Four hours, nine minutes, and twenty-four seconds.

That was how long she, Bulma Briefs—heiress to Capsule Corporation, genius billionaire, and world's most eligible bachelorette—estimated had gone by since she'd arrived on her captor's space station and been left alone in a cell. Or at least that was the most educated guess she could make regarding time, based on how badly she needed to pee.

The woman had sat through her fair share of board meetings to know how to gauge endless hours of tedium. Except this time, things were a little different than being trapped in a room full of verbose old men and women. This time, Bulma was trapped on an alien spacecraft, plucked from Planet Earth as a form of extortion by a violent race of humanoids hell-bent on conquering every world they came across.

They had promised to leave the planet alone if she complied.

The 'request' hadn't been a direct threat to her, exactly. The Saiyans had arrived in Earth's orbit without warning, and before humanity could even process its shock, the newcomers had demanded the surrendering of the planet's most advanced technology and the minds who had created it. In exchange, the Saiyans had agreed not to wipe up the little blue and green ball from the face of the universe, but promised little else in the way of reassurance or what they planned to do after.

When the infamous Doctor Briefs had been one of the individuals Earth's own people had offered up, Bulma had made sure she was the one to go instead. She may have had a doctorate or several, just like her father, but it was he that had invented the renowned Hoi-Poi capsules, not she. But the aliens had given no outward acknowledgement that they were aware she'd taken his place. Bulma had left him a scribbled last few words on a sticky note slapped to the fridge door—it had been the nearest writing space she could find in a hurry, because she'd be damned if she watched her ageing father sacrifice himself for people he'd already given so much to. The drive out to the rendezvous point had been a long, quiet one, quieter even when she'd laid eyes upon the space shuttle that would take her away.

It was perhaps the most selfless thing she'd ever done in her life. Now, squatting alone on the cell floor, she prayed for the umpteenth time that it wouldn't be the last thing she did ever.

There was one thing the blue-haired heiress did have up her sleeve. In the literal sense, they'd stripped her of all her belongings and suspicious articles prior to boarding, so she no longer carried the electronic multipurpose watch that would've come in handy for future escape. No, it was the thing Bulma prided herself most on: her astonishing mind.

Even as she huddled there, hugging her knees to her chest, the woman was confident she'd find a way to outsmart her captors. She hadn't been named heiress of her father's endowment by virtue of her birth alone. No, Bulma Briefs was confident that, despite being on a ship that potentially housed a plethora of genii from other planets, she would find a way to outdo them all.

The Saiyans may have had strength on their side, but from the looks of the soldiers who'd retrieved her from Earth, she estimated their collective intellects had the processing power of a mere handful of peas. Peas encased in two-hundred pounds of solid testosterone each and violent urges, and a massive warship with which to fulfill those urges and terminate with extreme prejudice.

Yes, her future looked bright indeed. She didn't think she'd ever wanted a cigarette and a bottle of cream sherry as desperately as she did then.

When the muffled sound of footsteps approached, Bulma lifted her head to watch the locked door. An electronic disengagement sounded and the barricade slid open, revealing a man with a short, wild mane of soot-black hair. Though armoured, his muscular arms were completely bared and unadorned, and the breastplate wrapping his torso was decorated with deep scratches. Boots set in place, his dark and roguish eyes looked over her and then, raising an eyebrow, he said something to her in a flurry of syllables that she couldn't possibly believe she was expected to understand.

"Are you here to take me to your leader? It's about time," Bulma huffed in as much indignation as she could muster. She felt that she ought to be more intimidated, but for some reason, stewing alone in a prison unit had deflated much of her foreboding and given way to resignation. However, she couldn't help the small bolts of adrenaline running through her veins as the prospect of the unknown before her.

The man tilted his head, looked her up and down, then smiled. "Uratse'nos aht yi bis da ne, kyrda?"

Bulma may not have been able to understand him, but she knew amusement when she saw it. They knew she couldn't speak their language. They'd used their own system of translators—however exactly they'd done it, Bulma did not know—to ransom Earth. But perhaps the foot soldiers of the armada were even less intelligent than their upper-rank peers. Or perhaps they simply didn't care and enjoyed tormenting her. Perhaps—perhaps they'd been watching her curled up in her cell this whole time, laughing at her misery.

"You know I can't understand you, right?" she said, beginning to rise to her feet and then realizing how stiff her legs felt. They were strong enough to support her being upright, but she doubted she could walk over to the man and keep her dignity at the same time. Okay, so maybe sitting for so long in one spot and refusing to pace like a caged animal hadn't been her best idea.

The man rolled his eyes and entered the room, reaching Bulma in three steps. He then proceeded to take hold of her arm and guide her out, forcing movement into her rigid muscles as she half followed, half got dragged away from the cell and began a long trek down the corridor.

As soon as sensation returned to her limbs, so did the onslaught of pins and needles, but it was better than tripping every four paces. The deep grey of the long hallway stretched out before her and she tried to take peeks into the other prison compartments they walked by, but the man holding her made no move to slow down, nor to compensate for their difference in stride. Since asking where they were going and complaining were all the same to someone who spoke a different language, Bulma only bothered to make an irritated noise or two along the way whenever her captor tugged too hard.

Exiting the prison ward brought them into a wider, longer corridor, much better lit than the last and less drab, a bright chrome compared to the dingy palette of her previous dwelling. Throughout the trek, they were alone—no guards, no crew, no presences of any sort showed themselves. But the man seemed to know which direction to take, turning corners here and there and passing through entryways that opened and closed on their own. The first time he turned so abruptly that Bulma collided into his side, which could've been a brick wall for all it moved.

Curious enough, it was with this accident that she took note of the brown fur belt he wore, looped where the armour tapered at his midsection. For a surly warrior, it was the most out of place thing Bulma could think of. She could've sworn from grazing it that it was warm, in comparison with the coolness of his breastplate, but she knew her mind must have been playing tricks on her as the man gave a vague reprimand at her clumsiness.

When they finally arrived at the most massive door of them all, nearly the size of the doors in front of Bulma's garage back home, the man stopped and waited. Then he dropped his gaze onto her once more and smirked.

"Holl brovozis, kyrda," he sneered, followed by a string of words too long and fast for her working memory to capture.

Bulma lifted her chin stubbornly right back at him. "Holl brovozis, asshole," she muttered back, hoping the unfamiliar phrase communicated… some of her displeasure, at least.

He only grinned at her again. "Ah, tal umate'vos tur," he chuckled, turning towards the entrance as it pulled apart like a gaping maw and he led her forward once more.

Bulma held her breath as she entered.

The chamber was large, befitting of the wide entrance that guarded it, shaped into an oblong semicircle that ended where the flat plane of the door began. Overhead, instead of a ceiling, there was a massive glass dome threaded with steel beam supports, staring out into the black chasm of space. The area's cold lighting came from big, round lights recessed into the walls. And at the back of the room, seated on a slightly raised throne attended by soldiers on each side, was a man.

"Welcome, Doctor Briefs," his gruff, yet cultured voice rolled over the expanse of the room. Like the others, he was armoured and mesomorphic, but the build of his breastplate was slightly more intricate. A red crest was stamped on the area over his heart and a cinnabar cape spilled from his shoulders, the end draping over his knee. A flame-like shock of dark hair stood from his head and high cheekbones framed his austere gaze. His chin rested in his hand.

Bulma knew at once that he was their commander, even had he not been sitting in the chair or dressed the way he was.

So naturally, the first thing that came out of her mouth was going to be something that ensured they knew she was not intimidated.

"How long is this going to take? I've only been dying for a piss for the last four hours, so I'd rather you save a grandiose speech about the paramountcy of my cooperation," she said.

The room was so quiet she feared all of them could hear her heart thrumming in her chest.

"I beg your pardon?" the man on the throne said in a tenor that was definitely not about to broker any pardons.

"You heard me. I was left in that cell for hours without food, water, or anything for that matter. Is this how you treat your visitors? How do you expect your scientists to perform like you demand when this is how you greet them?" she furthered, even daring to put one hand on her hip, if at least to hide the fact that she was shaking. She was grateful her voice betrayed nothing, at least.

The man paused, sat up straight, and then burst out laughing.

In fact, the whole room was laughing, save herself and the Saiyan who'd brought her in, who looked slightly confused about the whole matter.

The commander, still chuckling, rose to his feet.

"You are the first scientist brought aboard with the spine to not beg for your life or anyone else's, kyrda," he declared, striding away from the throne and towards her. "Kakarot, levet'os aki."

The soldier next to Bulma guided her forward until she was standing but a few feet away from the commander.

"Vegeta Sadal, poden'bis—" the soldier began until the commander held a hand up, silencing him.

"It is true, Doctor Briefs, you are not merely some prisoner. But neither are you an ordinary guest. We have proper accommodations set up for you, although you should not expect to be interacting with your fellow experts just yet. As pitiful as your attempts at conspiracy would be, we cannot allow you to scheme with any of them," he said. "Rest assured, I shall save you that speech and assume you understand the consequences for disobeying or trying to escape shall not be trivial."

Standing so close, the man's stature was not nearly as imposing as his presence—he was no taller than Bulma herself. But his eyes burned with a wicked fire behind their onyx exterior. She almost swore she could feel the power emanating from the air around him, like a weight to the oxygen she breathed.

"Will I get any of my belongings back?" she dared to ask.

"You still make demands when you know not to whom you speak."

"A girl can imagine."

He smirked. "I am Prince Vegeta. That is all you need to know of me for the time being. What is important is that you understand your task."

Bulma felt her stomach continue to crawl up into her chest cavity.

"In three days time, you shall commence work to prove to us the merit of your planet and your species. From your Earth, we've collected two other Humans besides yourself. However…" The prince held up a single finger on his gloved hand, the white fabric stark in the cold lighting. "We only need one of you. We have no way of knowing which of you will be the most useful for our purposes, so in order to determine this, you will design a single piece of technology to demonstrate your worthiness for our cause. You will have six weeks to do so. No more, no less."

Bulma swallowed as discreetly as she could. "And then what?"

"The one who presents us with the most useful work gets to stay. If all of you fail to impress me, I will be forced to waste time to fly back to your pitiful rock just to destroy it."

"Even if one of us does impress you, what happens to the losers of this contest?"

He pressed two fingers on the soft spot under her chin and jaw, barely grazing her skin.

"A girl can imagine," he echoed.

By the time he pulled away and turned his back, Bulma wasn't sure how her knees were still holding her up.

"As I said—you'll have three days to grow accustomed to your quarters and work station, and any other areas of the ship that will be relevant to you. We will give you any supplies you may need, provided we have them at our disposal, of course. Kakarot is your assigned guard, but as his translator is broken for the moment, an additional assistant will be sent over. Kakarot, levet'os. Uratse'bis codima."

The soldier, who'd been next to her the whole time, took hold of her arm again and she realized she was about to be dragged out.

"Wait. What if—what if I need to talk you?" she blurted. Desperation seized her thoughts, along with the flurry of questions she still needed to ask. Six weeks? A measly six weeks when it took some companies years for development? She'd have to go through drafts, schematics, prototypes, revisions, and everything by herself when she was just one person—in six goddamn weeks.

"You won't be talking to me at all," the prince said. "Direct any questions you have to your assistants. Kakarot will take you to your quarters and you can have your piss."

"Wait! I'm not done!" Bulma kept glancing over her shoulder as the Saiyan's iron grip pulled her further and further away. She got one last look at the prince's back through the massive steel doors before they closed shut behind her and she was once again in the dead hallway, with nothing but her guard to accompany her.

She looked up at him. "Guess I'm stuck with you, huh?"

"Ne dresivi'bis anda," he said with a shrug.