A/N - Well hullo there. I was going to wait a while before starting this, but I couldn't get rid of that sequel itch. I had to make a move. Sooo ... Yah ... Don't really know what else to say here. Enjoy? AND thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who voted for Contending with Darkness, which only ended up winning First flipping Place in the Best Action category. I was overwhelmed to say the least!

I hope this one will please you just the same, if not more!

Thanks to Adli for being my trusty beta :)

Depths of Darkness

Chapter One

October 1st

Over the other side of the room, water dripped, hit the floor every three or so seconds. Buzzing past, its movements tickling the hairs on her skin, was a fly, though sometimes it sounded like there were two of them as the sound blended into a static humming right next to her ears. It was too dark to determine any distinguishable objects while she was awake, but soon enough the weakness would drag her back under and she'd pass out for another sparing moment. When waking, for some reason, she thought she would be comforted by Chichi, her late friend's hand rubbing her shoulder while she crooned that it was all OK … even when it wasn't. Rancid odours floated in the room, but she couldn't quite pin point their exact smells. Maybe a rotten, infected sore? She tugged at her bound wrists, the coarse, damp rope burning into her skin, the loose bristles picking at her flesh. She was sat down, hunched forward and too weak to move, too weak to do anything. She could barely breathe, tape covering her mouth, nostrils obstructed with dried blood. Warm tears ran down her face, stinging what must have been an open cut beside her right eye. She muffled her pain through the thick tape, quivering, trying to stop the flow of tears.

Pain came surfacing all at once in her arms, legs, back, and more so in her face.

It was freezing.

One of the flies buzzed past, too close, and as she winced, fruitlessly avoiding it, her head rattling and throbbing. Everything surrounding her was agonising. Memories, too blurry to recollect, were forming and disappearing before her, like passing shadows. She didn't know what was real. Had she dreamt the entire thing? Did any of it happen? Any moment, Frieza was going to walk in and laugh in her face, retelling how he had in fact captured them, killed Goku and Vegeta, and was now planning on keeping her for his own sick means. She swallowed hard, the dryness in her throat making it feel like she was swallowing snapped twigs.

The door swung open, a blast of harsh, dry light swamped the room, forcing her to recoil as much as she could without causing any more searing pain. Heavy footsteps clomped against stone flooring towards her.

Bulma kept her eyes shut, until the tape was stripped from her mouth, ripping out hairs and skin, and she gasped, heaving huge dry exhales as the air came flurrying into her lungs. That sour smell of neglected, rotten flesh came surging into her senses, making her lurch. Nothing came up. There was nothing in her stomach to bring up. Wildly scanning the room, twisting in her chair, Bulma's breathing was frantic, chest rising and falling, rib cage feeling like it was going to crack open, spilling her lungs.

It was freezing.

The door was clicked shut again.

"You gonna start talking yet?" a gruff voice shouted from the left side of her, causing her to flinch.

She peered from beneath tear doused lashes to see a tall, young-looking man, his black, wiry hair resting on his shoulders, his clothing—all black—torn and ripped, mottled. He narrowed his green eyes at her, mouth set into a hard line.

Even keeping eye contact proved too difficult, as she had to drop her gaze, shift it to the other presence in the room: a woman, probably no older than Bulma, dressed the same way, her blonde hair dishevelled and loose. Underneath all the grime and scum on her face, maybe she was pretty, but the etched anger and bitterness made her seem like a brute.

She was tapping her gloved fingers against her forearm, glowering. "Hey, bitch, he asked you a question," she said, approaching.

Bulma shook her head, sucking in her quivering bottom lip. "I don't—don't know—"

"You don't know what?" the man said, snapping a pair of rubber gloves on.

Panic flooded through her as she watched him getting closer. She jerked trying to edge away from him, but it was too late. He punched her. Hard. In the side of the face, just below her eye socket. It went numb before the tingling, acidic pain sprang to life. Tears poured down her face, silent cries for help strained her throat and chest. A lurch of nausea refrained her from talking. All she could focus on was the effort of not vomiting, as there was nothing but stomach acid to bring up.

"Why have you come here? Who sent you?" he said, waited a few seconds, and hit her again, this time in her gut.

Blinded by pain, the room closed in on her, but she needed to stay awake. Blood swilled in her mouth as she garbled, "I don't … know."

She hung her head, finally relenting, and stared at the string of bloody phlegm flopping and dripping from her mouth. Water was still tapping from somewhere in the room. There was mumbling between the two people as they conferred, but that was all distanced compared to the pattering droplets of water.

It was freezing.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to shut down. How did she get here? The more she tried to think about it the thicker the block in her mind became. She just wanted to go home. Wanted to see her parents, friends, anyone who would tell her all of this was just a very vivid dream.

A flicker of energy appeared within her mind's eye, something familiar, a sense she'd felt before but couldn't determine from what source. She'd definitely felt it before. It wasn't enough to grant her the effort to lift her head, but something was approaching, perhaps to save her? Someone?

Vegeta?

The door opened, followed by a gust of icy air, and the sound of the man and woman gasping triggered Bulma's full earshot.

It was silent for a few seconds, before an anxious, familiar voice said, "What the hell are you doing?"

Two Days Earlier

The Earth was suspended before them as they ever so slowly orbited it, the richness of the land and ocean somewhat duller than she had remembered. Still, there was no doubting that it was home. The faint outline of Japan was coming into view, its contours shaping the ever growing hope in Bulma's heart.

She looked to Goku, who was scrunching his face up, undoubtedly perplexed by the rapid change in their plans. She wiped her sweaty palms on her grotty jeans, and said, "It's still gonna take a while before we land, so that gives us some time to sort things out," followed by a sigh and a quick glance to Vegeta.

The hostility in his glare was unnerving, making her shift her weight from one leg to the other. But it wasn't long before, without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked off. The whir of the dated technology and machinery on the ship drowned out his fading footsteps, and Bulma was baffled by Vegeta once again, though she tried not to read into it, as there was too much to do now, too much to decode.

"But this means all those nightmares … They weren't real?" Goku said, still listlessly gazing out the glass, the glow of space outlining his body.

She shrugged. She hadn't thought about that either. All those dreams that plagued her mind while on Orlon: the fires, the looming shadows, the sprawled corpses in the streets. It didn't bear thinking about.

"You know as much as I do," she said, wandering over to the control panel, sizing up all the switches and levers. "Whatever is going on, there has to be some sort of explanation. And it has to be on Earth." She met Goku's eyes. "If Earth wasn't destroyed, people might still be there … My Mom and Dad—"

"Gohan," Goku whispered, his eyes widening a fraction, before he looked at the floor, unsure of his own optimism.

"I hope so."

It went quiet for a moment, allowing them both time to digest the possibilities that lay a mere couple of hours away. All that was happening, Bulma believed, was happening for a reason. In the long run, this was a journey she was destined to make. She believed that because she had survived, and planned on continuing to survive. Earth's domineering presence was making that kind of sense more realistic. No matter what was ahead of her, what truths were hiding back on her home planet, she would fight through them. If not for her sake, then for Vegeta.

Something was eating away at his insides, and it wasn't his own stomach keeling over, gnawing at itself. It was a pain far greater than any hunger he had ever suffered. It was guilt. Every time he caught her staring at him the pain lashed at him, cutting him open, revealing, what? He didn't know. He couldn't exact the reasons why he felt like that. Nothing was as transparent as it used to be anymore.

He entered his quarters, the room he had been held prisoner in not too long ago, shut the door behind him, and sagged down the wall until his backside hit the thick carpeted floor. His vision clouded as he narrowed his eyes, forcing back the overwhelming pressure in his face, his temples burning, a grimace forming, and breathing coming in heavy, raspy huffs of air.

It smelled of dried blood, rusted metal, damp, rotting furniture. The fragrance bound to together making one humungous stench, leaving him no other option but to draw his knees up to his chest and cover his nose. That stench brought horrendous memories hurtling back. Painful, chaotic images of blood smeared on walls, the colour so fresh and glossy, like paint. The sounds of people screaming, begging for their lives, on and on, crying and moaning for mercy. 'Why are you doing this?' predominantly surfacing amongst all other words.

Doing what? What?

Vegeta curled up tighter, trying to banish the constantly growing pressure in his head, until it was too late. Several tears slipped down his cheeks, catching at his chin, and then he choked on a sob, shuddering as he inhaled a lung full of air, clasping his knee caps.

'Why are you doing this?'

It was his mother's voice. Over and over. But he couldn't do anything. He couldn't switch it off. He could never switch it off.

Salt in the tears made his face itchy, the subtle feeling dragging his sorry bones back to the surface like a hard punch in the gut. He sat up, back pressed against the wall, and squared his shoulders. All his adult life he had strived for revenge for the death of his mother, and the obliteration of his entire race … his entire life. Now he didn't have a clue where he stood. Earth held no future for him. He was going somewhere he didn't belong once again. Never where he wanted to be. It was pointless going there, anyway. Frieza would follow them and kill them all. Time wasn't in their favour. Whatever that clown had suggested about Saiyans was fruitless, as they didn't have the time or facilities to train. Going to that ball of shit was a mere distraction, an obstacle for a day or so, before Frieza tracked them down and slaughtered every last one of them. And he wouldn't do it the kind way and destroy the planet from afar. They'd be sought out, stalked for days, thinking they were safe, until he'd erase all of that, piece by piece, before torturing them for weeks, maybe months.

He'd been there. He knew.

Vegeta got to his feet and moved to the tiny port hole to watch the last stretch of space, the emptiness, the clarifying, beautiful nothingness he agreed with. As soon as they landed on Earth, he would leave, go somewhere for solace, peace of mind, so he could train with the little time he had left to survive. That was what he needed to do, but the thought of leaving Bulma troubled him more than he liked. Even though she had another Saiyan to keep an eye on her, he would have preferred to do it himself. He knew he was capable of protecting her, knew she was capable of protecting herself … but against Frieza?

Vegeta sighed, frowning at his own reflection in the glass. He was torn between what he wanted … and what he really wanted.

Bulma sprinted down the corridor and into the control room, where Goku was already waiting. The room was devoid of another Saiyan, but she was sure he was fine and capable of looking after himself. The ship jerked and quaked as she reached the panel, all its lights flashing, foreign information appearing on a dust glazed computer screen. The green figures appearing, disappearing and reappearing in red. She knew the sequence of events like the back of her hand. Any language could appear on that screen, but a ship was a ship, and Bulma had made many in her time on Earth. Her fingers danced along the keys, flicking switches, swiping the sweat from her forehead. She stood back, biting her fingernails, watching the information fly down the screen.

Goku strapped himself into a seat, buckling various belts across his waist, shimmying into a harness that hung over the back of the headrest. Bulma did the same, not taking her eyes of the screen as she did, Earth coming closer into view, blocking out any peripheral remnants of space. They plummeted into the atmosphere, air whistling against the body of the ship, deafening them both as they gripped onto their harnesses. Bulma held her breath, and a countdown began.

Landing in ten … nine … eight … seven …

The sight of her mother and father enveloping her in a warm, loving embrace filled her with joy, and she focused on that, squeezing her eyes shut. The words people would say to her, how she would describe what had happened … being held in Vegeta's arms again. All of that was possible.

… four … three-

The next sequence of events took place in three seconds : a screeching, blistering sound came first, a collision, then a gust of fire rolled out of the control panel, setting everything alight. The huge screen of glass popped, spraying shards everywhere, hitting Goku in the face, knocking him back off his chair. The moment seemed endless as her world shattered. She felt skin tearing, the heat melting her face and arms, and through the broken glass, she saw the brown soil of Earth, before it all disappeared.

October 1st

"What the hell are you doing?" the familiar voice said.

Bulma eased her head up-right, a sharp, ripping pain from an open cut on her lip making her wince, splitting the wound further.

"Bulma? I can't believe it …"

She swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva, blinking slowly as the image of the person formed in front of her, albeit fuzzy from obstructing tears. Yamcha stood there, his hair shorter, a dusting of stubble across his face, clothes ripped and scuffed, unkempt like the other two. She wouldn't have recognised him if it wasn't for the scar. It seemed too unbelievable to form any type of reaction. Moving her face at all was too costly, so she remained impassive, while her mind worked, ticking over and about to detonate.

He ran up to her and crouched to her level, his eyes wide as he picked up on every bruise and cut that defaced her body. "I can't—I thought you were dead. You're—" He lifted a grimy hand up to touch her face, but something stopped him.

He frowned, turned to the man and woman. "What have you done to her? Do you know who she is?"

The spit she had swallowed was enough to churn her stomach again, and she wretched, the bile burning the walls of her throat.

The man and woman looked at each other, unspoken apprehension sparking between them, then back to Yamcha.

"This is Bulma Briefs … Her father's company is the reason you still have a place to sleep," Yamcha said, his voice rougher, more authoritative.

The two people blanched and grimaced, looking like they were about to throw up. The girl clasped her stomach and stepped back, staring at Bulma as if all the lights in her head had finally switched on.

"But, Yamcha," the girl said. "We really need to talk to you—"

"What?" he said, arching his head as if he wasn't hearing them correctly.

Bulma stared at his face. Was it real? She wanted to touch him, but she remained tied to the chair. Absentmindedly, she leaned towards him, the smell of sweat coming from beneath the layers of his clothing. Underneath that smell was his familiar scent. Just the smell of him. And it overwhelmed her, reducing her to silent tears.

The two people stood awkwardly, staring at Yamcha, before he sighed, got to his feet and met them in the centre of the room. They stood together, murmuring for a while, words too hushed for Bulma's battered ear drums to pick up. The ringing still persisted, drilling away at her brain, as she sat their leaning forward, matted hair dangling in front of her eyes. She realised her hair didn't really look blue anymore. It had been subjected to so much mud and filth and grease that she looked like a brunette. She smiled, tempted to chuckle, but knew it would only make for more suffering.

Yamcha returned, his mood noticeably tense. Her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him, wondering why he hadn't untied her yet, why he was leaving her held captive for reasons she couldn't understand, and never would.

He glanced over his shoulder at the other two, and said, "Both of you, leave."

They complied, nodding and walking out, leaving Bulma and Yamcha alone.

It was freezing.

"Yamcha—" she said, her voice cracking.

"What happened to you, Bulma?" he said, eyeing her sceptically, like she wasn't Bulma anymore, someone else he didn't recognise. "Is what they told me true?"

Once again she had little knowledge of what people were asking her. She thought that Yamcha would have made more sense. "Where am I?"

One of the flies whizzed past her face again, its buzzing becoming loud and aggressive as it then went on to bounce off the light bulb, creating various shadows in the room.

Yamcha sighed, trying not to succumb to the irritant sound the fly was making. "Bulma … You need to answer some questions."

The fly circled and circled without relent, torturing itself, hitting the bulb with such force that it made the inanimate object move. It reminded her of how she felt while being stuck on that ship …The memory had returned, along with the faces that accompanied it.

Vegeta …

"Where's Vegeta?" she cried out, yanking at her restraints, less aware of the pain it created. "Where's Goku?"

Yamcha frowned, but it held little anger. More of a pitiful look. "Goku?" he said, eyes widening. "I think you've got that wrong—"

"Where are they?" Tears spilled down her face, the unsolved mystery causing her to be alert.

It wasn't true? Was all of it fake? Why were people prodding and ripping her to pieces for information she didn't have? People had been with her, and now they were gone, vanished, along with fifty per cent of her brain. How had she gotten here?

Yamcha held his hands up desperately. "Hey … take it easy. No one's going to hurt you … Not anymore."

He wandered out of her view, ran the tap and came back over, holding a small cup of water. Looking around, she knew where she was, or a relative guess. It was a capsule home, one her father had been working on before she could remember. It was state of the art. Or it used to be. This one was mucky and each item of naked, bland furniture was coated with thick cobs of dust. She had been in the hallway the entire time, listening to the various appliances croaking with disuse from every other room.

"Here," he said, tilting her head back so he could pour the water into her mouth.

It trickled down her chin and neck, but the water was tepid so it didn't feel too bad. Yamcha plonked the cup on the floor, while Bulma swallowed the warm liquid thoughtfully, closing her eyes for a moment.

"I need you to think, Bulma," he said, rubbing his chin, watching her closely, his features sinking at the deteriorated sight of her.

Her breathing steadied. It was all too much to take in, so she conceded to whatever. Lethargy had taken over her mind, so the mere thought of a dispute was making her body ache, yearning to shut down. She stared at her naked knees, at the thousands of goose bumps littering her skin, and the long hairs trying to stand.

"Where've you been?" he asked her, the patience in his voice wavering a bit, but not much.

She bit her lip, frowned, casting her mind beyond the thick barricade. "I don't …"

There was movement. She couldn't tell what exactly. Looking up at Yamcha was bringing back too many memories, so she tried to keep her eyes elsewhere. It sounded like he was shifting on the spot, agitated with her lack of clarity.

"You've been gone a year-" he stated, followed by a sharp intake of air.

Bulma blinked, giving in and looking at him, a sudden rush in her heartbeat making her pull at the restraints without considering the effects. "A year?"

"—And I thought you'd died when we were attacked—"

"I was gone? A year? Yamcha," she pleaded, twisting, "I don't know anything." She shook her head, wrists splitting with pain. "Why am I here, Yamcha? Why have you got me tied to a chair? Why were those people hurting me?"

More tears came, unwilling to quell as she begged for answers of her own.

Yamcha crouched, but couldn't look her in the eye, instead staring at his own shoes. "Bulma … Why did you come to Earth with one of the soldiers who came to destroy it a year ago?"

Again, the question made little sense. She winced, shaking her head. "I don't understand …"

Yamcha peered at her uncertainly. The fly buzzed past them both, and Yamcha aimed towards it, blew it into a tiny cloud of dust. She watched as the particles of the flies corpse floated gracefully to the floor, and the obscene image of Goku getting glass sprayed across his face before the ship crashed, slapped her back to focus. She wailed, the sound so sudden it sent Yamcha backwards onto his haunches.

"Bulma," he said, clutching her knees.

She immediately stopped, stared at his hands, the black dirt underneath each nail, the cuts and peeling skin on each finger.

"You really can't remember what happened here?"

She shook her head despondently.

He sighed, still holding on to her knees. "A year ago, these soldiers appeared out of nowhere and destroyed everything … Only a few survived … Then they just vanished. I don't know why. You disappeared, Bulma, and Chichi, too. I tried looking, but—"

She couldn't speak, but Yamcha could see the information held the weight of tonne of metal.

"Maybe it's too much to hear right now—"

"My Mom and Dad, Yamcha. Are they alive?"

He grimaced, looking away.

The emotional strain she had repressed surfaced all over again, heavier than ever. Her parents were not alive. They were still dead, like she had been lead to believe not long ago. Another memory of someone telling her that made her slump forward in the chair, shutting it all off.

"Vegeta? Where is he?" she whispered, as the information settled and burrowed into reality.

The man she believed she loved, who had kept her alive, had been the reason for all the torment to begin with? It couldn't have been true, but somehow it didn't seem unbelievable. That much had happened to her, she could have been told anything and would have felt indifferent towards it. The emotions she was once in control of had now slipped away into darkness.

"They tried to apprehend him, but he was too quick. I've a search team scouting for him as we speak," Yamcha said, squeezing her knees reassuringly. Then he stopped. "I need to know why you came here with him."

She shrugged, knowing that this was the definitive moment as to why she was tied up to a chair and battered to a pulp. " … I didn't know who he was. He missed that information out," she muttered bitterly.

"What happened?"

What happened? What did happen? Was that story to be told for years and years as 'that part in her life she'd rather overlook', like it was a bad boyfriend she'd never want to be reminded of? That story wasn't even real anymore. Whoever she was there and then was not who she was now. She didn't know who she was now. The week on Orlon had changed her, but she didn't want to delve into the days, hours and minutes, scouring through the details to try and pick at that crystallising moment that reshaped who she was. The whole ordeal was too heavy. Not worth it. Not now, anyway.

"Too much," she said, glancing at Yamcha.

He stalled, but then got up, moved behind the chair and untied her wrists, then her ankles, releasing a new wave of pain all over her body as the wounds pulsed with fresh blood. He wandered off again, opening cupboards, slamming them closed. Bulma didn't look at her ankles or wrists. She'd seen enough blood to know what colour it was, what texture and taste. He came back over, sat down in front, and bandaged her up, wrapping the material around her wrists methodically, but tentatively.

"I trust you, Bulma. I didn't know they'd captured you," he said, sheepishly peeking at her. "This wouldn't have happened. I'm sorry."

She couldn't take her eyes off him. The sight of him still mystified her. Just his existence. It was real. He was real.

"Those guys … the ones who had you tied up … they shot down your ship. When they found you, you were wreck. You've been in a re-gen tank for twenty four hours, but—I'm sorry. This was never meant for you. Ever since that day—" He finished bandaging her wrists, sighed and looked at her. "We can't let that happen again."

Yamcha's handy work was thorough, but he hadn't cleaned up the wounds or anything like that. It was enough for now, though. Bulma didn't move, even though she wanted to throw herself at him and cry into the crook of his neck.

"You trust me?" she said. "You don't know where I've been, still don't know the reason behind any of this, and you trust—"

"I know you," he said.

"How do I know this is real?" She gestured around the room.

He shrugged, gave a weak smile. "I guess you don't Maybe it isn't. A year ago, I thought I'd lost you forever. Now you're in front of me …"

They stared at each other, before Bulma said, "But, where's Goku?"

Yamcha cocked an eyebrow, frowning. "Goku?"

"He was with me."

He looked off to the side, settling back on his haunches. "Goku's dead—He died before any of this happened."

Her heart stopped. "No, no. He was with me, I promise you."

Yamcha narrowed his eyes at Bulma, as if she was teasing him, ready to reveal the punchline any moment. "The ship you were found in only had you and that soldier in it."

"No," she said defiantly, clenching her fists. "Goku was with me. Goku was with me."

There was proof. She needed Vegeta to validate that proof. Everyone who saw Goku was either dead or missing. Typical. Now Yamcha was looking at her like she'd completely lost it, malfunctioned beyond return. Exasperated, she threw her head in her hands.

"I think you need some sleep," Yamcha said soothingly, his voice giving her some peace of mind, at least.

Suddenly, she tried to get to her feet, limbs rickety like an old piece of furniture, and she collapsed into Yamcha, who instinctively gripped onto her arms, digging his fingers into the tender wounds. She grit her teeth as she steadied herself.

"I need to find Vegeta," she mumbled, Yamcha helping her walk as if she was an invalid.

He chose wisely not to protest, though she knew he was right. She needed rest, to untangle the warped memories in her head and start thinking straight. They walked towards the door that was encased in green and brown stains, before Yamcha stopped.

"Before we walk out of here—I want to warn you: the world isn't what it was. People aren't the same anymore … They've changed."

Haven't we all.

Surely, it wasn't any worse than Orlon.