PICKING UP THE PIECES

Summary: When an intrepid journalist uncovers the secret of Capsule Corp.'s newest house guest, the paparazzi aren't the only ones interested. The androids may be looming on the horizon, but with the remnants of an intergalactic empire dropping in out of the blue, they have to take a backseat to this new threat. Can Bulma's genius help the Saiyan Prince against his old enemies? It's the infamous 3 years-in space!

Disclaimer: I do not own DBZ. If I did, I would not be feeling guilty about writing this instead of grading student papers and forming my research into something presentable for a panel of my superiors. I would be feeling awesome and probably make a movie or something. Then I would rub my face in all of my delicious money.

CHAPTER ONE – Confection Deflection

"Miss Brief, Miss Brief!"

Flashbulbs began going off in every direction as a set of sleek black pumps stepped out of the car. A small swarm of eager journalists gave way to the open door, backing up to keep the sight within view of their cameras.

"Miss Brief, do you have anything to say about your father's decision?"

"Can you comment on what you have in store for the company?"

"How does it feel to step into your father's shoes?"

Stepping out in her cleanly pressed pencil skirt, Bulma Brief brushed a few aqua curls from her eyes before levelling a sweeping gaze at the surrounding paparazzi. Several dozen microphones immediately appeared in front of her before she could take three steps from the car.

"Are there going to be any changes in Capsule Corp. now that you're the new president?"

Bulma cleared her throat, trying not to blink too much as more cameras flashed in her face. Adjusting the sleeves of her cream-coloured suit jacket, she smiled faintly in response to the pressing faces.

"I'm only the acting president. I'm not planning any real changes to Capsule Corp."

"But Miss Brief!" The journalists began dogging her as she made her way from the car to her home compound. Surrounding her on all sides, the crowd of reporters, journalists, and cameramen attempted to match her movement, morphing, amoeba-like, away from Bulma as she pressed forward, and closing back in once out of her direct path.

"Why hasn't there been any official word about the change?"

Bulma shifted her briefcase away from the ZTV reporter as he leaned in with his microphone. "Like I said, I'm only acting director. It's not that big of a change."

"Is it true that your father is grooming you to take over the company in the future?" a portly woman with pencils in her hair held a small recording device near Bulma's dangling earrings.

"Hardly," the blue-haired woman laughed. "My father's just too caught up in his current research right now. He wanted to make sure that the company didn't suffer in his absence."

"Current research?" a man trailing behind her jotted the information down on his notepad. "Does this mean we can expect a new line of devices from Capsule Corp. soon?"

"We're still looking into the possibilities right now," Bulma did not look back at him. "It's too early to be sure about his particular project, but we do have some others in the communications field."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Not yet."

"Excuse me," two men with an overly large camera shoved their way to the fore. "Was the move of Capsule Corp.'s headquarters your idea or your father's?"

"Both, actually. Things have been getting a little crowded ever since we branched out beyond the DynoCaps. The new West City headquarters should be big enough to house all of our projects now."

"Does this mean you're breaking your agreement with manufacturing plants like Wright Materials?"

Bulma smirked a little at that. "Not at all. We plan to remain in close contact with them."

"Miss Brief!" a young-looking woman practically jumped in front of her. Her eyes were eager as she snapped a quick picture of the startled acting president, and with her too-tight T-shirt stretching the words 'NewzPop' over her breasts, Bulma immediately pegged her as a gossip blogger. The girl squeaked out her question in a high-pitched voice, holding her personal camera up to her face. "Will you be moving out of your parent's compound now that you're the head of the company?"

"I'm not the head of the company," Bulma's brows furrowed at being forced to stop her progress home and at having to remind everyone yet again of her title. "I'm the acting president until my father finishes his research," she shouldered her way around the girl, "and I refuse to comment on personal questions."

"Is it true that you're thinking of settling down with baseball phenomenon Yamcha?" the girl doubled back, fighting her way through the other impatient journalists.

"No comment."

"How is he handling your recent promotion?"

"No comment."

"What are your thoughts on the West City Starr's photos of him and celebrity trainer Sandy Raufer?"

"No comment."

"Is it true that you have a new man living with you at your parents' compound?"

"No comment!" Bulma managed to pull ahead of the group and pressed a button to slam the gate shut behind her, nearly shoving the attached 'no trespassing' sign into their paparazzi noses in the process.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped out of reach of the microphones and camera lenses. Slinging her briefcase over her shoulder, she stepped into the round yellow building she called home with a soft whoosh of the automatic doors.

The clean ecru walls gave off a warm feeling in the gold-tinged inset lighting, the calm only slightly disrupted by the whirring of the mechanical domestic assistants. Freshly vacuumed, the blue carpet opened up from a small foyer filled with photos to an expansive great room. The pitter-patter of kitchen utensils at work as well as some off-key humming drifted from the open doors to the left of the large entertainment centre.

"Bulma, dear, how was your first week at work?" Her mother looked up from what would soon be a pan of peanut butter swirl brownies.

"It went as well as I could expect, I guess," the younger woman took off her jacket and handed it to a passing servo-bot when she stepped into the kitchen, "but I'd still rather be in the lab. At least there no one asks you all sorts of personal questions," she sent a dirty glare to the tinted window at the front entrance to the compound.

"You'll get used to it soon enough," her mother tittered as she set down her spatula and flicked a stray blond curl from her forehead. "Besides, your father said he wanted to work on his project alone. We should just let the man do what he needs to," she smiled to her daughter. "Would you like a brownie? They'll be in and out of the oven in twenty minutes."

"No thanks, Mom," Bulma sighed as she pulled a can of soda pop out of the refrigerator. "I don't know why you bother with that anyway—we have robots for that sort of thing, you know."

"I know, dear," Mrs. Brief bent down, sliding the pan into the oven. "I just find baking so relaxing! Maybe you should try it," the cheerful blonde smiled at her daughter. "It would be good stress-relief for you."

"I already have stress-relief," Bulma fiddled with the tab on top of her drink. "I like building things, and figuring gadgets out," she sighed, "but I can't do that when I'm stuck in an office all day." Raising the can to her lips for a quick sip, she frowned. "And to top it all off, Dad won't even let me in on what he's doing. It's like he doesn't even have time for me! I can't stand it!" Bulma snapped the tab off the top of the can, punctuating her frustration.

"He'll let you know when he's ready," Mrs. Brief began washing the mixing bowl filled with brownie residue, unfazed.

"It's just so frustrating," Bulma clenched the tab in her hand. "I should be down there with him, building something to stop those stupid androids—not pushing paper and beating back cameras!"

"Well, it's no wonder there are so many cameras," Mrs. Brief spoke over her shoulder, "when they're following such a beautiful company president."

"Acting president, Mom," Bulma scowled. "It's only temporary."

"If you say so, sweetie," the vacuous blonde continued smiling. "But the new gate you installed seems pretty permanent."

Bulma rested her head on her fist. "I needed to put it there," her fingers twirled the soda tab around, "otherwise, we'd never get any privacy."

"It just doesn't seem very welcoming."

"That's the point," Bulma muttered.

"I know, dear, I know," her mother came over to put a reassuring hand on Bulma's shoulder.

Sighing, Bulma relented a little and allowed herself to relax a little more. "I just want to help out. With the whole future android mess, I feel like I should be doing more. Everyone's out there preparing for the end of the world, and I'm stuck in business meetings that won't even matter in three years."

"Well, Bulma dear," her mother's tone was warm and comforting, "I've never known you to give up before."

"Huh?" Bulma glanced up at the older woman behind her. "What do you mean?"

"I just think it's a little early to throw in the towel," Pansy Brief chimed. "I mean, you and your father do so many amazing things. Who's to say you can't do it all?"

A slow smile began to spread across Bulma's face. "You really think so?"

"Of course, sweetie," her mother gave her a hug. "You can do anything you set your mind to. You just have to ask yourself one question first."

"And what question is that?"

"Are you sure you don't want a brownie before you save the world?"

"Mo—m!"

Dr. Brief set down his screwdriver, lifting up a round contraption and scrutinizing it carefully. The small black cat on his shoulder gave a curious mew as he inspected the device. Turning it over again to check the front, he rubbed the metal disc with his sleeve before addressing the man behind him.

"I've managed to increase the deflective capabilities of the droids," his cigarette bobbed up and down below his moustache as he spoke, "so they should last much longer this time."

"How much longer?" a gruff voice inquired.

"Well," the scientist pondered, "you said that the last time they broke down you had been . . . what did you call it? 'Powering up'?" the man scratched his chin, then shifted his hand over to appease his feline companion. "From what you tell me, that involves a large emission of energy that comes in all directions. The previous models were only designed to take energy blasts head-on. Hopefully the new program will enable them to create their own deflection field around the entire unit."

"So they'll be able to take hits from any side?"

"Precisely. Of course," the older man hesitated, "they're only able to guide the blast from this front panel. If you hit them in the back, the deflection will be random—not part of the training program."

"Fine."

The tiny cat gave a small, agitated nip to Dr. Brief's cheek, as if anticipating the man's disquiet. "But, Vegeta, I'm concerned," he turned to talk to the fighter.

Vegeta recognized the tone the doctor used whenever yet another complication had arisen. He crossed his arms, his muscles shifting under his white tank top. Leaning his head back, his upswept mass of dark hair splayed against the wall of the laboratory as his brows furrowed. His black eyes bored into the friendly doctor with an impatient intensity. "What is it now?"

"Well," Dr. Brief hedged, "even though the new droids are unlikely to be damaged by any energy blasts during your training, I'm not sure you can use them right away . . ."

"Why not?" Vegeta snapped at him, taking a few steps toward the older man and leaning in toward his face menacingly.

"Y-you see," Dr. Brief stammered as his cat's fur bristled up against his neck, "even though the droids are protected from the blasts, I just don't think the ship can take that kind of abuse. It's not really wise to use these in an enclosed space, and I'm afraid the gravity chamber just isn't made of tough enough stuff."

Vegeta stepped a little away from the man at this admission, reminded of the incident not so long ago where he had blown the top off the entire ship. He narrowed his eyes at the doctor. "But you are planning on reinforcing the walls," he phrased it as yet another demand rather than a question.

"Yes, of course," the good doctor pulled at his collar nervously before shuffling up a few blueprints on his workstation. "I'll have to, or else the next training session will blow a hole from the inside out. I'm just not sure yet what material I can use. It wouldn't do to have it made out of the same material as the droids. There'd be balls of energy bouncing all over the place—there'd never be an end to it!" He took a drag of his cigarette, settling his thoughts.

"Haven't you got any material that would absorb energy rather than reflect it?"

"Hmm?" Dr. Brief glanced back at his surly houseguest. Vegeta's arms were still firmly crossed in irritation, but one of his scowling brows had quirked up, inquiring.

"I don't know of any material on earth that could—"

Vegeta let out a small snort. "Tch. On earth . . ." he muttered. "Of course you don't—but you could make a synthetic alloy to line the walls."

This time Dr. Brief raised a brow. "You know of a metal with the right absorption properties?" Taking another deep breath, he exhaled a curious tendril of smoke from his cigarette and cleared off a portion of the table. "Let's see it then, my boy," he put a pad of paper down in the centre.

Rolling his eyes, Vegeta snatched the pencil being proffered. ". . . have to do everything myself," he muttered, scratching a formula on the pad.

Dr. Brief peered over his shoulder with the interest of a small child about to be given a Christmas present. "Fascinating," the old man's eyes gleamed from behind his large glasses. "The constant movement of that combination of molecules would speed up with the impact of the energy, but they wouldn't scatter . . . remarkable!"

"Just make sure you get it done quickly," Vegeta tossed the pad back on the table, pencil and all. "I've had enough setbacks already."

"Mmhmm," Dr. Briefs agreed absently as his eyes hungrily devoured the chemical compounds. "Simply remarkable . . . the applications . . ." His cat purred in agreement.

Vegeta made his way over to the exit. "I expect it to be done first thing in the morning," he insisted, and seeing the older man heavily engrossed in the chemical formulae on the page, took it as an agreement. Pushing the button to open the lab doors, he only narrowly managed to dodge the blue-haired mass of curls that had suddenly lost her position pressing her ear to the door. She fell at his feet.

"Oof!" Bulma rubbed her face, which had collided with the floor.

"Bulma?" Dr. Brief finally tore his eyes away from the notepad. "What are you doing here?"

"I . . . uh," Bulma propped herself back up to her knees. "I—Mom sent me over to ask if you wanted any dinner," she lied quickly, embarrassed at being caught eavesdropping.

"Oh," her father blinked. "Well, I've already had something to tide me over, and it looks like I'll be in here a while," he stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "But if she's making those brownies of hers, I think I could squeeze in a little break."

Vegeta sidestepped Bulma without looking down. "Meddling woman," he muttered, stalking down the hallway.

Bulma stuck out her tongue at his retreating form. Then, turning back to her father she gave a hopeful smile. "Hey, Dad, what're you working o—"

"Do you think he'll want a brownie?" her father interrupted, also walking toward the door.

"I—what?" Bulma stammered. "Vegeta? Why would he? Most of the time the robots just bring him his food in his room. Now about your research—"

"Uh uh," Dr. Brief waved a chastising finger at her. "Not until it's ready," he put a hand on her shoulders and guided her out of the lab. "You know I like to wait until I can show off the finished product."

"Just a peek?" Bulma implored. "I just want to help."

"But you are helping, dear," her father smiled affably. "I can't run a company and keep up with making training tools for Vegeta at the same time. I need someone to help things run smoothly."

"But Da—d! I'm a scientist, not a businesswoman," she huffed.

"Nonsense. I'm sure you're a natural," Dr. Brief pressed on as they walked across the lawn. "You've never had any trouble getting people to do things your way. I'm sure you'll get the hang of running Capsule Corp. in no time. Oh, and speaking of the company," the two of them walked into the main building, "how is that communications project going?"

"Well, we've managed to isolate the circuit from that scouter, so we should be able to implement it into a cell phone soon, but I really think we should be working on projects that will help out against the andr—"

"You mean you haven't implemented it already?" he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as the two of them walked through the front doors of the main building. "I would have thought you'd get that translation circuit faster than that."

"Well, with the whole moving headquarters and all, it kind of got lost in the shuffle," Bulma began to get frustrated. "If I could just get some time in the lab to work it out myself—"

"Oh there you are!" Pansy Brief cheered with delight upon seeing her husband. "I just knew you'd come out of that dingy old lab for some of my scrumptious treats!"

Dr. Brief licked his lips in anticipation. "Are they the peanut butter swirl ones?"

"Of course!" Pansy waved a potholder over the plate of steaming chocolate confections to cool them down. "How could I forget your favourite?"

"Wonderful!" Dr. Brief nearly hopped over to the countertop, his fingers wiggling eagerly. "I'll have three, dear."

"Coming right—"

"Ugh! How can you guys be so calm?" Bulma stomped her foot. "The world as we know it is going to end in less than three years, and you're more worried about brownies than getting help to build something to save us!"

Her parents blinked at her tirade. "But," her father started, brown crumbs in his moustache, "they're peanut butter swirl."

"You're hopeless!" Bulma stormed up the stairs to her room. "Hopeless!" A door slammed on the floor above.

"Oh my," Pansy remarked. "So moody! She must be stressed from work. I'll make her some tea."

Dr. Brief nodded, inhaling another brownie.

Slim, pale fingers flew over the keys, tapping in coordinates. The small screen displayed several sets of images that loaded sequentially, the windows popping up over each other. Evergreen forests, barren rock formations, and peaceful coasts stacked up one after the other, a small timestamp in the bottom right corner of each. As the screen flickered another set of still images, Bulma took a sip of coffee, her frown still set in place.

"It's got to be here somewhere," she grumbled to herself, scanning backward through the images. She rolled up the sleeves of her fluffy robe and clicked faster, nearly downing the rest of her coffee. "He has to come out some time—at least to eat or something!" Her mug slammed down on her desk.

Bulma clicked open another program, quickly hacking through the government encryptions. Another set of images came up, and she flicked through them quickly, her eyes scanning each crag, tree, and canyon for anything out of place within the satellite photographs. "You can't hide forever, Doctor," she muttered to herself. "I don't care what Goku says—nobody destroys my planet with science while I'm around."

Closing the program and opening another, Bulma barely had time to navigate a few lines of encrypted code before she heard a small buzzing beside her. Muttering about the hour, she rummaged through her purse, pulling out receipts, cosmetics, and packs of cigarettes before finally coming to her vibrating cell phone. She glanced at the display quickly and took the call.

"Yamcha, what is it?"

"Bulma, where are you?"

"What do you mean where am I? I'm at home. Why wouldn't I—oh."

There was an audible sigh on the other line. "You forgot again."

"I'm sorry, Yamcha. I've just . . . I've been so busy," Bulma rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"I thought we agreed you'd get off work early on Fridays so we could go out together."

"I know—I mean, I did . . . it just . . . I—"

"It slipped. I get it," Yamcha's words did not manage to cover his disappointment.

"Are there any other movies playing? Maybe a later showing?"

"Bulma, it's after eleven now. The last showing was at 10:30."

"Oh, right," Bulma cursed herself for losing track of the time.

"Look, I know you've been busy, babe," Yamcha went on, "but I want to spend as much time with you as I can."

"I'll make it up to you. Why don't we meet for lunch tomorrow? My treat."

"Couldn't I just come over tonight and we could hang out? I mean, that's all we really need, right?" she could almost hear his goofy grin on the other end. "We don't need excuses like movies or restaurants."

"Oh Yamcha," Bulma glanced around her room, noting the stacks of scientific journals and notebooks full of various computations before her eyes looked a little forlornly at the sifting satellite images on her screen. "I've still got some stuff I want to work on tonight."

"Oh."

"Tomorrow, though. I promise I won't forget," Bulma insisted, a little disturbed by how deflated his response had sounded.

"All right then," he was still not as appeased as she had hoped.

"Yamcha," Bulma pulled her eyes away from the screen to keep herself focused. She stood up and walked over to her balcony door. "What's wrong?"

"I just . . . I can't stop thinking about these androids."

"Yeah," she slid open the door and stepped outside. "Neither can I." The stars peeked out beyond a few drifting clouds in the night, shimmering distantly.

"I mean, we've only got just a little over two years left," anxiety tinged the timbre of his voice. "I just think we should . . . before it all . . ."

"We should definitely work as hard as we can," Bulma supplied for him. "We'll beat those guys. I just know it."

"But what if . . . if we . . ." his throat had tightened a little. "I just want . . . to make sure that we . . . don't waste the time we have."

"We'll do everything we can, Yamcha. I'll meet you for lunch tomorrow and then you can get back to training right away. How does that sound?"

His voice was barely audible. "Bulma, I meant we should—"

"How about we go to the trattoria just down the street from my house?" Bulma apparently had not heard him. "That way you can come by and train on the lawn and I can go back to the lab."

A pause. "Yeah. Fine. Okay," he conceded.

"All right. I'll see you tomorrow at twelve-thirty. We'll finish up around one and you can get down to business, all right?"

"All right."

Bulma ended the call with a long exhale of breath. A soft breeze brushed her blue curls in front of her face, and she ran a hand through them, glad that she had let her hair grow out long enough to make her perm more manageable. Pulling the tumbling waves to one side of her neck, she gazed out beyond the balcony railing into the deep violet sky. The expanse of stars seemed unusually bright for the city this night, and she could almost see the streaks of minor celestial bodies spread in ribbons across the inky darkness, dotted with larger, closer ones. She took a deep breath, smelling the autumn air. Summer had gone, though it seemed like only a few weeks ago she had narrowly avoided an explosive end on planet Namek, so very far away from home.

"That was such a crazy day," she smiled to herself, thinking out loud. "One minute I'm almost blown into bits of space dust, and the next I'm on earth with a bunch of aliens living in my home." She sighed and rested her head in her hand, leaning on the cool railing of the balcony. Something stirred in her chest at her memories of gallivanting across the universe with Gohan and Krillin, hunting dragonballs like she was sixteen again. "It can't be over yet," she mumbled. "There's so much more to see," her blue eyes reflected the sparkling sky, as if willing it to show her what she was missing. Bulma scanned the expanse of darkness across the tops of the rounded buildings of West City, from her right to her left, until they stopped, settling on the outer wall of her own house.

Not three doors down, another figure looked up at the sky from a balcony. Almost blending into the deep night, Vegeta sat on the railing, perched with one knee up toward his chest, the other dangling down the side. His sharp features were directed up and outward, as if penetrating through the darkness to find something. His tense form radiated a sense of seething urgency, burning just below the surface of his taut muscles, and his hand, which draped over his upright knee, clenched with a slowly pulsating pressure.

The chilled autumn wind barely ruffled his flame-shaped mane and hardly fazed him as he sat, hardened like stone. His face betrayed nothing, his lips in a straight, impassive line though his eyes kept searching the sky.

Gazing at him in profile against the curvature of the rounded building, Bulma blinked suddenly when his eyes caught hers. With a quick glower, Vegeta got up from the railing and stalked inside without a word.

"Touchy," Bulma blew a curl from her eyes before turning her head back to the view of the stars. Closing her robe tighter in the cold, she blinked up into the night. "I wonder what it was he was looking for," she pondered before taking a step inside.

AN: A little expository introduction. Hope you enjoy.