The hospital wasn't a hospital after all. It was actually a small facility connected to an extensive compound her family owned. Apparently, they were quite wealthy.
"This is your room." The door creaked softly as Trunks nudged it open. He flicked on the light switch, stepping aside to give her some breathing space and motioning for her to enter.
It was big, if somewhat untidy. A plush king-sized bed beneath a pile of fancy looking throw pillows dominated most of the space. Beside it was a pair of well-worn slippers. Beyond it was a sliding glass door that led to the balcony. In the corner sat a hamper overflowing with laundry that spilled over onto a comfy-looking chair. A large bookcase positioned between two doors occupied one wall. An old coffee cup, an alarm clock, and a vase of wilted wildflowers sat atop a stack of papers, cluttered the nightstand.
"Try to get some sleep," Trunks said softly. She nodded, offering him a small smile. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping out and closing the door behind him with a soft click.
Left to her own devices, Bulla ventured deeper into the room, her eyes roving over the surroundings that felt both oddly intimate and strangely foreign, like wandering into someone else's world. The crimson duvet looked luxurious and inviting. She trailed her fingers lightly over the fabric, buttery soft beneath her fingertips. On the bed lay a sleek laptop, its surface emblazoned with a logo featuring a C nestled within another C.
Upon opening it, she was immediately prompted to enter a password—a password she, of course, didn't know. With a sigh, she shut it, placing it back on the bed.
Her gaze shifted to the expansive bookcase dominating one wall of the room. Hefty textbooks, displaying lofty titles like "Advanced Engineering and Mathematics" and "Principles of Corporate Finance," packed the upper shelves. Notebooks, some with notes or pens haphazardly sandwiched between the pages, scattered among them. Bulla reached for one of the more weathered notebooks off the shelf and flipped it open to a random page, revealing a mess of scribbled mathematical formulae that she couldn't make heads or tails of all situated around several messy sketches of… something. Some kind of mechanical device, perhaps? As her eyes traveled downward, the collection transitioned into more playful, less cumbersome tomes. Stacks upon stacks of romance novels, their brightly colored spines decorated with whimsical scripts, creating a chaotic contrast to the drier textbooks above. Knick knacks dotted the space here and there. A sprinkling of colorful nail polishes. A scatter of small cylinders in varying sizes and colors, baring the same logo as the laptop she'd found. And a tiny, but cute, little cactus.
It all painted a picture of a successful, intelligent, albeit slightly disorganized, woman.
Amidst the cluttered shelves, she spied a single framed photo. She approached, gently pulling it down for closer inspection. In the image was a dark-haired man with a stern, bordering on hostile, expression. Her father. A young woman with long aqua hair wearing a red headband slung her arms around his shoulders as she planted a kiss on his cheek.
A woman who… loved her dad, it would seem.
She scanned the shelf for any other photographs hidden among the clutter, but there were none to be found.
It was strange.
Strange that out of all of her family members, this cold, aloof man was the only one that merited a framed photo to her.
This man, who wouldn't give her even a passing look or kind word.
As her mother and Trunks had led her into the main house, he hadn't joined them. Instead, disappearing into a small, dome shaped building, slamming the door closed behind him without so much as a backward glance.
She felt the slam of that door, brutal and abrupt, like an unexpected blow to the belly.
It… hurt. It hurt tremendously.
It was ridiculous. That some stranger's indifference could hurt so much. With a sigh, Bulla placed the photo back on the shelf, pushing away the uncomfortable train of thought.
She approached the door to the left of the bookcase, turning the knob. Inside was the en suite bathroom. She entered, her eyes widening at the sight. A spacious bathtub with jets and a sleek control panel dominated most of the space. The pristine white porcelain gleamed under the soft lighting. Marble countertops were covered with various hair and cosmetic products, along with a blow dryer and an array of styling wands. There was a spacious shower with glass doors and plush towels and several bathrobes neatly folded on a rack. Bulla walked over to the tub, tracing its smooth edge. Feeling thoroughly exhausted from the doctor's poking and prodding, and more than a little grimy; Bulla wanted nothing more than to sink into its depths and let the warmth envelop her.
Mind made up; Bulla turned on the faucet and warm water spilled from the spout, cascading into the tub in a soothing rush. She adjusted the temperature, testing it with her fingertips until she could see steam rising into the air. As the tub filled, she stripped off the sweats that her mother had given her to change into earlier that day and lowered herself into the bath, sighing with relief as the hot water enveloped her. She leaned back against the tub's edge, closing her eyes. The doctor had told her to rest, so she would do just that.
Or at least try to.
It wasn't an easy task, when every passing second a new question bubble to the surface of her mind. The more she tried to remember the answers, the more they slipped away from her. Like sand between her fingers. Reminiscent of that strange feeling one gets after a particularly vivid dream that vanishes the moment you open your eyes.
Once the water had nearly gone tepid, she washed and conditioned her hair before giving her body a thorough scrubbing. Satisfied that she was sufficiently clean, she stepped out onto the soft white bath rug, wrapping herself in a robe she found hung on the back of the bathroom door. Bulla was just about to look for a toothbrush when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She paused, wiping away the condensation.
A surprisingly striking set of cerulean eyes framed by dark, curling lashes blinked back at her.
It was a bizarre feeling. Not recognizing one's own face.
That her hair was blue of all colors was a bit of a shock upon first realization, but looking at herself now, she supposed it suited her well enough. Her mother certainly wore it well.
With slightly pruney fingers, she pushed a few stray tendrils of wet aqua hair out of her face.
She had a faint widow's peak, high cheekbones, and a slightly pointed chin. Her skin was smooth and free of blemishes but for the barely noticeable dusting of freckles across her cheeks and nose, which was small and slightly upturned at the tip. She traced her fingertips over the soft swell of her bottom lip; she smiled, revealing a set of straight, white teeth. Her gaze drifted down to the neck of her robe.
Unable to resist the urge to inspect the rest of herself, she untied the sash, allowing it to fall to the floor, leaving her utterly bare.
Bulla's eyes tracked the movement of her fingers as they sketched the outline of her collarbones, the contour of her neck, the delicate lines of her shoulders, her breasts, gliding over the defined plane of her belly to the curve of her hips. She had a petite, curvy frame reminiscent of a dancer's. Her legs were a little stubbly. There was a faded pink scar on her right knee. Another on her left forearm. Mementos from an adventurous childhood? Or something more sinister?
A series of images flashed through her mind in quick succession: a lifeless, cobalt-skinned man, dark eyes gazing upon her with despair, a dragon circling a sky filled with ash and smoke.
Things no one seemed keen to discuss with her.
Bulla pulled on her robe once more, combed the snarls out of her hair, and brushed her teeth before making her way to the remaining space she had yet to explore.
Behind the second door was the most absurdly extravagant closet she had ever laid eyes on, complete with a sparkling chandelier. Inside, racks upon racks of clothes stretched as far as the eye could see, enough outfits to go years without repeating a single look. The array of shoes and purses was equally staggering, filling shelves from floor to ceiling in a riot of colors and styles. It was as if someone had opened an upscale clothing boutique in her closet.
She moved along the racks, trailing a hand over the various articles of clothing as she went, pausing on a gown in a striking shade of red.
Bulla took it gingerly off the rack and walked over to the mirror. She pressed the dress against her body, imagining herself in it, admiring the way the light danced across the intricate swirls of lace embellished with delicate, sparkling beadwork. The bodice was fitted to show off its wearer's figure with a plunging neckline and an open back while the skirt unfurled and flared into cascading waves of tulle and chiffon. It was the sort of elegant, romantic dress Bulla imagined a princess in a fairy tale would wear to a masquerade ball.
With one last look at the stunning red gown, she returned it to its place, and moved over to the set of drawers lining the opposite wall in search of something less formal to sleep in.
Unable to stop the yawn that slipped past her lips, Bulla switched off the lights, enveloping the room in soothing darkness, save for the glow of the city filtering through the balcony doors.
The luxurious mattress felt every bit as heavenly as it looked as she crawled between the sheets, shoving aside the mountain of throw pillows and making herself comfortable.
Just as she was about to drift off to sleep, she felt movement at the edge of the bed. She cracked one eye open, spying a fluffy little head with pointed ears, and curious, blinking eyes peering up at her. It was a cat. An utterly, absurdly, adorably tiny cat, with midnight black fur.
"Oh! Hi there. Where were you hiding?"
With graceful, dainty steps, the cat hopped onto the bed and confidently padded over to Bulla. He made himself right at home on her pillow, circling a few times before settling down right next to her head, emitting a soft, rhythmic vibration. As if this was something he did every day. A little smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Bulla reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing through the cat's silky fur.
The sweet creature's presence was a reminder that, in all this confusion, at least she wasn't alone.
She may as well have been alone.
"Sweetie, is your breakfast alright?" Her mother frowned at her from across the table.
"It's fine."
"Okay, normally you would have had seconds and thirds by now. If you want something else—"
"It's fine. Really." Bulla clipped as she forced herself to take another bite of her scrambled eggs.
A week had passed. A week of being stuck in this museum of someone else's life. A week of awkward meals. A week of conversations abruptly coming to a halt the minute she entered a room. A week of being looked at by every member of her 'family' with varying degrees of pity when she inevitably said, or rather didn't say, what the other Bulla would say.
She spent quite a bit of time on her own, swimming in the pool or reading, occasionally trying to decipher those monotonous equations written in the many notepads her former self kept. Anything to pass the time, really. Trunks tried to keep her company in between working from home, but it felt more like he was monitoring her, like she was a bomb that would go off unless carefully watched. One night, after getting out of bed to fetch a glass of water, she found her parents standing in the kitchen having a heated argument about her. It was the most she'd heard her father speak in days.
"She's not herself! You can't just drop a bomb on her like that!"
"She's not a child! I will not treat her as one! Keeping her in the dark is nothing short of negligent, especially if—"
The minute they noticed her standing in the kitchen entryway, the conversation ceased entirely.
Her father's gaze snapped to where she stood in the entryway. His dark eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, lingered on her for just a fraction of a moment, his fists, wrapped in boxing tape, clenched at his sides, before he stormed out of the kitchen. She watched his retreating form as he made his way back to the small dome shaped building in the backyard, noting what looked like bruises and, strangely enough, burns littering his skin. What in the world was he doing out there?
No one would talk to her. Not about anything significant, anyway. They barely spoke to each other in her presence, and it was entirely intentional. Every interaction felt like a performance, a carefully orchestrated act to avoid upsetting her or triggering some unknown response.
She was becoming thoroughly sick of it.
When she woke up in that hospital bed, Trunks had promised her answers. But every time Bulla pushed for them, she was swiftly dismissed with a gentle word and a kind, well-meaning smile.
They didn't want to talk about it, they didn't want to dissect what happened, fearing it might 'upset' her. Reiterating over and over that they only wanted to protect her. But their silence only made the gap between who she was at present and who she used to be feel even more daunting.
However, when she raised the issue of her laptop conundrum to her grandfather, he was more than happy to rectify it. A quick search of her name revealed far more than she expected.
Until the sun was streaming in through her bedroom window, Bulla pored over every video and article she could find on herself. She was the daughter of the richest, most brilliant woman in the world. She'd earned her PhD in Nuclear Physics at nineteen, just like her mother, as well as a bachelor's in engineering, also just like her mother.
She thought nothing else could surprise her more than that. And then she stumbled across her profile on Instagram.
Six hundred thousand followers.
Her own face stared back at her in an endless array of selfies and videos. Some reviewing new cosmetic products, or talking about upcoming releases from her family's tech company, Capsule Corp. The more she scrolled, the more disconnected she felt. A knot formed in her chest, tightening uncomfortably with every click and swipe. She didn't feel like this woman. This confident, intelligent, well-spoken woman.
Her mother drained the rest of her coffee and placed her cup in the sink, giving Bulla a quick kiss on top of her head before disappearing into her lab, she seemed to spend all of her time down there with her grandfather, leaving most of the family business for Trunks to deal with.
"Are you feeling alright?" Her brother asked from over the rim of his black coffee mug that read 'World's Best Engineer' on the side.
"Headache." She clipped. It was a lie.
He nodded, moving over to the counter and rooting through the cabinet. He placed two little white pills on the napkin beside her half eaten plate of bacon and eggs.
"What's this? No magic beans this time?"
"Afraid not. Just good old-fashioned aspirin." Trunks said turning his attention back to his phone and leaning against the kitchen sink. Instead of the sweats she'd grown accustomed to seeing him in, he wore jeans and a black bomber jacket baring the Capsule Corp logo over a T-shirt with a pair of clean, white sneakers.
"Are you going somewhere today?"
"I have something I need to check on. I've put it off as long as I can."
"Can I come with you?" As irritated as she was with him and her parents, the idea of getting out of the house sounded like a nice change of pace, even if it was just for a ride in the car.
"Not this time," Of course not. "I know you're tired of being cooped up, but don't worry, I won't be gone long."
"What time do you think you'll be back?" She inquired, picking at her eggs.
"Sometime this afternoon." He returned. "Just relax, take a nap, if you get bored, Mom or Grandpa might have some stuff you can help with, and I'll be back before you know it."
She stared down at the little white aspirin on her napkin, feeling her blood pressure climb. "I was wondering… about those beans."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Where do they come from?"
"A friend of the family grows them." He answered absently, not looking up from his screen.
"A 'friend of the family' grows magic beans?" Her eyes narrowed.
"Actually, yes."
"Okay." She pursed her lips. "What are Dragon Balls?"
He paused in his scrolling, his slate eyes flicking up to meet hers, but he didn't answer.
"You don't want to answer that? Oh, okay." With a rough motion, Bulla cast her fork onto her plate. She shoved away from the table and rose to her feet. "How about this? Why do you keep giving me such short, vague answers like I'm four years old every time I ask a question?!"
His eyes widened. "I told you, we don't—"
"—Want me to get 'overwhelmed' or 'upset'? Yes, I'm aware." She spat. "What is it that everyone feels the need to be so secretive about? Why are our parents giving each other the silent treatment? Why does our father spend all of his time in his ridiculous, fancy home gym— where I can hear what I can only describe as —explosions— day and night? And then he drags himself to bed looking like death warmed over! And why won't he even so much as look at me?"
Trunks sat his phone down on the counter, raking a hand through his lavender hair with a deep sigh. "I know you're frustrated; I would be too. Dad is… look, I know he's not the easiest guy to read, he has the personality of a cactus on his best days. But I promise he cares about you. You're very important to him. I promise to provide answers to all of your questions soon."
Soon. She was getting really sick of that word.
"We just want to be careful until we have a better understanding of your… condition."
She scowled. "The doctor said all of my tests look normal!"
"They do. But it's been a few days and still nothing is coming back to you and that's… —If we can get this sorted out without causing you unnecessary distress, then that's what we're going to do. You just need to be patient. We all want what's best for you, Bulla."
"What about what I want?" She gestured at herself, "don't you think that maybe you all keeping things from me is distressing?"
His face twisted, and she could see the contrition in his eyes. "There are just… things that you don't understand right now, but you will soon. I promise."
"Whatever." Bulla snatched up her discarded plate, scraping the rest of her breakfast into the trash and tossing it into the sink. She turned the tap to the hottest setting and grabbed the sponge from its holder, dousing it with entirely too much soap, and set to work scrubbing a coffee cup with far more force than necessary.
Her brother tentatively drew up beside her, but she refused to look at him. Unwilling to give him even that. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze that did nothing whatsoever to quell the resentment burning in her chest. "I'll be back later, and we can watch a movie. I'll even let you pick."
She resisted the urge to snap at him, not saying a word as he exited through the garage door.
The sound of clinking porcelain punctuated by the occasional clang filled the air as Bulla continued to scrub the dishes, her movements sharp and jerky. The conversation with her brother replayed in her mind over and over, stoking her anger. He'd looked so shocked when she'd raised her voice at him. The other Bulla probably wouldn't have yelled at him. She was probably a peach who never raised her voice to anyone.
She rinsed a plate. As she moved to set it on the drying rack her hand slipped, sending the plate crashing to the floor, the sharp sound of shattering ceramic echoing through the kitchen.
"Damn it!" she cursed under her breath and angry tears sprung to her eyes. She crouched down to pick up the broken pieces, her hands trembling.
A flash of movement drew her gaze to the window. Her grandmother was outside, pushing a cart laden with potted plants and gardening supplies out of the greenhouse by the pool.
While her grandfather was never anything but kind to her, there was always a hint of sadness in his eyes when they crossed paths. Her grandmother was the only one who treated her with any semblance of genuine normalcy, unbothered by how different she knew she was from her former self.
Bulla quickly disposed of the broken pieces, wiped her hands on a towel, and headed outside. "Grandma," she called out, her voice carrying over the gentle splash of the pool's waterfall.
Her grandmother looked up and smiled. "Oh, hi Sweetie! Do you need something? Did you get enough breakfast? If not, I can make you some sandwiches or maybe if you're in the mood for something sweet, I can make you my famous strawberry shortcake! It is your favorite, after all!"
Bulla swiped at her eyes and cleared her throat, trying weakly to keep the frustration still burning beneath the surface out of her voice. "Actually, do you mind if I… help you?"
The blonde blinked, as if surprised by the request, before beaming brightly. "Oh? Of course dear, grab a shovel! I was just about to set up a new flowerbed."
The Capsule Corp CEO walked up a familiar gravel path, his footsteps crunching softly in the early morning quiet. The warm summer air carries the fresh scent of pine and wildflowers and the distant sound of a flowing stream mingling with a symphony of softly clucking fowls. When he reached the bottom of the trail he spied smoke pouring from the chimney of a familiar little house, Son Goten stood just a few feet from the front door scattering feed to his chickens.
The dark-haired demi-saiyan turned to face him as he made his way through the flock of clucking hens, likely having sensed his approaching ki for some time.
"How's your sister?" Goten asked, his tone flat and carefully neutral.
"She's... hanging in there," Trunks replied, trying to keep his voice steady. Hanging in there. That was one way to put it. She was a mess. The rest of the household was just trying to keep things together. As normal as possible, for them anyway. Which clearly wasn't working, given her outburst at breakfast. Truthfully, though, that was the most he'd seen of her old self since Frieza's attack on West City.
Goten nodded, his expression unreadable as he tossed another handful of feed to the ravenous hens. "Any word on when she might get her memory back?" he muttered.
Trunks shook his head, pulling a smoke from the open pack in his pocket and bringing it to his lips, lighting it with a flicker of ki. "It could be today, it could be tomorrow. A month from now. Honestly, it's hard to say for sure. Physically, she's fine. The doctor said sometimes when people suffer traumatic events, their memories can return gradually over time, or not at all, in some cases."
Goten looked at him then, mulling over his words. There was a somberness to his friend that made his skin itch.
Out of the two of them, Goten was always the more lighthearted one, even in the worst situations.
After a moment of silence, Goten turned toward the house. "Do you want breakfast or something?"
Trunks frowned, shaking his head. "No, I don't want breakfast. I want to know why you're hiding away out here with your chickens." He gestured to the fowls pecking around the dark-haired halfling's boots, blissfully unaware of the tension rolling off their owner like a living thing.
Trunks, unfortunately, was not.
The question hung heavily in the air, unavoidable. Slowly, Goten turned, meeting Trunks's gaze with a surprising level of intensity. "I'm not hiding," he said firmly. "I'm… busy. Running this place is a lot of work and I don't know if you noticed, but it's just me out here now."
"Yes, you are hiding. And you know it." Trunks took another step closer, his concern deepening. "Talk to me. I understand if what happened freaked you out, you don't have to—"
Goten's brow creased, and his posture straightened. "There's nothing to talk about," he murmured, securing his bag of feed and tossing it on the picnic table. He moved away from Trunks, grabbing a splitting maul from a large tree stump and a heavy log from the woodpile, sitting it vertically on the stump.
"Come on, man." Trunks insisted. "We've been through too much for you to shut me out now."
The silence stretched between them. Finally, Goten let out a sigh of irritation. "I told you, I'm fine."
"Okay, if you don't want to talk, I can't make you." Trunks said, unable to keep the edge of exhaustion out of his voice. "I just wanted to check on you. Since you seem to have forgotten how to answer your phone. You should come by and see Bulla. You know, when you find the time. I know she would appreciate it."
Goten didn't respond, bringing the maul down on the log in a swift movement, cleaving it into three. One by one, he tossed them into a pile and set up another log.
"Are you coming to dinner on Sunday?"
"I'll think about it," Goten replied, bringing the maul down again, his voice steady despite the turmoil Trunks sensed within him.
Trunks took a pull from his smoke, his gaze flicking to the bots floating up and down the rows of radishes that occupied the field.
He was at a complete loss. He thought he had seen every side of Son Goten. The best and the worst. They were like brothers. They had no secrets. Any disagreement they ever had could usually be worked out in a quick spar.
Trunks had seen Goten angry on a handful of occasions, but he'd never been … despondent.
"I guess I'll see you when I see you." Trunks dropped his cigarette on the ground, smothering the cherry with the tip of his shoe.
Bulla wiped the beads of perspiration from her brow with her forearm as she knelt in the newly formed flowerbed beside her grandmother. The sun was warm on her back, and the scent of freshly turned earth filled the air as her gloved fingers gently pressed the delicate little begonias into the dark soil.
Bulla couldn't believe this woman was her grandmother. Or anyone's grandmother, for that matter. She didn't have so much as a single wrinkle.
She was glad she was though, spending time with her was a balm to her nerves after her spat with Trunks. It was hard to worry about much of anything in Panchy's presence. The woman was pure sunshine in human form.
Her grandmother smiled at her from beneath the brim of her almost comically huge sunhat. "Oh my, time certainly flies when you're having fun. We've been out here for hours. You must be starving!"
Bulla couldn't help but smile back at her, "I am a little hungry, actually."
She was. She had wasted most of her breakfast, something she felt somewhat guilty about now.
"I'll whip up something for the two of us, and your father, I suppose, he usually wanders into the kitchen around this time." Bulla resisted the urge to roll her eyes at that last bit. Maybe he'll actually speak to me this time. She doubted it.
"I'll just finish these up," Bulla gestured to the last row of begonias on the cart. "And then I'll be right behind you."
Panchy beamed, dusting the dirt from her denim shorts and practically floating into the house.
Just as she reached for another pot, a shadow fell over her, and a deep, regal voice said. "There you are Princess. I've been looking for you.
She looked up and gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. Standing before her was what she could only describe as… a seven-foot-tall, hairless, purple… cat man. He wore a black cloth draped across his shoulders adorned with blue stripes, an orange diamond at its center, blue pants and a sash. On each hand, she spied five deadly looking black talons.
Unbidden, the image of that strange alien corpse flashed through her mind, and the cryptic answer her brother had given her when she'd asked about the cause of her memory loss.
"You were… hurt by someone."
Golden, lamp-like eyes gleamed, staring imperiously down at her, as if she were an offensive bug in need of squashing. "Hn. You didn't even sense my approach."
A chill ran down her spine at his words, and she instinctively assessed the situation. Her eyes darted from the cat man, to the backdoor her grandmother had disappeared through moments ago, and the dainty, potted begonia in her right hand, considering, and back at the cat man again.
"And just what exactly do you intend to do with that?" His words were low and menacing.
Before she could lose her nerve, Bulla chucked the begonia at the alien's head with all her strength and ran for her life.
Bulla heard the pot shatter, and the creature let out an angry slew of expletives. She didn't look back, her feet pounding hard against the ground. If he was going to kill her, he would have to catch her first. Panic clouded her vision as she veered away from the house, not wanting to lead the angry cat man to her grandmother, and her footing betrayed her. She stumbled, her momentum carrying her forward until she crashed into the pool's edge and tumbled into the water with a splash.
The cold water enveloped her, the shock of it barely registered as adrenaline surged through her body. She flailed for a moment before finding her bearings, her heart pounding in her ears. Bulla surfaced, gasping for breath, and kicked her way to the other side of the pool. She scrambled over the edge, dragging her body out of the water and resuming her escape, pumping her legs as fast as she could. She glanced over her shoulder. The cat man was still there, and he looked pissed.
She turned back, smacking right into a hard, orange… chest? Strong hands gripped her shoulders, halting her movements. She looked up into a pair of dark, puzzled eyes that belonged to a man with wild black hair. His face was familiar, and at the same time, not. "Woah there, where's the fire?"
"Oh my, whatever happened?" A melodic voice inquired.
Bulla turned to see an ominous figure with soft, powder blue skin and moon-white hair swept high above his head, dressed in elaborate maroon and black robes. His eyes glinted with an unsettling light as he floated toward them, carrying a strange, otherworldly staff that seemed to radiate an eerie energy.
It was then that her eyes rolled into the back of her head and everything went black.