A/N: this chapter is relatively short, I figured I should get it out of the way so I can go back and edit the earlier chapters. I realize there are details I forgot to include and some that are simply unnecessary or contradicts pieces of the plot I'm writing as I go. You won't have to go back and re-read the chapters, I'll probably do a brief highlight of whatever I changed in the next chapter, but it shouldn't matter that much.

Warning: very brief mention of sexual assault. Creepy Raditz. Nothing graphic or particularly horrible.

I am a broken screen, I'm a mad routine,

That's just patterned out, and I'm over it.

CHAPTER FOUR: The New and Improved Bulma

Bulma was awoken from a terrible dream, to the sound of her door opening and closing.

The sound was light, and careful, as of somebody trying to remain unnoticed. Bulma remained stock-still, preparing herself to fight back, should somebody grab her, or try something. The thought made her quiver – even worse was the knowledge that she would be powerless in that situation regardless.

As quick as the door had opened, it had closed, and Bulma was alone once more.

Even so, she waited patiently for a few moments before peering over her shoulder. No one. She rose into a seated position, wincing a little; her back was sore, and the mattress had done nothing to help. Even worse, was her wrist. Holding it up to meet the light that filtered in from the round window on the door, she inspected the hand-shaped bruise that wrapped around.

That prick. He should learn how to treat a lady.

Still, she thought, she could learn some manners herself.

A faint aroma caught Bulma's attention. Sniffing the air curiously, her eyes lingered back to the door. A glint of light on the floor brought her gaze down, and she slapped herself for not noticing it immediately upon waking up. There was a metallic tray, full of food.

It'd been days since she'd eaten.

Scrambling from the bed, Bulma found herself tearing into the suspicious meat and strange, bitter vegetables with an animalistic hunger. God. She was disgusting. Every passing day made her feel that much more disconnected from her truth of a well-respected and dignified human.

And yet, she couldn't stop herself.

Hands and face sticky with blood and other fluids from the food she was still sceptical of, Bulma contemplated how she was going to hide such a mess from the other Saiyan's, who were aware of the cruel restrictions placed on her.

Or, better yet, Vegeta, who had authorized the food restrictions in the first place.

Maybe that'd be the final straw for him, if even a task as simple as starving was curved by the filthy human. The others would wake up soon enough – and they'd be pounding on her door too.

She wiped her hands on herself and –

Oh my God, she reeked. Had it really been that long since her last shower? Surely not. It had to be her clothes, which she had been forced to re-wear, with no other alternative having even crossed her mind.

With the tray hidden under her playsuit – there was no way in Hell she'd leave the food's residue to rot and fester in the only place she found comfort - Bulma approached Vegeta, who dined alone in the mess hall.

"What do you want?"

Aside from his usual arrogant, and irritable self, he seemed particularly tense. Rarely did he remove his eyes from the feast between mouthfuls of food, and when he did, he gazed at Bulma with a certain distance. His expression was otherwise blank and pointed.

"Uh – clothes. I need some fresh clothes."

"Does this look like a shopping mall to you?"

Bulma swallowed down the angry retort she was prepared to give and settled with reason.

"Surely there are Saiyan women somewhere on this ship. Are you telling me you don't have even one spare outfit?"

Vegeta stared. They did have Saiyan women, yes. Most of them had either perished along with the planet, or were now in hiding somewhere in the galaxy, unaware that a whole fleet of their fellow warriors had survived and were ambitiously navigating through space. Finding them was a priority, when the time and resources presented itself.

"Hm. You reek," Vegeta observed, nose scrunched up.

"Further indication that I need new clothes; I'm filthy!"

"Quit your yapping, woman," Vegeta reluctantly stood up. His appetite was askew anyhow; there were too many things on his mind, matters more important than eating.

Bulma followed him in silence.

Majority of the ship remained undiscovered to her; it came as no surprise when they entered a room, maybe double the size of her assigned bedroom, dedicated entirely to the Saiyan's signature attire. In illuminated display cases set in the wall, different varieties of the armor were mounted on stands. Bronze, gold, even green and a dark, navy blue.

Vegeta didn't pay any mind to them. Instead, he tapped a small metal panel on the wall. With a beep, and a hiss, a rectangular drawer slid from the wall and he began absent-mindedly rummaging through its contents. He handed Bulma something; it was difficult to see in the dark of the room, with limited fluorescent lighting, but the feeling of spandex under her fingertips gave it away.

"Go get cleaned. You have 5 minutes."

The high neckline reminiscent of a turtle-neck shirt, and long sleeves were definitely a warmer alternative to the playsuit she'd been re-wearing. Though, the bottom half fit more like bummers –a bit longer than Nappa's spandex - a bit of chill was something she'd grown to ignore.

Bulma had to stop and appreciate the way the black spandex leotard fit her curves. It was weightless, and comfortable – almost as if she wasn't wearing anything at all. It'd take some getting used to, but she'd blend in a little easier now – if not for her vibrant blue hair and comparatively frail figure.

She tied her hair into a bun, tucked the loose strands behind her ear, and with a last quick pirouette before the mirror-dominated wall, she left the bathroom. There was a renewed spring to her step; she was fed, clean, and felt like a million bucks, despite the situation.

Vegeta, on the other hand, looked far less than impressed when she finally emerged from the bathroom. His gaze swept up and down her body, and when his moody expression held, Bulma began to feel self-conscious for the first time in probably years.

I suppose it's better than him leering or making lewd comments, she thought. Honestly, what was I expecting? Balloons? A celebration?

"Hmph. If you're going to dress in the right attire, you may as well do so properly," he said, and thrusted armour into her chest, her hands flying up to hug it to her body as he let go. "One size fits all. And it's the only one you're going to get."

The bronze chest plate was smooth, Bulma noted. And stretchy, for such hard material. She balled her fists and gave it a few quick knocks - ting, ting, ting – and wasted no time in slipping it over her head, where it moulded to her torso, much like the spandex.

"Uh… Thanks, Vegeta. You know, I don't think you're as cold as you let on—"

"Don't think this changes anything," his gruff voice had no hint of amusement to it, not even in the cynical way it usually did. Perhaps his pride was wounded. Bulma couldn't blame him, especially if it was because he found himself attracted to her. Most men did. "Uniform is a formality under my rule. As far as I'm concerned, you're still a no-good Earthling brat."

"Whatever you say," Bulma muttered, promptly returning to the med wing.

I should be done the gravity-crap in a matter of days. I suppose at some point I should thank Zorn for feeding me.

A wolf-whistle followed by boisterous laughter snapped Bulma out of her thoughts.

Oh, great. Just terrific.

Bulma wasn't sure where she got her luck from – but it certainly wasn't her mother, who was probably relaxing at home, if not worried sick.

Raditz licked his lips, his dark eyes following the movements of her hips as she approached. Behind him, a group of Saiyan's she was unfamiliar with encouraged him darkly, as if she were a prize to be won. Every instinct in her body told her to turn the other way.

She kept walking.

A mere few steps away from the burly group, she pivoted to the right and made to walk past them. The medical wing was so close. Zorn could probably hear every interaction. If she was smart about it, she could run. They'd probably catch up to her, but she could run.

"Where do you think you're going?"

A furry appendage slid around her waist and before she could react, Bulma was yanked backwards, the air leaving her lungs.

More laughter resonated through the corridor. Bulma immediately thought of a carnivore circling its prey, roaring, and baring its teeth, playing with its food before devouring it. They're pack hunters, she thought. The only one thing worse she could think of than being sexually assaulted by one Saiyan was being assaulted by four.

The first thing Bulma noticed, was that Raditz' hands were big. He seized her wrists; his large fingers wrapped all the way around with room to spare. Her bruise ached. If she kicked him, would he even feel it?

"If Vegeta finds out you—"

"Prince Vegeta said on the first night, to do with you as we please, so long as you can still fulfil your duties. Perhaps you need a reminder."

Bulma remembered. She had specifically snapped at Vegeta for making such an irresponsible statement, essentially inviting anyone who heard to treat her like a glorified piece of meat if they so choose. So much for being a decent person underneath that rough exterior. She wondered if he'd even feel the slightest pinch of sympathy for her.

"So long as I can still fulfil my duties – which you're keeping me from. So, let me go."

And despite the toughness she was always so good at feigning, Bulma could feel a panic attack coming on. Her face burned, and tears stung at her eyes. She was shaking, he could probably feel it. Hell – it probably got the jerk going. The other men hooted and hollered, making jabs at how weak she was.

Whatever they wanted to do, realistically, she couldn't stop them. They were nothing like Earth men. And it was this realization that truly set off such a panicked reaction.

"Maybe I will… if you beg."

"I'm not going to beg."

A chorus of amused Ooooh's. Suppose, she had been sightly wrong. They were quite similar to human men in more ways than Bulma would care to admit. It was almost funny.

Raditz' expression hardened, eyes narrowed, and smirk replaced by a scowl. He brought his face down to hers, uncomfortably close. Bulma could feel his breath on her mouth, even as she moved her head back, away from his. She was completely speechless, and for the first time, unable to form a witty remark.

"I think you are."

"Enough!" Zorn's voice boomed from the direction Bulma had been headed. He stood by the medical lab entrance, looking less than impressed with the unfolding scene. "Don't you boys have a mission to prepare for?"

Bulma waited, gazing hard at Raditz, for him to release her hands. With a particularly nasty look, he unwrapped his tail, and beckoned for his group to follow as he took his leave.

She gasped, making her way to Zorn on legs weak and shaky. The ghostly presence of thick, bushy fur remained around her waist, even as Raditz disappeared down the winding hall. Her wrists ached. Vegeta didn't scare Bulma nearly as much as Raditz had in that moment. There was a hesitation to him.

"Are you…?" Zorn trailed off, giving her a pointed stare.

Was she okay? No. Nothing about her situation was okay. Sometimes, she felt close enough to normal. At least she had routine, and purpose. Ultimately, she was regarded as nothing more than a slave; a plaything to occupy all the boredom on the ship while they jumped from planet to planet doing God knows what.

"Thanks," Bulma mumbled as she rushed past him, eager to be in the safety of her workspace.

She slumped into her chair and resumed her work, analysing different parts of the pods for replication. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, face burning. Tears filled her eyes, all the fear and frustrations catching up to her at once.

Zorn cleared his throat, and asked awkwardly, "do you… require a break?"

Yes. A permanent break.

Bulma shook her head, barely sparing him a glance. She was grateful for his concern, just didn't have the pride to express it in such an emotionally vulnerable state. Besides, any words that left her lips would probably result in a full emotional break-down.

With Vegeta out doing God-knows-what once again, Bulma wondered how often this might happen to her. She felt sick.

One pod was just about repaired, no thanks to Zorn. At least Malaka and Planthorr were willing to provide a helping hand here and there, even if they were mostly useless. Still, her routine consisted only of fixing, inventing, and then returning to her room to scheme in private, for something that had been on her mind since the Dragon radar showed a few pulsating blips.

Bulma's apprehension only grew as she considered her possibilities. The chance to escape. It was merely a matter of the pod being in working condition - and preferably tested by a Saiyan beforehand to ensure her own safety – and being close enough to whichever planet the Dragon Balls were on so that she could make a quick escape without the risk of being immediately intercepted. They were still much too far away to do anything yet.

She buzzed with anticipation as she reviewed the schematics of the pods once more. The language was foreign, but the concepts were easy enough to follow. Besides, Zorn doubled up as a translator when needed.

The rest of the pods would be ten times easier, and quicker to repair after the first.

Time dragged on, until Bulma had mostly forgotten about the prior incident. She had calmed down considerably.

"I forgot to thank you for feeding me this morning," Bulma said from across the workbench, eyeing the man that she personally considered a friend. She was still talking in days and hours and time that had no realistic purpose in the depth of space. It was what made her feel normal.

"Hmm?" Zorn asked, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Bulma suddenly felt dejected; she had assumed it had been him who fed her. After all, it was to him she mostly complained of hunger. "I didn't feed you."

"Uhh—I—" Bulma was confused in her own right.

"Somebody went against Vegeta's authority? For your own sake, I suggest you don't bring it up again. How odd."

The ship would touch down, very soon, on land the Planet Trade had not yet ravished and claimed. His men would scavenge for food and materials, like they did every now and again when resources became scarce. But that time could not come quicker. Each moment spent on the ship brought him closer to snapping. Especially with Raditz boasting to his men at every conceivable moment, how he had boldly approached the Earth woman – and would have gone further had it not been for Zorn.

It was disgusting – pure filth how they spoke amongst each other. Suppose, that's what separated a dignified Saiyan prince from the lower class. Their lack of self-control. Their boastfulness about such crude topics. They could stand to learn a thing or two.

Vegeta grunted, wondering what he did to deserve such a bothersome crew – and Bulma of all people, who proved to be a challenge in her own right. Earth was a populous planet, with some 7 billion inhabitants. And he was cursed with Bulma.

The first of the humans they had killed and interrogated upon landing pointed them in her direction. They were caught for time, with already limited resources, unable to take many more people aboard. There weren't really any other options, and now, she was there to stay.

He once again found himself arranging an assortment of leftovers and scraps on a tray. Next time she wouldn't be so lucky.