orling, keeping her trembling arms locked on his chest, extracting every single drop of liquid from the needle into his body.

Why wasn't he fighting back? She gasped, struggling to remember the correct way to inhale the right amount of oxygen. Salty tears drained into her open mouth.

There was another presence in the room. Goku. She could sense his energy so clearly that she could see the outline of his figure in the back of her mind.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed to the Orling. "As long as you live, there's a chance Frieza will get the last Dragon Ball."

Her strength depleted and she collapsed onto of the Orling, his tranquil presence enveloping her pain. His breathing became shorter, more fatigued. She kept her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of roses, willing him to forgive her. He coughed and gargled on blood.

"I supressed my plan of killing you, right to the back of my mind," she whispered.

"Bulma … what have you done?" Goku finally interjected, though refrained from intervening.

The Orling coughed again, his chest shuddering with every exhale. "I knew … that you would do the right thing."

The right thing? She'd heard that countless times during this nightmare. How was could killing an innocent be viably labelled as 'the right thing'? She sat up, blurry-eyed, looking down at the dying Orling. Beautiful trails of purple blood streamed down his chin, and down his neck, making it look like his pale skin was translucent, exposing his branching nervous system.

"You knew?" she said, climbing off him, onto her haunches.

He flashed his black teeth in what was either a smile or a glimpse of pain. "Of course I knew. I had—had to wait for you to—to decide which path to take …"

"What?" She sat back, aghast. The entire time he had branded her as pure, he had expected her to kill him?

Nothing made sense.

The Orling disregarded her confusion, and with his withering energy, clutched her finger tips and looked her dead in the eyes, before saying, "Use this ship for freedom."

She grabbed his cold hands as he tilted his head backwards against the floor, his silk robe pooling around his giant body. His breathing slowed and he sighed.

"Wait," she said, pulling his wilted arm towards her.

"Thank you, Bulma Briefs." His lavender eyes captivated her, deepening from a soft lavender to a sublime shade of rich purple, and she allowed his hand to slip away.

With her head tilted forward, the mass of blue hair kept her shielded from the world of horror surrounding her. The dead body beside her was not there, Goku was not behind her, and Vegeta was definitely not in her life. None of it was real. Until she lifted her head again, exposing the weeping wound of reality once again. She sniffed the mucus that threatened to drip, and stared at the unkempt bed she'd been sleeping in since getting here. In that bed, she had formulated most of her plans, lying awake at night, promising herself that she would make a difference, without thinking of the consequences. That was how she'd been trained to function since starting Frieza's sick game, and that was how she had been remodelled. A morphed, tampered version of her previous self. Exposing emotions was becoming a chore. So she composed herself, pushing her hair behind her ears, taking a deep breath, and ignoring the dead body beside her.

Goku was still stood in the doorway to the room, sheer bewilderment etched across his face. He was seeing a side to Bulma that was alien to him—to her, even. But he didn't stop her. She looked to him for a response, anything, before concluding that the plan, as it always had been, was entirely in her hands.

"We need to get out of here," she said, balling her fists, leaving the room and the Orling's body.

Panic rushed through her as she bolted out the room and down the ever winding corridor, Goku's thudding steps echoing close behind her. Time was flying by her in a mixture of fiction and reality. It was her job to fish out the difference between the two. Nothing else mattered until that point was established. They swung into the main deck, and Bulma hit every foreign button she could find on the control panel to get the engine started at least. A giant overhead screen buzzed with static as she smacked her palm against a green button and pulled a lever down towards her.

Nothing else happened.

Goku was stood at the other end of the room, mirroring her actions and blindly hitting whatever button he could find. This ship had most likely been manned by at least half a dozen soldiers, who were adequately equipped to deal with this form of technology, let alone decode the language. Foreign scrawl was stamped onto every button, switch and remote device in this ship, but Bulma knew a ships anatomy. She'd built enough of them back on Earth. It took a few seconds to register, but when it did, she dropped to the floor and shifted a metal panel underneath the motherboard, preceding to crawl underneath it.

Cobs of dust and a dirt hung from all the loose wires. Hope was slimming as she looked at the dated, neglected technology. She sifted through wire after wire, until a tinkle of copper caught her eye. A loose wire, tangled between two fuses, was glimmering. She found the other half and held them together. It could be the source of power failure, then again, maybe not. It was worth a try. The heat suffusing the stuffy space she'd wound up in was making her drowsy. An itchy bubble of sweat bloomed on the tip of her nose as she sat crammed in the tiny space. There was nothing she could do with a frayed wire … She didn't have the tools. She'd need to weld it somehow …

The first day she met Vegeta weaved its way into her brain—

"Wait, that energy … You can control that, right? Can you concentrate it to a fraction? Like, a tiny spec of energy?"

"Of course I can."

"The heat it produces can melt the wire back together. The radar will work that way."

-Bulma snapped out of a trance, her entire body melting with sweat. Could that source of energy weld this wire, like it did the radar?

"Goku," she shouted. "Goku."

She explained what needed to be done, and once Goku had successfully moulded the two ends together, they both waited with baited breath as the ship spluttered and rumbled beneath their feet. Everything that had happened, all the horrors, the deaths, the blood, pain, starvation … It would be nothing but a memory if only the ship would work. This ship that had been here for over fifteen years, and hadn't been used.

Somehow … it was harbouring energy. Somehow, it was waking up. Somehow, a bar of light was casting over the horizon in Bulma's mind's eye.

As the ship quaked, rather than feeling apathetic, Bulma dived towards the control panel, trying to manipulate the ships co-ordinates. Bizarre letters and digits flashed upon a screen which was fitted into the motherboard, disappearing and reappearing alarmingly. No matter what she tinkered with, the screen persistently screamed those digits to her. The entire ship shook, as if in protest to Bulma's tempted adjustments, and a tirade of bleeping rattled the main deck. Lights flashed on and off as the ship rocked, lifting its weight from the ground.

Bulma gripped onto the corner of the control panel, digging her fingers into the grooves of metal, as the ship continued to jitter, the lights shutting off completely. Her heart raced, and she called for Goku, but the darkness was too thick, the noise rupturing her thoughts, and the movement too violent to let go. But it was calming, being trapped like this, and left in the dark. It reminded her of being trapped in that dank basement with Vegeta, while hiding from the mutants outside. When he had opened a door to her, allowing her to glimpse a sliver of his past. It was a pacific memory, one which drifted placidly along the shore in her mind. One she had to swim further out to catch.

The ship jolted, erupting into a roaring explosion, sending Bulma forward with only the control panel to break her fall. The air flew from her lungs as she was thrown back and forth in the pitch darkness, her joints threatening to pull apart. It was going to explode. What was she thinking? It hadn't been used in years. With that amount of neglect, it was surely going to detonate into a thousand indecipherable pieces. Everyone on board along with it.

It's not going to make it.

But, no …

Sparkling silver struck the room in the space of a few seconds, bouncing off everything, dancing upon her pale skin. The burst of light took her breath away, as the gazed, hunched over on the motherboard, out of the window at the stars surrounding the tiny green planet, which continued to shrink until it was nothing more than another distant dot in space.

Bulma heaved, a bout of nausea swimming in her stomach. The feeling ripped through her stomach and spiralled up her throat, until it escaped her body in the form of delirious laughter. She laughed and laughed, tears running down her cheeks, her ribs aching and stomach muscles contracting. The view before her was a star-lit portrait of freedom, dazzling her eyes and frying her brain at the same time. The disorderly feeling of liberty rendered her dizzy, and she let it consume her.

She fell backwards into the pool of stars, which danced around her head enchantingly, letting her go.

The atmosphere had changed on the ship. Three days had passed since they left Orlon, and everything seemed to sink down to the ground like a liquid owning a heavy, gloopy consistency, with only a single thing to set her mind to—Vegeta. There had to be a way to reverse what Frieza had done, and comprehend how, exactly, he had done it. Mind control could be achieved. The Orling was able to manipulate Bulma into thinking she was pure, no matter how disgruntled she may have been on the outside.

No matter, though, because for the time being the ship had ample technology, which could be used to her advantage. While Vegeta was unconscious, she and Goku were able to remove his anklet, so she could examine it in the lab. Using the same materials, Bulma was able to create a ki draining substance, or a slow moving poison. Not enough to cause fatality, but enough to consistently slow the subject down, and keep them at a level she could cope with. If Vegeta was brainwashed, sent to seek out and kill them both, she doubted that physically escaping Frieza's clutches was going to solve the problem. She had to use the unknown time they had on this ship to delve deeper into Vegeta's mind. Unfortunately, it was never going to be simple.

While Bulma had been working in the lab, Goku ventured in and explained that, for a Saiyan, Vegeta had been incredibly weak, so not only had Frieza drained his mind, he had physically drained his body. That explained why Goku found subduing Vegeta so easy, hence being able to use the tranquiliser. Keeping him sedated was their best bet of getting him back, but she didn't want to make him weaker than he already was. Never would she want to be compared to Frieza.

Vegeta was shackled down to the bed posts, unable to sit up, but still able to move comfortably. She had chosen the room she presumed was once his, as a means of giving him some form of comfort (after they had disposed of the Orling's body).

After debating whether to enter or not, the doors zipped open, and, meshing her own sweating fingers together, she wandered into the room, where Vegeta was lying down, and unconscious. He had still yet to wake since they'd escaped the planet. She wasn't entirely confident about being there when he woke up, but an unphysical presence kept pushing her back towards him room, believing she should be there.

It smelled strongly of sweat, repelling her from going much further. Washing him wasn't something she had discussed with Goku yet. Seeing as this was the first time she had been alone with him, she supposed there was no harm in playing the scene out whichever way. Hopefully she would gain some more insight. But, mainly, she just wanted to be alone with him, hear him breathing, seeing him living.

Her knees rattled as she sat down on a posh, albeit dusty, futon next to the bed. Nervousness sent her mind in to a jumbled mess, but she stilled as the soft inhales and exhales of Vegeta purred from beside her. The rapid beat of her heart petered and her shoulders slumped forward. She meshed her fingers together and clamped her hands between her knees, allowing a curtain of hair to glide in front of her, disrupting her view of Vegeta.

"I don't know if you can hear me or not, but, well, I hope you can …" The swelling in her throat made the words sound deep and thoughtful, but she didn't know where to go from there. Just to know that her voice could ring through to his subconscious would be somewhat comforting.

She peeped beyond her hair at the hand that was resting at his side, so still, so calm.

She sighed and threw her head into her hands, resting her elbows on her knees. "You'd be so pissed if you thought we were running. But we're not. I promise, Frieza will pay for what he's done to you – and your people."

She raked her fingers down her face, curling them at her chin, when she saw Vegeta's finger twitching against the bed sheets. The action gained nothing more than a dejected sigh, and she let her arms flop to her sides, knocking against the sides of the futon as she absentmindedly glanced around the room.

The Orling had explained that the ship had been neglected, left to accumulate dust, for so many years, yet the décor was still immaculate. Impressive, really. If it was one of Frieza's ships—which was bordering on one hundred per cent likelihood—he had a pleasant taste in interior design. She wondered whether some of his sick personality had been injected into the ships' ornamentations. It wouldn't be long before she saw it. No doubt his imprint had been embossed upon everything, subliminally brain washing her as she idly sat. The hindering anxiety and paranoia nagged her to close her eyes once more, and lapse into the untroubled silence.

Heat channelled up her arm as her wrist was suddenly twisted into an impossible position, and she was pulled onto the bed. She blinked, and Vegeta's glaring face was inches from hers, his teeth glistening with saliva as he snarled. The hollows under his eyes made him look more terrifying than ever. Bulma had to hold her breath to stop from screaming the place down while the pain in her arm swept through her body. He had her in a vice grip, bending her elbow back at the joint, seizing her by the wrist without any remorse.

Only undiluted hatred was radiating from his stare, and, for the first time, she had to look away in fear.

"You fucking coward. If I don't kill you, Frieza will be right on your tail, waiting to do it himself. But he needn't lift a finger," he spat as he cracked her elbow backwards, the sickening crunch resonating through the room.

She howled, but he kept her steady against him, like she was a fragile doll, so tempting to just drop and break into pieces. Trapped by the person she'd so carelessly fed her trust to.

The doors zipped open again and Goku charged in, wrenching her free effortlessly from Vegeta's deadly hold, before gently setting her on the floor to take a look at her arm. She sat still, focusing on the pain, though unable to take her eyes away from the man who so desperately wanted her dead. Tears bubbled, and despite her efforts to keep them at bay, they poured, as she sat cradling her limp arm.

Goku's eyes creased in agony at watching his friend in so much turmoil, mental and physical. A lump of bile lodged itself in her throat. The mistake of allowing Vegeta some leg room was humming in her subconscious. Such stupidity, because she wanted to be generous. It was evident now; you needed to be cruel to be kind. She blinked away her blurry eyes to focus on him. Goku turned around, beckoned by the rattling of shackles filling the room.

"This," Vegeta said, gripping the chain that held him to the bed, "is slavery!" His scathing words hit her solidifying composure. "You fucking witch—"

With one punch, Goku knocked him unconscious, and his body racked onto the bed again, stilling, and regaining that pseudo peacefulness she'd fallen for. Because of her own actions, she'd almost been killed. Maybe it was the slight thought that he could overcome it quickly—this hold. It was ringing heavy now. The breath of defeat was hot on her neck, dripping down her spine. She'd lost him.

This was not Vegeta.

She never wanted to see this man again.

Goku remained stood at Vegeta's bedside, his fists clenching and unclenching rhythmically alongside Vegeta's steady breathing. It was too quiet. The silence had to be quashed somehow. So she whimpered, then sobbed, then wailed, because she needed to. It needed to be released, as it blotted out everything else in her mind: the pain in her broken elbow, the pain of losing Vegeta and possibly never getting him back, the pain of failure after everything had happen. The loss of the light on the horizon, as hope sank below, swallowed by the darkness that relentlessly consumed everything in her life.

She wiped her nose with the heel of her hand. "I don't know what to do … Not this time. I can't help him," she said, a sob catching in her throat as she glanced at his vulnerable frame lying there. "I can't save him."

Goku, glancing over his shoulder, with solemnity furrowing his brows.

Bulma steeled her composure and stopped crying, wobbling to her feet, while nursing her right arm. "But, maybe, not everyone can be saved."

A/N - Ah! Will there ever be a bright side to this story. Maybe soon ... ish. I promise. Thanks for reading!