Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

April 25^th, 1984

Red Ribbon Pharmaceuticals

Formerly part of the Sacred Forest of the Saiyans

A side door from the locked laboratories swings open, and a frantic older man holding his lab coat in the crook of his elbow with one arm and holding a briefcase in the other stumbles out. He hustles quickly down the red carpeted stairs toward the main lobby, his breathing labored and the sweat pouring down his face is now dripping onto his expensive dress shirt.

The more I try to breathe, the harder it feels to catch my breath!

He picks up his pace running down the ornate spiral staircase, and Dr. Wheelo anxiously looks over the handrail down to the massive lobby below, and feels some relief there is no one in sight. He continues his hurried descent, almost falling from the increasing dizziness, but catching himself on the brass handrail. On the last set of steps, he sees a figure walking out from the shadows nearby, his body freezing in panic just as his feet touch the marble floor. Dr. Wheelo watches as a figure casually walks toward him, dressed in solid black tactical gear, the face hidden beneath a black mask that covers their head and a pair of large black sunglasses.

How did he get down here so quickly?!

The spooked scientist turns down a hallway, knowing there is a guard nearby. He’s trying to run, but realizes his body feels sluggish, and now sharp chest pain accompanies the shortness of breath.

“I thought I was being generous to you, Dr. Wheelo.” The masked man says in a deep, smooth voice. The scientist does not stop to listen and continues moving down the hallway, thinking he is moving faster than he is. The mysterious man keeps a leisurely pace behind him, only once removing a gloved hand from his pocket to glance at an extravagant red and gold wristwatch.

The scientist drops his briefcase, realizing his hand is numb and stiff, no longer able to hold his tight grip. Dr. Wheelo’s footsteps stop, and just as he starts to lose his balance, he tries to grasp the wall, but only manages to push himself against it and slides down slowly to the floor. He anxiously crawls over to pick up his lost possession which has spilled its contents of various papers across the floor, but he looks up and sees the figure in black stop before him.

The masked man stands five feet away, removing his gloved hands from his pockets. He kneels, stares at the scientist, and shakes his head, like a disappointed parent.

Tch.

“I told you to use this time to reflect on your life, maybe even ask whatever higher being you believe in to have mercy on your soul, because I certainly won’t.” The mysterious man says with an evil grin, and the scientist quickly shifts around to get on his feet, but remembers he needs the plane tickets to leave! Wheelo instead takes this opportunity to look through the papers that spilled out of his briefcase, seeing two plane tickets, and shakily grabs them. He tries to stand up, but he can only manage to crawl; his head is swimming and the pain in his chest has worsened.

I’m really dying!

“No, I can't! I’m not ready!” the scientist squeaks out, finally collapsing on the floor while he feels his heart seemingly flip around in his chest. He hears the masked man's heavy footsteps approach him.

“Shouldn’t be too much longer, though I do wish you’d hurry it up; I have a meeting to attend, and I’m going to be late.”

“Please…help me…” Wheelo coughs out, his breath now a wheeze.

“Hn, well, maybe don’t rush through this, I love hearing you bastards beg,” the masked man’s throaty chuckle echo’s down the empty hallway.

“I’ll do anything…give you...whatever you want…”

“Well, doctor, I’m afraid our objectives will have to be at odds, because all I want is for you to die.”

“Why…tell me…”

The masked man kneels once more, removing his sunglasses and pulling the mask’s fabric up to his forehead, revealing his face to the dying scientists' tearful eyes that grow wide when they recognize him.

“You…”

“Yes, … me.” He states plainly, donning his mask and sunglasses once more. “Do send my warmest regards to your friends in Hell.”

“I…don’t…want…” The scientist is interrupted once more by this reaper as he gives the dying man and Shhhhh, accompanied by another deep, soft laugh.

“Now now, do not fret. I’ll be sending many more of your esteemed colleagues to join you.”

The scientist gives a strained wheeze and final cough, his body dead as his head finally hits the floor, giving the occasional twitch.

The killer stands and stretches his arms and gives his thick neck a crack. He then walks casually out the door, his gloved hands once more in his pockets as he walks past the body of an unconscious hired guard.

12 hours later

“GOOOOOOOD MORNING WEST CITYYYYY!”

“It’s 7 a.m. And looking like it's gonna be another warm sunny day, no chance of rain in sight in today’s forecast. Traffic on I-97 southbound is blocked up from a fender bender, so use caution on your way into work today!”

“We’re gonna kick off this power hour with Duran Duran!”

“Meeting you with a view to a kill

Face to face in secret places, feel the chill

Nightfall covers me

But you know the plans I’m making

Still overseas

Could it be the whole Earth opening wide

A sacred why

A mystery gaping inside

A week is why, until we

Dance into the fire

That fatal kiss is all we need

Dance into the fire

To fatal sounds of broken dreams

Dance into the fire

That fatal kiss is all we need

Dance into the fire—"

Bulma turns off the car radio and yawns, then groans with exhaustion as she lies back into the seat of her modded R5 Turbo. And she was not ready to leave it. This rally car is her safe place. Her thinking spot.

Well, as much thinking as she could do since she hasn’t slept in over 30 hours at this point, driving non-stop in the night to get all the way into Saiyan lands because an urgent case was dropped into her lap.

“There’s been a change in plans, Briefs; I need your help with an issue that’s come up on native territory, and their police force is calling the FBI in for assistance for a murder case. From your history, you’re the most qualified agent to handle this situation.”

“Um. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love nothing more than to do field work, but you know, Homicide isn’t my specialty? I’m the one that works on encryption and white-collar crime.”

“We’re not calling you in due to your specialty, we’re calling you in because you’re the only outsider we have with a positive relationship with these particular natives.”

“Natives? Wait, you mean the Saiyans? You’re sending me to help…them?” Bulma asks, almost dropping her phone’s receiver. She hasn’t been back to her childhood home in West City nor to the adjacent Saiyan tribal lands for years. She shakily brings her thumb to her mouth and bites her nail.

“Yes, you have a very positive rapport with them, which is non-existent anywhere else in the government, and for good reason. You’re their civil rights hero, Ms. ‘Blue Angel.’”

“So, ha, listen sir. That was a loooong time ago, and I was just a little kid…They probably won't even remember me, ya know?” Bulma says nervously, unsure who she was trying to convince, her boss or herself?

“It’s unusual and refreshing to hear you being so modest. I'm sending someone to drop off the case materials, and they need you there by the morning.

“Wait, but I don’t do mornings!”

Now here she was, on Saiyan lands next to West City, both places she once considered home.

The home I’ve avoided.

Wherever I go, problems and shame follow.

She lets out a frustrated scream and clenches her fists as she pushes the vanity mirror in her driver's seat down and angrily grabs her lipstick.

“No! NO! We’re NOT starting the day off thinking about past bullshit. We’re gonna have a good day today, Bulma!” She tells herself out loud to the vanity mirror applying her bright red lipstick, trying to interrupt her intrusive thoughts. She flips the mirror up, and she bangs her balled up fists against the steering wheel, and takes deep, calming breaths.

Fuck, why do they make me meet up like this so damn early? It’s criminal.

Bulma groans to herself while downing the rest of her coffee. She reaches behind her, where a crumpled-up ‘FBI detective’ lettered jacket sits on the floor of her back seat, and she smells it and inspects it. She sees an old stain of something on the front and rolls her eyes, licking her thumb and buffing out the stain as best she can.

“Screw it, doesn’t smell too grody.”

She unlatches her car door, notices the heat, and wrinkles her nose as she dons her jacket. She picks up her briefcase and extends a strap to sling it over her shoulder, then kicks the door shut and locks it with her keys. She reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps the lighter she places with them out, then pulls the last cancer stick, and puts it to her mouth, flicking the lighter to come to life, but her luck has run out and the sparks never ignight the flame.

Bulma stomps her boot and lets out an enraged scream to the sky.

“GAG ME WITH A SPOON!”

Bulma feels like her legs are made from lead as she forces her body to start taking steps forward, making her way through the giant parking lot toward the facility. She takes a mental note of how stark a contrast this area is with the surreal forest that surrounds it.

She recalls her childhood back in the sixties, where she and her ragtag group of Saiyan friends played around these woods that surrounded the lake. Red Ribbon was a small building then, nothing more than an afterthought. Her father had warned her to steer clear of anyone who worked there. He never elaborated on why exactly.

Unethical business practices, no doubt.

Now part of those woods are gone, torn down to expand the very parking lot and building she was trekking toward. Oh, sure, she and her Saiyan friends tried campaigning against the idea of their expansion, even going so far to convince the Chief of the Saiyans to rebuke Red Ribbon's use of Saiyan lands all together.

That last ditch effort failed.

And it was the last time she stepped on Saiyan lands. Several years ago.

And here I am now, helping that very sketchy ass company solve a crime in an area I have gone out of my way to avoid.

Isn’t life is just fucking hilarious?

She lets the unlit cigarette hang from her mouth loosely as she puts her hands in her pockets and continues her way to the challenge before her. She feels a raindrop splatter on her forehead, and she looks up to the Sky and raises an eyebrow.

“Sunny day, huh? Psych!” She grumbles, and as if fate itself had heard her complaint, a heavy, isolated shower begins to fall on her. In an attempt to save her hairdo, she pulls the jacket over her head and rushes to the front doors of the building.

As she tries to move quickly, she notices someone with an umbrella, the smoke billowing from beneath it. She can make out a long coat and a dark gray suit underneath. Bulma smirks as she notices he’s leaning against a “no smoking” sign, and she takes a small detour from the entrance and hustles over to him.

“Hey, handsome! Can you spare a girl a light?” She asks with a disarming smile as she peers under the umbrella. It’s difficult to see him well, but she sees large dark glasses covering his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth from the side; smoke bellowing ominously from his nostrils. He hesitates for a moment and straightens his posture, staring at her. His long, spikey dark hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and he has a very deep widow's peak between his thick eyebrows.

He stares at her for a moment, and Bulma’s smile drops when she realizes this guy may not be as giving as she hoped.

Just as she was going to turn around to say never mind, she sees him reach up into his breast pocket under his coat, and pull out a Zeppo and a case of his own cigarettes. She sees him flip the top of the lighter up and with a harsh, quick flick of his thumb, a small flame comes to life. Bulma’s eyes widen, and she quickly leans in.

It’s then she realizes her cigarette is drenched. She rolls her eyes and smirks.

“Damn, what is with today? Never mind, sorry to bother you,” she says, looking back up to him, but she’s met with a cigarette case open with some name brand she couldn’t even afford on her salary these days. She looks up to his face, wishing she could see his eyes, but he has the same irritated frown on his lips.

“I…Thank you…” she says with a bright smile and gently reaches into the case and takes one, putting it to her lips and letting the flame bring her panacea to life. The moment she's done, he flicks the lighter and the case shut, placing them back in his breast pocket.

“Oh, you came in clutch! I owe you one home boy! I didn’t know how I was going to make it without this before I go in there,” she says, slowly weaseling her way underneath his umbrella for shelter, and the man doesn’t move. She notices, despite his cold demeanor, there is a bright tinge of red adorning his cheeks from her proximity. She takes a quick look at the hand holding the umbrella, and she doesn’t see a wedding band.

Bulma reaches into her pocket and pulls out a notebook with a pen attached, covered in various bright stickers. She tears a small sheet of paper out and hastily writes down some numbers and reaches up to the man’s coat, unbashful, and places the paper in his breast pocket. She sees his eyebrows rise in shock, and his body is as still as a statue. She pulls her hand away from him.

“I’m Bulma! Call me sometime you’re not on the job and want to keep a girl company,” she says, winking at him, and walks away with a toss of her wet hair, hastily running away from him like a playful schoolgirl.

She looks back and smirks as she catches the man glancing at her, and he quickly turns away. She laughs. What a cutie! Probably will never call me, but hey, this free cigarette is nice at least!

The man stands there for a moment, the ash of his cigarette on the cusp of falling off on its own, before he remembers to exhale.

“Homeboy?” He says as smoke exhales from his mouth.

—

“Now, Mrs. Briefs, you’re going to be seeing a lot of confidential information that is exclusive to Red Ribbon Pharmaceuticals, and we can't have this information leaked publicly, or it is at risk- “

The paralegal ceases all speaking when Bulma finishes putting her ruined, wet hair up in a ponytail and puts her hand in his face. She was in focus mode now, living up to that “FBI detective” lettering in yellow on her back, pushing her way past him, and he trails behind her closely.

“I’m not signing anything. Also, call me ‘detective.’ Mrs. Briefs is my mother.” She says, gritting her teeth.

“How do you know where you’re going?” The young man asks, and Bulma rolls her eyes and gestures to the hallway she sees that has the distinctive yellow tape she’s familiar with; the writing on it comes into view: “POLICE: CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION.”

“I think being in the FBI long enough has taught me how to find my way around,” she waves. She steps into the hall and sees a group of Saiyan cops looking back at her, and she waves at them, but they scowl and turn back to their conversation.

Figures.

“Looks like you just leave an impression wherever you go?” A familiar voice hums, and Bulma closes her eyes and starts praying to Kami under her breath.

“Lt. Yamcha, always a pleasure to see you…Since when did you work for the Saiyan police force?” Bulma says, spinning around, putting on a big smile, and leaning forward to show off her chest as she slowly walks toward him, his long hair, she remembers, now trimmed short, the scar over his cheek still very noticeable and unchanged.

“It’s…uh…corporal now. Got demoted a while back. Long story. And no, I don’t, but they call us in to do forensics and assist, which is why I’m here to pick up this stuff and take it back to West City,” Yamcha explains nervously, watching Bulma walk over to him playfully.

Too playfully.

The sound of Bulma’s thick leather work boots squeak to a stop right in front of him, and she keeps one hand on her briefcase that hangs from her arm and then raises her other hand and pinches Yamcha’s cheek so hard he grimaces.

“’ A pleasure to see you’…That's what I would say if you weren’t a total wastoid and hadn’t slept with all those people behind my back! What, you looking to have a friendly conversation, thinking I forgot or somethin?!” Bulma fumes, her kind smile replaced by a frown, as Yamcha struggles under her grip.

“Bulma, babe, take a chill pill! Jeez!”

“No, no, Bulma, he’s a changed man since then!” Another West City officer comes up quickly, putting his hands up in a placated motion, pushing himself between the two former lovers. Bulma glares to the side and stares daggers at whoever thought they had the right to use her first name, but she sees the eyes of her childhood friend.

“Krillan! How are you!?” The blue-haired detective jumps over and gives the short officer a large hug. Krillian’s face runs red with blush as he feels Bulma’s ample breasts press against his uniform, and they dance together, Krillian giving Yamcha a wink, and Yamcha rolls his eyes.

“Why are you here? Do you work in homicide now, too?”

“Oh, hell no, Yamcha needed a ride to pick up evidence for Tien. Speaking of, has he talked to you much? He told us the Saiyans were thinking of calling in the FBI, we wondered who they were going to send!”

“Well, yeah, I think he spazed out and pissed himself when I called him earlier to confirm I was coming in,” Bulma says with a mischievous chuckle.

“Yep, no one expected the Blue Angel to show up to help save the Saiyans again!” Krillan laughs teasingly and nudges her playfully. Bulma rolls her eyes but keeps her smile.

“Whelp, here, look through these before I take them back with me,” Krillan says, taking the envelope from Yamcha over to Bulma. Bulma takes out various pieces of paper and sees some printed out internal messages with multiple pictures of the body in front of her.

No injuries. Just like Dr. Dodoria over at East City’s facility…

“Ah, yeah, I read over some stuff about Wheelo retiring and that yesterday was his last day,” she says, looking at some of the messages.

“Yeah, and there he is, dead in the hallway of the place he tried to escape from all these years. What a bummer. I feel like there is a lesson here somewhere, Ya know? Like, maybe life isn’t about working so hard cause you’ll die anyway.” Yamcha mutters, looking at the scientist's dead body in front of the doors, and Bulma snorts.

“No loyalty to women nor your career—how classically you, Yamcha.” Bulma laughs, looking over a pair of plane tickets, and Krillian grins. Yamcha releases a groan.

The flight was late last night, and she sees a picture of where they were in the subject's hand, along with a briefcase of various papers spread on the floor a few feet behind him. “He really was in a hurry to leave, it looks like,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, he was going to meet some of his friends at some big thing down in South City.”

“I’m going to guess you guys already got a blood sample this morning and gave it to toxicology?” Bulma says, looking over the pictures.

“Yep, boss already took care of that this morning,” Yamcha states, reaching over to Bulma to take back the extremely sensitive material she had in her hand, and she takes a step back.

“Hold on a sec, I’m just getting pictures for later,” Bulma says, using her camera, trying to stay out of his reach.

“Pretty sure that’s against FBI protocol, detective,” Yamcha says with a sneer.

“Oh yeah? Gonna throw the book at me? You know what else is against Protocol? FUCKIN YER BOSS!” Bulma snaps back, stuffing the evidence back into the envelope and placing it in Yamcha’s open hand.

“But I’m sure you already knew that one there, didn’t ya, champ?” Bulma says, straightening out Yamcha’s coat and hat, then pinching his cheeks hard and jiggling roughly until he rolled his eyes, and she grins.

“Careful, Bulma, he might think you’re flirting. Or charge you for assault, or both,” Krillian grins.

“Take care of yourself, asshole. Don’t break hearts anymore,” Bulma mutters seriously, turning away from her ex-boyfriend. Yamcha adjusts his hat and watches Bulma walk away from him, taking in her appearance, and Krillian gives him a knowing look. Yamcha coughs nervously.

“Hey, I’m proud of you, Bulma, don’t be a stranger while you’re here, okay?” Yamcha says with a smile, and Bulma puts up a dismissive hand, walking toward the agent taking pictures.

She overhears Krillian telling Yamcha about a new coffee joint that he wants to stop by, and she bites her lip, wishing things had been different, Yamcha’s words still hanging heavy in her mind.

“I’m proud of you, Bulma.”

A few days later

“So, nothing? Nothing at all, you say?” The bluette asks with concern in her voice. There is a pause, and she rolls her eyes.

“So, just a typical heart attack? I mean, I get Dr Dodoria and his health issues, but Wheelo, he was a fit guy, right? No cardiac issues? No high cholesterol, or high blood pressure?!” She pauses for a moment.

“No I’m not a doctor but it’s just a bit too much a coincidence that first its Dr. Dodoria while visiting another facility in East City, who was found dead in his chair late one night, and then this Wheelo guy just drops dead at the doors of his job on the day of his retirement with plane tickets in hand to get the fuck out of dodge to South City. I’m not even gonna get into all the questionable bank records I have yet to comb through, but something is off. Two scientists dead within two months?

There’s quiet around her again.

“Fine. Yeah sure. Okay. You’re the Doctor. Uh huh. Not Homicide. Mondo Cool. Fuckin Gnarly.” She says, slamming her phone on the handle and kicking a nearby trash can.

She’s so pissed, and she needs to let off some steam, and she knew just who she needed to punch at.

Goku.

I’ll finally tell him.

She leaves her hotel and gets into her car. It’s time she made good on that promise to herself.

Bulma opens the door to the dojo named “Kame-Do.”

“Okay! Everyone! What you’re gonna do is look at yourself in the mirror so you know you have the correct stance; legs spread! Knees bent! Butt tucked under your back!” he says as he lightly kicks a kid's rear end with the side of his foot to correct the stance, “and you’re gonna punch like this!” The young man’s voice rings out. He’s wearing an orange gi with the Kanji for “Turtle” on the back, and his hair is unkept.

“Ok! Ya’ll ready!?” He says with his country accent.

“Ich, Nii, Saan, Shi, Go, Roku, Nana, hachi, Kyuu, Juu!” he screams, walking behind his students with a loud, intimidating voice to keep them focused.

Goku sees her at the corner of his eye, and he stops counting. His breath hitches as Bulma meets his eyes. He hesitates for a moment, waves her over to a seat near the entrance, then turns back to his students.

“Ahhh, what number were we on? I forgot!” He laughs.

“We are on ninety, Son-sensei!” The kid with the slouch earlier calls back jokingly, and Goku gives him a knowing, skeptical smirk.

“No, we weren’t, we were only on fifty, you lazy bum!” Another child calls back, and Goku laughs.

“Alright now, that’s better. Ok, ready!?” He says to his class, and they start again.

Bulma watches her friend teach a class of about ten children, who couldn’t be older than elementary school. Her face blushes at the thought of what he would be like as a father, and that she was going to have to ask him out tonight. It had been five years, and she had made up her mind; she wasn’t going to miss her chance with him again.

Bulma often would wonder late at night if she missed her chance with him, and she would tell herself the next time she was in West City she would tell him, and convince him to travel with her.

They could have adventures like they used to. Goku had great charisma; he could open a gym anywhere.

As the time gets closer to seven pm, a small child opens the door. He couldn’t have been older than four, and with him, a black-haired, pale woman, who Bulma presumes to be his mother, walks in behind him.

Damn, maybe he has yet another class after this? Bulma thinks, looking at her watch, her leg shaking with anticipation. The young child walks up, sits quietly next to Bulma, and takes off his hat, revealing he has spiky hair. She is taken from her thoughts.

Oh, is he a Saiyan? She wonders.

“Hi, are you okay if we sit here?” The child’s mother asks, her outfit reminding Bulma of outfits she’s seen in the far east. She holds a stuffed animal of a demon-looking monkey wearing a crescent moon around its neck in her hands, and that clenches it for Bulma; He is a Saiyan, or half at least.

“Oh, of course! I’m just waiting!” Bulma laughs.

“I know, he gets excited and wants to teach them everything and loses track of time, but we won’t let daddy do that tonight, right?” the mother says sweetly to her son, trying to fix his wild hair.

Bulma’s jaw slackens. “Ah, um. Is ‘daddy…’ that guy? The instructor?” Bulma says with wide eyes. The woman looks at Bulma questioningly.

“Yes, Goku is his father. Have you not met Goku before? Do you have a child you’re interested in enrolling?!”  Chi Chi asks with an excited face. Bulma drops her purse.

“No, I don’t have kids. I am so sorry, I had no idea Goku…Ah, uh, my name is Bulma, and I’m-“

“Bulma, why does that name sound familiar?” Chi Chi hums.

“I am…well, er, I was Goku’s best friend…growing up,” Bulma says, looking down at the child.

“Oh! Sorry, that’s how I know your name! Goku and Raditz have talked about you! Sorry, I’m not from around here! I’m Chi Chi, Goku’s wife! It’s wonderful to meet you finally!”

“And who might you be?” Bulma asks, trying to keep a smile on her face.

“My name is Gohan. I am three!” He says with a smile, and Bulma grins.

“Three! Oh, my Kami! You’re such a big guy! You're gonna grow up to be big and strong like your dad?” Bulma asks.

“No, I want to play with bugs!” He responds, and Bulma smiles.

“Smart kid, he must get the brains from you,” Bulma says with a laugh, and Chi Chi blushes.

“Funny, I always thought it was the other way around! Goku can be smart when he puts his mind to it,” Chi Chi smiles.

“Oh wow, gosh, so much has changed and…” Bulma stops herself. She is at her emotional limit. She must escape. The shock of Goku being married with a child, when she was coming here to confess her feelings for him, was like hitting rock bottom at full speed, and her emotions were about to override her desire to be happy for her friend.

“I’m sorry, I left something in… MY OVEN! I’ll try to catch up with y’all some other time! Great meeting you both!” Bulma says, running out the door, despite Chi Chi trying to call her back.

Bulma’s hands can barely hold the keys to her car as she hastily unlocks it and already has the key in the ignition before she's fully seated, shifting the vehicle into drive just as she shuts the door. The tears start streaming down her face as the car moves, thoughts coming at her too fast:

I lost my chance with Goku.

How was I supposed to know he’d actually find love? And have a kid?

You know what? Chi Chi owes me a fucking “Thank you.” Kami, I’m the reason he even knows how to make kids! The bastard still owes me panties!

Everyone's moved on. I hardly know these people.

I knew it was a mistake to come back to West City. To the Saiyan lands.

She didn’t know where she was driving.

But she knows she needs a drink.

Art by DanizinhaUT. 

Dont worry, Bulma. Your Prince awaits. 

Chapter Text

“You are my greatest creation.”

Dr. Briefs would repeat that phrase her entire life. Even at her lowest point, when she dropped out of the top university in math and science, her father never once called her a ‘disappointment,’ even though she felt differently about herself.

But nothing was like hearing him say her favorite words to her for the first time.

She remembers her father squeezing her hand when he first said it as he escorted her to the press room of Capsule Corp. It was 1968, and Bulma was only eight years old, but even then, she knew she had created a national firestorm that was causing her father and his company a lot of trouble. She walked him to the podium and he held her hand the entire time. She didn’t remember much from that day, as it was a haze, but she never forgot the important part of his speech.

“I instill in my company the same values I would instill in my child: Let us all be kind to one another. Remain curious about the world, and let us solve its mysteries together.”

All Bulma wanted to do was play outside with some new friends that looked like her, expect they had tanned skin and spikey hair.

So when the young heiress of the planets most renown electronics manufacturer was found in the woods with two Saiyan children just outside West City, the police were called because it was assumed she was abducted. Guns were drawn on her new friends, and they were ordered to “release her.”

No one expected Bulma to reach into her bag and pull out a ray gun that she created and open fire back at the police. She told her Saiyan friends to run and she’d cover them.

“If you hurt my friends, I promise I’ll hurt you more!”

Eventually, she was overwhelmed and disarmed, but her friends got away safely, and that’s all that mattered. She remembers being in handcuffs and taken to a jail cell, police officer on duty doing as much as he could to traumatize her into second-guessing her decision that day.

“This is where bad little girls like you go when you protect bad people!” he spat as he gave her an angry frown to intimidate her.

Bulma remembers meeting his glare, then casually raising her hand, her tiny wrists which were almost too small for the handcuffs, and giving the officer the most glorious middle finger, smirking at the way his jaw dropped.

That little girl spent the night in that very jail cell till the next morning where her parents posted bond and the press waiting for her and her parents outside the courthouse. Bulma had her head down at first, until she heard their voices call out to her.

But then she saw her two friends, Raditz and Goku, waiting outside for her, with their parents and several of the Saiyans. Bulma ran and embraced her new best friends, her brothers. The press caught the heart-warming picture, and it became the poster for a massive Saiyan civil rights movement in West City.

“The Blue Angel of the Saiyans,” the West City Daily article read, and the name stuck.

“Hey Bulma, you listening?” Krillian asked. Bulma is torn from her thoughts, and swirls her whisky in the clear glass, the clinking sound of ice soothing her nerves.

“Yeah…I hear ya…” she slurs, downing the rest of the liquid in the glass and placing the glass on the counter.  She crosses her arms on the wooden bar counter and lays her head on them.

“Listen, okay? So you and Yamcha broke up, and you went back to the FBI and did some big case, right? And no one could get in touch with you, and then 5 years later BOOM, here ya are. What did you want us to do? We tried!” Krillian explains to the blue-haired woman, who still has her head lying on her arms against the bar. Krillian sits there in his police uniform, met with silence.

It’s best to just let them all think that’s why.

“Bulma, don’t be this way. None of us had any idea you cared that much about being at Goku’s wedding! And I’m sure your parents got your invite!” Krillian explains.

Bulma stays silent.

“Look, ignoring me isn’t going to make me go away. You’re too drunk to drive anyway, and I’d have to arrest you if you tried, heh, would be hilarious, but I’m sure you’d lose that big cushy job you have,” Krillian explains, still grinning at his own joke. Yamcha casually walks through the door of the bar and walks over to his friend, releasing a sigh at seeing his ex hiding her face in her arms on the bar.

“I’ve been here with her, and she just kept drinking, man. Just said she missed Goku and the wedding, and that everyone’s moved on without her; now she isn’t talking to me. Maybe you can try something?” Krillian explains. Yamcha looks over at his ex, then, with a knowing intuition, taps her shoulder.

Bulma releases a snore and sits up with eyes still closed, and utters the words “I’m a fucking genius,” and then her head falls back onto her arms.

“Thought so. The only time Bulma is quiet is if she’s fallen asleep,” Yamcha says with a grin, looking back at Krillian, and the two officers laugh. He gently picks her up and puts her over his shoulder. The barkeep gives an eyebrow, and Krillian laughs.

“She’s not in trouble, just taking her back to her hotel,” Krillian says with a laugh.

The desk phone rings.

Bulma opens her eyes, and her head is throbbing. It’s complete darkness except for a streetlight shining through her window, and she wonders what the fucking time is.

The desk phone rings.

“What fucking time is it?!” She groans and reaches over and slaps her hand where she thinks the receiver is but is met with her bottle of acetaminophen (paracetamol) falling onto the floor.

“Fuck!”

The desk phone rings.

“Kami, dammit!” She finally opens her bloodshot, blurry eyes, and from her watch she can see it's 0230am.

The desk phone rings.

She finally knocks the phone off the base and barely manages to grab the receiver. A strand of her hair is stuck to her lips, and her eyes are still closed as she puts it up to her head.

“Detective… Briefs.” She answers.

“DETECTIVE, my name is Dr. Gero, and my life is in danger! I need your help!”

“…Uh huh…and uh…how did you get my number…?” Bulma mutters, not sure if this is a dream.

“I work for Red Ribbon, and Dr. Wheelo was my friend! He was murdered! And now the murderer is coming for me! I saw a note on my car saying I was next, and I ran back to my office, and I’ve locked myself inside! I tried to call the Saiyan Police emergency lines, but they said they’re sending someone. It’s been half an hour, and I’ve heard nothing! If West City police had authority on Saiyan lands and I didn’t have to rely on these bastards, this wouldn’t be an issue!” he screams.

When Bulma hears his words, her body gets a jolt of energy, and she is like a woman possessed, jumping out of bed.

“Ok doc, give me your direct office number, and I’ll call you back on my car's cell phone. Keep your door locked, and I’ll call the Saiyan Police from my end,” she says, forgetting she's only wearing at spaghettis strap pajama top, and putting on a pair of tight blue jeans she had on the floor that still seemed clean, and finding her belt. She grabs her coat from the chair close to poorly painted hotel door and struggles to unlock the chain.

She stumbles out the door of her hotel room, down the stairs, and out to her car.

“FUCK!” Bulma screeches as her own headlights blind her as they reflect off the car garage wall, and she puts her R5 Turbo into gear and zooms out of the hotel driveway, taking the back roads leading to the Red Ribbon facility.

Questions go through her mind as she drives there:

Why was Dr. Gero there at three in the morning?

Why does he think his colleague was murdered when the coroner stated otherwise?

What does he know?

Something in her gut feels off about this, and it isn't the hangover. She picks up her giant cellphone and calls the Saiyan police.

She’s met with a busy signal and screams expletives in the void of her car.

After a couple of frantic phone calls, Bulma arrives, parks her car in an unauthorized space in front of the facility, and draws her SW 459, moving carefully to the facility, where she sees the guard on the ground.

Oh, this bodes well.

She rushes over, and he has a pulse. She tries to sit him up and wake him, but it’s no use; he’s passed out cold, but his pulse is strong.

A loud bang that sounds like a door slamming startles her, but thankfully, her training keeps her levelheaded, and she maintains her trigger discipline and stays with the Guard. She hears a police siren behind her, and she thanks Kami above.

Out step two cops from a decorated red-and-black 1980 Chevy Impala, and she recognizes the tall, built frame of one.

“RADITZ! Thank Kami, you must have gotten my voicemail!” Bulma screams as the two Saiyan police officers move over to her location. The officer with a large build kneels on the other side of the guard and starts assessing the victim.

“Oh, hey Raditz, so good to see you after I disappeared for five years, you wanna go grab coffee or something? Actually never mind lets just go meet at the shady drug facility and risk our lives instead.” The Saiyan officer mutters at her while he dons black surgical gloves, carefully looking over the downed guardsman. He has his long hair pulled back, and he and the officer with him wear black uniforms with red lettering and a patch of the symbol of their people, an altered anchor, on their shoulders. Bulma keeps trying to look inside through the glass, hoping to spot any movement.

“Anyone else? My partner is paging a meat wagon over here, and I want to give him specifics.”

“Uh, he’s the only one I see that’s injured, but there’s a scientist up there who needs help,” Bulma states.

“Good, I paged some guys to come help us, but it might take them a bit to wake up and get here,” Raditz sighs, and Bulma turns back to glare at him.

“Dude, why couldn’t I get through the phone?” She growls.

“Dude, I’m the only one on duty, we don’t have a fancy dispatch here like West City, unless you feds wanna fund something like that for us?”

Bulma gives him a knowing glare, her blue eyebrows twitching with building rage.

“I bet I know what you were really doing on that emergency line, and of all fucking times you fucking horndog!” Bulma hisses through her teeth, and Raditz pulls his eyes up, which she swore had black eyeliner and mascara placed perfectly, and gives her a smirk and a wink. Bulma’s jaw drops, and gives an exasperated groan and eye roll.

“You know what? You stay here and let me go rescue this bitchy scientist, and then we’re gonna have to talk about your lack of professionalism,” She hisses, standing up. The large Saiyan officer’s smile drops, and he gives her a cheeky frown.

“Will this lecture be about how to wear proper attire to work while you’re not wearing proper attire at work?” Raditz asks, and Bulma looks down and realizes that while she remembered to put on pants, she was dressed in a silk spaghetti-strapped, low-cut pajama top.

“Yeah, well, at least I’m doing my fucking job!” She growls back, checking over her gun and making sure there was a bullet in the chamber.

“Yeah…if your job is to distract him with your tits! Is that why this guard passed out? He’s just knocked out, by the way.” Raditz says, roughly patting the guys face as he takes off his gloves. Bulma realizes she’d rather die in this moment, and she angrily pushes the door handle with her hip. Raditz’s eyes grow wide and he realizes he’s stuck watching over the downed guard when he cant find his partner nearby.

“Hey, don’t go in there without backup. The guys will be here in a minute, just be patient!” Raditz growls at Bulma as he watches her peaking though the open door with her gun in hand.

“You’re not my boss.”

“No, I’m your brother, and I’m telling you to wait till I can-!”

She goes past the door.

“…back you up.” The entrance to Red Ribbon slams shut behind her, and Raditz runs his hand through his hair anxiously once and puts his hands on his hips as he looks down over the downed guard. He releases a slow sigh and pulls the cigarette from behind his ear.

“Good chat, sis.” He says sarcastically, bringing the cigarette to his dry lips.

Bulma ascends the ornate spiral stairs in the greeting hall, and motifs and images of various accolades Red Ribbon has accomplished are scattered in art over the walls and ceiling. She sees an advertisement for something called Retrovir, with the caption “Undetectable means Untransferable!”

She makes her way quickly through the lobby that has limited cover and dashes up the stairs past a set of heavily reinforced doors to where Dr. Gero had instructed her to meet him.

She pushes into the employee area, which looks like an archaic lab from the 1950s, and smirks that all the money would be invested in the public area, leaving the scientists to work in such a bleak environment.

It almost makes her thankful she gave up being a scientist in college.

Almost.

The halls are dark, and she pulls a flashlight from her belt and stretches her arm with it far from her body in case the killer tries to shoot at her using the light as a target. Bulma uses her other hand to hold her weapon drawn in front of her so she can see and aim.

She makes her way slowly through the dark halls until she finds Dr Gero's lab, and she knocks.

“This is Detective Briefs. Are you there?” She asks, then takes a step back from the door and steps off to the side. The door opens partially, and Gero sees it’s her and quickly waves her in and shuts his door.

“I’m so pleased to see you, detective. It’s been awful,” Bulma raises a skeptical eyebrow at his words.

“Why are you here so late?” She asks, looking over his office, which she notices seems bare. She sees wall discoloration where frames once hung now were bare.

“I…I had some things I was finishing up, and I try not to leave my work until all my tasks are completed.”

“All right, so we’re going to take a little trip back to the Saiyan Police department, and we can get a report on everything you saw tonight, okay?” She says flatly. She notices the scientist has two briefcases and stares when she sees his desk is very empty but also dusty.

“You usually take all your things with you when you leave for the day?”

“These are not all my things, but I do keep my work with me, yes. Highly classified.”

“Mmm. I hear that a lot,” Bulma states sarcastically. She opens the door and gestures for him to head out first, but the scientist shakes his head nervously.

“No, no, you first, please!”

Bulma barely keeps her composure, almost snorting at his fear. She reactivates her flashlight, looks left and right down the very empty hallway, and waves him to follow her. They make it about 40 feet past his office, and he tries to take a different turn down an adjacent hallway.

She glares at him and continues moving toward the parking lot main entrance.

“No, there is a safer way employees take through the back.” Gero objects to her.

Because of course he’d want to go down the hardly lit side hallway into the poorly lit employee parking lot.

Bulma turns around and glares at him. “My car is at the main entrance, so if you want to ride with me, then we’re going to go do this my way, understood?” She barks, and Gero tenses, and opens his mouth to protest when he’s interrupted.

“It really doesn’t matter which way he takes; he won’t leave alive,” a deep voice responds over the intercom, and Gero freezes. Bulma’s blood runs cold from the confirmation this killer was close by. She doesn’t let the fear consume her.

Bulma hastily looks over to the fear-stricken scientist and grabs him by the collar so they can get into the cover of a hallway instead of standing like dead ducks in the open hallway intersection.

“Where can he get access to intercoms?” She whispers to the scientist.

“Any lab office or the lobby. He could be anywhere in this hall!” Gero explains, his voice is loud and nervous, and Bulma rolls her eyes at his lack of tact.

So much for the killer not hearing us!

The already dim lights go out, and the emergency red lights switch on. Bulma feels the professor shift next to her.

Fuck, this guy is going to strike and must know this place's layout like the back of his hand. Raditz was right, I should have waited for backup instead of risking my life rescuing this guy. We need to just get the fuck out of this guy's clutches or get to safety.

“Alright, drop your fucking briefcase, we’re going to hightail it to the stairs, understood?” She whispers. Gero looks at her, silent for a moment, but she can hear his panicked breathing.

“I can’t…I’ll lose everything!” Gero hisses back as Bulma shines her flashlight to make sure the path is clear, and she tenses her legs as she prepares to leap into a sprint.

“Don’t be an idiot and listen to me!” Bulma growls, grabbing the scientist’s wrist and dragging him into a full-on sprint, one of his briefcases falling to the floor. The scientist tries to protest, but Bulma doesn’t listen and continues full speed toward the door.

When they get to the door, it’s locked. And Bulma curses under her breath and kicks the door handle, but it's jammed. She shines her flashlight on it and sees that the door-opening mechanism has been destroyed.

The loud noise from earlier was the killer breaking this door to make sure we couldn’t leave but only one way. He’s trying to funnel us into his kill zone.

Fuck!

We need to hide! Or at least I need to find cover for us!

Bulma places the flashlight in her mouth to free one of her hands but keeps her gun in the other as she rushes over to a lab near the broken door. The emergency lights in this section of the hall go out, leaving the agent and scientist in total darkness except for Bulma’s Flashlight.

He must be near a fuse box! I got you now!

The door to the office is locked, and she turns to Gero.

“Do you know where the circuit brea-“ she’s interrupted as she feels Gero place a hand over her mouth and another ripping the 459 out of her hand with more strength than she thought the old man could muster. She tries to fight him, but she feels him wrap his arm around her neck forcing her to drop the flashlight from her mouth and feels the steel of her own gun barrel against her head.

I have no idea what the fuck is going on anymore. I’m too hung over for this bullshit.

“I KNOW YOU’RE WORKING FOR FRIEZA! AND I SAY TO YOU THAT HAVING AN ANGENT'S BLOOD IS GOING TO MAKE THIS SITUATION GET VERY MESSY, SO JUST LET ME LEAVE AND KEEP WHAT'S MINE!” Gero shouts at the darkness.

“Hn, I can’t say I’m surprised by your cowardice,” Bulma hears that smooth voice from before, but it sounds in person and close. She feels Gero shift and try to shoot her gun, not realizing the safety was still on.

Fucking idiot!

“HOW DO I BLAST THIS GOD DAMN WEAPON!?” he screams, and Bulma Stomps and digs the heel of her boot angrily into his foot and shoves him against the wall; Gero drops her weapon, and it slides somewhere into the darkness.

“You sir, are a dumbass, you know that?!” Bulma growls at the scientist as he slides down the wall, and she walks away, picking up and shining her flashlight to where her gun slid, and she sees it a few feet away and runs over to it, gripping it in her hand and disengaging the safety. She shines her light and points her weapon down the hallway, expecting to see the owner of that voice, but there is nothing but a bunch of closed-off lab rooms and an empty hallway.

Am I losing my mind?!

It's then she hears a very faint click behind her, and she swears her heart just skipped a beat.

She hesitates.

Bulma Briefs never hesitates.

A moment later, Dr. Gero releases a scream. Bulma, despite all her years of training for situations like this, feels chills prickling her skin at the sound of Gero’s screams, afraid of what she’ll find behind her.

She quickly gets ahold of herself and whips around, pointing her gun, bracing her mind.

Dressed in all back tactical gear with a ski mask over his face, he stands in front of her, as if he were waiting patiently for her to get a grip on herself. She moves her index finger inside the trigger guard to shoot, but in an instant, he’s grabbed her weapon and is now pointing it back at her.

“Dammit!” Bulma says, gritting her teeth as she freezes, slowly putting her hands up. The light still in her hand allows her to see Dr. Gero slowly crawling away from the corner of her eye.

“Don’t worry about him. Hn, he’ll be dead in a moment. I suggest you run for your life, Detective.”

“What did you do to him?” She asks angrily. The killer instead gives her a deep laugh and never answers her question. He casually keeps her SW459 pointed at her direction.

“Look, Woman, I have no interest in spilling your blood. So, again, if you turn around and leave, I wont harm you.” Bulma can hear the smugness in his voice and she can’t stand this asshole.

Nothing has gone her way today, and she's decided she's going to beat someone’s ass.

“How chivalrous of you.” She hisses back angrily as she starts to move her feet to the side, the two of them strategically circling one another.

“Has offering to spare your life…upset you?” The killer questions with a smile on his face.

“Shut up and fight me.” Bulma hisses

“As you wish,” he shrugs, and in an instant, she dips out of the way and slaps the weapon from her face as hard as she can, and punches the killer right in his stomach, the satisfaction of the pained grunt escaping through his clenched teeth bringing a broad smile to her face.

“This is what you get for underestimating me!” Bulma stomps on his thick boot with all her strength and grabs his wrist to disarm him of her weapon. His grip is tight around the gun, and she pulls back to punch him in the face once more. She feels him grab her wrist and twist her around into an armbar, and he then slams her against the wall. Her grip on his wrist falters, and he pulls the primed handgun to her temple.

She can’t tell if it’s because she’s hungover or because he really is that fast.

“Not bad, it’s been a while since someone caught me off guard. I commend you.”

“Gee, thanks. So, who are you?”

“You’re not in a position to be demanding answers, woman.”

“Look, it’s kind of my job to ask questions.”

“Perhaps if you focused on how to fight and less on asking questions, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

Bulma growls and tries to kick him in the knee, but he sidesteps her attack.

“So feisty. However, I need you to be a bit more reasonable, so forgive me.” He states with a hum, and she feels him positioning her arm just to the point where she feels her arm pop right out of it’s socket, dislocating her shoulder. The action is sudden but almost gentle, and she feels the popping sensation just before searing pain radiates through her entire body from her shoulder.

“FUCK!”

“Fuck you, you bastard, ARGHHHH!” She wails from her dislocated arm.

“Shhhhh, it’s okay, its okay.” he says gently, his hand pulling away from her arm and now petting her hair slowly, “I’ll make it better once you give me your word you’ll behave. I think that’s the gentlest I’ve ever done that,” he coos tenderly to her in that dark voice. Bulma grinds her teeth as hot tears streak down her face against her wishes.

“Am I supposed to be grateful you crazy bastard?!”

“There, there, I know it hurts, but don’t struggle so much. Be a good girl for me and listen.”

“Why would I want to listen to anything you have to say, you piece of-aaaaaAAAHHH!“

She’s interrupted by him giving gentle rubs to her dislocated shoulder.

“Now, my fight isn’t with you, detective. I know you have your duty, but what if I told you that you’re helping the enemy? Yes, I’ve killed a few people here and there,” he says with a sing-song voice as if his infractions were equivalent to something minor, like speeding. Bulma scoffs at him and he gives her a “Tch.”

“The blood on my hands is minuscule compared to the massive red bath in which these scientists bathe.”

“I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this,” she hisses at him, the pain shooting through her body making her forehead sweat. She feels him leaning into her, the exhalations of his breath tickling her ear.

“Because, Blue Angel, I know how much righting injustices of the world is core to your very soul, so let me incentivize you to humor me.”

“I’m not, ah, interested in your twisted little game, you, ugh, crazy fuck!” Bulma leans her sweaty forehead against the cool wall, her brain struggling to focus amid the pain. The mad man behind her makes a clicking noise with his mouth.

“If I give you relief, will you be a good girl and behave for me?” he says, rubbing gentle threatening circles around her shoulder.

“Behave…?” she says, gritting her teeth. Her brain is having trouble as it begins to dissociate.

She feels him flip her and shove her harshly into the wall, his hand quickly shifting to the inner part of her dislocated shoulder, and forces it back into place, bringing her immediate relief from the immense pain that creates a wash of euphoria over her. She lays the back of her head against the wall, her tears streaming down her face no longer from pain but from immense relief.

The killer pauses and stares at her for a time. Bulma thinking he’s allowing her a moment to breathe, but she’s not sure. She feels his fingertips come up and stroke her face and then brush through her wild hair, the action more intimate than she thought someone like him could ever be capable of.

“Now that I have given you back your ability to focus, be a good for me, and listen.”

Bulma bites her lip as he continues to give comforting strokes through her hair.

“Dodoria. Wheelo. Gero. Myuu. Red. Ginyuu. Cold.” He says, softly. His body was braced over hers, and her blue eyes barely could make out his intense dark ones. She could smell the tar of cigarettes on him, and a hint of something else, like a musk.

It’s then she gets that familiar warmth in her lower belly, and it starts to build within her.

“Holy shit, am I turned on?!”

How could her body act like this when her life was on the line? She is instantly repulsed by herself and reflexively clenches her fist, filled with anger at herself and him. She slaps his hand away from her hair and tries to raise her newly fixed arm to punch him in the face more.

She’s interrupted by feeling the cool metal against her temple, and her body freezes.

“Ah ah ah.” He chides, and she lowers her fist.

“Why are you telling me this?” She says with a stutter in her breath. She feels his other hand come up and he rubs a finger softly over her lips, and she allows him for a moment, before she angrily snaps her teeth threateningly at him, letting the sight of her bared teeth shine in the dim light of the flashlight on the floor. He lets out a chuckle, and she knows he’s not taking her threat seriously.

“Because if I give you the answers, maybe you can work backwards and figure out the problem.”

She can tell there’s a smile on his lips as he’s speaking to her.

It strikes something pleasant inside her. And she hates it.

“You realize I’m not going to play your damn game, and I’m just going to put those targets in safe spaces, right?” She hisses, and he laughs.

“Woman, you can try, but I assure you that every wrong will be corrected; of this I am confident.” The masked man hums as he trails the cold barrel of her own weapon down her temple, slowly, sensually.

“Everyone who ruined me will be ruined, and those who have taken life away will have their lives taken in kind. I don’t think that’s asking much.”

Bulma feels the cold barrel of her 459 continue to trail down, his breath on the opposite side of her face. She shivers at the gun play, his voice, and his touch are overstimulating her body.

A flash of her wondering what he’d do if she wrapped her legs around his waist comes to mind, and she feels her back almost arch at the thought.

What is this bad guy doing to me?

How am I so turned on right before I get shot in the head?

That is going to be an interesting autopsy report, she morbidly jokes to herself.

“You seem distracted…does your arm still hurt too much?”

“I-No,” she stutters over her words.

“Good. Now one last thing,” he says as the barrel of the gun trails down to her cheek, and he leans in so close she feels the heat of his breath on her ear as he speaks.

“I’m confident you can’t, hn, or won't, stop me. But when you fail to protect your precious scientists, then know that I’ve decided I’m going to come for you, and you’ve forfeited your life to me.”

Bulma slowly turns her gaze to him. The way he phrased that made her question what he really means. They lock eyes for a moment, and without realizing it, Bulma wets her lips. She leans up to him, that tension now creating an ache.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks to clarify in a soft voice she hasn’t used in a long time. She sees his smirk widening, an evil grin morphing into a full-blown smile showing the whites of his teeth. He goes to open his mouth, and they’re interrupted by a loud crash.

Bulma’s brain recognizes it as the sound of a door downstairs being forced open. The masked man quickly looks over and sees that Gero is still alive as he continues his slow crawl away. He gives an irritated sigh.

“We’ll continue this conversation later detective,” he says with irritation in his voice, reluctantly pushing his dense, strong body off hers, causing Bulma to collapse on the ground from the sudden loss of stability his body was giving her.

The serial killer has a quick pace to his gait, his thick boots tapping hurriedly against the floor, and Bulma hears him pull back on the slide of her weapon, presumably to ensure a bullet is chambered.

“I’ll enjoy myself next time,” he states with what Bulma felt was nothing more than mild annoyance.

As he passes by the dying scientist, he points Bulma’s SW 459 at the back of the man’s head mid-stride and pulls the trigger; the loud, sharp discharge filling the hall. The front of Gero’s head is now a splatter pattern of bone, blood, and viscera on the hallway floor as his body fully collapses, his killer never stopping as he continues down the hall.

Bulma shrieks from the shot, and she watches in horror as the scientist’s executioner turns the corner, the sounds of his footsteps drifting away. She watches as the pool of blood grows in pulses on the floor surrounding Gero’s body, his heart slowly weakening from the lack of feedback from his brainstem that no longer existed.

She starts shaking as she struggles to reground herself, her brain desperately trying.

All she could think about was how much she hated him but loved the way he touched her.

What the fuck?

Chapter Text

The teenager hastily walks through the halls of the physics department early in the morning holding a newspaper, and if it wasn’t obvious she had just rolled out of bed from her disheveled blue hair, the flannel pajamas she had on as she stomped through the hall in bunny slippers made it indisputable. Because she was a celebrity student she knew there were always eyes on her, but this morning Bulma couldn’t care less about how she looked, she only cared about one thing:

Stolen Valor.

There was a crowd around a professors office filled with other PhD’s and graduate students, and Bulma shoved her way through them, their angry exclamations silenced when they saw just who it was that shoved them.

“Sacarew, we need to talk.” Bulma states looking at the lanky professor with curly short hair and a thick mustache sitting in his chair, the same news paper Bulma was holding opened on his desk.

“Ms. Briefs, as you can see I’m busy talking to—” He’s interrupted by Bulma turning around and shoving the remaining men out of his office, and slamming his door.

“There, now you’re talking to me. Just. Me.” She says angrily, her face flushed. The professor crosses his arms and gives her a smirk.

“Bulma, whats the matter?” He says inclining his head to the side. Bulma bares her teeth at him. He wasn’t even trying to act like he shocked or concerned.

He knew exactly why she was angry. She holds up the news paper that states “Dr. Sacarew nominated for Kavli Prize in astrophysics for work in discovering new type of star.”

“You didn’t discover this, I did!” Bulma screams, and he puts his hands up and stops her tirade before she can continue.

“Sorry love, but you’re just a student. You were doing work for me. This is my project and you are a student who assisted. Thats how this works.”

“You may have been pursuing it, but there’s something to be said about how I built the array to measure these frequencies for you. I’m the one who poured through over 90 pages of printed graphs and singled out various frequencies. And I’m the one who brought the anomaly of the PULSARS to your attention. And not just once, but multiple times!” Bulma starts crying as she notices him roll his eyes.

“And, and, and you told me it was just man-made interference! You dismissed me, and it wasn’t until I brought Dr. Rains in that you took my discovery seriously!” Bulma screams shaking the newspaper at him.

“Are you finished?” he asks after sipping at his coffee as he types something on his TRS-80 desktop computer. Bulma’s mouth drops open. He glances over at her when she doesn’t say anything.

“I’m going to say this again; students aid in these findings and are never nominated for these things. You may have helped, but this was my project.”

“I did more than help; I built the device, and did all the labor and searching, then managed to find your evidence. I did everything for you, and you couldn’t have the decency to give me my due?” She asks in a shaky voice.

“I’ve had enough. I won't have you accuse me of not working on my own discovery, Ms. Briefs.” He says calmly, gesturing to the door. Bulma stands there and wipes her eyes. She nods.

“So, this is it then? You’re just going to dismiss me, just like that? Like I was just some student to you?” She asks and his face twists in disgust. He gives her a threatening glare.

“Now you’re just talking nonsense. Leave.”

Bulma closes her eyes tightly. It felt like everything that was perfect was nothing more than an illusion; as if she had woken up from a pleasant dream and was thrown straight into some kind of nightmare, everything about what she understood about this reality of the situation ripped from under her feet. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion as she tries to process his denial.

Did she imagine that night of her freshman year he kissed her, and how he’d be honored to have her assistance in having the famous Bulma Briefs help him discover space? How he literally promised her the stars?

Was this really the same man who made her fall in love with science all over again?

She turns from him, dazed, and puts her hand on the doorknob and turns it slowly until it clicks into the unlocked position, and she stops her movements.

“If you truly believe you did nothing wrong, then, you won’t mind if I go to the dean and explain my concerns, right?” She mutters angrily.

Time suddenly starts moving once more, too quickly even, as she hears his seat squeak and his hand slam against the door preventing her from opening it, and he grabs her by the shoulder and whips her around, shoving her against the unforgiving surface.

“Maybe you’re not as bright as I thought you were, so let me break this down for you, Bulma. You are just a student. You work under a professor and assist with their research, the amount you contribute is irrelevant. How hard you work is trivial. Everyone knows that as a student you shut your mouth and play the game.” The professor explains with a wild look on his face. One of his hands comes down and puts it over her mouth and grips her cheeks tightly and Bulma starts shaking, frozen in a trauma response.

“It’s grunt work. You are an undergraduate pawn. Free labor. The best you can hope for is using this experience to pad out your CV, that you worked on a major project when you apply for a graduate program, and then one day you can lead your own project and only THEN do you get your name published. Do you understand? DO YOU?!” he says releasing her face and grabbing the collar of her pajamas and slamming her against the door once more.

“If you say anything to deprecate my character, I assure you I will make sure no PhD will work with you for as long as you live. I will make sure you are blacklisted from every journal. Everyone will know you’re nothing more than a spoiled little heiress throwing a temper tantrum. Is that what you want you stupid little brat!?” He asks in a soft, threatening voice.

Bulma grips her fists. He still has his hand over her mouth, and she feels like she cant breathe.

I’ve got to get out of here.

I must get away from him.

She opens her mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. She can’t move. Bulma starts trying to kick against him but he’s too strong and holds her in place, and his face is crazed and frightening.

The teenager finally manages to bite his hand, and he pulls back but slams her harder against the door. Bulma opens her mouth and takes a deep breath as she raises her fist.

“YOU. THIEVING. BASTARD!” She wails striking the scientist in his face.

“Bulma, what are you doing?!”

Bulma’s eyes snap open, and she realizes she’s no longer a teenager nor in her sleazy professor’s office, the memory she relived from nearly a decade ago.

She’s sitting up in a hospital bed, her leather jacket halfway hanging off her left shoulder that’s aching in pain, in a small room with multiple people. She suddenly feels a sharp pain in the knuckles of her right hand, and realizes its balled in a fist in front of her.

There is a large red and white sign hanging on the wall in front of her, that states, in Saiyago:

“S/HTLV-3 care at Red Ribbon is paid for by your Saiyan Patriarchy—Get tested! Do your part and SAVE our race!”

Her eyes focus, looking to where the voice that woke her up is, and she sees Raditz with his eyes wide in shock. He’s still in his police uniform standing next to another large Saiyan in uniform who she mistook at first for Goku, but the scar on his cheek gave him away.

“Baba?” She asks softly to Bardock. He stares at her for a moment, then opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by his horrified son.

“Bulma…you just…the patriarch…holy shit…” Raditz says putting his hands in his wild hair that’s now let down. Bulma pulls her hand back to her and looks at it to figure out why it was so sore.

Suddenly a large hand grabs the side of her hospital bed guard rail, and she shrieks as she rears back, seeing a heavily muscled, tanned man in a white coat try to stand holding his right eye. She recognized his gravity defying spiked hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and those angry eyebrows, which looked a lot more furrowed than she remembered.

“…Hot… cigarette …guy?” She asks, and the man leans on the rail for a moment with his head back and he releases a groan as he presses his hand to his eye and inhales through his sharp teeth. She hears Raditz let out something like a laugh, or a shriek, and Bardock elbows him, but keeps a stoic face.

“Oh God, ah, dude I am so, so sorry.” Bulma says as she reaches out to the doctor, and he puts a hand up to stop her before she can touch him.

“No apologies necessary.” He says through gritted teeth as he turns from her. There is something about his voice that stirs something in her, something familiar about him she can’t place.

 She’s ripped from her thoughts by a crunching noise. He stands there for a moment and lets out a slow sigh.

“Well, I found my glasses it seems.” He says looking down and lifting his dress shoe to reveal the broken frame and lens. Bulma makes a grimacing face to her adoptive father and brother. Bardock nudges his son with his elbow once more; making Raditz stop his panicking and approaches the injured doctor.

“Ah…let me help you…Vegeta Khan.” Raditz says kneeling on the floor and picking up the remains of his leaders’ glasses.

“Appreciated. I have a spare set in my office. They’re an old prescription but It’ll be fine.” He mutters pulling his hand away from his eye, and Bulma can tell it’s already bruising and her heart sinks.

It hits her then.

Raditz called him ‘Vegeta Khan?’

“Vegeta…as in the Sadala family? The Saiyan Patriarch?” Bulma asks softely. She knows its not the same Khan she had run into before that day, as this man was much shorter, stockier, and had no facial hair like his predecessor, but otherwise he looked like a spitting image.

Must be his son.

Bulma decides to tease him a little.

“You look a lot younger than the last time I met you, sir.” Bulma speaks in a soft, high-pitched voice. The man looks at her and reaches over and picks up a lamp that was knocked off a table when he fell.

“The previous khan, my father, Vegeta the Third, has…ah, let’s just call it ‘retired.’” He states with a painful huff. Bulma’s mouth drops and she covers her eyes with her hand and says nothing.

So much for first impressions.

“If it distresses you to call me by my given name, you have my blessing to continue calling me…what was it again? ‘Hot Cigarette Guy?’ No. ‘Homeboy.’” He snorts pulling out a chair to sit on and lowering the rail to the bed and she swears she hears Raditz do that stunned laugh/squeak again.

“Gods.” Bulma mutters, her face burning, refusing to look at him again. She feels him pat the side of the bed for her to come closer and she looks back at him reluctantly.

“Detective, I know you woke up in a not so ideal situation, but I came in early today because Dr. Red paged me to look you over, so if you’ll allow me the honor of taking care of you.” he says softly gesturing his hand to the edge of the hospital bed. Bulma is disarmed at his kindness, especially after everything she did to him she can’t understand how he can be so patient. She shifts and tries to put weight on her injured arm without thinking and lets out a pained squeal as she quickly shifts her weight off of it.

“What is the matter?” He asks.

“The killer dislocated my shoulder when we were fighting.” Bulma grimaces. Dr. Sadala reaches up and then pauses before he touches her shoulder to inspect it, his eyes asking for consent. Bulma gently removes her leather jacket and nervously nods for him to continue his inspection. He has her move her arm in various directions to test her range of motion and then places a gloved hand on the back of her shoulder and she tenses and he immediately pulls away.

“Hmm, When I first walked in, I tried to wake you up by tapping your arm. Hmph, no wonder you almost sent me to eternally rest with the goddess,” he chuckles and Bulma gives him a gentle smile but says nothing. She’s put her foot in her mouth around this guy too much already, and his charm is making her face flush something hot. He puts his hands in his lap and stands.

“I’m going to send you home with a sling. You need to rest it for the next few weeks. Ice it and I can give you a prescription for the stronger version of Ibuprofen if you want, assuming you don’t have a history of heart or kidney issues--that is.”

Bulma shakes her head.

“Dr. Vegeta…Khan.” She starts off.

“Detective, you can just call me Vegeta. The only person in this room who must honor me is Raditz, because I can’t stand him.” The doctor smiles.

“It’s true.” Raditz chimes in and his father snorts.

“I’m sorry…I would dishonor my father Bardock by speaking to you so casually, especially after assaulting you, Vegeta Khan.” Bulma states to him in perfect Saiyago. Vegeta looks back at Bardock and he nods.

“Very well, Detective Briefs. Please continue working closely with my police to protect my people,” he says gently grazing his fingertips over her forehead in the shape of the Saiyan anchor, an old tradition of a warriors blessing. Bulma’s face turns bright red at his heated touch, but she keeps it locked up inside.

“Now, if you’ll all excuse me, as if I didn’t have enough to do between ruling our people and being a research physician, I now have taken over some of Geros old assignments, goddess guide his soul.”

She notices the doctor look over to Bardock and Raditz, and they put a fisted hand to their chests as a salute. As he turns to leave, Dr Sadala runs into the door frame and Bulma puts her hands over her mouth. Vegeta stands there and grits his teeth a moment, then continues out the door slowly and lets the door close behind him.

Bulma still has her hands over her mouth, and she makes the mistake of making eye contact with Raditz; his face is as red as her nail polish. He drops to his knees and then all fours and lets out the loudest laugh as he collapses to the floor, and Bulma is tearing up but still stunned at the turn of events. She hears Bardock mutter something angry at this son but she couldn’t hear it over her brother’s laughter. Bulma sees Bardock glare angrily at her and she freezes.

“Am…am I grounded, Baba?” She asks the elder Saiyan through Raditz’s laughter, and his frown deepens.

Its been three hours since Raditz, Bardock and her arrived back at the family home she had spent part of her life growing up in. Bardock had sat her down at the table, and it was there she found out he had stepped up to acting Sheriff since the other one had been killed in action two years prior. She tried to yell at him that she had tried to contact the Saiyans sheriffs office when she first landed and he explained he had been handling other issues and expected to see her eventually.

It was then she admitted to him that the killer had taken her gun, a huge grievous mistake for any officer, state or federal, that usually carried with it suspension or termination. The two sat in silence for a while, and Bardock suggested she go get some sleep while he thinks.

She told him not to bother thinking, and just report the facts and the FBI would follow up with her to let her know their decision on the matter, but she was going to keep investigating until she was told otherwise.

But she knew she probably had a couple of days to wrap this up before the axe fell from the feds, and she wasn’t going to wait around, she was going to at least solve this case.

She took refuge in the first room she came to, found a bunk bed and crawled to the top, laid her head on the pillow there and cried until her consciousness slipped away.

Her daily 6:30 am alarm went off on her watch, which she used to motivate herself to exercise for some new year’s resolution she gave up on years ago. On a typical day in the life of Bulma Briefs, the alarm is ignored and she continues to sleep in until 8:30 am.

But this morning, Bulma couldn’t close her eyes. She sits up, and notices that in addition to the hurt shoulder, now everything on her body hurts. She remembers how the criminal slammed her into the wall when he first put her in that armbar.

That explains everything.

She clenches her fist angrily and stands up, grabbing her coat off the chair and exits Bardock and Gine’s home quietly.

It was time to make his ‘everything’ hurt.

“Yo! I got your page; you find anything cool in the NCIC?” Bulma asks into the giant brick cell phone in her car much later in the day. She’d driven to her hotel that’s just inside west city limits, too uncomfortable to stay on Saiyan lands for too long.

An unpleasant memory of her meeting with the old Saiyan Khan makes her bite her lip.

“None of these scientist guys have any criminal records to speak of. Hell, not even a single traffic violation…” The male at the other end of the phone laughs and Bulma smirks.

“Seriously, Jaco? Not even a single traffic ticket? Shit, so you’re telling me this killer is pissed off at a bunch of boy scouts?!” She laughs nervously.

“As far as employment history…These guys are very, very dedicated. All of them have been with this company for at least a decade, Red and Cold even longer.”

“Not surprised they’re the owners…anything else?” Bulma groans.

“Hmmmm…they’re all filthy fucking rich. These guys all have multiple addresses and fancy ass cars registered to their respective estates. Must be fucking nice to be rich. No offense.”

“My parents are rich, not me. I make it on my own, ass.” Bulma hisses.

“Thrilling story. Anyway, looks like Red Ribbon shares soared in the stock market a couple of years back when they announced they were given…uhhh…’Accelerated Approval’ from the FDA for some drug? And uh…Looks like said drug just came out to market this year.”

“Ah, that Retrovir drug?” Bulma says recalling the banner in the lobby from last night’s adventure.

“Yep, look at you. Drug has been a huge success for them. Big, big bucks. Anyway, that’s all I got. Everything is clean and legal on these guys, but, well you know. I’m sure you can find something. You always do, kiddo.

“Word. Thanks, Jaco.” Bulma sighs hanging up her car’s cellphone. She taps her nails on her steering wheel, wondering if the names that crazy killer gave her were just a red herring to distract her from finding him.

“What if I told you that you’re helping the enemy?

“The blood on my hands is minuscule compared to the massive red bath in which these scientists bathe.”

“Because if I give you the answers, maybe you can work backwards and figure out the problem.”

Bulma pulls a cigarette from a pack in her purse and clicks her car’s cigarette lighter to heat up. She can’t let her psychotic killer’s words leave her, even though her training is telling her to just focus on the murders he’s caused.

What else was there to investigate with these guys that it would be so obvious that they would be ‘bathing in blood?’ The money looked like it was legitimate income, even when she looked through Wheelo’s various bank records that looked suspicious at first, she did the numbers and it was clean. He really did make that much fucking money and wanted to retire in another country.

She hears the click of her car’s now heated lighter and pulls it out and places it to her cigarette taking gentle puffs. She lays back in her seat, letting it hang from her lips as the smoke swirls around her like a protective veil.

Taking in her surroundings, she realizes she hasn’t seen much activity at the farmers market right on the border of West City and the Saiyan lands nearby her hotel. She puts her car in drive. She loved a particular tea from there that helped with her menstrual headaches and cramps, but she ran out of it years ago.

As she turns left out of the parking lot of her hotel, she notices storm clouds forming again and rolls her eyes. As she pulls up she sees the stalls and they look weathered and worn down, the once white paint now starting to crack. She drives her car up to the entrance which is roped off and there is a large wooden sign posted.

The rain starts to fall, and it’s so heavy the visibility just from her car is impossible to see clearly. She resigns herself to being soaking wet once more, and gets out of her car, walking past the light beams that reflect off the heavy rain. She makes it up to the sign and squints at the faded red writing.

Red like dried blood.

She realizes it’s in Saiyago, and it takes a moment for her exhausted brain to catch up

“Closed…to stop the spread of death, by order…of the Khan. May the goddess save us…?” she reads aloud. Bulma leans in and sees the date of this notice is from three years ago.

May the goddess save us?

She stands there for a moment as the rain hits her forehead and drenches her hair. The very faded red lettering was activating something in her mind.

Then lightning streaked across the sky, and for a moment the flash gave the water collecting on the ground and on her skin the illusion of blood, and she gasps.

She hears the serial killers’ words in her mind, and everything clicks.

“The blood on my hands is minuscule compared to the massive red bath in which these scientists bathe.”

“Blood.” She mutters staring at her hands, the brief illusion of being drenched in blood instead of water still fresh in her mind.

Undetectable means Untransferable!

Do your part and SAVE our race!

Bulma’s eyes widen, and she takes a step back, her doc martins sinking into a newly formed puddle.

Drug has been a huge success for them. Big, big bucks!

Unethical business practices, no doubt.

“Holy shit…oh goddess no.” Bulma says turning, almost running into the hood of her car, her legs weak as she opens the door and locks it, the scent of her lost cigarette envelops her once more.

Her heart is racing. She’s trying to remember to breathe. She grabs her phone and her hands are wet on the plastic, and she re-dials Jaco frantically.

“You know what to do!” Comes his voicemail and Bulma rolls her eyes.

“Jaco! It’s B! I need you to call me right back. I need NIH access!”

Bardock sits in his desk chair with arms crossed as another meeting with his deputies spirals into debates of various issues. He goes to stand, his gait slow as his deputies continue to argue over specifics of some criminal case he has long tuned out. He looks out the window of his office and watches the new cadets training outside.

Vegeta Kahn, since taking over the Nation of Saiyans in place of his father, created a new training complex for the police, and that all Saiyans would be trained martially to prepare to defend their nation. The new ruler insisted that there was a return to the militaristic roots and ruthlessness the Saiyans were known for, which pleased Bardock. The previous Kahn was too seduced by the outside influences by the likes of that damn drug company and his abuse of the drink.

Their new ruler was bringing the Saiyan culture back to the forefront, and taking a step back from worrying about building them up into something capitalistic, insisting that money and profits would fall into place, and that the goddess would lead them once more.

It’s then the Sheriff is ripped from his thoughts by a door swinging open and he turns from the window to see Bulma heaving, mascara streaking down her face. The Deputies cease their speaking and whip around and one gives an awkward cough.

“BABA. I NEED ACCESS TO ALL VITAL RECORDS!” She screeches dramatically. A tall Saiyan officer runs behind her. Bardock blushes at her causal use of what a child would call their father in the comfort of a household. Saiyan Cubs are taught to not use those terms in public and are encouraged and weaned from dependency from their parents at a young age.

He always blamed Gine for making his sons so damned clingy; Frequenting his domicile when he was supposed to be an empty nester with his mate.

But in this moment when he should be flustered that his adoptive daughter barges into his office using a child’s term, calling out for his help, he can’t help but feel his heart flutter a moment, despite his reserved, guarded demeanor.

He thinks back to the day she was banished from Saiyan lands and said his goodbyes to her as she was about to board the flight to FBI training:

“The only dishonor you give me is by calling me by my native name. To you, I am Baba, always. Understood, my cub?”

He loved hearing her call out for him, it stoked that paternal instinct inside him that he never had as a cub, and he wasn’t about to not be what, or who, she needed him to be.

“I’m sorry sir, she was unstoppable and shoved past all of us.”

Bardock tenses his jaw, then unwraps one of his hands from his crossed arms and gestures for Bulma to come forward.

“Everyone out, the detective briefs and I need to chat.”

The room was empty in seconds, the last officer closing the door behind him. Bulma stood just past the door, her clenched fists shaking as the tears streamed down her face.

Bardock walks slowly to the front of his desk and leans against it; his cold stare softens just slightly. He slowly opens his arms and waves his hands to her once.

“Come here,” he says in his gruff voice, a gentleness to his voice that he rarely ever used.

“I…” Bulma stutters. She knows affection from him was rare, the last time he did something like this was when she was banished that day several year ago.

“Do not make me repeat myself, brat.” He growls threateningly. A demand.

In an instant Bulma is in his arms, gripping the front of his uniform. He slowly wraps his arms around her, his hold light. He lets her cry and he doesn’t speak. He knows she’ll talk when shes ready. He wonders for a moment when this patience inside of him manifested?

Her body is heaving.

“I’m an idiot.” Bulma chokes out.

“Sometimes, but of all my idiot children, you’re at most tolerable.” He mutters. She looks up at him and he’s grinning. He ruffles her wet, messed up hair.

“So, tell me, what does my favorite idiot need?”

“I need the nations mortality data. All of it.” She husks. Bardock grips her shoulders and pulls her back and raises an eyebrow. He was expecting her to mention something about losing her gun or fumbling the incident from the previous night.

“What are you not telling me cub?”

“Baba, I think Red Ribbon is doing terrible things to our people.”

Bulma stumbles into her hotel room at around 9:30 pm, her arms carrying a banker’s box of various items, but mostly stapled paper. She manages to maneuver around and locks the door behind her. She places the box on the desk next to her full-size bed and starts unpacking it quickly:

A large stack of photocopied papers.

Large stapler.

Three Composition notebooks

Highlighters

Post Its

Two cartons of Chatham (off brand) cigarettes

A box of Miller lite.

And industrial size bag of low-fat animal crackers

A rental of an animated 1959 musical rendition of Sleeping Beauty—her favorite childhood movie.

She organizes her haul and cracks open a beer while they’re still cold as this room has no fridge, opens the animal crackers and sits down to the size-able stack of photocopied research studies. She places her beer down on the table. She pulls an animal cracker to her lips as she looks over the first study abstract; she hesitates for a moment.

The first paper is titled Human Oncogene bladder epithelium cell transplantation to Maurine hosts—Findings and Discussion for Future Pharmacological Treatments and Interventions, authored by Red, Cold, Ginyu, et al.

A paper on recent findings that cancer cells were not always the result of a virus, but rather a failure in checkpoints in the cells cycle to stop unchecked growth and division.

It was hard for her to read the abstract. The writing was meant for subject matters she was not educated in, cellular biology and biochemistry. She had a medical terminology journal with her, writing out definitions as she read along.

“Oncogene: Mutated gene that promotes unregulated cell division and growth.”

“Protooncogene: A normal gene that has a functioning “checkpoint” to stop a cell from developing into cancerous growth.”

“Murine: Mouse derived.”

It’s been so long since shes looked over a scientific journal--years. She kept telling herself that since these were medical journals it would be different from the basic science journals she used to research. She told herself they would look different and feel different.

The anxiety and regret from that memory came to haunt her anyway.

She wanted nothing more than to be an astrophysicist. She was going to inherit capsule corp from her father and lead from the vanguard of research, like her father. She would not be just some person with an MBA leading a company. She was going to be what she expected of her scientists. To lead as a scientist.

She was well on her way to graduating early as a junior in college and would have been a shoe into any graduate school. Why did she give up on this?

But she knows why. All it took was a professor she adored to betray her and rip away all joy research and science meant to her.

“Everyone will know you’re nothing more than a spoiled little heiress throwing a temper tantrum. Is that what you want, huh?! You stupid little brat!”

She grips the animal cookie with her fingers and looks away from her journal.

I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t.

She puts the cookie down on her notebook and quickly stands up and walks over to the other side of the desk and opens a golden VHS case and places the tape in a bulky contraption connected to a television in her bedroom.

The screen flickers, and then the orchestra music plays with an image of an archaic bound book opening, a chorus of voices chiming in over the image.

I know you; I walked with you once upon a dream

I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

Yet I know it’s true that visions are seldom what they seem.

But if I know you, I know what you’ll do

You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream

Bulma walks back to the edge of her bed and sits, thoughtfully humming to the song that warms her heart as she imagines what it would be like to allow someone to be her hero, like the prince was to the cursed princess in this tale. She often joked to herself that she would be the perfect sleeping beauty, as sleep was one of her favorite ‘hobbies.’

Bulma has always been the one to rescue herself out of situations, and she had to be her own hero. It’s why she was such a terrible team player. She felt like she couldn’t rely on anyone else.

I’m just self-sufficient, she told herself.

As a little girl, she wanted her Prince to come and take her away. She looked at the story now as an allegory for her life: She was trapped in a castle, surrounded by the dragon that manifested from her past failures in life.

I almost ruined my father’s company with my demand for equality.

I couldn’t keep Yamcha happy

I couldn’t fight that asshole or finish my degree. He used me and I let him. I fell for it.

I couldn’t convince the old Kahn to not tear down half the sacred forest for a crooked company.

I couldn’t stop that killer last night. What makes me think I can stop him now? Am I going about this the right way?

The image of the lightning making the water around her appear as blood invades her mind. And the haunting words written on the sign speak over the image:

May the goddess save us

That’s right. This was about something bigger.

Saving the Saiyans.

She nods, turning the volume down on the television and walking back to her little research study she created.

Sure, there was no Prince coming to her rescue. It’s always been on her shoulders to solve her own problems and help others solve theirs.

Being a damsel isn’t my style anyway, and men are trash and princes don’t exist.

Nothing’s changed, and right now, her trauma and insecurities were going to have to take a hike. She grabs her still cold beer and downs a few sips before chucking another can in the trash, and she angrily grabs her lion cookie and stares at it a moment.

Can I do this?

Her teeth answer for her as she angrily bites the head off like it has personally offended her.

She picks up her highlighter and flips through the abstract as she reaches into her bag and grabs another cookie to angrily assault.

Bulma is passed out cold, laying her head on her injured shoulder on the desk, snoring peacefully in her alcohol induced slumber, a highlighter still loosely in the grip of her fingers. Her messy locks cascade over the table and her face.

She doesn’t realize eyes have been watching her closely.

And now that she’s passed out drunk, he feels he’s waiting long enough.

There is a gentle click of the window opening, and hushed, unhurried full footsteps cross the thin green and brown hued fabric of the hotel floor.

She’s still in her outfit from their previous meeting.

He sees a corkboard on the back of the desk leaning against the wall with each scientist that was murdered, what facility they were at, and a new section of what projects they were in charge of. He sees off to the side the other scientists he listed as his targets with their names.

His attention turns to the television screen that’s now blue from the movie she had playing on VHS now stopped. He looks over the case next to the VHS player and smirks.

In an instant he’s next to her, hovering over her body as he scans over what she’s been reading and looks over her notes, his gloved hands quietly flipping through her many notes and summaries of studies by the list of scientists he gave her. He gives a nod and looks down at he sleeping body.

Slowly he brings a gloved hand up to his mouth and bites down on the tip of his ring finger and pulls his hand out.

He reaches down and gently brushes his fingertips over the hair in her face, pushing it behind her ear. He leans in and inhales the scent of her hair, a mixture of her natural scent and a hint of a sweet-smelling fruit.

His body shivers, and he releases single breath like it was torn out of him.

“It pleases me to see you pushing yourself so hard to understand what your people need. Soon you’ll understand everything as I see it, and with your power, you will make us reach our former glory once more. To be as we were always meant to be on this planet.”

He feels her body stir underneath him and he doesn’t move or shift.

He leans in once more to smell her hair, and he pulls away slowly, hesitantly. As if it physically pained him to leave her. He runs his fingertips over her blue stands once more, and then slowly pulls away.

“Rest well, sleeping beauty.”

Bulma sits up with a gasp from the table and stands up like she was shot, and frantically looks around the room.

A dream?

Its around 5am, and the lamp outside her window illuminates her room, the desk lamp turned off and her leather coat hanging off her shoulders.

I don’t remember turning the lamp off or putting this on.

She looks around for any evidence that the dream was more than just a dream. She walks over to the window she dreamed of him entering from, and it was unlocked.

Bulma reaches over to flip the latch to lock it, and she hesitates. She remembers how he stroked her hair in her dream and she gets pleasant goosebumps.

I want to talk to him more, maybe that's why I dreamed of him coming to me?

Knowing it was against her better judgement, she decides to leave it unlocked.

Let me share some of the amazing fanart that people made for this fic (I dont deserve you guys!)




By DanizinhaUT

By Bulmoose

By DanizinhaUT

By Ninjaphile

Chapter Text

His eyes snap open as he inhales sharply and sits up from his bed. The static noise that constantly plagues him seems louder this morning than usual. The candlelight from small the oil lamp he keeps at the end of the room carved from the mountain palace burns just bright enough to where he can make an outline of the room. He looks around his chambers and inspects his surroundings as he reorients himself.

Or tries to.

Sweat.

Localized lower back pain.

Neuralgia in distal end of fingers and toes.

Gum pain.

…and…

He pauses a moment and notices the stench of urine and sighs in frustration.

Nocturia?

For the second night in a row.

He rips the soaked covers off his body and notices the additional thick exude over his stomach and thighs. He drops his head back and runs his calloused, thick fingers though his wild mane, closing his eyes, and remains still a moment, continuing to analyze the situation.

Nocturnal emission?

What is this, puberty in my mid-thirties?

I hope whatever I dreamed of was worth the mess.

He stands and winces at the air meeting his wet skin, his nose filled with the stench of his own piss and jizz as he bundles up the linens and tosses them in a garbage can.

No matter how many times he washes his sheets after he’s had an episode like this, his sensitive nose would always pick up the smell of piss and he couldn’t stand it.

He stomps into his personal shower room and turns only the hot water on, and glances at the clock.

3:30am.

“Tch.”

The shower has no curtain or door, its just a spicket coming out of the rock that rains down on him in a closed area. Vegeta lets the hot water drip down his back, and as it passes over his old tail scar, he feels an unusual burning sensation.

Odd. Normally heat would help relax the muscle.

He continues to let the hot water hit the sore spot, but the pain relief doesn’t come.

He gives up and lathers up the bar of soap in his hands and starts cleaning, digging his fingertips into his skin and scouring himself clean.

Today was going to be a long day, which meant it was not a wind therapy type day. He’d ride his bike another day.

Instead, today was a day for the 1970 black Challenger. His baby.

However, instead of enjoying the ride, his mind keeps drifting to his unusual behaviors and symptoms.

The night after Wheelos murder, the nocturia started again, which he found odd. He hadn’t pissed the bed in quite some time before these last two nights. At least not since his late teens. Maybe once in medical school during board season.

Which only meant one thing:

Something, or someone, was getting under his skin.

Hmph, Well, it certainly isn’t me missing Wheelo.

He chuckles at his thought, still feeling what he presumed was joy at reminiscing over the memory of that bastard pleading for his life as he dealt with the pain of his myocardial tissue starving itself of oxygen and being forced to confront the sins of his life, the scene replaying in his head giving him a rush that broadens the smirk on his face to a full smile.

Vegeta feels a chill run through his body, and it causes his cock to throb from the thrill. The rush. The control.

He pulls into Red Ribbons parking lot. It’s around 5 am now and the parking lot is mostly empty except for the additional guards put in place as added security in response to Wheelos death.

He parks his car and takes a deep breath.

This damn erection is too obvious right now; get yourself under control, you grinning idiot.

He rolls his shoulders once and tries regaining his wits and forces himself to walk through yesterday.

Chaos.

Shocked colleagues.

No joking.

Silence.

And lastly, act afraid.

Vegeta had trouble expressing fear, as he cannot recall a time when he’s personally felt worried about his own safety.

But right now, he needed to blend in with his colleagues and play the part of being afraid.

“If it could happen to Wheelo, it could happen to any of us.” He remembers one research assistant muttering to another.

The grin he's been trying to remove from his face returns as he laughs at the thought of these nobodies worrying about the big, bad serial killer.

When he feels ready to play the part of a mourning co-worker, he opens his car door and steps out into the still dark night sky and closes the door behind him. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a cigarette from his case.

Newports.

They weren’t an affront to his senses like other brands.

As he pulls out his lighter and flicks the Zeppo open, he flicks his thumb over the primer and sees the sparks, and its then he gets a flash of her eyes, and his body freezes.

Her number.

It’s still in my pocket.

And she looked so amazing for such a lewd creature. I wouldn't mind seeing what else that cheeky mouth of hers can accomplish.

An image of him gripping her hair by the base of her scalp and using it to hold her against the shower wall as he had his fill of her flashes across his mind. He can almost hear her crying out, her tone pleading has she begs him for more.

Whatever “more” meant he wasn’t sure. It’s just what he’d seen in some cheesy porn he’d come across while in college.

Did it mean to increase speed of how he fucked her? The force?

But he shakes his head, flicking the lighter closed and placing the cigarette back in its case, the unexpected vivid sexual fantasy throwing him off guard.

Vegeta never craved sex before, as his only sexual experience was unpleasant, and he’s avoided the act for well over 25 years.

Why am I having these thoughts now? Of the FBI woman, no less.

Something inside me has changed.

He doesn’t realize he hasn’t adjusted his face to meet the “tone” of what today should be, and he’s wearing a thoughtful scowl as he walks past the guards, and they give him a light bow. He raises his hand as a returning gesture.

He doesn’t see the yellow caution tape inside the building anymore, so law enforcement must be finished collecting their evidence.

Vegeta walks up the stairs, continuing to be lost in thought.

The woman. Will I see her again now that she’s collected what she needed?

His thoughts of blue-haired FBI agent vanish as he makes his way to the third floor where his research group for S/HTLVIII is located, and as he scans his badge and walks into the hall, he notices the light to the department is shining into the hallway.

He stills.

Why is the light on?

No one is here as early as I am.

Ever. 

He cautiously walks toward the open door and looks inward, and he keeps his scowled face unmoved as he notices that it’s the department’s assistant who is making coffee.

“Vomi, you’re here very early.” Vegeta mutters, scaring the woman and she quickly turns around. She looks at the head of her department and places a hand to her chest, and inhales and exhales audibly.

“Gods, I’m sorry you scared me to death.”

“Likewise.”

“Apologies, I couldn’t sleep so I just decided I might as well come in.”

Vegeta was about to ask her why, but then remembered he needed to pretend to care that the man he killed was something more than just an insect.

I need to say something comforting and sorrowful. I need to make sure my face matches this sentiment.

“That makes two of us I suppose.” He says walking toward her slowly, making sure his scowl was gone, his thick eyebrows relaxed and his eyes filled with concern, or at least as much as he could pretend to have concern. He gently places his large hand on Vomi’s shoulder and meets her distant gaze, bringing her mind back to him.

“Can I do anything for you? You should take some time for yourself. And, for your safety, I don’t want you coming in here alone until they catch whoever did this, understand?”

He has to suppress a smirk at his own comment.

“I, I don’t want to go home right now. I’ll take my chances with meeting the killer.” Vomi turns away from Vegeta and opens a cabinet where some paper filters for the coffee maker are placed.

“Let me go ahead and get your coffee started. I know…I know you’ll be cranky by mid morning if I don’t get you caffeinated now.” She tries to laugh as she fills the glass container with water from the sink, trying to discreetly wipe her eyes.

Vegeta was not the greatest at understanding emotions. It was true he had difficulty feeling empathy for others.

But even he could tell that Vomi was hiding something. She’d rather take the risk of being murdered than being home? That told him everything he needed. He has known her long enough. His whole life, in fact.

And she genuinely was one of the few people in this world that would leave a void in his already empty chest cavity if something ever happened to her.

A flash of a memory of Vomi in her white coat, running down red ribbons dark hallways with his frail, malnourished eight-year-old body in her arms.

“Stay with me, little prince! I’m going to get you out of here! I swear my life on it.”

Pushes the memory back, and gives a smirk as he sees her struggling to fill the coffee decanter.

He takes the glass container from her and pours it into the back of the coffee maker and lets her start the machine. She tries to walk away but he instead clears his throat, and she stops mid step to look back at him.

“Are you going to make me ask? I know you too well, so let’s just skip to the part where you tell me what else is wrong?”

Vomi reaches up and plays with a lock of her long, auburn hair that Vegeta knows should have started turning gray long ago.

“While none of us are taking Wheelo’s murder well, my husband is…struggling…” She says, trying not to meet Vegeta’s eyes.

“Did he hurt you?” Vegeta asks.

“No.” Vomi states reflexively. Vegeta was not convinced, and he knew that while he might be a murderer, Gero was the epidemy of true evil and had the blood of Saiyans on his hands.

“Listen, He’s upset about Wheelo just like the rest of us. He just …can’t process grief like the rest of us. It’s been a while so Im going to give him some grace.”

Vegeta keeps a neutral expression, but the static in his ears grows louder. He doesn’t hear Vomi’s words of understanding and unconditional love for her abusive husband.

He thinks back to 30 years ago, when Vomi was a bright, intelligent woman, who was geros co-scientist. She was sharp, funny, and loved carrying candy in her pocket that she would often share with him.

And his late brother.

As time went on, and Geros temper grew beyond his control, Vomi started to lose that spirit she once had. Years of an abusive marriage were taking a toll on her to a neurological level, her critical thinking and memory having lapses.

Now she was the HTLT/Virology department’s assistant. More of a sectorial job.

Thoughts of making sure Gero never hurt Vomi ever again crossed his mind, and that pleasing chill sent that reward signal back to his brain.

The static in his ears lessoned.

Gero may not have been on his list for The Plan, but he was now at the top of vegetas personal list.

Gero has served out his usefulness to Vegeta anyway. He was dead weight at this point and just waiting for his patent for the immunoassays to detect S/HTLVIII positive antibodies to be approved and he’d never have to work another day in his life. Maybe he’d finally be a good husband to Vomi without the stress of working at Red Ribbon.

But Vegeta has decided that Gero does not deserve happiness.

Vomi does.

And it felt right to give only Vomi happiness.

“Vegeta?”

He breaks free from his thoughts and notices she has an expectant look on her face. She’s asked a question he suspects.

And he has no idea what.

He looks down a moment and thinks. Then, meets her gaze again. He keeps his expression neutral.

“Do you still love those overly sweet little pastries that I find overrated?” he asks softly, his relaxed face meeting with hers once more. Vomi stares at him a moment and then brings hr hand up to her face and laughs. In fact, she laughs so hard tears well in her eyes and she removes her glasses.

“They’re called macaroons, Vegeta.”

He snorts and crosses his arms defensively.

“Yes, yes. There is a little shop that opened downtown that some of the firm at the palace speak highly of. I’ll take you there for lunch today. Be ready around 11.” He says turning away and reaching into his pocket and getting a set of keys to unlock his office door. Vomi puts her hands in front of her and starts wringing them nervously.

“I can’t…he might not like that Vegeta…you know how he can be.”

Vegeta stills a moment, and then continues to search for the correct key on his key ring and slides it into the lock until it clicks, taking a moment to think of what the correct social response to this should be.

Fuck it, I’ll say what I want.

“Gero can file a complaint with me if he wants. I rule this land, and I’m permitted to take my adoptive mother to lunch as often as I please.” He almost growls back.

Oh, how I wish he would say something to me. I might snap his neck and solve everyones problem in one go of it.

“Now you know he’s scared to death of you ever since …whatever incident you two had together years ago.”

Vegeta smirks slightly at her words, pushing open the door into his dark office, and looks back at his assistant with a rare, broad smile on his face, his sharp canines on display.

“Precisely.”

Vegeta’s deep voice feels like a warm protective blanket over the almost elderly woman, and Vomi gives him a smile while trying to suppress her tears and bows slightly. She walks away and Vegeta continues to wear a grin after his door is closed.

And after I kill him, I’ll feed you sweets every day for the rest of your life, little human.

By Ninjaphile

By DanizinhaUT

By Malmor

By Malmor

Chapter Text

Vegeta walks a slow, almost casual pace through the dark, densely wooded area, that, to his memory, ceased to exist. This area of the Forest of Saiyans was destroyed by Red Ribbon for their expansion almost six years ago when he was still in his internal medical residency.

It was night, and the only light came from the bright moon that gave an occasional beam of bright light through the dense tree canopy. Vegeta was warned often as a child to never frequent the forest of Saiyans alone, especially at night, as there were all kinds of dangerous predators.

But no one understood, it was the other way around. Even as a child, Vegeta was the deadly predator that all life should avoid crossing.

So why am I here now?

He pulls his calloused, large hand up to the bark of a passing oak tree and takes in the texture. It feels just as rough as he recalls as a child.

He stills a moment and closes his eyes. He listens to the sounds around him from both near and far: the hum of multitudes of Katydid’s and Crickets that had melded into a unified night choir. His ears slightly twitch at a night jar hiding about a mile away as it sounds off for a nightly companion. Finally, as a warm wind picks up he hears the rustling of the tree leaves above him.

Keeping his eyes closed, he takes a deep breath through his nose and takes in all the scents of the trees and ground around him, but something is off. Something sweet lacing the warm night air.

honey suckles?

Last I checked, it’s toward the end of April, not June, so why am I suddenly in a summer night, in a forest that no longer exists?

Vegeta opens his eyes partially, his large pupils dilated and adjusted for taking in additional light to keep his vision clear.

He looks at his hand on the tree bark, and frowns when he notices the bright white sleeve of his white coat.

I never wear this damn thing outside Red Ribbon or clinic. Why am I dressed for work?

He hears what sounds like a feminine voice’s soft calling out his name up ahead, the voice loud yet distorted along the warm wind. His brow furrows and he starts heading toward where it came from.

Bulma?

I know her voice, and every sound it could make.

And no one knows her like I do.

He removes his hand slowly off the tree and continues his walk, pushing the white fabric of his coat aside, and putting his hand into the pocket of his slacks as he walks.

His footsteps lead him to a clearing at the lake, and it’s as if there is no evidence Red Ribbon was ever built. The forest is completely intact. He stops at the lake’s edge, hands in his pockets as he looks up at the giant moon that revealed itself to him now that it was no longer obscured by the forest trees.

How…curious?

Vegeta takes in its bright light and stares a moment.

This entire vision he’s felt nothing. Nothing moved him.

No yearning for his youth or a time before red ribbon took over and destroyed this part of the forest. Even being confronted with the sounds of the night and the feeling of the summer air in all its lost nostalgia, all it was to him was a different version of static.

He couldn’t care less the forest was gone.

None of this vision had moved him.

But her voice did.

He hasn’t realized that hearing her voice is what pushed him toward his fate.

Where is she?

He crosses his arms and furrows his brow.

Don’t waste my time, woman.

The Saiyan royal looks around to the water, and he catches the giant moon’s light start to drip from its southernmost point down into the lake; the point where the moonlight droplets meet the water creates a rippling effect.

Vegeta watches as the rippling water starts to creature additional ripples, like someone is walking toward him, and it’s then she starts to manifest in front of him.

and the blue haired woman he’s been obsessing over the last several days. She’s covered in blood, which seems to be oozing slowly from a massive sunken chest wound. She walks weakly over to him, like she’s on her last bit of energy.

While this turn of events is unexpected, his face never changes its scowl. She lifts her head to meet his frown and gives him a warm smile, as if the mortal wound in her chest is no bother.

His autonomic nervous system forgets to remind him to breathe. He’s locked his eyes on her shimmering hair, stained with her own blood, he presumed.

The constant static he’s heard every day of his life in his ears stops. In fact, there is no sound of anything around him except for the sound of her bare feet gently stepping onto the calm lake water, very faintly rippling from her touches on the water’s surface hailing her presence as she approaches him, the blood from her chest dripping down into the clear water.

He was so focused on her chest wound he didn’t even notice that she’s completely nude, the thatch of blue catching his eyes.

Despite the gruesome scene, he finds her gorgeous.

Bulma stops at the water’s edge, just in front of him. Vegeta realizes he can’t bear to meet her eyes. As if an unusual tension in his gut seems to keep his gaze down, only her feet and legs are in view.

What is this hold inside of me? Why can’t I move?

She opens her mouth to speak, her voice sounding as if three people were speaking at once, distorted yet unified:

“Thank you. For seeing me, as I truly am; wounded, weak, and suffering. You don’t believe the lie in what and who I am trying to be.”

Vegeta says nothing, but he looks down at the ground when he realizes he cant resist the temptation of staring at her with his eyes full of lust and want.

“You have walked through your life devoid of so much feeling and connection, but for me? I have you almost on your knees in reverence.” She smirks teasingly.

“Tch.”

He doesn’t move.

She pauses a moment and her smile grows wider.

“You don’t deny it?”

Vegeta’s face starts to warm up to his ears at her words.

Reverence? Is that what this spell is she’s cast on me?

He’s taken from his thoughts as he feels two soft, wet hands gently touch his cheeks and lightly pull his face up to meet her warm, smiling gaze.

It’s then while he looks at her, he notices the hue of her eyes is darker than that of her hair. Her lips look soft, and suddenly he notices a dull hunger growing inside of him, and his cock starts to gently throb to remind him that he is still very much attracted to this creature before him.

“Why are you hesitating? Do you not want me? Are you afraid?” Bulma asks him.

“I fear nothing,” Vegeta responds with an almost automated, reflexive voice. The vision of Bulma leans into him, teasing her soft lips against his dry ones as they barely touch.

“The question is, do you want me, woman?” Vegeta asks, his eyes still locked on hers. “I need to know. You’re driving me to madness.”

“Don’t you know that I’m incomplete without you? So many people have torn my heart out, Vegeta. I’ve grown weak, and I don’t know how much more disappointment I can take in this life.” She whispers back, her eyes look more reflective and almost have a sparkle to them. He reaches up and clasps her chin, possessively, and wraps his other hand around her waist and pulls her against him, the blood of her body staining his pristine shirt and coat.

“Say it. Tell me. Tell me I can have you, and I’ll give you my heart and make you whole once more.” He almost growls.

“Will you hurt me like the others?” She asks softly leaning her forehead against his. Vegeta pauses a moment and moves a wet strand of blood-soaked hair out of her face.

“Do you believe you can you accept me for what I am? I’m not human, and I will tear apart anything that tries to obstruct my plans. Can you accept that?” He asks her in a deep, soft voice.

“I want to, but I’m afraid. Theres so much I don’t know about you.”

Theres silence between the two of them. The summer breeze picks up once again and Vegeta feels her wet hair tickle the sides of his face, the smell of her blood and honeysuckle stirring that feeling inside of him.

Something inside his mind clicks.

He makes the choice, lets down his guard, and his face releases the tension it once wore, and, for once, he gives her a soft expression in his eyes.

“We’ve both been shattered and violated by those who were meant to guide us. To protect us. I see you.” He starts as he runs his warm, calloused finger tips up her spine, indulging in her soft skin.

“I’ll show you my truth, give you my heart, and you will finally know your place, which is to walk beside me. I will bring you peace. In return, give me your trust. Let me drink from you and use your knowledge to heal me from this castration. Give me your blessing, my little goddess.”

Bulma bites her lip, and she gently nods.

“You are mine, and that will never change. Remember that.” He whispers as he brings his fingertips over to move some wet strands of her hair to the side, and he leans in and finally kisses her deeply, enjoying the taste of her lips that remind him of some kind of sweet fruit.

Vegeta slips his tongue into her mouth, and he tastes the familiar metallic tang of iron. He moves the hand that was on her face down to the back of her head and takes his other hand and starts to loosen the tie around his neck, and unbutton his white dress shirt. His hand then brushes down the side of her shoulder and down her arm till he grasps her hand with his. He brings it up to his chest just under his sternum.

“Since you’ve been robbed of yours, take mine.”

“I don’t…want to hurt you.”

He laughs. Genuinely.

“Don’t worry woman, you can’t. Go on, take it. It does me no good, and lets face it—” He leans into her and brushes his lips along the shell of her ear. “--It belongs to you now, Bulma.”

He feels something like a pinch in his chest just under his rib cage, and he looks down and sees Bulma has shoved her hand into his chest cavity under his false ribs. He feels her small fingers push up into his chest and past his lungs. He turns his head and coughs out blood, and he feels fingers reach around the pericardium of his heart.

He turns back to her eyes, and she looks to be seeking his affirmation to continue, and nods. She clenches around his heart and in a sudden movement rips it out of his chest, pulling multiple bits of connective tissue. She brings it up to his face, and it’s lifeless.

“It’s not beating.”

“Hnn, Of course, I haven’t used this thing in a long time. Let me help you,” He smirks. He places his lifeless heart into her chest cavity, making sure to line up where all the arteries and veins should lead.

After connecting all the coronary arteries, he rests his bloody hands over the wound, and she brings her hands to rest of his.

He feels his heart begin to swell with her blood, and it begins to beat.

“There. Good as new.”

He leans in and rests his lips against her where her trapezium is between her neck and shoulder, and kisses and licks the area slowly before he bites down. The taste of her blood is euphoric.

Bulma tenses her body and releases a hoarse moan. She clings to his shoulder with one hand and then brings her other hand up and pets his hair, then grips it and pushes him into her body, encouraging him to bite her harder.

“Drink all of me until I am dry and you’re sated and you hunger no more, my Saiyan.” She whispers.

Vegeta drinks his fill of her, feeling her blood pulse from his heart he never used. She tastes like She feels him pull back, and she meets his wild gaze, his eyes now red and his teeth long. He’s panting and sweating.

“You’ve given me your heart, and now I will feed your soul.”

She smiles, tears dripping down her face. She moves her hand over to the injury he gave her neck and collects the last few drops of her blood that remain, and she brings her fingers to his forehead, and makes the symbol of the Saiyan anchor with her own blood. He holds he against him, the pact between their two souls now sealed.

“Please, save me.”

She was now his. Forever.

Vegeta jolts awake in his chair as he often does, but this time he feels the splinters of the shattered arms of the chair that he crushed from his strength.

He looked over to his desk where there was a pile of pictures, articles and legal documents, everything he could ever want to know about Bulma Briefs.

He spent the last several hours reading over the files he got from Nappa. He wanted to know everything about her. What he wanted to learn was about Her career. Her hobbies. Her upbringing. He wanted to know what kind of person she was, so that way he could be the kind of man she’d want.

But what he got instead was her trauma. Her life that’s been filled with torment and abuse.

Arrested and thrown in jail at the age of 8.

Sued her university for stealing her ideas and had to settle out of court with an NDA.

The infidelity of her Boyfriend who was once a baseball star who left and became a police officer.

A note detailing his father’s demand she be banished from Saiyan lands for hurting the economy for protesting the destruction of half the forest of Saiyans.

And then, an article detailing how Bulma Briefs just disappeared from the world all together that was written about 4 years ago.

He gets a feeling he’s unfamiliar with. It’s like when something irks him and he wants it to stop.

Permanently.

Like Gero’s abuse of Vomi.

The static in his ears is louder than normal.

He wants to see her. Comfort her. He decides it’s only 2am. He could use a walk.

As he goes to stand then notices the uncomfortable feeling of cold dampness in his pants, and he snarls his nose.

At least it was just a wet dream this time.

Chapter Text

His symptoms were worsening.

This morning getting out of bed was the typical messy event, but the same dream repeating of him giving Bulma his dead heart and drinking her blood.

He shifts out of bed, and he feels the erection he had felt gorged with blood, and instead of his cock being upright at attention, it was succumbing to gravity from its thick, dense weight. It ached and demanded his attention, but he continued to ignore it in protest. Masturbation was beneath him. He was above his body’s needy biological demands for release. He found comfort in celibacy and had no plans to change.

Yesterday she punched him in the face and he had never been so aroused in his life. He was impressed and wanted to fight with her more. He had visions of throwing her up against a wall and tearing off her clothes. 

Sometimes he imagined gripping her wrist and dragging her to the floor with him and pinning her down while he tore her flimsy pajama top off with his now growing and sharpening teeth, licking and biting her neck and ruining her perfect white skin with her own dark blood as it tricked down.

He imagined leaving his canine imprints down her clavicle and licking over her breasts, and capturing her nipple between his sharpest teeth and threatening to bite down to make her whine in anticipatory pain.

What would she say? 

On second thought, the details wouldn't matter.

I just need her to call for me.

His cock threatens to release despite the lack of touch, and he growls.

I must stop this train of thought.

I'll just make more of a mess.

As he goes to stand; the back pain symptoms have now changed. It was a burning, throbbing sensation now. He also noticed he felt more feverish.

He feels it then.

His lower back twitches.

Underneath the skin. Not like muscle spasm, but as if it was a reflex.

His worsening fever and fatigue prompted him to skip his plans the evening prior, which included watching the woman. She was endless entertainment for him.

And He wasn't going to miss watching her again this evening. 

He noticed after his second night watching her, he almost was rejuvenating. It was like when he was near her, watching her from the balcony, the anger inside him, the only real emotion he knew well, was put to rest—or at the least put aside, and his soul was quiet. There was no push for his plans. No push for revenge or conquest.

No static in his sensitive, pure-blooded, saiyan ears.

All he wanted was to be near her. He's finally accepeted this.

At first this discovery of his need for her concerned him.

Since when did I crave someone’s proximity so much it consumed my thoughts? Perhaps back in my early years of growth as a glorified lab rat and imprinting on Vomi as my mother?

His thoughts shift to her running with him in her arms, the blood of her rolling down the side of her head and dripping onto her white lab coat as she kicks open the emergency exit, the alarms continuing to blare as she makes it outside.

“I’m getting you out of here Vegeta, we’re going to the police.”

“Dr. Gero…”

“You don’t call me that, I’ve left him! Its You, me, and this baby I’m carrying are all the family I need, do you understand? You can call me Vomi or mom like you used to before he took you from me!” Vomi cries as she reaches her car.

“Can you stand now?” She asks putting him down on the ground next to her car.

“Vomi, your stomach is very big, you need to calm down. I’m alive and we can be a family again.” Vegeta remembers telling her as a child lightly tapping her belly full of an 8-month gestated Gevo. Vegeta remembers he was processing his own trauma, but Vomi had just saved him from his assaulter, and even though he had blood running down his legs under his lab gown, he felt the need to comfort her.

He remembers grabbing her hand and pulling the car key up for her and she grabbed his hand and took the key as she unlocked the door. He remembers Vomi unlocking her car and hurrying him into it. She waddles quickly to the driver’s seat and started the car, and slammed it into reverse and sped it out of red ribbons parking lot.

“We’re gonna be free now Vegeta, and we’ll get them to answer for Tarble and all the other children. I’ll never leave you again. Okay? You have my word.”

 Little did she know what was waiting for us at the police station.

And she was never the same again after Gero got his hands on her that day.

Vegeta feels his usually ‘dead’ heart beating against his chest as he reflects.

Some of the few set of memories that give me a physical reaction. Perhaps after I kill everyone responsible, that sympathetic response will cease.

As he washes off in the shower, he continues to ignore his protesting cock, snarling as he has to wash around the area and resist the pleasure his own touch was bringing him from just basic hygienic movements.

After the shower, when he is dressing, he notices the giant red, raised abscess where the pains are located around the 'old scar.'

His face doesn’t change, and he stares at it in the mirror, processing what this meant medically.

I suppose I should be concerned about this now.

He picks a crimson bowtie and attaches the red suspenders to his black pants and over his shoulders, and he feels the sweat starting to manifest on his forehead once more.

Tch.

I just bathed. This is ridiculous. Get it together, you idiot.

Chi Chi hustles into the clinic late. She sees Vegeta’s old Challenger in the back of the building and she groans.

He only drives that thing when he’s in a bad mood and doesn’t feel like riding his motorcycle. And now I’m thirty minutes late and he’s going to be SO PISSED at me!

She whips her beat up car into the driveway and brushes the crumbs of her toast off her green scrubs. Slamming the door shut she leaves the car door unlocked and her keys in the unused clean ashtray. No one dared to commit any crime here, so she never worried about her beat up rust bucket getting stolen.

She rushes to the door and sees a makeshift sign on the front door.

“Clinic will open at 10am today.”

It’s definitely Dr. Sadala’s handwriting. She raises an eyebrow because that man was seeing patients most mornings before she even got in, and she would walk into five or six orders she had to take care of before she had even clocked in.

So why would he still have this place closed? Something is wrong.

She uses her key to open the locked door.

It’s eerily quiet.

“Sadala?” She calls out to the empty office with all 5 patient rooms open and empty.

Silence.

She walks to his office, where his light is on and she sees his briefcase on his desk, which means he has not even started his day. She feels her heart begin to race as she hustles down the other back hallway.

“Doctor Sadala!?” She calls out again.

And she hears it.

A groan. A soft groan.

Chi Chi runs toward the X-ray room and sees the light on and pushes the heavy door open, and on the floor, she sees her missing physician on the floor facing down. His body is shaking and his fists are clenched.

“OH, MY GODS!?” she screeches throwing her coat and purse on the floor and rushing over to him.

She notices his shirt is soaked with sweat, and his eyes are closed tight as he grits his teeth.

His teeth that look different?

Sharper?

She grabs his arm and shakes him hard. “VEGETA!”

“Don’t touch me, woman…” he grits out through his teeth. Chi Chi rolls her eyes.

“I don’t think you can afford to be a jerk to me right now.” She claps back angrily.

“No…I’m worried its infectious…” he says softly.

“Oh, well, too late for that. C’mon, get up.” She says with a shrug standing over him and trying to turn him over on his back.

“Woman…you’re so rough…” he grunts.

“Really? What kind of Saiyan prince are you?” Chi Chi says in a challenging tone, and Vegeta throws open his eyes and glares at her.

Oh, how she loved getting him to look at her like that. It tickled her.

His nurse laughs and he bats her hand away from him gently and pushes himself up to sit, and small groans leaving his mouth. He turns and angrily grips the imaging table and tries to pull himself up onto it. Chi Chi then grabs him by the waist and uses every bit of her strength to pull him up onto the table.

“Ok, so what’s going on.”

“I need you to image my back.” Vegeta pants out. Chi Chi shifts her head questioningly to the side.

“Why?”

“GODS DAMMIT DON’T QUESTION ME RIGHT NOW AND JUST DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD.” He barks, and his nurse furrows her brow at him and puts her hands on her hips.

“You’ve got ten seconds to apologize for raising your voice at me before I walk right out that door and you can find another nurse to put up with you. You know what I put up with at home, I don’t need this from you.” She says back calmly, but angrily.

Vegeta’s head hits the table in frustration.

Never in his life has he ever considered killing or harming a woman.

And even in this moment of pain, confusion, anger, it never crosses his mind to hurt her.

She’s too precious.

“I should not have yelled at you.…I need you…assist me. ” He says softly looking into her eyes with a softness in his large black eyes, pleading look.

Chi’s angry heart melts instantly. She’s never seen Vegeta like this.

“Oh, my gods ok I’ll warm up the machine get on your back right there and put your feet on the table and flex your knees so I can get the AP image first.” She says walking over and quickly flipping a switch. She loaded the film and put on her lead garb.

“You ready?”

“Hn.” He grunted back.

It took several hours for the film to develop, and by the time it would be finished the two of them were open and already seeing patients, although Vegeta was not moving as quickly. She had given him some Ibuprofen she had stashed in her desk and gotten him an ice pack.

He tried to resist her mothering with his crabby indifference, but Chi Chi had a scowl that warned him not to test her, and he would relent to her wishes each time.

She was the best nurse he could ever ask for, and she knows he knew that.

It was around their lunch hour, and she locked the door after seeing off the last patient and she walked to the dark room and pulled out the films and placed them in a paper sleeve. She walked to his office where he was already sitting down with the ice pack on his giant forehead. He was pale and looked like a dead man. She walked to the wall with the X-Ray light box and placed both images up, and flipped on the light.

Her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped.

She had never seen anything like it in all her years in nursing.

“What do you see?” he asks not moving from his position, knowing from just the sounds she was looking at the image.

“I don’t…know…I think I must have messed up this imaging. We…we’re going to need to redo this. Doc I am so sorry.” She mutters while still looking over the image.

Vegeta slowly looks over and sees the images.

“No need to re-image. It is precisely as I expected.” He manages to say softly before putting the ice pack back on his head.

“…It looks like…”

“My tail is regrowing and will erupt from my skin in a few days.” He mutters, and chi chi looks at him with a horrified look.

“T-Tail?”

“Yes. I had a tail when I was a child until I tore it off. It seems being a pure blooded Saiyan means we used to once have tails and with …some kind of limited regeneration, though why this all is happening now I’m not sure.”

“Wait wait wait,” Chi Chi starts putting her hands up to stop him. “So, you were born with a tail, that you tore off, and now almost 30 years later its…growing back?”

“Correct.”

Chi Chi puts her hands to her mouth and takes a deep inhalation in as she processes this information thrown at her.

There's silence in the room, Vegeta groans.

“Cease your worrying. Though I need you to get me lactated ringers’ solution from the back, and give me a bolus so I can get through the rest of the day.”

Chi Chi walks past him, leaving the images on the wall.

“No, I’ve decided we’re closed for today.” She says firmly. Vegeta sits up in his chair suddenly and barely manages to catch his icepack falling off his face.

“We can’t! I won’t abandon my patients. Several need their Retrovir.” He says with his voice only slightly raised out of fear of angering the only person who could help him. Chi Chi ignores him as she pushes his office door open the rest of the way.

He narrows his eyes at her.

“Woman…”

“Don’t Woman me.”

“There are at least seven patients coming by for their Retrovir, we cannot close!”

“I will handle the refills and if someone shows up for an emergency, I’ll allow you to see them, but if you want your IV bolus you have to listen to me.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“Ok, enjoy working as both a nurse and physician today.” Chi Chi says throwing her hands up and turns around to leave, gripping the handle of his office door.

“I…I don’t have the energy to fight with you. Do what you wish, just… get me that bolus.” He mutters weakly, and she smiles, but doesn’t turn to meet his eyes.

They sat there for a moment in silence, her back still turned to him

He sighs.

“…Please…”

Her smile grows wider and she turns around as if no argument had transpired between them.

“Of course, Dr. Sadala. I’m happy to help!” She says with an upbeat smile and he groans, putting the ice pack over his face.

“A warrant would take too long and give them time. Im gonna do something now while I wait.”

“No ma’am, you will wait till I give you the green light before you go in there demanding anything.

“I wont demand anything. Just a install a little key logger I keep around for such occasions.”

The male at the other end of the phone line sighs.

“No installing anything. Just stay put. You’re gonna need a team in there with you as well when the warrant gets approved, so don’t do this alone.”

Bulma bites her cheek and clenches her fist. Her perfectly done eyebrows furrow and she takes a deep breath to calm herself, per her old shrinks’ instructions.

It doesn’t help.

She flies off the handle anyway.

“Look Dudley do-right, if you wanted this done the conventional way, you should have sent a conventional agent. Someone else. I’m going to do this my way. I know how these guys work—”
“And as your superior I strongly recommend that if you value your job, you will do things according to the field manual.”

“I’m not a normal field agent.”
“Oh, I’m very much aware of that Ms. Briefs.”

Bulma gives a long, exhausting sigh to try and calm herself, but shes still angry, and she punches her desk in frustration.

“Ms. Briefs, this isn’t the 70’s anymore. It is against the Privacy Protections act of 1980—"

“Yes, but that’s if I’m caught.”

“No ma’am, it’s still very much illegal. Wait for the warrant. I’ll type up the request in the morning.”

“No, look, I withdraw my request for the warrant. Fuck the warrant, I’d rather you don’t do it at all. Red Ribbon has people all the fuck over in government and you’ll tip them off and everything will be gone before the ink is dry on that warrant.”

“I need you to make up your mind.”

“Look, I’m not Joe Turner or Charles Keller, ok? I’m just gonna get some losers log-in creds and do some sight-seeing. No saving the day. No seizing records. Just window shopping, okay? That’s it. But I really think Wheelo and Dodoria were up to something before they got axed and I want to get to everything before its gone!”

The male at the other end of the phone gasps.

“Kami! Don’t call it ‘axing.’ Be professional!”

“I am a professional, I just don’t act professional.”

“I’m going to bed, Ms. Briefs. It’s late and the less I know the safer I’ll be. Just know that whatever you do you’re going to be the only one suffering consequences.”

Bulma slams the phone. She waits a moment and then frowns, and her small pale fingers wrap around the receiver, and she slams it down on the phone base two more times out of frustration.

“Follow the privacy protection act of 1980, Bulma. Oh, but when we need you to hack into something here on our soil that’s Russian or Chinese, we’ll make up an excuse or find a loophole for why its legal later, so don’t worry Bulma.” She growls standing up and ripping her coat off the back of the chair while she only wears a bra and her pajama bottoms.

“What a fucking tool.” Bulma continues to mutter, reaching into her purse and pulling out her off-brand cigarettes and her cheap pink lighter, and her angry footsteps lead her to the door.

Bulma leans against the doorframe in her leather jacket, bra, pajama bottoms, and holds the cigarette with her lips, protecting the cigarette with her hand as she lights it and then draws in the flame to light, the negative pressure from her inhalation causing the flame to kiss the dry, stale tobacco of her cheap cigarette.

“Bulma Briefs. Thirty-four.

“Nothin to show for it.”

She lets her head thud against the door frame as she exhales the smoke from her mouth. She feels the heat of the burning tobacco paper and particulates irritating her bronchioles and she scrunches her nose and looks at the unlit side of the cigarette.

“Maybe I’ll go work for this cigarette company next and show them how to make a fucking filter, so people don’t choke to death?” She smirks at her joke as she brings it back to her lips and inhales.

Theres a moment of pause and then she starts coughing. She placed the cigarette into an ash tray on some cheap patio furniture table. and shakes her head.

“If I try to smoke any more of that, I might just piss from choking.” She says sitting down on the cheap whicker that’s peeling and looking up at the sky.

 “Speaking of, why send me here to west city? Me, the troublemaker? I mean, I’ve pissed off Red Ribbon,” she brings her tiny fingers that are peaking through the end of her coat sleeve from her loose wearing of it as she counts. “The Saiyans, my parents…friends… Pissed off everyone, really.”

“And now, if I play my cards right, I can add the feds on that list and have a nice ole shit show that’ll blow up right in my face, and I’ll be locked up by thirty-five!”! Can’t have a mid-life crisis if you have no life, right?” She morbidly jokes to herself.

Bulma has a quiet moment; she listens to the spring peepers singing with the crickets in a creek nearby, letting their music sooth her angry mind as she continues to stare up into the dark night sky.

And then she bursts out in a loud, obnoxious laugh, silencing all nature’s creatures from her loud, high pitched voice. She lays back on the chair and kicks her legs in the air.

“Who am I kidding? My mom’d show up at my jail and have that place done the fuck up in five minutes. The national guard couldn’t do shit to Panchy Briefs!”

Bulma smirks as she impersonates her mothers voice, “Ok dear, I brought you these nail files, this torch, and some bolt cutters. Oh, and I found this charming fella in cell 4C that I gave your home number to, he’s such great company! His name is Tony…with the gaspipes?…no wait, Its Willie the Icepick guy. I don’t rememba’, but look, while his face is a little terrifying, he has all his teeth n’ the hands of a priest!”

Bulma continues to give soft giggles, and eventually stands up to stretch, showing off her backside and breasts to the world that isn’t watching.

But the man hiding in the shadows behind her is watching, thankful the shadows darkness conceals red across his cheeks and ears.

Bulma Adjusts the jacket back over her shoulders and turns toward the patio door.

“At least mom loves a wretch like me enough to try. Which means, I guess I should keep trying.”

Bulma leaves the door open to let the cool air into her room behind her. She tosses her coat back on the chair and leans down to open a beer she had in plastic bag from a convenience store nearby. The tab makes her put in some effort opening the giant looking oil can of beer, and she turns the television to MTV.

That song A View to Kill from Duran Duran is playing again, and she smirks.

“How fitting.”

Bulma walks to her desk while she sips at her beer, and pulls out various piles of papers and a large notebook with all the notes she’s taken from witnesses and statements, along with her own pictures.

“Alright, so my killer likes subtlety, generally. He uses something to induce these old men to have heart attacks. He doesn’t take any kind of trophies from their victims as far as I can tell, and they don’t leave any kind of calling card that I can tell, which is atypical. Cool, so you’re not going to be easy, are you?”

Bulma hears the trees rustle outside from the gentle breeze, and she smiles to herself.

“No visual ID. So far, no fingerprints or, hair. I do have some footprints. Collected some surrounding items but so far, everything looks clean and professional.”

“Which means, I’m possibly dealing with a hit man that’s hired by someone.”

“If I figure out how these three men are connected I’ll probably figure out motive which will expose the mastermind. Gonna look at the big picture here, which means combining these little pictures.”

Bulma pulls out a corkboard and starts pulling out pictures and various notes.

“So, I’m possibly dealing with a hit man…” she mutters as she starts pinning things on the board.

“And said hit man… has taken out two, wait, three scientists.”

“Dodoria over in west city.” She puts a pin with a tiny picture of him over that Red Ribbon facility.

“Wheelo over here in Saiya.” A second pin is placed over the facilty in Saiyan territory.

“And Gero who is over Saiya but also worked on projects in other facilities, but he was working over here for some reason. Gotta look into what he was working on.” She places the final pin over the Saiyans facility.

“So, I think, I fucked up Gero’s killing. It wasn’t his normal clean kill. It was super messy. I got a footprint out of him…”

She looks over her notes.

“Estimated shoe size, 42, wide. Hmmm.”

“A little small, but, he obviously knows what he’s doing, and that’s what matters.” She grins to herself.

“Focus, Bulma.” She chides herself. “Ok, so he used some kind sporty version of oxford shoe, which makes sense because this facility is around a lake. But also tells me this guy is probably a higher socioeconomic level…his voice…the way he spoke…matches that…”

“He knew who I was, so he’s probably local to west cit-no. No. Wait.

“The blood on my hands is minuscule compared to the massive red bath in which these scientists bathe.”

“Because, Blue Angel, I know how much righting injustices of the world is core to your very soul,”

“Every wrong will be corrected”

“Everyone who ruined me will be ruined, and those who have taken life away will have their lives taken in kind.”

“He’s a Saiyan. Hes got to be. And he’s angry.”

“These men hurt him—or someone close to him, and he wants revenge. He wants whatever they’re doing to stop.”

Ok, so characteristics. So, hes not very tall. But he was very well built. He was martially trained. Very, very strong. Shorter with a wide frame. Saiyan. Deep voice. Gods.” Bulma feels a chill go down her spine.

“I’d pay that man to read me any bedtime story with that voice.”

“FUCK. Focus. Focus!”

She goes to stand, and she starts to pace.

“The bad guy, he went to kill Gero, but I must have screwed everything up for him. He didn’t want to kill me, and as much as I hate to admit it, he could have. Easily. Effortlessly.

“With those really strong, capable hands…”

God dammit! Don’t think about how wet the serial killer makes you. Not the fucking time.

“Ok, Saiyan, Short, thick, deep voiced hot guy, who’s really, really angry. Dammit, I cant keep calling you “bad guy” or killer. Hmm. What should I name you?”

Bulma starts drawing a stick figure with a frowny face.

“Badman.”

Ok, so, Badman, who is pissed off at red ribbon scientists, specifically Dodoria, Wheelo, Gero, and is plotting against...Myu, Red, Ginyu, and” her voice tails off a moment.

“and …Dr. Cold. Who doesn't even work there anymore. He works for the Feds. Gotta look him up later.” She hums to herself and taps her lips with her fingers.

 “So, all the higher ups of the company…which means he’s angry at the company’s leadership or as a whole maybe?”

She gasps.

“Oh my God, what if? What if this Saiyan was a study participant in one of these major studies with STLV? He said there was a lot of blood, so that must mean death. I need to get those vital records from Baba…”

She stumbles over to her phone and picks up the receiver but then puts it down.

“Its almost 2am. Let me just…go to bed. Bardock can’t do anything this late. I’ll go see him tomorrow.”

Bulma quietly moves and sits on her chair and sips her beer. She stares at the cartoonish image of her badman.

The tree leaves rustle in the wind once more. And she starts to drift off to sleep looking at the little picture she drew.

“I think I know who you are.”

 “And I think I know why you’ve done the things you’ve done.”

“And while I can’t excuse your crimes, I give you my word I won’t let those who hurt you be excused either, my Badman.” She taps the piece of paper with the figure, grinning, and lays down her head on the back of the chair.

She opens a folder with a stack of stapled papers and starts reading through them.

“Alright, which of these studies will force me to pass out tonight?” She says picking through the various studies until she finds something.

“Recommended treatment of pneumocystis pneumonia and Kaposi’s sarcoma secondary to STLV-III infection” Bulma mutters.

“Argh, god please define what Kaposi’s sarcoma is…” She says reading the first paragraph.

“Hypoxemia…dyspnea…dry cough…fever… I know some of these words…”

She lays her head back again and stares at the ceiling, thinking about the image of the rain that turned into blood when she as outside the market.

“What could they have done to create so much blood? What am I missing?” She mutters to herself. She reaches out to sip the last bit of her beer, but she can’t quite reach it, but she also doesn’t want to move because she’s too tired.

She drops her hand back on the arm of the chair and holds the paper in front of her face to focus.

Five minutes later the paper has fallen on her face and falls to the floor, and she’s sound asleep, her light snoring filling the room.

Minutes pass.

Her lamp in her bedroom seems to magically turn itself off, and then moments later those same size 42 wide shoes walk across her floor right toward her, silently.

A gloved hand picks up the paper the fell to the ground, and places it on the table.

He smirks at the drawing she made of him.

“Hn. ‘Badman.’” I’ll allow it.”

He reaches over and picks up the folder she has with various studies. He flips through and pulls out one, a very thick stack of papers. He places the paper on top of her folder, separated from the other studies.

“This one will have the answers you’re looking for, though its not obvious, I think you’ll see it faster than most. You’re a smart girl.”

He stands over her for a moment and stares. She has curled herself into a ball and has her arms crossed to conserve heat, he suspects.

“You know, your bed is two feet from you.”

She gives a loud snore in response and he smirks.

Tch.

The Badman reaches down and gently places his hands underneath her knees and under her upper back and effortlessly picks her up from the chair and lays her delicately down on her bed.

She groans, and tries to talk, but it comes out as mumbling.

He turns around and places the chair she was sitting in facing her, and he sits down and takes a cigarette from his jacket and lights it, sitting back for the night, he lets it hang loosely from his lips as crosses his arms over his chest.

“This…is the third time…you’ve come to watch me sleep…You’re lucky I’m too tired to move” he hears her say, and he gives a light smirk.

“That you know of.” He grins back looking at her, but she hasn’t moved. She’s still curled up on her bed where he left her, and his low light vision allows him to see her eyes are closed tight.

“Why?” her voice cuts through the darkness of her hotel room, and the ember from his cigarette glows brightly for a moment while he wonders the answer for himself.

He decides to deflect, not wanting to face the answer.

“Good question. You’re the detective. You tell me.”

She’s silent for a time.

He begins to wonder if she’s fallen back to sleep. He brings his gloved hand to his mouth and repositions his cigarette and takes a drag off it.

“I know I’m hard to resist, but as I sleep, you can’t do anything naughty to me.”

Tch.

“I’ve done no such things to you each night I’ve come.”

“…and let me arrest you in the morning.”

His grin widens as he gives her a soft chuckle.

“If I’m still here when you wake, I will allow you pleasure of arresting me.”

She’s quiet again.

He waits.

“Goodnight…my badman.”

His breath hitches. He stills.

My badman.

Vegeta takes a moment to process that one word. He feels warmth to his cheeks and ears.

 Lost in thought, he still manages to tap the ash of his cigarette in the ashtray and brings it back to his dry lips and recrosses his arms.

He never takes his wanting eyes off his sleeping beauty as the waxing gibbous traverses the sky.