Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ

Summary: Bulma's lived her entire life under Saiyan rule, never even having seen her home planet. For 22 years she's been trapped as a slave, serving her King and Prince. But can a dream of freedom be enough to encourage her to escape? Or will a certain Prince stop her from doing so?

The Perfect Flaw

Prologue

Geldin 25, 451 a.d.

Dear Diary,

Hi. My name is Bulma Briefs. A lot's been happening in my life lately, and I've finally decided to start a journal.

Before I get into the present stuff, let's back up a bit, shall we? Like I said, my name is Bulma and I'm 3.1 moons (though a fellow human told me that's around 22 years or so). My whole life, ever since I can remember, I've lived on this planet, Planet Vegeta. Though this is true, I'm also aware that I was born on a planet named Earth, though I'm sad to say I've never actually seen it. I hope to someday; I hear it's a beautiful place.

Yes, as you can imagine, I am a slave among the Saiyans— oh! Right! The Saiyans. I have to say I've adapted to living with them, even though they really are cruel and heartless at times. They're extremely powerful beings that use 'ki', a natural energy from within their bodies. So technically, they themselves are the weapon, armed 24.7— anyway, I'm a technological slave, which means I'm not actually owned by one Saiyan. I guess I have it luckier than some, you could say. Every day I work in the "Science Wing" where I use my intelligence to create inventions which will help the growth of Saiyan Economy. Depending on the invention, and whether it turns out to be profitable, one can get rewarded: usually with a larger cell— or dorms as we hard workers like to call them— with small additional luxuries.

Planet Vegeta is a monarchy by the way. King Vegeta's currently the ruler, commanding his kingdom with a stoical persona and a menacing temper. But many say that the King is reaching the end of his days, and when the time comes, his son, Prince Vegeta, will take over the throne. Though, it's hard to tell if this is a good thing.

Well, I think that's all I have to say for now, I'll tell you if I forgot to mention something or not in my next entry.

Chapter I

Bulma paced her dorm anxiously, her hand settled pensively under her chin and her thin brows furrowed in deep thought.Meanwhile her cerulean eyes fixed firmly on the incomplete invention across from her, begging for her attention.

She was diligently brainstorming on how to finish her new device; she could use a few more pillows and blankets: velvet to be precise, and this new invention was going to be the ticket. She had a knack for creating just the right things that would impress the Saiyans, and she had already won numerous mentions for her pieces. But something wasn't right. Maybe she had worked herself too hard. It seemed like no matter what she did, her brain was just too exhausted.

Giving a sigh of defeat, the weary scientist let herself slouch lazily forward as she dragged her feet to bed. She collapsed onto the sheets while staring absentmindedly at the dorm ceiling.

Bulma wasn't sure how much time passed as she lay and let her thoughts drift to life in general: whether or not it could get better than this somehow. Maybe someday being able to sleep on satin sheets within a ravishing, embellished chamber, or escaping from this life of slavery.

Though of course, she was wise never to let these thoughts wander too far, for she knew of the consequences.

But still . . . .

Crawling under the thin covers, she shook herself forcefully from her unrealistic fantasies. It would never happen. There was no use daydreaming about something that was infinitely impossible. After all, as the Saiyans would say: "Be happy with what you've got."

And that's exactly what she was. She was jubilant with what she had. Whoop-di-doo.

But still . . . .

No. No.

Before she could get carried away with her reveries, she leaned over to her flimsy night stand, and blew out the candle . . .

Along with any of her lingering hopes.

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Geldin 26, 451 a.d.

Dear Diary,

Sorry about that. There is something I forgot to mention in my last entry. The thing is, I don't really have any family— wait— that came out wrong. I do have family, but none on Vegeta. There all back on Earth. That is, if they're even still alive. But I know I did have family because a few years ago, on my birthday, my 'father' sent me a necklace. I'm actually surprised the Vegeta-import guards let me keep it. I guess they considered it harmless, and thank God, too. It was a golden locket with my mother and father's pictures embedded into it; I've cherished it ever since.

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Bulma all but staggered into the lab as pains lurched sharply in her abdomen, causing her to wince subconsciously. She was surprised she managed to make it to her station without drawing much attention, she could have sworn people would make a scene. Carefully she lowered herself into her station chair, releasing a sigh of relief. It was times like this that she rued the day she was born a female.

"Hey, Bulma!"

Bulma whirled around, coming face to face with her handsome colleague. Her face flamed red at the thought of him seeing her keeled over because of menstrual pains. "Oh! H-hey, Mark."

Like herself, Mark was a human as well: captured from Earth just as she had been, only a bit more recent. He was the one who had taught her English and had told her multiple stories of the Earth culture that she so longed to experience. He stood tall and lean with a heartwarming grin. "How's that invention coming?"

Bulma hesitated as another pain rippled through her lower abdomen. "O-oh," she strained, "well, I think I'm having a mild case of inventor's block right now. So I haven't really gotten that far on it yet."

Mark's smile broadened. "Well, if you want those improvements in your dorm, you better act quick before someone else gets the prize first."

Bulma forced a tight smile. She felt her temper wavering. "Heh, heh . . . yeah, right."

"Oh, I almost forgot!" he exclaimed suddenly, reaching his hand slowly into his lab coat pocket. From there he retrieved a ravishing Blelinn rose, one of the most beautiful flowers on Vegeta. He held it steadily in front of her, allowing its heavenly aroma to soothe her senses. She couldn't believe it. So Mark liked her that way, huh? To think, he'd had years to do this, and he was just doing it now. To be perfectly honest, she'd been waiting for him to do something like this.

But the thing was, Bulma wasn't sure she liked him that way. Sure, she wouldn't deny him being handsome; not to mention he being one of the only other human males there. It was just, well, she always seemed to find it difficult to imagine them together . . . kissing.

"How'd you like to have dinner with me in the dining hall next week?"

She knew that had been coming. She silently wondered, if she were to accept, if perhaps it would grow into a kinda sweet relationship between them; whether or not it would be too difficult to maintain a relationship in Vegeta's palace.

But hey . . . how many opportunities like this would she get in her lifetime? Who knew? She'd give it a try. "Sure, why not?"

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Later that day, Bulma made her way down the Left wing toward the dining hall, gnawing viciously on her pencil as she studied the designs on her clipboard. All was silent except for the soft pit-pat of her feet and the grinding of her jaws. Now, if I put that there, and then— no, wait— that wouldn't work. Well maybe if I put this here—no— that wouldn't work either.

An abruptly faint, distracting noise filtered gradually through her mind, causing her to lose track of her thoughts. She gave a growl of frustration. What was that damn noise? Somewhere in her head, it reminded her of distant battle cries. Was there a fight going on? It was actually quite common: servants or slaves getting into skirmishes over a piece of food or sometimes, if their standards were low enough, clothing.

Audaciously Bulma continued down the hall, noting how the sound grew louder. She was getting closer.

But she suddenly halted as she came to an intersection in the hall and came to a dreadful realization. This wasn't the West Wing. She must have been so engrossed in her thoughts she hadn't realized she'd gone the wrong way. She wasn't even exactly sure where she was now. A few feet in front of her stood a large cylindrical wall, and beyond she only guessed that it was where the noise was coming from. Her breath caught in her throat. S-should I? I'm not even supposed to be here.

Gathering up her courage, she tiptoed forward, making her way cautiously toward one of the circular windows. She raised her head just high enough to be able to steal a short glimpse. Her eyes widened at the sight.

Inside the cylindrical room levitated two Saiyans, one large and unfamiliar; the other Bulma recognizing right away.

The Prince.

He and his father were feared by all, slaves and Saiyans alike. The mere thought of being so close to him, so close to his ruthless, raw power sent chills up Bulma's spine.

He hovered stoically, his built arms folded tightly over his chest, his furrowed brows casting a shadow and darkening his black orbs. Meanwhile his opponent had broken sweat and was now slouching slightly, panting heavily. He must be training, Bulma thought in awe, studying the vexed Prince. She couldn't prevent her eyes from scanning over his body, tracing the contours of his god like muscles that must have taken his whole like to form.

She wouldn't deny it. She was attracted to him . . . well, physically anyway. The guy was a cold, heartless monster for God's sake! She couldn't fall for a guy who spent every day enslaving innocent people from all over the universe, just for the hell of it.

His mouth was moving now; he was saying something. Next thing she knew, both Saiyans had landed back on to ground, and were striding haughtily in her direction.

Panic flooded overwhelmingly through Bulma's veins at that moment, and instinctively she ducked from view. She heard the hiss as the door opened. Frantically she scrambled on all fours in an attempt to get as far away from the door as she could. She lay still as stone against the wall, watching as the Prince and his sparring partner's forms disappeared from sight down the Wing from which she'd initially come. It was only then that she realized she'd been holding her breath. She gave a heavy sigh. That was too close. I could've been killed.

For safety, she remained in her uncomfortable position for a few more minutes, making sure they were really gone. She then climbed to her feet and started back down the hall, making a note-to-self: Always watch where you're going.

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Geldin 26, 451 a.d.

Dear Diary,

I'm ashamed of myself. I accidently went down the wrong Wing today and stumbled upon the Prince's spar match. I came so close to getting caught, my heart's still racing. And even worse than that . . . I starting staring at him. You know, staring at him.

I'm so stupid sometimes.

Good news is that I was asked to go to dinner with Mark. I just hope it turns out to go smoothly.

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"Where to, M'Lord? Where to, where to!"

The Prince's scowl deepened. "Ask me again, Kitser, and you won't live long enough to care."

The servant pouted slightly, continuing to circle Vegeta as he walked. He decided to ignore the threat. "Does his Majesty wish to know what I came across today?"

"No."

"I began reading an interesting book called— oh, what was it— 'Fact or Myth' I believe," Kitser continued, oblivious to the Prince's clenched fists. "And I found something very intriguing. Have you heard of the 'Dragon Balls,' M'Lord?"

This on the other hand, caught the Saiyan's interest. Vegeta's brows crept upward in curiosity, his fists slowly relaxing as he waited for Kitser to explain. "Well," the servant began, happy to have gotten his Lord's attention, "they're supposedly magic. And they're said to have the power to grant three wishes; any wish the commander desires."

As Kitser spoke, Prince Vegeta couldn't help but imagine himself: ruler of the universe, with ultimate power and— and immortality. Yes, immortality: living forever with the universe at his very fingertips.

It was absurd. He scoffed suddenly, dismissing the obvious myth. "Rubbish."

But Kitser wasn't finished. "Well the peculiar thing is, there have been a plethora of reports of having come across such a phenomenon, including reports coming straight from Frieza's men themselves."

Frieza's men? But why would they have reported on such a silly notion? Unless Frieza had sent them on a search in the first place? And Frieza wasn't one to fall for a myth.

Perhaps there was something to this after all.

"So where are you headed, M'Lord?"

Vegeta growled at the question which he had specifically told Kitser not to repeat, and gave a groan of defeat. "I'm going to speak with my father."

They walked the rest in silence— well at least the Prince was silent as Kitser continued to babble on— until they came to two golden doors. Without hesitance Vegeta pushed through and strode in bitterly, scanning briefly for his father. The King sat quietly in the large throne, drumming his gloved fingers upon the armrest as he eyed his son wearily. "Finally."

The Prince rolled his eyes. "What do you want, you impatient old fool?" He spat coldly while crossing his arms. Meanwhile Kitser wisely backed away.

Angrily the King shot up from his throne and stormed down the carpeted stairs, his cape fluttering behind him. He came to a halt and stood before his offspring, his gaze impersonal and burning. "You've lost your respect," he accused in a low hiss. "What happened to the obedient boy I raised, who looked up to his father with pride and showed him some humble respect?"

Until then, Vegeta had evaded eye contact. Now, he turned his head to meet his father's glower. When he spoke, his voice was soft and cool: "He grew up."

The young Prince remained resolute as he took the first blow to the stomach, and then the second to the face. His father hadn't lost his touch. He wondered absently if he'd have bruises the next day.

He wasn't sure why he didn't fight back. It wasn't that he couldn't, hell, he'd probably beat the shit out of him. Maybe it was because, even though he refused to admit it, he had some pity for the old man. He knew his father was having a hard time letting go of the fact that the Empire wasn't looking up to him as they once had. They were turning to a new leader now. A youthful Prince Vegeta . . .

After the mild beating, the Prince and his servant left the room without a word . . .

And Vegeta wondered if that was why his father had summoned him.

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"Thanks a bunch for the pain killers, Kett," said Bulma quietly, placing a comforting hand on her abdomen.

Doctor Kett waved a large green hand in dismiss. "Don't mention it. Anytime."

While he turned to attend to his clipboard, Bulma slid off the table and headed for the door, stopping when she heard Kett's voice behind her. "Just take one of those a day, and it should relieve the pain."

"Thanks again," she commented, exiting the room.

"See you later, Sapphire."

Bulma dragged down the hall, the earlier incident still on her mind. What would have happened to her if she had been caught? Would Prince Vegeta have fried her right then and there, or would he have thrown her in prison for the lecherous criminals? What if she had been caught? She just couldn't imagine the torture. They would never have believed her if she had told them it was an accident. And even if they had, they probably would have killed her anyway, just to satisfy their bloodlust.

So absorbed in her thoughts, she stopped when she walked into a hard chest. Startled she glanced up to find the messenger boy staring down at her with a lopsided grin. She then glimpsed to the side, noting it to be a coincidence how she just so happened to stop outside her door. "Is this your dorm?" She nodded. "Here you are, miss," he squeaked while pushing a package into her arms.

Distantly, Bulma found it amusing how the boy's tiny voice betrayed his enormous size. "T-thankyou," she stammered while studying the package. The boy gave a curt nod before spinning on his heel and, with much difficulty, skipping down the hall.

Perplexed, Bulma entered her dorm, examining the package thoroughly before setting it on the table next to her inventions. It must be . . . from my parents. Excitement pumped through her at this possibility, and she then began to eagerly shed the myriad of tape that secured the box.

Once unwrapped, she found herself erupting in ecstatic laughter as she stared at a brand new makeup kit. Delicately she took it in her fingers, running them along the surface and savoring the feel of something that came straight from her home: Earth.

What the—?

Bulma paused suddenly as her fingers met an unnatural bump on the bottom surface. Puzzled she flipped it over to find a very unfamiliar device that was about the size of her thumb. With great care she detached it from the kit, holding it a few more seconds for further examination. It was sort of, sticky, and she noticed a tiny button embedded into it. Huh. I wonder what that does.

Timidly, she pressed it with her free hand, subconsciously wincing as she awaited an explosion of some sort. Instead, her hands disappeared from view, causing the contraption to levitate in mid-air while her eyes grew wide in disbelief. She looked down . . .

To find that she wasn't there. She opened her mouth, but no sound came.

"I-I'm invisible."

So this was the real gift, not the make up kit.

But what would she possibly want to do with invisibility?

A/N: PLEASE REVIEW!