Subject: [FFML] (FIC) Can We Start Over #1 rev. 1.0
From: Jennifer Mondazzi
Date: 2/22/1998, 4:47 PM
To: Arline Lyons <arline@vejiitasei.demon.co.uk>, Ctefi:;, Dragonball Z ML <dbzml@catbox.com>, DreAshaman <DreAshaman@aol.com>, Eternal Lost Lurker <EternalLostLurker@WorldNet.Att.Net>, Fanfic ML <fanfic@fanfic.com>, Jennifer Califf <jcaliff@nsai-petro.com>, Jeremy Bunyard <bunyard@ix.netcom.com>, Jiro <dx4boy@evoserve.com>, Jon <roadbuster@mail.geocities.com>, Jose Luis <al451947@academ01.cem.itesm.mx>, Justin Clark <jusclark@bellatlantic.net>, Krista <kapster@lgcy.com>, LeighWilliamson/Kiku <leighw@escape.ca>, Lis <hogya@WorldNet.Att.Net>, Nancy Law <nlaw@intergate.bc.ca>, Nathan <narnia@webquest.com>, Nora Jemison <njemison@the-spa.com>, Robin/Iria <iria@wingate.edu>, Ryan Reynolds <rreyn@uclink4.berkeley.edu>, Sarah Slutz <dslutz@expressnet.net.co>, Sariah DeGidio <ddegidio@ix.netcom.com>, "Skankin' Fido" <fido55@hotmail.com>, Sze-chan <szechan@pacific.net.sg>

I took some time to reevaluate the timeline in this story, and rewrote some important aspects to make them clearer. Please let me know what you think!

- Jennifer (Rena/Maigrey)




"Can We Start Over?"
Part 1
A "Dragonball Z" original flavor/alternate reality fanfic
by: Jennifer L. Mondazzi
originally written: 09/21/97 - 10/10/97
revision 1.0 written: 02/20/1998



Mou hitori de arukenai... (I can't walk by myself anymore...)
Toki no kaze ga tsuyosugite. (The winds of time are too strong.)
Ah, kizutsuku koto nante! (Ah, what a wounding thing!)
Nareta hazu, (I should have gotten used to it,)
Dakedo ima wa... (But right now...)


Part 1: Memories of the Future


"I often wonder what might have changed had I decided to take Mirai Son Gohan up on his offer to start over with him.
For one, I would not have continued my 'relationship' with that temperamental, arrogant Saiyan Prince (who is now my husband), nor would I have gotten pregnant with his child. Instead, it might have been Gohan's baby that I had carried. I would probably have married him, and, if even for a little while, I might have been happy. All the while, I would have been fooling myself into believing that two people, from two completely different realities, might have had a chance to make it work.
In the end, however, I would have ended up alone again.
Goku had once tried to explain it to me, in one of his rare moments of perfect understanding. He had said that if Fate had wanted our love to be, then it would have been, and no force in the Universe, nor in the Heavens, would have stood against it.
He was right, of course, but still, it might have been nice..."

It was a moot point now, Bulma knew, but her mind continually questioned itself, torturing her with thoughts of what could have been.

She closed the cover of her personal diary, stood up, and crossed the room. Heading into the closet, she hid the book back in its special spot - under a stack of books, in an old box, in the bottom corner of the small walk-in. The diary was her secret, her only link to the past aside from memories, and not even Vegeta knew about it's existence, as far as she knew. She only wrote in it when she felt the urge to put down on paper a particularly strong emotion or thought, and this morning, for some reason, she had felt that need.
Perhaps it had something to do with "present" Gohan's marriage, which was scheduled to take place later today...

Bulma gathered her things in her arms, and left her room, closing the door quietly behind her. She walked down the darkened hallways, towards the elevator at the end, her mood melancholy, speculative. She was so distracted with her thoughts, that she hadn't even realized that the elevator had reached the first floor of the Capsule Corporation's residential section, until the ping of the lift alerted her to this fact. She looked around, slightly embarrassed and partially bewildered, before finally grabbing hold of her senses, and stepping out into the main entrance hall. She let her feet take her out the front door of her home, and jumped into her waiting skycar.
Placing the paper bag that she carried in the seat beside her, she strapped herself in before taking off, heading east, towards the mountains and the barely rising sun, continuing her contemplation.

"It is wisely said that doubt is the evilest of all sins," Dende had once offered to her, when she had prayed to him for guidance in coming to terms with her feelings. "Knowing your life might have taken a different path had you just chosen otherwise is always a terrible reminder of this, so sometimes it's better not to ponder it, but to just let it go."
Despite her misgivings over the events of the long-ago past, Bulma still found herself, occasionally, longing wistfully for that short amount of time once more - if only to know what might have changed. It had been more than thirteen years since he had come, but she still remembered those 8 and 1/2 weeks as clearly as if they had been yesterday.
Mirai Son Gohan had crossed the boundaries of time to be with her, and to protect her world from a dire fate. For the terrible suffering he had undergone in order to do so, she knew that she would never be able to forget him, and that, perhaps, was the greatest sin of all...




THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER...
March 18th, in the year 765


"Hey, Bulma! You ready yet?"
Bulma looked out of her window, from one of the top floors of Capsule Corporation, and looked down upon Kuririn's bald, shiny head, as he stood outside on her front lawn.
"Yea, be right down!" she hollered, spiraling away from the opened portiere, and skirting up her jacket and backpack from where they lay upon the bed. Hurriedly, she crossed her vast bedroom to her vanity mirror, and took in her appearance as she donned the jacket. She pursed her lips, considering. Looking pretty good, if I do say so myself, she thought with a smile. Picking up her hairbrush one last time, she ran it through her long hair, and then satisfied, turned to leave. Closing the door behind her, she started down the long hallway, towards the elevators, humming to herself happily.
A dark shadow moved slightly off to her left, and she instinctively jumped away, dropping the backpack and crouching into a defensive posture - a trick she had learned from Goku a long time ago. A derisive snort followed her movements, alerting her to the stranger's identity.
"I could have snapped you in half by now, stupid woman."
Bulma's hackles immediately rose, and she sneered at the familiar tone. She tried to calm herself, mentally remarking that this time he was not going to upset her. Today, she'd planned to accompany her friends to watch their training session. She wanted to measure the rise in their kis in her newly fixed scouter, and then they'd all promised to have lunch together before an afternoon of sparring.
It had been months since all of her friends had gathered to have a meal together. The pressing knowledge that the cyborgs were coming in a little over a year from now had weighed on all of them heavily, and their interactions had been little more than passing words in all that time. This day was supposed to return a little normalcy to their lives. Even Piccolo had agreed to come - which made her incredibly nervous - but Bulma had tactfully managed to swallow her objection in the face of little Gohan's excitement. The boy really seemed to like the giant, fanged alien from Namek, so who was Bulma to begrudge him some time with his mentor outside of training?
Secretly, Bulma had hoped to catch a glimpse of Yamucha today as well. But only because, she reminded herself, she hadn't returned his watch yet, which he'd absently left at her bedside table several months ago. And that's the only reason! she reassured her position, half believing the lie.

Yes, today was going to be nice! Therefore, there was no way that she was going to let him dampen her spirits.

Bending down, she lifted the backpack gingerly, adjusted it on her shoulder, and continued on down the hallway towards her original destination. As she passed by the shadow, she scoffed.
"Get lost, Vegeta. I haven't got time to 'play' with you today, little Prince." She'd said the last with as much scorn as she could muster, knowing the reaction she would receive. Vegeta's irritated growl reached her ears, and she smirked in perverse pleasure, mentally chalking one up for her side.
She'd reached the elevators, still waiting for his response, and was confused when one didn't come by the time the car had reached her floor. As the doors parted, she entered the lift, and pushed the button to go down, almost annoyed by Vegeta's lack of witty repartee to her smart comment. That almost took all the fun out of irking him.

Almost.


Before the portal closed behind her, however, she heard his nasty chuckle and spiteful response loud and clear across the intervening space. "You look incredibly ugly today, Bulma. I'm sure your unfaithful boyfriend will think so too."
The doors cut off her outraged scream.



That evening, Bulma had returned to her room, carefully putting her backpack on the floor near her door, and crossing the room to look back in the mirror. Absently, for long moments, she stared at her reflection, contemplating it. I'm not ugly, am I? The thought raced around in her head, combining with the memories of the day's disappointing events.
First, her confrontation with Vegeta had put her in a fouler mood than normal, so, she'd snapped at Kuririn in the skycar, venting her frustrations out upon him. Then, she had shown up at the practice session, only to see that Yamucha wouldn't be arriving until after lunch. In addition, her scouter hadn't worked properly, and so she'd had to tinker with it several times to fix the problems - once even taking it completely apart and reassembling it. All the while, she had waited for her "unfaithful boyfriend" to show up, her ire increasing with each passing moment.
What was he doing that was more important than spending time with his friends, and semi-girlfriend? Bad thoughts weaned around inside her mind, bringing a bitter taste to her mouth, and a strange ache to her heart. Was Yamucha out with another girl? Had Vegeta been right?

That thought infuriated her further.

They'd had lunch at noon, but talk was stunted, as her mood was quickly picked up on. As soon as the others had finished eating, they had returned to practicing and sparring, not bothering to relax and talk - as Bulma had hoped they could do. She'd gone back to fixing the scouter, to keep herself occupied and her thoughts concentrated on something other than her doubts.
Finally, around two o'clock, she'd managed to get the vital equipment working properly, and Yamucha had appeared. She ignored him for half the afternoon, determined to let him suffer for making her wait, but, by about four o'clock, she'd figured it out that he hadn't seemed to be the one suffering - she had. It took her a bit to realize that she'd wallowed in her own self-pity and misery, and had wasted an entire day doing so. This incensed her even further.
To top it off, she had returned Yamucha's watch - a gift to him on their first year anniversary together all those years ago - and he had looked at it blankly, as if he hadn't recognized it at all. She had thrown it at him then, and stormed away, disgusted with herself and all men in general.
Kuririn had taken her home around eight o'clock, and the ride had been uncomfortably silent the entire way. He'd said a polite 'good night' then took off quickly, leaving her standing outside, in the dark. She'd just spent the last twenty minutes rifling through her backpack, looking for the keys to the front door without a light source of any kind.

Her perfect day had been a disaster.

It was all Vegeta's fault - and Yamucha's. Neither had said a kind word to her in months, and the stress of constant bickering was beginning to weigh upon her. She wasn't sure why, but the thought that neither one could be civil towards her made her begin to doubt herself suddenly. Why couldn't she keep Yamucha interested and devoted to her? Did he not find her attractive anymore? Vegeta certainly didn't think she was beautiful, and made no bones about telling her how gruesome and repulsive she was on a constant basis. Perhaps Yamucha was beginning to think that way too.
As she stared at her face, she saw the eyes fill with tears, watching, detached, as they spilled over and down her cheeks in glistening, crystallized trails. She didn't sniffle, barely breathed, just felt. It was then that Bulma realized the extent of the raw, aching loneliness that had become a part of her existence over the last few years.
Falling to her knees, shaking all over, she wrapped her arms around herself and cried her heart out, feeling her small frame wracked by the tremendous strength of her sobs. Everything came out then - all of the pain, all of the hurt, all of the anger. In the end, she felt drained, and could only sit there, rocking herself slowly back and forth, wondering if she was still sane, or if she was losing it.

A sound from outside her window snapped her out of her cataleptic state. She picked herself up on unsteady legs and made her way over to the sill, looking out into the blackness. Seeing nothing, she pushed the glass outward on its hinges, and stuck her head out. Something blurred past her at an incredible speed, almost taking her face off. She reeled backwards suddenly, lost her balance and fell hard on her backside. Shocked, she looked up to see a dark-haired, teenage boy perched on the lip of her window frame, looking at her with an evil smirk, triumph shining in his strange, almost in-human eyes.
"I found you at last," he said, his voice more wicked than any she'd ever heard before. He gave a small laugh, and hopped into her room fully, landing by her legs, staring down at her.
Bulma scrambled backwards on the heels of her hands and feet, trying to put as much distance between herself and this horrible stranger. Inside, her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and panic welled up. It increased proportionally when she felt her back hit the wall behind her, knowing that she had reached the limit of her escape. She continued to inch to the left, towards the closed door, keeping an eye on the boy all the while.
Somehow, she knew that he was here to kill her. Nameless and faceless was the forebearer of this knowledge, but she understood it clearly. Everything inside of her screamed to escape.

Vegeta, she found herself mentally begging, please help me!

The fact that she was praying to her most despised opponent for his intervention didn't seem to matter at the moment. Nor did it make a difference that he would no doubt harass her about the matter later. Although the Saiyan Prince was a horrible man, this boy, she knew, was infinitesimally worse. The almost-deranged glint in his gaze confirmed this. He watched her carefully, smiling like a lunatic at her attempts to put room between them.
Like a cat to a mouse.
The boy's collar-length, black hair swayed in the breeze created by the small, rotating fan hanging in the center of the room. Other than that, however, Bulma saw no movement to him - not a breath, not a blink, not a twitch. It was as if he was a statue. However, lurking behind those glassy, blue eyes was an intelligence and a malevolence that Bulma had never seen before - not even in Vegeta.

It frightened her more than anything ever had.

Her mind abandoned her then, and she began screaming, crawling the rest of the way to the door as quickly as possible. As she reached for the knob, a hand around her own stopped her cold, and her outcry died in her throat as she looked up into the boy's face.
"Tisk, tisk, Bulma," he said calmly, raising a delicate eyebrow at her. "We can't have you alerting the neighbors."
He snapped her wrist then, as easily as one might break a twig. She howled in pain, trying to pull away, but the young man's grasp was tight and firm. He continued to smile, amused at her attempts to break free from him, and stood as stoic and unrelenting as a mountain. She struck at him, cried, scratched and bit - anything just to get away, but nothing seemed to phase him. Each attempt, however, hurt her. The boy's entire body was as solid as steel, and just as unyielding.
"What do you want?" she yelled, trying to stall for time, hoping to get a chance to talk her way out of this situation. The nefarious look that greeted her question made her realize that this tormentor had no human side to his soul, and that he understood her tactics. Delaying wouldn't work, and neither would talking. He was going to kill her, but it wouldn't be for money or power. No, this was something definitely more personal.

Any hopes that she might have harbored for mercy or freedom, were dashed in that instant.

The boy reached out his free hand, and placed it on the top of her head, rubbing the hair there gently, letting it glide through his fingers. Bulma didn't move, her terror having reached a pinnacle, and she waited breathlessly for the next move, knowing it would bring her death. Instead of delivering the final blow, however, the stranger squatted in front of her, and continued to pay attention to her pastel-lavender hair, feeling it's length and the softness of it. Perhaps it was accidental on his part, but he spoke then, his voice far-away and thoughtful.
"Juu's hair was like this - soft and pretty. I always liked touching it..."
He focused back on her face then, and the anger returned full force. Grabbing a handful of her mane, he yanked her face close to his, the venom rekindled in his gaze. "You'll pay for what he did to her," he stated maliciously, leaning closer to her, making her shiver in dread.
From somewhere, Bulma found the courage and the ability to speak. "Who's Juu?" she asked in a half-rasp, half-whisper. There was a moment's hesitation, as he considered her words, but then, the young man's smirk was back in place.
"Someone you'll never know," he promised, kneeling fully beside her, and pulling her rigidly to him, one arm stealing around her waist. As their bodies came into intimate contact with each other, however, the twist of his mouth dropped suddenly, and the black aura that had seemed to surround him melted quickly away, dissipating before a new, powerful compulsion.
Bulma observed as the boy's eyes moved back over her features carefully, watched as a dark intent slid through his thoughts. She whimpered in protest, knowing where his musings traveled, and tried to move away. His grip was firm around her, though, making escape impossible, and a painful tightening of his arm stopped her short.
As if mesmerized, half-unsure of his actions, the boy quickly leaned down and gently pressed his smooth, cold lips to her own, his strange gaze watching her expression the entire time. Bulma shuddered from the contact, incapable of shutting her eyes to block out the vision before her. Her inability to do so was not caused by any deranged curiosity - as the boy's had been - but out of pure, unadulterated fear.

The kiss lasted maybe five seconds in all, but it was the longest five seconds of Bulma's life.

His mouth parted from her own, drew back barely a fraction of an inch, but his eyes continued to watch her face evenly. "You even taste like her," he whispered, his voice low, curious. She felt his body shift slightly then, and his hand released her broken wrist, sliding up her torso to her neck, running smoothly, unfalteringly over the curves it found there. Almost wistfully, he sighed. "It's too bad, really."

Bulma knew then that the moment had finally come.

Her body spasmed, as she felt something razor-sharp stab through her chest, resting just below her diaphragm. It burned as no fire ever had, and she heard her own cry loudly in the hushed room, filled with surprised pain.
Time seemed to stop.
An instant later, Bulma looked down to see the young man's hand, embedded up to the wrist in her body. She watched, fascinated, as her blood sprung outwards in a great wave, covering his arm in thick, oozing, crimson liquid. He laughed cruelly, and yanked his hand out of her body quickly, letting her go. Bulma felt her heavy weight fall backwards, and she slumped against the wall, helpless. Weakly, she lifted a hand, and placed it over the wound, her mind numb.

The blood....it's so bright...

Everything was blacking out on the sides of her vision, and she feebly lifted her head, looking at the boy in surprise. "Why?" she choked out, feeling blood strangling her words, filling her throat. The boy smiled again, not bothering to wipe his hands of the gore. He stood, perfectly comfortable, bathed in her vital fluids, as he answered her.
"Because I want to hurt him," he said, a spark of madness in his eyes.

Hurt who? Please tell me.
Somehow, she couldn't make the words come out, despite her attempts. It just hurt too much. She coughed instead, feeling bloodied bubbles forming in her nose, and spit out the liquid that rushed up into her mouth. It dribbled down her chin, and when she coughed again, it's droplets sprayed the beautiful, cream carpeting, turning it an ugly scarlet.
Mother will kill me...for making such a mess...

"Farewell, Bulma," the young man acknowledged, heading for the open window. He turned back once more, and smiled almost innocently. "Say 'hello' to Juu for me, will you?" he asked in a child-like voice, then saluted her with two fingers to his brow, and moved to the window to leave.
It was then that they both noticed the dark shape outside, hovering at window-level.
The boy didn't have time to jump back as the shape fell upon it, raining blows that blurred as they hit. Bulma couldn't see well, as her vision was slowly turning gray and fuzzy, but she heard the sounds of fists smashing into skin, and knew that someone had come to rescue her. She prayed that whoever it was would save her, if only so that she could clean up the mess she had made.
Vaguely, she heard the boy's voice, screeching in frustration and anger. "She'll die before you can get to her. Her life is mine, in return for Juu's!"
A new, unfamiliar voice - a man's voice - answered, cold and seething with fury. "I'll kill you, you sick son-of-a-bitch!" Again, the two exchanged a few blows. Then, there was a large crash, the feel of cold night air on her skin, and the young boy's mocking laughter seemed further away.
"See you around, super Saiyan-man!"

Then there was silence.

With her vision completely gone now, Bulma panicked as warm hands touched her cheeks. She no longer had the strength to push them away, and part of her no longer cared to, but the animal-part of her humanity rebelled silently against the contact. She was lifted then in strong arms, and strangely felt no pain; everything was pleasantly euphoric, and light sensations were all that she was aware of.
A low, urgent voice - the man's voice - spoke in her ear roughly. "Hang on, Bulma," he begged her, carrying her somewhere swiftly; she felt the rush of wind against her legs, as they moved. "Help is on the way. Just don't give up on me, please!"
"Vegeta?" she sputtered, pushing past the hot liquid that filled her mouth once more, feeling it fall out between her lips as she spoke. "Is that you?"
There was a moment of hesitant silence, but then the man's voice came to her again, choked with emotion. "I'm here for you, Bulma," he assured her, snuggling her closer to his shaking body. "Just stay with me this time, and I'll never leave you again. I promise."
Bulma felt herself smile, just before the shadows began to overtake her. "Oh, good," she slurred, her head slumping against the solid shoulder beneath her cheek, her last breaths easing away from her tired body. "I knew you'd come for me." The darkness beckoned her, and she reached for it. Obscured in the widening distance, she heard the man's voice call out to her desperately one last time, echoing away in the gloom.
"BULMA!!!!!"



TO BE CONTINUED........
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AUTHOR'S NOTES:

"Mirai" means "Future" in Japanese.

"Forever Love" was written and sung by X-Japan, copyright, Dahlia/East-West Japan AMCM-4271, 1996.

"Dragonball" is the copyright of Akira Toriyama/Bird Studios/Toei Animation/Sueisha, and the copyright, 1996-97 of FUNmation/Saban Entertainment, all rights reserved.

All other characters and situations are the property of this author, copyright 1997-1998. **In accordance with domestic and international copyright law, you may not reproduce this work, or any portion thereof, without the express written permission from this author.**