A/N - So here you are: 21 chapters in, ready for this story to end. Or are you? As much as I'd love to drag the idea out for another 20 chapters, from the beginning I wanted the story to end here. It fitted the fill for me. The ending may not satisfy you, maybe it will. It all depends what you wanted to get out of it. But I want to thank all of you who have made it this far, who've tolerated my slow updates until the very end. I really appreciate that, and love all the feedback I've received, keeping me going when I almost gave up (insert Oscar winning tears of joy here).

As usual, MASSIVE thanks to Adli. If it wasn't for her, this story would be a pile of poop.

All that said ... I hope you enjoy :)

Contending with Darkness – Chapter 21

What are you going to do to Bulma Briefs?

Fingers spread wide apart across the metal-panelled flooring, he lowered his weight to the ground for the five thousandth time, beads of sweat congregating on his forehead, running down to the tip of his nose, pattering. Energy coursed through him in wicked belts, keeping the momentum high, the stamina rocketing. He pressed down again, only this time propelling upwards, catching himself before his body collided with the domed ceiling, and then began the real hard work. Fists clenched and released, strained with every punch he sent flying through the tight air at such rapidity, even he had lost count. He spun, aiming a heavy blow at his invisible opponent, feeling the sense of freedom ease from the pores of his skin with the humidity of the room trying to drag him down. Sweat draped over his entire body like a second skin, itching and antagonising. At last, he felt alive. Still imprisoned within his own head, but his body free to do what it did best—fight. Who he was fighting was still not clarified, with the exception of Frieza, but a battle was awaited and he would be at the forefront with baited breath. No more would he be subjected to the foul, unsavoury taste of humiliation and defeat. He was beyond that now. Glory was what he sought after. And he would get it.

Murmuring in his mind caught him off guard, seizing his attack and throwing him off balance, almost crashing to the floor. Pictures, as clear as the moments he drifted through them, would bloom within his mind's eye, casting painful memories of his torture with Frieza. He grunted, cemented a new stance, arms up front, fists balled, and he twisted his body, as if dodging a counter attack from the opponent. He would not miss a beat this time. Not again.

Saiyans are poison. Your heritage is no more than an incessant lump of dirt under my foot. It means nothing … You mean nothing.

Vegeta hissed, levitated a few inches off the ground, and fazed to different specs of the room, round housing and spinning to undercut, testing how many critical hits he could claim with each fraction of a second.

Your race was poison.

The control he desired still seemed untouchable, too distant to even graze his fingertips with. But the desire to have that kept him breathing. Kept him alive. The salty smell of drying sweat nipped his nostrils, and he resigned, landed soundlessly, and wiped his brow with the pointless damp skin of his forearm. What, exactly, did he want? Mere weeks ago he would have been quick to grapple at the idea of ultimate power. He'd seen more than he had wanted since then, things that could have swayed even the most power-hungry warriors onto a different path. Tangy blood sat in his mouth, just at the bottom of his tongue, and he wondered whether he liked the taste or not, before deciding no, and spitting it out.

For a fleeting couple of seconds he thought he could have been swept up into the mirage of Bulma's innocent life. That soon dissolved, melted along with any other transitory moment of pleasure in his dysfunctional existence, sparse as they were. His mother had once promised him happiness, and so long as she lived, he'd numbly believed it, imbibed the lie. When her grey, lifeless body was eventually discovered, decorating the floor of one of the servant's quarters—her face barely recognisable—he knew that that happiness would never reach him. And that promises were swathed lies, discarded upon the souls who craved fabricated words of encouragement to keep the blood squirming through their veins. Nothing of what he had learnt in his youth had been put into practice in his older years. Re-mastering his skills was a challenge he had had to face when taken under Frieza's control. Would he have been much different, otherwise? Frieza had wormed his way into every delicate memory, tearing them apart, making them seem dreamlike. That was why Vegeta barely thought of the life he had before. One, it was pointless, and two, it was virtually impossible. Just as impossible as it was to forget the effect she had had on him. And, regrettably, still did. This did not excuse the dire must to rip her out of his life. He simply could not banish that implanted ache. But the two conflicting emotions battled fruitlessly in his brain, forging a neutral ground that he found somewhat endurable. Except, one emotion would always slightly outweigh the other. There was going to come a time when he would no longer be able to restrain himself.

You will kill that disgusting Earthling.

Vegeta roared, lifted his arm, and blasted a hole in the wall, shaking and rupturing the entire room, perhaps the ship, too. Once his breathing regulated and settled, chest stopped heaving so rapidly that it hurt, the voices in his head distanced until they became less than a whisper. The popping of plaster falling from the fresh hole in the wall, tore him out of the trance he'd slipped into, and he smirked, satisfied with the ever growing result. Just out of curiosity, he closed his eyes and searched for her miniature life force. Nothing unusual was happening to it. It was stationary, on the floor above.

"Woah … Boy, Vegeta, you might need to hold off a little."

He flinched, peering across the room at the moron, who was scrambling over the rubble to get in. What the hell did he want? An undesired lecture from that clown was certainly not on the agenda. Ever since he'd shared his little 'Super Saiyan' theory, the oaf had been walking around with a lofty air of superiority, nagging to train alongside one another to 'gain more insight into Saiyan abilities'. No chance was that happening, so Vegeta turned his back and started a set of one-armed press ups.

A moment passed, then another, and it was all too much. He was being scrutinised. After so many years of being monitored and pried upon, Vegeta felt, while he could, he deserved the right to a bit of privacy for once.

"What … do you want?" he spat, jumping from the floor to meet Goku head-on.

Goku smiled, took a step back, and said, "Go ahead. Give me your best shot."

Did he—was he seriously challenging him? Vegeta eyed the slapdash excuse of a Saiyan curiously, let the words roll around in his head. Never had he been one to turn down a fight. This idiot would regret those words.

Beneath the layers of bandaging was pruned skin, adorned with a yellowish tint and a waft of stale cheese. Tentatively, she brushed her fingers against the tiny bristles of hair that had been flattened for so long, they reached out and strained, like weeds in the dawn of spring, gasping for sunlight. Bulma tossed the dishevelled clump of bandages off the side of the bed, and stretched her arm out repeatedly, testing the waters. It felt fine, though there was a bit of crunching in the joint, and twang of pain. Tolerable. It was fine.

A crash, resounding from the floor below, rocked the ship, and she had to dive for the bedpost to stop herself toppling off the edge. Shards of discomfort soared up her arm, and she winced, cradled the fresh limb. Ok, maybe she'd been hasty, but the arm needed to be unravelled some time. Without any concept of real time, there was nothing other she could do than guess. The reverberating frame of the ship ceased, regaining her uncommitted attention, and she hopped off the bed to go investigate. Since Vegeta had the liberty of haunting the corridors, she'd been restless and lucky to get any sleep, at all, scouring for his life force for ninety per cent of the time. Although they hadn't been in contact since that time in her room, the threat he had sweetly gifted her was hanging over her head. But, through time, it was fading, losing its luminosity.

Nonetheless, she rarely set foot outside the pseudo security of her room. Until now. With hot steps, she travelled the corridors, willing the narrow stairwell to appear before having to collide with a certain Saiyan. The heat raised from bottom to top as her pace quickened. And she felt it, burning in her temples, his oncoming life force, bellowing with strength and energy he hadn't had only days ago. She stopped, grit her teeth, and battled with whether to go on or not. She didn't need the belligerence he carried along with him. Whatever had happened downstairs couldn't have been that bad, could it? The corridor seemed to shrink around her. She mentally chastised herself, and headed onward, eventually coming within distance of a smug and satisfied looking Vegeta. Streaks of dried blood were across his chest, crusted around his left nostril, and still dribbling from an open wound on the top of his arm. Her heart fluttered with unease, and she exhaled to calm herself down. It was useless, though. He knew exactly how she felt.

He smirked, crossed his arms, but continued walking towards her. "You better tend to your pet." He passed, not looking back, a soft breeze and a sweaty aroma drifting in tow.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing he didn't deserve."

Bulma's brow wrinkled as she played with the idea of charging over to him and screaming into his face for being such an asshole. "You …" was all she could get out, before huffing and sprinting in the opposite direction. Did she really have to supervise two—supposedly—grown men?

Goku was lifting his bulky body up off the floor, spitting out red-tinted saliva, by the time she reached him. Bits of mortar and grout were littering the room, specks spread across the entire floor space. It was supposed to be an old meeting room, which was gathered when Goku hauled the giant circular table out the way, jamming it in the corridor without thinking about accessibility. The huge computer screen on the wall had been shattered, the glass like a pile of fine sand, heaped beneath.

He steadied himself, rubbing his jaw, then shrugged. "Whoops."

Bulma stood at his side, gathering the sight of him. Clothes torn to rags covered in red stains, hair hanging in front of his eyes … a missing boot?

"Whoops?" she said, pulling at the hem of his top, which shouldn't have been there because it was an all-in-one. "Why did he attack you?"

Goku closed his eyes, ready for a berating. "Because I asked him to."

She let go, stepped away. "You're insane. You're actually insane. Look at you. He really did this?"

He turned around, stretched out his triceps, pulled it above his head and held the elbow. "Yeah. His strength is incredible."

Something didn't add up. No matter how much Vegeta had progressed, she knew that Goku was something else. She paced to get in front of him, get him to look her in the eyes.

"But you let him?" she said, narrowing her eyes.

Goku looked to the side, dropping his arms. "He needed to think—"

She shook her head, held up a hand. "I get it. But this ship can't take that kind of impact."

Neither said anything for a few seconds while the ship croaked and groaned, as if on cue.

"You don't need to say anymore, Bulma. It won't happen again." He gave her his biggest smile, warming right to the bitter core of her heart, fishing for a returning smile.

The ship quaked, the sound of metal yawning and bolts dropping within its stomach. She set her feet to the ground and grabbed Goku's arm. "I don't think it could."

"Get what, Goku?" It was hard to pin the pissi-ness down in her tone.

He sighed. "The way Saiyans work."

The light inside the room was too dim, so she doubted that even if she gave Goku her worst, most ludicrous scowl, he would be any wiser of it. For that, she allowed her facial features to rest. One thing she did know about Saiyans was their inability to say things straight. After all this time she had thought that was an unsolicited quality within the human race. Yet again, she had been proven wrong.

"What do you mean by that?" she said incredulously, soothing her temples with the heel of her hand.

Goku stalled, eased himself back onto his elbows for a bit more comfort. She guessed he was staying in here tonight, then? Privacy was definitely a thing of the past. What she would give for absolute solitude for a day! Not worrying about people monitoring her life force. How it was when she was back on Earth. Back home.

"You promise not to laugh?" Goku said.

Now that got her attention. "Why would I laugh?"

She assumed he was gazing at the ceiling, his expression unreadable mainly because of the dark shrouding it.

"I only know a little about my heritage. You probably know more. But I know enough to see the same behaviour in another of my kind," Goku said, his voice sounding more grown up than ever. How old was Goku now? Definitely still in his twenties.

"You've lost me," she admitted, leaning back against the headboard.

He threw his arms behind his head. "When I first met Chichi, I didn't even know … and it was so confusing … But I didn't just want to be with her. I needed to … It was such a powerful energy—I couldn't ignore it. I'd never been interested in women. They interested me because they were so different, but … Chichi was—" He gave the tiniest of shrugs.

After a minute, Bulma tried to speak, but her throat was too tight with grief. If she opened her mouth at all, she was sure she would end up bawling, and she'd had enough of that. Goku had never disclosed such cherished information. Throughout their journey together, long ago, his relationship with Chichi was such a mystery. He'd never expressed much affection towards her. Not in public, anyway. But it was clear what they had.

She wanted to hug him, but was afraid to move.

He chuckled, a sad, false sound. "It took me so long to know. But I can see it in Vegeta."

"See it?" she said, disbelieving what was going to come next.

He sighed, sat up and stared at nothing, hands clamped together. Then he smiled, looked over his shoulder at her. "There's only ever one, Bulma."

Acid churned in her stomach. She shook her head, absentmindedly pressing herself back into the headboard, as if the words were coming at her like sharpened daggers. "He wants to kill me—"

"He doesn't." Goku's certainty was scaring her.

Besides, what did Goku know about Saiyans? Like he said, she probably knew more, and Vegeta was certainly not in the same boat as he. The thought made her want to guffaw, roll around, let her brain drip out of her ears.

"Have you forgotten about this, again?" she said calmly, gesturing to the elbow resting in its scrawny, discoloured hammock.

"He could've done a lot worse," Goku said, nonchalantly.

She scoffed, settled back down. "I'm such a lucky girl, then, aren't I?"

Goku placed a finger to his chin. "Yeah. Come to think about it. When that happened, Vegeta had more than enough strength to kill you."

"Jeez—"

"What? He didn't, though. Even under Frieza's control." He turned round and crawled further up the bed. "Imagine how hard that must've been." His eyes shone underneath the flashing starlight.

She really did worry about Goku sometimes, but mystifyingly adored him all the same. Either way, it didn't vouch for the trash he was talking. "I can't … It can't. I don't know." She sighed, bowing her head, letting the knotted straggles of hair drape across her face. "I'm tired."

Goku flopped onto his back, giving a long huff.

"It's been an eventful day," she said, rolling her eyes, failing to take the edge out of her voice and the jitter out of her bones.

So what if Goku claimed to know what he was talking about. He didn't know anything about Saiyans, at all. Not that it mattered, anyway. Vegeta was a lost soul, and whether he had a shred of care for her didn't matter, because he had to focus on himself if he was to get anywhere. She didn't want to dissuade him.

After reaching the faucet, turning the tap, and realising it was bone dry without even the slightest chance of a gurgle of stagnant water, Bulma took to staring at her reflection for more than enough time than was necessary. She looked older. Tiny wrinkles ran underneath her eyes, branching to a purplish-looking vein, which sat just beneath the sharpening bone of her right eye socket. She dug her index finger into the socket, pulling the skin downwards, showing the shiny red of the palpebral border. She hadn't had the chance to give herself some scrutiny. Back home, she loved spending time in front of the vanity mirror, adding each touch of makeup to her face, ready for an evening ball or night out with her friends. This was the first time she'd looked at herself in ages, and it was enlightening. A part of her still wanted to zip into the other room, rummage through the drawers for something; there must have been a hairbrush or hair tie or something somewhere. It would, shamefully, bring back some of that ritualistic normality she loved so much.

The ship suddenly lurched, shoving her forward with such forcefulness her forehead smacked the mirror, cracking the glass. She slipped down, hands smearing against the porcelain basin, grasping for some leverage, until she hit the floor, narrowly missing her chin of the edge of the sink. Sound slipped away from her, leaving her grimacing to the tune of her own heartbeat throbbing in her ears. Her stomach flopped, and she wretched, desperately willing to vomit. But it never came. On her hands and knees, fighting against the blur and dizziness, she crawled across the floor, confused as to whether the vibration beneath her palms was her nerves, or the ship finally kicking the bucket.

She grabbed the doorframe and hoisted herself to her feet. Whatever was happening, she was half certain that the answer would lie in the control room. There had to be some kind of inkling how to sort the problem out. If it was a case of fuel shortage … Well, they were doomed. As she went to walk, her stomach swirled again, and head rattled painfully. It didn't matter.

When reaching the corridors, she wished the pulsing in her ears would stop. It was deathly quiet. No Goku. No Vegeta. Had they been unaware of the ship practically imploding? She felt her way down the corridors, hands brushing against the red, sheer wallpaper, feet dragging against the carpet. Again, an eruption sent her to her knees, nails raking the wall. Warm blood dripped from her head and trailed down her nose and the side of her face. She closed her eyes, winced, thinking that she could, with enough pressure, knock the deafness clean out of her ears. It was no use. She was listening to bumps and creaks as if she were sinking beneath five meters of water. Death was close by, and she wouldn't even be able to hear it coming.

Being newly hard of hearing, Bulma didn't anticipate the approach of her attacker, and was yanked from the floor to her feet, offending fingers gripping onto her shoulders, crushing them sluggishly. She opened her eyes, wildly searching his severe, frowning face as he mouthed incomprehensible words to her. The pressure he exacted worsened, but instead of running away, she acquiesced to his fiery touch, awaited the death that he had whole-heartedly promised her so long ago. He shook her roughly, making her head rock back and forth.

"What … done? What … you … done?" he kept saying, trying to wheedle any sort of response.

The smell of his skin was hot under her nose, that familiar freshness he seemed to own, beneath all the sweat and blood. She wanted it back, the reassurance of a mutual feeling, one so powerful that she couldn't ignore it. She snapped her head up, eyes widened with surprise, at the feel of his damp palm swathing her forehead. Stunned, she gazed as he studied the transfer of blood on his fingers, frown deepening.

He looked at her again, the grip on her left shoulder still painfully possessive, threatening to trap a nerve. "What have you done?" he said again.

Her watery ears were barely able to catch it.

His frown quickly shaped into a glower, as the ship rocked him forward, knocking into her. "What. Have. You. Done?"

The room started spinning, and the feel of his fingers wrapping around her neck, something she'd become reacquainted with, sent her into a fit of laughter. Finally it was happening. After being told that your life was imminently going to end within seven days, only for it to be stretched out for God knew how long, Vegeta's final promise was a blessing. The laugh deepened, strained her vocal chords, as the ship vibrated, the walls shaking, vents rattling and pinging off the hinges, nuts and bolts shooting in every direction.

He squeezed her neck, choked the laughter. "This is funny, is it?"

Convinced of her forthcoming death, she slapped a hand over her mouth and tried to shake her head, eyes failing to stay open, to witness her own, draining reflection beaming from the haunting black pools of his eyes. Eyes that had seen too many horrors to keep count, seen the desecration of an entire race, the mutilation of their parents, the destruction of their entire life at such a young age. A sudden image of a six year old Vegeta, standing, wide-eyed, as Frieza's tail coiled around his tiny body, luring him into a new, darkened world, plagued her. This man was tainted by evil. He had been punished for too long. And she did not want to leave him. The thought burrowed so deeply into her mind, the dizziness became quelled by raw determination. Her body relaxed, fighting against the instinctive need to survive, and she dropped her arms, mouth shaping into a hard line.

Her feet met the floor, before oxygen ploughed its way into her lungs again as he let go of her neck. She opened her eyes, totally at a loss. And he was staring at her, arms at his sides.

"What have you done?" he said, and sighed, clenching his fists, giving her a new, uncertain look.

What did he mean? She tried to keep herself grounded against the turbulence, bending her knees slightly. Still inches apart, still able to smell his skin, adrenaline coursed through every fibre in her body, warming her at the core. The bewildered face of such a troubled soul stared back at her (he looked so young. Maybe he was younger than her). Someone who, no matter how much control had evaporated, fought and strived against a tyrant to maintain what was lost.

His fingers twitched, and she knew he was desperate to act in some way or another, but she chose to make the decision easier, placed her hands either side of his face, and brought their mouths together.

The kiss was delicate, feather-light, giving her time to relish in the warmth of his skin against her again, the heat making her giddy, binding her to him. Either that or she'd given herself a serious concussion. They were trapped, stuck in a solitary moment against the outside, which was moving too fast. Suddenly, his lips parted, invited the longing she'd stowed away for so long. Her heart chimed, body trembled, as he pushed her against the cold, quivering wall, having to brace his arms either side of her head. She knew he was struggling to regain control, but to know the exact lengths he would go to trying was too much to hold back from.

Bulma opened her eyes, and he looked pained, wincing, endeavouring to coax his conscience onto safer ground. They stilled—frozen in the action—clattering resounding distantly, reverberating around them. He pushed his weight against hers, grabbed a fist full of her clumped hair, before he deepened their long-awaited connection, overpowering strength getting the better of her. He sighed into her mouth as she pressed her fingers into the solid muscles of his back, holding him to her. From the blizzard, to the gorge, the desert and this very ship, she knew this man would leave a permanent mark in her life, would pierce her skin like a tattoo artist's needle. And beyond the distressed layers and textures and horrors of his life, stood just a man, alone in the dark.

In a soothing motion, slowing down their vehement kiss, he brushed his thumb back and forth against the delicate skin behind her ear, calloused touch sending a chill up her back as his lips remained moulded to hers. It was warm and cold, pooling together to exact their tepid passion, neither knowing where it was taking them at such an inopportune time.

Never moving again would satisfy her enough.

Another wretch from the ship, more explosive than the last few, tore them both apart. A heavy hand rested on the small of her back, steadying her from another tumble. Unhinged from the mash of events, Bulma dropped her gaze to the ground, but the jealousy of the ship continued, thrashing selfishly until she had no choice but to act. Everything zoomed back to focus, the noise, the noxious smell of thick smoke from somewhere close by, amongst other things—it was insanely difficult to drink it all in and sloth back to reality. Eyes glazed, she felt her head, the charred texture of desiccated blood flaking beneath her fingers.

Vegeta remained stood centimetres in front of her, raising a single eyebrow, while his eyes remained clouded with faded judgment. This miniature piece of behaviour cleared it all up, as she rubbed a crust of blood between finger and thumb.

She loved him. That was that.

But if she didn't do something immediately, they were going to die, so she made a run for it, bolting to the main control room, tripping twice on the way, getting a sharp coil of wire stuck against her shin.

In the control room, things were rolling across the floor, a table toppled, wires were split and sparking dangerously close to the main controls. How the hell did that even-

No time.

At the end of the room, basking in jaundiced light, was the main controls, towering and dominating. She scuttled across, steadying against the shifting floor, and fell into the controls, hands braced against all kinds of buttons. Why did it feel like she had been here before? The ship dipped slightly, throwing her into the keys which were flashing, obtrusively trying to earn her attention. After trying for ten minutes with no budge in the ship's welfare, Bulma stood back, at a loss with what to do, a rush of incoherent thoughts engulfing her. She'd even ducked under the controls, fiddled with the wires Goku had mended those many weeks ago, but they were all still intact. The only feasible explanation was that the ship had just run its course … and not in the hopeful manner of speaking, as there was no telling of a destination. Or, just maybe, the atmosphere was intolerable, too much for the ship to fight against. She had hoped for at least a desolate, boggy, inhabitable planet to land on, where she could simply starve to death, but to be suspended in space with no clue was the worst torture she could think of. Trapped on Frieza's ship when she was first captured was a leisurely stroll compared to the sprint she had had to do afterwards.

Then Goku walked in, his fine-tuned agility taking him across the room with ease until he stood at her side. What could she say to him? Sorry, but there was nothing she could do, and they were, finally, going to die, but the exact time she couldn't pin point? Maybe in the next few minutes? Although it could take an hour? The ship's technology was too dated. Initially, she would have pegged for it to have lasted a week. About eight weeks on, and it was only just buckling. She couldn't determine anything anymore. Zip, nil, nada.

Again, the room plummeted, as if she was stuck in a dodgy elevator, but obviously a lot worse. Stomach-squeezing-its-way-up-her-throat kind of worse. She hit the floor, positioned as if waiting to bolt in the one hundred meter sprint, and the yellowish light faded until darkness, only the maniacal flashing lights on the control panel to guide her. Goku enveloped her, his body securing her, but also placing the last nail in the coffin. Even he knew it. The shaking worsened, violent creaking piercing her ear drums to the point of curling into a ball and covering her ears, eyelids squeezed shut.

A montage of different moments in her life randomly popped into her mind, the colours, smells and flavours so vivid, so tangible. But the moment that stuck out the most was being in the Capsule home with Vegeta. How somewhere so dark could adorn so much light over their desecrated lives. She opened her mouth to cry, felt the pressure of sobbing in her chest, but couldn't hear a thing over the destruction. She burrowed her face into the nook of Goku's shoulder, waiting and waiting amongst the chaos for some reprieve from the nightmare.

She didn't even notice that the ship had stilled, steeled itself into a peaceful cruise, until Goku's body relaxed and pulled away from her.

"Uh, Bulma … Who is that guy?"

She peered up, sniffing, unaccustomed to the fluorescent lights, still flickering, but managing constant illumination of the surroundings. A giant TV screen, which had descended from a panel in the ceiling was sat just above the main controls, with the infinite expanse of a dark and empty space as its backdrop.

Bulma's jaw snapped open as she watched the screen, fixated in amazement as the Orling's big, ghoulish face, his eyes focused on the camera, lost in concentration, was adjusting himself into a seat. There was still a faint vibration beneath her. It could have been her own nerves, though. She didn't know what was going on. What was new?

They both stared at the screen as the Orling settled, ready to relay a message.

"I'm hopeful this message will be received accordingly," he said, his voice like a harmony, silken and soothing every muscle in her body. "And I hope that the ship has reached its destination. I set the co-ordinates to the address that Capsule Corporations shipped their products from. The journey should last approximately two months, the food and supplies should do the same. If you have received this message, then I am no longer here to thank you in person. But on behalf of Orlon, I want to do just that. Thank you, Bulma Briefs, and good luck on your forthcoming journey." He smiled, and the screen abruptly clicked to black.

Tears sat ready in her eyes. That was it. He was gone. Just seeing his face on the screen was a disturbing reminder of the murderer she had become. What she had done to him to save her own skin. For the life of her, she couldn't take her eyes away from the screen. Goku chose wisely to stay quiet as she wouldn't know what to do with any questions anymore.

The eerie stillness of the ship cut deep into her soul. What did the Orling mean? He knew too much, predetermined everything like it was marked on his calendar.

"What the fuck is going on?" Vegeta said, his voice a wakeup call.

Bulma whipped around. He was standing in the very cusp of the room, like he was too suspicious to dive into the mayhem that had taken place. He was looking right at her, ignoring Goku, a trace of bewilderment on his face, partially coated with concern as he quickly looked her up and down.

"Bulma. You need to look at this," Goku said, disturbing the precarious peace.

Disgruntled, arms folded, she checked to see what Goku was doing, a soundless gasp leaving her mouth as she looked beyond the pane of glass, beyond the stars melting away into the distance. The ship had settled because they had come into atmosphere. How didn't she think of that?

Looking past Goku, who was pasted to the glass, like a small child gawping at an animal in the zoo, the rich greens and deep blues of a familiar planet drifted into sight, growing larger and larger until its face almost took up the entire glass panel.

"It's … Earth. It's home," she said, then ran up to the window, fingers smearing against the glass. "It's home. It's home. I can't believe it." The tears started, and this time she didn't wipe them away.

Blood rushed to her head. Earth hadn't been destroyed? Was this all a dream? Memories had been fabricated, torn and put back together again. What was real and fake could not be determined until it could be physically touched. Before them, floating in its orbit, was planet Earth. Somehow, it had been spared. So many questions had to be answered, and she knew that the answers resided on that very planet. Everything waited for her. All of the hope that had shrivelled to a pip, suddenly flourished, and she felt the colour blooming in her cheeks.

Goku looked down at her. "We're going home?" he said, too weary to smile.

She shook her head disbelievingly, turned back to Vegeta, who was stood in the very centre of the room, arms crossed, and a firm scowl.

"I guess so," she uttered, ran to the battered, chewed-up control panel. "But first I need to see if I can land this ship."

To make her point made, she dashed to the control panel once more, fingers poised over buttons that might or mightn't work, could steer them to land, could malfunction the ships stomach and blow them all to pieces. If it was the first possibility, then the Orling was right, they had one hell of a journey ahead of them. It wasn't over yet. But she did see, in the very distance, over vast, treacherous oceans, the sun peeking over the horizon in her mind's eye. Catching up to it was going to be the hardest thing she'd ever have do. But she would try.

A/N - Do not panic. I have a sequel planned out already to answer all of the questions. I know, it's cruel. But I wanted this to focus more on the building of relationships between characters. The next one will be a bit different in terms of plot building. Promise. Thank you for reading Contending with Darkness.