Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Vengeance ❯ Chapter 28

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z, or any of the characters featured therein; they belong to Akira Toriyama and whoever he's decided to share them with.

Author's Notes: There is some disturbing content in this chapter having to do with Zarbon and Frieza. While not ridiculously graphic or gory, it is still potentially upsetting. You have been warned.

Also, I'm sorry this took so abominably long to post. It's been a busy summer so far.

.

.

.

PRESENT DAY

.

.

 

Zarbon opened his eyes, wincing as the dried blood cracked and stuck, pulling a few eyelashes from their rightful places. He peered around the room - thank whatever forces that ran the universe, they'd not yet gone for his eyes; the blood had dripped down from his forehead - but it was a fairly useless endeavour. The lights were off and the chambers were silent but that meant nothing; Frieza would sometimes keep the place fully lit for days at a time, or the opposite. Zarbon snorted to himself - a bitter, self depreciating sound - and recalled a time when he'd been impressed by how quickly one could crack a sentient mind, simply by ruining its sense of day and night. “Circadian rhythm.” He said aloud, for no reason at all. Thinking on it, he realized that the words had sort of just tumbled out of his mouth as he thought them; he hadn't intended to speak.

“Shit.” He said to the empty space around him. “Does that mean it's working?”

Zarbon wondered how long he'd been trapped down in Frieza's basement. As an observer of the tortures, he'd never truly understood the odd sense of timelessness a prisoner might experience in this place, cut off from all sense of routine that might have provided some clue as to the passage of minutes, hours, days. To Zarbon, there was no telling whether he'd been chained in the dark for a day or a week. Even the rate of healing of his injuries could not be trusted, as every time someone ventured down to see him, new wounds were created or old ones exacerbated. Like his wrist, for example, currently so swollen that he feared the metal cuffs that bound his arms together might start to actually cut into his flesh. The wrist had been bruised, strained at worst, during the confrontation with Frieza, later to be crunched beneath the bootheel of some lucky pet. Zarbon shuddered, various chains clanking together as his body shook; he'd been that lucky pet once. He'd been the man testing the flexibility of fingers and toes, the strength of bones and flesh, and now he was the unlucky canvas on which some other sick, young fool would paint to prove his worth to the master.

“Master.” Zarbon spat the word with all the venom his scaly ancestors might have possessed. How many times had he said that word, bowed down, fallen to his knees, bent over? How long since adoration had turned into abhorrence of the creature - the monster - who called himself emperor?

Zarbon sighed and shifted, trying to ease the pressure of the cuff on his swollen wrist without much success. He grimaced; it wasn't as though the rest of his body was exactly in top condition either. There were other bruises, cuts, and broken bones, not to mention that his hair was a fucking mess, but he couldn't deal with all of it at once. If he focused on one pain, the others seemed to dull and at the moment, that was the only coping method available to him.

Strangely enough, Frieza had yet to show up, and Zarbon wasn't quite sure whether to be pleased or frightened by his absence. He hoped that perhaps he'd managed to cause some trouble, something big that the little tyrant was desperately trying to contain and spin in his favour, but Zarbon knew the likelihood that his message had gotten out was very slim, considering that the little shit he'd trusted it with had turned on him. No, Frieza was probably deliberately delaying his own sojourn into Zarbon's private hell, building the tension. Bastard probably knew just how nerve wracking it was to wait and to wonder when the worst pain imaginable would descend.

Truthfully, Zarbon wondered just how long he would be able to survive under Frieza's assault. The men and women who'd been at him so far were all very good at inflicting pain, but Frieza...Frieza was a master in the art of inflicting misery. Zarbon had watched Frieza drive men mad, torture them until they were begging for death, without ever inflicting so much as a bruise. “And now it's my turn.” Zarbon whispered into the darkness. He had the distinct feeling that there was someone watching him, someone very, very near to him, though he couldn't make a thing out in the darkness and he hadn't heard anyone approaching.

“Who's there?” He asked, but there was no reply. He held his own breath and strained to hear his visitor's, if indeed there was anyone there, but again he was met with nothing. Zarbon gasped in a deep breath and when he finally let it out again, the feeling had gone and he was certain, beyond any doubt, that he was alone.

.

.

Just like living with them, shopping with the saiyans was an interesting challenge. For one, she could barely see the stalls of goods for the living wall that had formed around her. Akeebah market was the best place for black market mechanicals, Vegeta had told her, and she'd been looking forward to poking around but apparently `browsing' was not in the saiyan vocabulary. If it wasn't on her gravity room parts list, then they weren't interested. Bulma was really regretting having written the damn list.

“Oh for the love of...” Bulma trailed off as she was once again denied the opportunity to dig through a ramshackle pile of parts. “There could have been something good in there!” She grumbled and latched on to Vegeta's arm, vainly trying to haul him back toward the junk heap.

“We have a list,” Vegeta said, “and limited time. I don't want too many people to see us and have it get back to Frieza that the entirety of the Saiyan Squadron was fussing about in a black market of electronics.”

“Duh, Vegeta, if it gets back to the lizard, you just tell him you were following a lead on Vengeance, or his just-as-dangerous-and-much-smarter colleague, Blue.” Bulma tossed her hair and allowed herself to be led away from the tempting collection of odds and ends. This was a battle that she was not going to win. Perhaps if the others hadn't been there, she might have convinced Vegeta into humouring her a little, but she didn't believe for even a second that he'd give in while his men were watching.

“Oh, and who shall I say was the ugly hag that accompanied us?” He asked, and didn't even flinch when she pinched him on the arm. “We stick to the list,” Vegeta said, “and then we get the fuck out of here.” Bulma huffed her disappointment, but none of the adults paid her any attention. Gohan shot her a sympathetic look, but it was clear that she was on her own in this one. He, Radditz and Nappa had pretty much been relegated to `pack mule' status and had gotten stuck carrying the heavy stuff since none of them understood what they were looking for well enough to be of any help. None of them were particularly enthused at the idea of following Bulma around from stall to stall while she poked through every single scrap pile in the entire market, and they were especially not about to disobey Vegeta in order to humour her.

Surprisingly enough, Vegeta turned out to be a good deal of help, not only in negotiating with the merchants, but he understood a good deal of the science behind the gravity room and had an eye keen enough to spot the parts that they needed. She supposed that years and years of doing his own pre-flight checkups had really familiarized him with every component of his ships, from propulsion systems and gravity simulators, right down to the construction that allowed them to withstand such heavy pressure. Bulma felt his tail twitch against her leg as she examined an air intake valve, trying to judge if it would work with the system she'd already partially constructed back on red station, and sighed. He might understand it all, but that didn't mean he was as interested in it as she was. Vegeta's concerns lay with finishing the device at a base enough level that it would not explode with him in it. The machine's particular composition did not penetrate the sphere of important things to think about in Vegeta's head. Bulma supposed she should feel honoured that he trusted her enough to not accidentally kill him with her inventions, but at the moment she was feeling more irritated at her inability to scrounge. Who knew what was in these piles? Maybe she'd find something for one of her other projects, if only the brutes would let her look!

Bulma was so distracted by her chain of thoughts, and by the heavy part in her hands that she failed to notice the sudden tension that had come over her companions, nor the way they turned and shifted, closing ranks. It was only when Vegeta grabbed her wrist and yanked her behind him that she noticed something was up. “Hey! What the hell?” She complained, dropping the valve to ground with a heavy clonk. “That would have broken my foot!” She tried to tug her arm out of his grip, but his fingers were like steel.

“Hey,” Said an unfamiliar, nasal kind of voice. “Do you think he gives a shit?” Bulma looked up in surprise and stepped back quickly, not wanting to look at the thing that had addressed her.

“Ewww,” she muttered into Vegeta's ear, “what is with all the giant bug people in the universe? Isn't one kind enough?” She asked, peeking out at the creature from over Vegeta's shoulder. Bug, black market regeneration tank dealer, had looked like a giant cockroach, whereas this as-yet-nameless fellow was skinnier and lanky, more like the man-in-a-bug-suit type aliens from the B-movies of her youth. Antennae included, he was taller than Nappa.

“Hey Vegeta, this guy seem familiar to you?” Nappa chuckled, though Vegeta didn't respond. Radditz grinned and crouched into a battle stance while Gohan looked on, puzzled and nervous.

“Seems familiar to me.” Radditz answered instead. “What was that planet's name? Ar...Arlan...Arlis...”

“Arlia?” Nappa grinned. “Kind of a shit hole, but remember we fought that big motherfucker?”

“Oh, so you got a look at my people before slaughtering them all, did you?” The bug shrilled, and Bulma felt her stomach drop. On Red Station these were her allies, her friends, but out here...Bulma had not forgotten that the Saiyans were among Frieza's most feared and hated warriors. Around them a curious crowd had begun to gather, and business at the surrounding stalls had all but stopped as proprietors and customers both turned to see what all the yelling was about.

“Ten credits on the big green one.” Bulma heard someone say, as Vegeta finally let go of her arm and stepped forward. Nappa and Radditz dropped back a little and she was once more surrounded by her protective little living wall.

“I'll take that bet man,” said another voice, scornfully. “That's a fuckin' saiyan!” Bulma tried to edge away - she didn't want to see this - but there was nowhere to go. To her back was the counter, covered high with momentarily abandoned purchases, and to her other three sides was saiyan bulk.

“Gohan,” she tried for the most easily influenced of her three protectors, “what's going on? Who is that guy?”

“I'm not sure,” the child replied, turning his head to look up at her with sympathetic eyes. He knew what was going through her head right now, because it had gone through his many times in the first year or so of his residence with these men. “But it won't end well, Bulma.”

“Of course we saw them.” Vegeta was saying, his legs firmly planted on the ground as he glared up at the arlian towering several feet over his head. Anyone who knew Vegeta though, knew that this would not factor in the outcome of the battle; that legendary royal glare could make even the biggest giant feel about half a foot tall. “We saw them, we saved them from that hideous king of theirs and then,” Vegeta grinned, balled his fists together in front of his chest, and suddenly his fingers sprung open, his hands drifted apart like so much space debris, “pop.”

“MONSTER!” The arlian shrieked, launching himself forward at Vegeta. Too quickly for most of the spectators to see, Vegeta stepped neatly aside, avoiding the bug-man's attack while at the same time ploughing his own fist into his assailant's stomach. To most of the crowd, Bulma included, the whole thing appeared a blur and ended with the two combatants standing utterly still, the arlian slouching while Vegeta's bloody fist protruded from his back.

“They called us heroes, you know.” Vegeta whispered as the arlian choked and gurgled, his last breaths clogged with blood. “Now that you're about to see them all again, perhaps you could let them know how wrong they were.” He wrenched his arm from the hole he'd created and dropped the wheezing creature to the dirt at his feet.

“Well that wasn't much of a fight.” One of the men near Bulma had complained, and she whirled to see the grudging exchange of money, just before she lost control of her stomach muscles and heaved her breakfast up. While she wiped her mouth, Vegeta stepped calmly up to the stall and finished making the purchase that had been interrupted. All around her, people were going back to their business and utterly ignoring the dead man in the street. Bulma knew that she was expected to do the same, but it wasn't so easy to watch your boyfriend literally put his fist through someone's chest cavity and then go back to whatever you were doing just moments ago.

Finished with his purchase, Vegeta handed off the parcel of parts to Gohan and reached out with his clean arm to grab Bulma. She flinched and jerked her arm from his grip. “Don't...don't touch me.” She said, shakily, grimacing as Vegeta recoiled as thought stung. She flinched, not sure what response to expect, but Vegeta simply took his hand back and stalked away. Radditz and Nappa followed, but Gohan waited for the few moments it took for her to gather her composure. The shaking subsided and she straightened up, straining to see the disappearing backs of the saiyans through the crowd.

“Come on,” Gohan said, shifting the heavy package into one arm so he could take her hand with the other. “We have to go back to the ship now, or they'll probably leave without us.”

“Pfft, they can't do that, Vegeta needs me.” Bulma scoffed and grinned unconvincingly down at Gohan. She was feeling unreasonably embarrassed at being the only one to barf after seeing such a grisly sight, even though she thought everyone else should be ashamed at their lack of feeling.

“He really does, you know.” Gohan said quietly, and Bulma wasn't sure if she'd been meant to hear it or not.

.

.

Zarbon remembered all the time he'd spent wondering when Frieza was going to set foot in his private little torture chamber, and regretted it. The lizard stood before him now, silent and imperious, his black lips twisted into an ugly smile.

“Tsk, tsk, look at you.” Frieza sneered, cocking his head to examine the grubby, blood encrusted form of his once cherished pet. “You're filthy, Zarbon, and you stink. You've really let yourself go, haven't you?” He motioned to one of the minions that had followed him in. “Have him cleaned up.” Frieza said, turning away. “I want him back here in one hour, bound of course. And try to be gentle, will you? I want him all in one piece when I get back.”

Because he didn't have much of a choice - and because the temptation of cleanliness was overwhelming - Zarbon allowed himself to be led away from the cell and into the washrooms provided for those who were down here doing a job. The scent of chemical cleanser was heavy in the air, wafting up out of the pools with the steam, and it reminded him of the times he'd used these baths in his professional capacity, talking and sharing methods with the other bathers. He shivered and had he been a more modest man, he might have refused to get in. Vanity, however, ran strong in his veins.

Uncuffed, Zarbon was allowed to undress himself and wade into the smallest pool alone, though his damaged wrist made him slow and clumsy. A few off duty soldiers laughed from their vantage points in the other pools as Zarbon eased his body below the surface, trying not to hiss as the hot, treated water entered various stinging cuts. Resolutely, he refused to look at the other men, no matter how loud their laughter, how vulgar their comments. These same men had once treated him with respect and admiration, and now had only come to see how very far he'd fallen.

No, Zarbon thought as he reached for the soap, he hadn't fallen at all. He'd jumped, knowing full well what would happen when he landed. It was no accident of fate or poor choices that had led him here and he knew that he'd have to keep that in mind if he was to hang on to his sanity. He'd chosen the path of revolution, chosen his punishment, and no matter what was done to him, he could not allow himself to ever regret it. Regret would only quicken the erosion of his mind.

Zarbon took his time bathing, meticulously scrubbing out every crack and crevice as though there were not six men with guns surrounding his pool, and any number of hecklers beyond. He really was filthy, which brought again the question of just how long he'd been imprisoned. Not that it mattered, he supposed; it wasn't like he really had a life to get back to, nor family and friends who might be worried about him. There were probably some contacts in the resistance who would notice that he'd gone missing, but they'd probably not give it another thought - people went missing all the time, never to be heard from again. They'd assume he'd either died or gone into hiding, and while a few might mourn the loss of his information, they'd move on, find other sources.

“Much better,” Frieza pronounced later, after Zarbon had been returned to his original chambers and shackled once more. They'd gone up a cuff size or two on his swollen wrist and padded the metal with fabric so it no longer cut into his skin, and he was grateful for the small comfort it offered. “How are you feeling Zarbon? Comfortable?” Frieza asked, stepping closer to his prisoner. “I see I'll have to have a medic down to check on that wrist, won't I?” He reached out and tapped the body part in question, causing Zarbon to wince and tear up a little, though he did not give the satisfaction of crying out. “My,” he poked again, “poor,” this time harder, “pet,” Frieza finished, jabbing his fingernail deeply into the swollen flesh, not letting up until Zarbon moaned in pain. Frieza stepped back, smiling a gruesome little smile. “What a sweet sound. Do you know, Zarbon, I miss hearing that sound?”

“Fuck you.” Zarbon hissed through clenched teeth as he waited for the throbbing in his wrist to subside. He was surprised to find himself shaking and nauseous, and desperately wished that he could be braver.

Frieza laughed lightly. “I rather think it will be the other way around.” He said, turning toward a table upon which various instruments of torture had been laid out while Zarbon was bathing. White fingers danced nimbly over sharp blades and studded clubs until he found what he was looking for. He turned, holding up the hairbrush, and Zarbon moaned, shaking his head. “Do you remember the first time I brushed your hair for you?” Frieza asked, stepping closer. His fingers caressed the handle, gripping it lovingly. He reached out and Zarbon lunged back as far as his chains would allow, thrashing and kicking so that Frieza could not come closer. “Tie him up,” snapped the tyrant to a pair of waiting subordinates, “unless of course you'd like me to call the druggist?” Frieza cackled, looking into the struggling prisoner's eyes as he was hefted up and buckled securely onto a table. “How would you like that, pet? A little calming mix to weigh down your arms and legs, to slow down your heart till you have no strength to struggle...” Their job done, the minions stepped back. “Remember how we laughed when we discovered that Vegeta had immunized himself to the effects of my anaesthetics? And we wondered and wondered how we could punish him, but what punishment could be worse to a saiyan than to lose control of his own body?” Frieza smiled, almost sentimentally. “ Remember when we imagined that little fool, drugged and drooling every night with that imbecile Nappa to watch over him? ” Frieza snickered, leaning down so that his face was mere inches from Zarbon's. “Bet you're not laughing now, are you?”

“Don't...” Zarbon pleaded as he felt the first slide of the brush through his hair, closely followed by long-nailed fingers. He wriggled in his bonds, but he was strapped too tightly down to do much of anything. Not this, anything but this. “Give me pain instead.”

“Oh? But this used to be your favourite thing, didn't it?” Frieza ran the brush through Zarbon's hair again, and though he didn't want it to, his whole scalp began to tingle with the familiar, private pleasure he'd once enjoyed. “And your hair is just so tangled from your bath, you simply must let me fix it.” Frieza continued, his voice soft and sweet. Zarbon's eyes began to drift shut, his body enjoying the soothing sensation even as his mind railed against this perversion of his own private ritual. He began to wonder if Frieza had, in fact, managed to drug him without his awareness.

“Stop...” He insisted, and was ashamed at the lack of conviction in his own voice. “This is...I don't want this.” He insisted, even as he felt his limbs relaxing, the calm of long ago moments alone in his room seeping into his muscles. “Ungh...” He moaned as the bristles scraped his scalp and Frieza's hand moved down, his smooth, white palm caressing Zarbon's shoulder, the bare skin of his chest. Zarbon hissed, feeling his body begin to respond, despite his anger and disgust, in the way he had trained it to do over so many years of servitude.

“Go.” Frieza commanded his two subordinates to leave with a wave of his hand. “And don't come back in here unless I call you.” He stood up, back to the door, and dropped the brush, his hand tangling in Zarbon's hair while the other trailed down, down, down. “Not so indifferent to me, are you?” He sneered, wrapping his fingers around the bulge in his captive's pants.

“Go to hell.” Zarbon rasped fiercely, refusing to look at the monster as he willed his erection to subside. He felt sick to his stomach and deeply ashamed of his body's reaction, and yet unable to stop it. He'd been willing himself stiff for so many years, it had become his natural response to the master's touch. He didn't want the ugly little tyrant, didn't want those sickly cold hands on him, didn't want the black lips that taunted him with their ugly sneer, and yet he was hard and gasping, holding back groans with every stroke until his hips were arching up off the slab. “Nng...no.” He pleaded, not with Frieza but with his own body, with some higher power, any higher power, as he felt the release building within himself. He willed it away but to no avail. It came, he came, accompanied by Frieza's soft laughter.

“Oh, pet.” Frieza tutted, bringing slick fingers to his mouth. “When will you learn that every bit of you is mine? I control you. No matter what you do and where you go, I will always control you.” Zarbon looked away, unable to see clearly as water blurred his vision. He felt hollow, nauseas, absolutely disgusted with himself. “I'm going to leave you here,” Frieza squeezed Zarbon's arm, “so you can think about that.”

Moments later, Zarbon was alone again with only his thoughts for company. Certain that there was no one to see him, he let the tears flood from his eyes. He was chilly, shirtless, with a puddle of shame and semen going cold on his belly, and a flaccid cock hanging dejectedly off to one side. Frieza hadn't even had the courtesy to tuck him back in and bound as he was, he certainly couldn't do it for himself.

“Fuck!” Zarbon sobbed, thrashing against the restraints. He was completely and totally doomed, and he knew it. “FUCK!”

.

.

Bulma followed Gohan, her breathing laboured as she struggled to keep up with the boy. She was trembling and her back felt slick with nervous sweat. Only when they'd once again caught sight of the other saiyans did Gohan slow his pace a little, fearful as he was that they'd be left behind. Bulma snorted; unlike the child in front of her, she knew that Vegeta would never do such a thing...though at the moment, she wasn't so sure if she'd mind it. She swallowed and the sour tang of vomit was still thick on her tongue.

Vegeta was a killer; she'd known it from the beginning. For three years he'd lived in her nightmares alongside Frieza's other high ranking warriors; the famed monsters of the empire whose faces and names were widely used to invoke terror amongst the populace. And then she'd met him and her whole perception of him had changed, split into the Vegeta that she knew and the Vegeta that the rest of the universe knew. She'd thought of the latter as a sort of mask that he put on, but what if the reverse was true? What if the thoughtless killing machine was the real Vegeta, and the one who held her at night simply a socially acceptable ruse?

Bulma felt her stomach curdle and knew that if she hadn't done so already, she'd be ducking behind a stall to empty the contents of her belly. What did it make her, that she'd allowed such a man into her bed, into her heart? Was she so selfish, so shallow that she could overlook the dark deeds of a mass murderer for the presence of his hard pecs and throbbing cock? Too many questions, no answers. None of that had seemed important before she'd seen Vegeta kill someone with her own eyes, saw the blood, quite literally, on his hands, his arms, a smear on his cheek...she shivered again, thinking about how no one had even batted an eye. How long would she survive on her own in a place like this?

“Bulma, hurry up!” Gohan's voice urged her from a few feet ahead and she blinked in surprise. She didn't even realize that she'd stopped moving. She scurried forward, reaching out to take Gohan's hand. He looked up at her in shock, startled by her clammy, shaking grip.

“Don't let go, okay? I don't want to get lost here.” She smiled shakily at him, and Gohan saw for the first time how very pale she was, how she shone with a light sheen of sweat; it occurred to him that she'd likely never seen anyone killed that way before and that she might be in shock.

“Of course.” He smiled back and squeezed her hand, wondering what thoughts must be going through her mind. “Bulma,” he said softly, tugging her down so that he could whisper in her ear, “I'll be around if you'd like to...” he paused, a blush staining his cheeks, “...you know, talk. I know I'm just a kid, but I understand more than you probably think I do,” he added, seeing the look of discomfort that passed her features. He knew that all of the humans still thought of him as an ignorant child, but he'd seen a lot in his short years that they didn't acknowledge. That was one of the things he liked best about the saiyans; they didn't censor themselves out of deference to his age...well, Radditz did sometimes, but only when he remembered to think about it, which was almost never. Besides that, Radditz's `censored' version was really just like the blurring of nudity on a tv show; maybe you couldn't see the parts, but you still knew what was going on.

“Gohan...how many people have you killed?” Bulma asked suddenly. “I'm sorry, to just blurt something out like that...Jeez. I mean, I try to reconcile the Vegeta I know with the one that...that...ugh. And I think of you and I don't think you're a bad person, but surely you've...”

“I don't keep count.” Gohan said softly, and the way he spoke with such seriousness surprised her, made her wonder if he was really only the child he appeared to be. “And if Vegeta ever did, I'm sure the number has become too high to fathom.”

“Don't tell me things like that.” Bulma muttered, but she took a deep breath and stood up straight, pulling herself together before she allowed Gohan to lead her back to the ship and the confrontation that would await her there. Luckily, she knew that between loading their purchases, running a systems check, and getting their little ship on its way back to Red, there would be a nice chunk of time in which to compose herself.

.

Vegeta watched Bulma bolt from the command deck as soon as the ship had stabilized itself for travel. Ordinarily he'd just have put her haste down to enthusiasm for her project and the fact that she had a whole cargo bay of new parts to play with, but the uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. Bulma had been positively frosty since the little incident at the market. She hadn't even attempted to hold his hand on the way back to the ship - not that he would have let her anyway, but up until that point she'd been trying hard. Hell, she hadn't even wanted to walk near him! And once inside, he'd casually put his hand on the small of her back, only to have her flinch and run like a scared little animal.

“You three, to the training deck. Be warmed up by the time I get there.” Vegeta said, watching through narrowed eyes as his three subordinates saluted, crossing the right arm over the chest to make a fist over the heart, and marched out. He could see the nervous looks that passed between them and restrained the urge to boot Radditz - simply because he was last in line - in the ass as he walked out the door. Fuckers, he thought, irritated at their presumption. In the days before Blue's arrival into his life, would they have ever dared to share such looks in his presence?

“He's pissed.” Vegeta heard Radditz mutter, and he really wished he had given into his impulse just a moment ago. No matter, he decided as he climbed the ladder up and toward the living quarters and Bulma's makeshift workspace. He paused in the doorway, expecting to see her lost in some detail, as usual. Instead she was sitting perfectly still, doubled over with her head in her hands. For some reason, he felt irritation bubbling up inside himself.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He sneered, stepping into the room. Bulma's head snapped up and she swiped angrily at her wet cheeks, brushing the hair back out of her face at the same time.

“Don't talk to me like that.” She snapped, her eyes blazing with emotion, cheeks an angry red. “And you know damn well what's wrong!”

“Do I?” Vegeta asked, cocking his head as he took in the unusual pallor of her skin and the awkwardly closed in way she sat. Bulma looked away, as though unable to look at him, and the irritation in his core turned into white hot anger. He felt the sudden urge to grab her and shake her, to pin her against the wall where she had no choice but to look him in the eye. Wisely, he remained where he was.

“You didn't have to kill him like that.” Bulma exhaled a shaky breath.

“Oh? And who are you to judge who I need to kill?” Vegeta mocked her, “Or is it just because you saw it this time? Are you forgetting the research facility? Even barring that, you've certainly heard the stories that float about the universe. Did you think they were fake?” He laughed. “The fact is, he'd have ripped my heart out if I'd given him the chance.”

“Was it on Frieza's orders?” Bulma asked, ignoring his tone.

“What?”

“You destroyed his planet, right?” She spread her fisted hands apart, just as he had done in illustration to the insectoid creature. “Pop, yeah? So did Frieza command you to do it?” She met his eyes this time, and as he stared her down, she suddenly knew that she would not like the answer.

“No.” Vegeta said, and it was the most powerful syllable she'd ever heard in her life. “Does that upset you?”

“Why?” She asked, ignoring his question. He damn well knew the answer to that one.

“We were on our way to Earth to retrieve Kakarott, but Frieza's ships beat us there.” Vegeta shrugged. “Call it grief, fury, whatever you want. We went to Arlia and bathed ourselves in the blood of their tyrant king.” He paused and chuckled, but it was a dark, sardonic sound. “They praised us in the streets, called us their heroes. They were...presumptuous.”

“So you killed them for it?” Bulma shrieked, unable to believe what was coming out of his mouth. “You destroyed their planet on a cruel whim, destroyed Arlia as Frieza destroyed your home?”

“They would have been enslaved before long anyway.” Vegeta shrugged, his tone uncaring. “They died free, happily celebrating in the streets. Isn't that what you weak races are always going on about? Dying a good death?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bulma gasped, staring up at him with horrified eyes. She'd known he was a killer all along - how could she not? - but she'd somehow managed to put it from her mind, to pretend like he'd be wracked with guilt inside. Like that would make it okay...

“Nothing is wrong with me, Bulma.” Vegeta spat. “Look around you, think about it. You're the only one with a problem here. Did you see anyone else barfing their guts up in the market?”

“Don't you dare...”

“Your problem is that you've painted a pretty, idyllic little picture of Earth and you try to apply your ridiculous set of morals to everything you come across!”

“Well your problem is that you're not bothered a damn bit by the fact that you shoved your arm through someone's chest cavity!” Bulma interrupted, jumping up from her seat.

“Feh.” Vegeta snorted. “I see. So I can kill all I want, and so long as I show you some remorse, that makes it fine?” He laughed bitterly and she wasn't quite sure what to say. “I kill, Bulma. When the situation requires me to take a life in order to protect my own, or that of one of mine,” he guestured vaguely around them and Bulma guessed that he meant the other saiyans, perhaps even her, “then I will do so without remorse.”

“You didn't have to blow up Arlia. How was that saving anyone?”

Vegeta shrugged, and looked her in the eye. “I do not need to justify my actions to you, nor anyone else. You knew what I was before we ever met, and only now it's become a problem? I can kill millions and so long as you don't have to watch, it's fine?” He prodded. “That's bullshit, and you know it. The fact is that I'm a killer and a murderer. I'm not like your little friends and I never will be. I've slaughtered more people than you can imagine, and I'll continue to do so as long as I see fit. Now you can deal with it, or you can get the fuck out of my life.” With that, the saiyan prince turned on his heel and marched from the room, leaving her alone to deal with the second shock of the day.

Bulma sat slowly back down, pulling her feet up onto the chair as she did so. Knowing that someone was a killer and seeing them do it were two completely different things, and she hadn't really prepared herself to deal with the discrepancy. More than that, however, it was Vegeta's callous attitude that really threw her. All along, she'd been imagining that he'd only kill when ordered, or when he had to, and that he'd stay up late at night torturing himself with the details of such things. She'd been casting him in the role of some tragic sort of hero, when in reality he turned out the lights and went to sleep at night, as easy as anyone else. She imagined the power it must take to blow up a planet and shuddered, thinking of it resting dormant inside of Vegeta.

Bulma Briefs was sleeping with a murderer with billions of deaths to his name. Her boyfriend, for lack of a better term, was worse, in terms of numbers at least, than any killer in all of Earth's history, and she'd put it all out of her mind with an ease that disturbed her deeply. What did that make her, exactly?

Then again, that was her MO, wasn't it? Sexy jerk with a heart of gold. Before coming over to the side of good, Yamcha had been a desert bandit; he'd robbed and probably hurt countless people, and yet she'd put that out of her mind with hardly a care. He'd even tried to rob her, and probably would have been successful if not for his fear of pretty girls, and she'd let him off the hook so easily. Had Yamcha been unattractive, she knew she'd have written him off completely and now she was doing the same thing with Vegeta, except Vegeta would never come over to her way of thinking. Unlike her former beau, she wouldn't be able to beat the concept of peace and forgiveness into the saiyan prince, and he was extremely unlikely to adopt it of his own accord. All along she'd been thinking she could change him, fix him, because if he was fighting with their cause there must be a shred of good in him that could one day grow to overshadow the evil, but she wasn't so sure of that now. Vegeta was a violent, dangerous, self-obsessed man, and she no longer felt confident that beneath all of that was a good and kind soul.

And she didn't know if she was okay with that.

.

.

.

That's it for this time folks. Not exactly a happy chapter, but sort of an important one nonetheless, I suppose. Please consider clicking that review button - I'd love to hear some opinions.