Here's my first attempt at fanfiction. Just an introduction. Character growth should appear I later chapters. Read and review! Tell me what you think.
Mia Jones
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball Z or any of the characters pertaining to that show. Don't try to sue me because you won't get a dime (I'm broke). DBZ belongs to Akira Toriyama (I think that's his name) and Funimation, or what ever the label DBZ is currently under.
Chapter 1
The sharp twiggy edges of the picnic basket banged against Bulma's legs with every step; leaving pale scratches on her tan legs. She sighed and lugged the basket to her chest, but it quickly drifted back to her lean thighs.
Mrs. Briefs skipped in circles around Bulma and her disgruntled father.
"I've got the napkins," the perky blonde laughed; waving a small handful of pink paper napkins. Mr. Briefs nodded and spoke incoherently to the tiny black cat that clung to his shoulder. Bulma ground her teeth.
"You better be thankful, mom. I'm missing my date with Yamcha for this," she grumbled. But Mrs. Briefs was to busy humming to pay any attention to her daughter. "How am I related to this woman?" Bulma asked herself.
They settled on a shady patch under a tree none of them could name, which contributed to Bulma's teeth grinding. The dry grass scratched the delicate skin behind their knees (someone had forgotten the standard checkered picnic blanket on the kitchen counter). Mrs. Briefs babbled about the flowers, sky, and clouds. Mr. Briefs fed small pieces of his turkey sandwich to the cat. The cat sniffed and nibbled. Bulma rested her head against her small hand; her salad left for the ants. The shade slowly migrated across the group.
Bulma sprang up and carefully smoothed her plaid skirt.
"Mom, is it ok if I take a little walk," she asked. Her mother's tuneless chanting didn't pause. Bulma smiled and jogged away on long legs.
The air was soft and caressing against her face as she leaped across imaginary obstacles. She plowed through a golden field of weeds; jumping and struggling through the thick brush like a deer. She used to spend hours, as a girl, in the same field. She instinctively headed towards the scruffy woods that lined the pasture.
And her stomach jumped up her throat.
A figure stood at the far west side of the field. It was shadowy and motionless. It could have been the blackened trunk of a tree hit by lightning many summers ago, except Bulma could feel and see the faint stare.
She ducked lower into the grass until it tickled her ears. Her pulse pounded and she had an overwhelming urge to run; every muscle in her body quivered, ready to explode.
She peeked slowly above the fronds. The figure had moved closer. It was only a few feet closer, but undeniably it had moved in her direction. Bulma twisted the hem of her skirt. She bolted up and sprinted towards the woods she originally had been aiming.
Tree branches slapped her face and fat fly legs prickled her lips. Dust clouds flew as she slid on shaky legs down a small gully. She dashed behind a tree that was rough with rich green moss. Her breath pounded and burned in her chest. As she clutched the tree her breathing relaxed, but her heart still pounded.
The woods were noisy with squawking birds, cheeping baby frogs, and the overwhelming whining of mosquitoes. The moist scent of dead leaves was overpowering. Bulma's fingernails dug small crescents in the moss, but they flexed and relaxed.
A dark face loomed over the edge of the gully. Bulma slapped her hand over her mouth. A man. A man with flaming black hair. But it was the eyes that stopped her breath. So many emotions mixed on a singular physical aspect: bright curiosity, hidden loneliness, shifty anger, quiet confusion. Their eyes met and Bulma felt naked, but not afraid.
She turned around slowly and glanced over her shoulder. He took a step closer; the leaves didn't rustle. Bulma clung to bare tree roots and slowly pulled herself up the other side of the gully. Pieces of orange clay crumbled from her feet. She reached the ridge and looked down. He looked up.
He was short, but not small. Muscles bulged under his torn black spandex suit. A strange gold and white armor lay in cracked pieces over his frame. There was rusty colored blood caked on one eye and part of his cheek. His small mouth twitched between poise and insecurity.
Bulma walked away slowly until the light of the gold field filtered through the leaves. He was slightly stooped and grimaced as he straightened his back. Bulma pushed through the thicket and burst into the glaring sunlight. He followed soundlessly.
She slumped into a thick patch of sun burnt grass and rested on her knees. She faced him, but he quit moving.
"Come here," she giggled. His eyes quirked but his feet remained planted. She waved her thin hand and he stepped cautiously until he looked down his nose over her small form. Bulma clutched her knees to her chest and gently patted the parched ground beside her. He lowered slowly and clutched at the earth for support. The tall grass formed a natural tunnel over their heads.
They studied each other carefully. Bulma snapped her fingers and pulled a pale pink napkin out of her pocket. She spat on it and positioned it over his face. He jerked back and a deep growl erupted from his chest.
"Don't be stupid. I'm just going to clean off that stuff from your face," she scolded. He leaned backwards but Bulma's hand shot out and scrubbed. He twisted and yelped as she attacked his face. She held his arm for support as she leaned closer and his body stiffened.
"Done," she announced and tucked the soiled napkin into her pocket. "What's your name," she asked quietly. He cocked his head. Bulma snorted and lightly pushed his arm. "Come on," she whined. His mouth opened slightly and his brows furrowed. Deep, guttural words boiled out.
Bulma laughed, and he immediately shut his mouth. "I'm sorry," she snickered. "But what was that?"
More feral sounds parted from his split and crusty lips. The cicadas buzzed and rattled like the chain of a rusty bike.
"No Japanese?"
No response. He shifted his legs and looked at her hair. His fingers shook as he reached out slowly. Bulma slapped his hand away. He smirked and raised his hand again, more quickly. He lightly stroked her sun dappled blue hair. Bulma sighed and gathered his sinewy fingers in her tiny hands. She poked them against her chest and spoke clearly, "Bulma." "Bulma," she repeated; punctuated by another jab to her chest. His eyes narrowed and his mouth stumbled over the word, "Bulma." She nodded her head vigorously. She jabbed his own rough, callused fingers into his taut chest. She smiled and poked again. "Vegeta," he growled.
"Vegeta... I like you Vegeta," she practiced.
His eyes darted over her bare shoulders and her tawny legs. He stroked his fingers against her warm arm. She brushed him away, again. He delicately lifted her skirt. Bulma struck at his arm.
"Stop that," she yelled. Vegeta didn't flinch, but he quickly dropped the skirt. His eyes were wide and bewildered. Bulma pushed stray strands of hair behind her ears and stood up. She held Vegeta's large hand and pulled him up.
"We'll go back to the house. I don't think mom or dad would especially like you," she stated. She skipped lightly while Vegeta eyed her lithe form. Confusion framed his face.
Mia Jones
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Ball Z or any of the characters pertaining to that show. Don't try to sue me because you won't get a dime (I'm broke). DBZ belongs to Akira Toriyama (I think that's his name) and Funimation, or what ever the label DBZ is currently under.
Chapter 1
The sharp twiggy edges of the picnic basket banged against Bulma's legs with every step; leaving pale scratches on her tan legs. She sighed and lugged the basket to her chest, but it quickly drifted back to her lean thighs.
Mrs. Briefs skipped in circles around Bulma and her disgruntled father.
"I've got the napkins," the perky blonde laughed; waving a small handful of pink paper napkins. Mr. Briefs nodded and spoke incoherently to the tiny black cat that clung to his shoulder. Bulma ground her teeth.
"You better be thankful, mom. I'm missing my date with Yamcha for this," she grumbled. But Mrs. Briefs was to busy humming to pay any attention to her daughter. "How am I related to this woman?" Bulma asked herself.
They settled on a shady patch under a tree none of them could name, which contributed to Bulma's teeth grinding. The dry grass scratched the delicate skin behind their knees (someone had forgotten the standard checkered picnic blanket on the kitchen counter). Mrs. Briefs babbled about the flowers, sky, and clouds. Mr. Briefs fed small pieces of his turkey sandwich to the cat. The cat sniffed and nibbled. Bulma rested her head against her small hand; her salad left for the ants. The shade slowly migrated across the group.
Bulma sprang up and carefully smoothed her plaid skirt.
"Mom, is it ok if I take a little walk," she asked. Her mother's tuneless chanting didn't pause. Bulma smiled and jogged away on long legs.
The air was soft and caressing against her face as she leaped across imaginary obstacles. She plowed through a golden field of weeds; jumping and struggling through the thick brush like a deer. She used to spend hours, as a girl, in the same field. She instinctively headed towards the scruffy woods that lined the pasture.
And her stomach jumped up her throat.
A figure stood at the far west side of the field. It was shadowy and motionless. It could have been the blackened trunk of a tree hit by lightning many summers ago, except Bulma could feel and see the faint stare.
She ducked lower into the grass until it tickled her ears. Her pulse pounded and she had an overwhelming urge to run; every muscle in her body quivered, ready to explode.
She peeked slowly above the fronds. The figure had moved closer. It was only a few feet closer, but undeniably it had moved in her direction. Bulma twisted the hem of her skirt. She bolted up and sprinted towards the woods she originally had been aiming.
Tree branches slapped her face and fat fly legs prickled her lips. Dust clouds flew as she slid on shaky legs down a small gully. She dashed behind a tree that was rough with rich green moss. Her breath pounded and burned in her chest. As she clutched the tree her breathing relaxed, but her heart still pounded.
The woods were noisy with squawking birds, cheeping baby frogs, and the overwhelming whining of mosquitoes. The moist scent of dead leaves was overpowering. Bulma's fingernails dug small crescents in the moss, but they flexed and relaxed.
A dark face loomed over the edge of the gully. Bulma slapped her hand over her mouth. A man. A man with flaming black hair. But it was the eyes that stopped her breath. So many emotions mixed on a singular physical aspect: bright curiosity, hidden loneliness, shifty anger, quiet confusion. Their eyes met and Bulma felt naked, but not afraid.
She turned around slowly and glanced over her shoulder. He took a step closer; the leaves didn't rustle. Bulma clung to bare tree roots and slowly pulled herself up the other side of the gully. Pieces of orange clay crumbled from her feet. She reached the ridge and looked down. He looked up.
He was short, but not small. Muscles bulged under his torn black spandex suit. A strange gold and white armor lay in cracked pieces over his frame. There was rusty colored blood caked on one eye and part of his cheek. His small mouth twitched between poise and insecurity.
Bulma walked away slowly until the light of the gold field filtered through the leaves. He was slightly stooped and grimaced as he straightened his back. Bulma pushed through the thicket and burst into the glaring sunlight. He followed soundlessly.
She slumped into a thick patch of sun burnt grass and rested on her knees. She faced him, but he quit moving.
"Come here," she giggled. His eyes quirked but his feet remained planted. She waved her thin hand and he stepped cautiously until he looked down his nose over her small form. Bulma clutched her knees to her chest and gently patted the parched ground beside her. He lowered slowly and clutched at the earth for support. The tall grass formed a natural tunnel over their heads.
They studied each other carefully. Bulma snapped her fingers and pulled a pale pink napkin out of her pocket. She spat on it and positioned it over his face. He jerked back and a deep growl erupted from his chest.
"Don't be stupid. I'm just going to clean off that stuff from your face," she scolded. He leaned backwards but Bulma's hand shot out and scrubbed. He twisted and yelped as she attacked his face. She held his arm for support as she leaned closer and his body stiffened.
"Done," she announced and tucked the soiled napkin into her pocket. "What's your name," she asked quietly. He cocked his head. Bulma snorted and lightly pushed his arm. "Come on," she whined. His mouth opened slightly and his brows furrowed. Deep, guttural words boiled out.
Bulma laughed, and he immediately shut his mouth. "I'm sorry," she snickered. "But what was that?"
More feral sounds parted from his split and crusty lips. The cicadas buzzed and rattled like the chain of a rusty bike.
"No Japanese?"
No response. He shifted his legs and looked at her hair. His fingers shook as he reached out slowly. Bulma slapped his hand away. He smirked and raised his hand again, more quickly. He lightly stroked her sun dappled blue hair. Bulma sighed and gathered his sinewy fingers in her tiny hands. She poked them against her chest and spoke clearly, "Bulma." "Bulma," she repeated; punctuated by another jab to her chest. His eyes narrowed and his mouth stumbled over the word, "Bulma." She nodded her head vigorously. She jabbed his own rough, callused fingers into his taut chest. She smiled and poked again. "Vegeta," he growled.
"Vegeta... I like you Vegeta," she practiced.
His eyes darted over her bare shoulders and her tawny legs. He stroked his fingers against her warm arm. She brushed him away, again. He delicately lifted her skirt. Bulma struck at his arm.
"Stop that," she yelled. Vegeta didn't flinch, but he quickly dropped the skirt. His eyes were wide and bewildered. Bulma pushed stray strands of hair behind her ears and stood up. She held Vegeta's large hand and pulled him up.
"We'll go back to the house. I don't think mom or dad would especially like you," she stated. She skipped lightly while Vegeta eyed her lithe form. Confusion framed his face.