Chapter Text
His eyes are the first thing she notices when he catches her trespassing on his secluded property. They are blacker than a moonless night and bear into her with an intensity that nearly stops her breath. If it wasn’t for the double barrel shotgun he pressed against her sternum, she would think him handsome. But alas, even bulging muscles flexed taut under his flannel shirt and a criminally well-fitted pair of jeans could only do so much. Not when she is quite literally under the gun. And the man, if you could even call him that with his hair standing up on ends like pikes, did little to veil the hostility that boiled beneath his unnaturally sharp features.
He was all edges and aggression, yet she finds herself somehow entranced and unsettled. A rare combination for cryptozoologist Bulma Briefs, who has met all manner of beasts and did not scare easily.
“How did you get past my traps?” His voice is gruffer than she expected.
“Just dumb luck?” she laughs nervously, keenly aware of her vulnerable situation. With her back against the dirt, she is already panting from her trek up the uneven terrain. All this work to collect bits of fur on branches, snap pictures of odd tracks or markings on trees, and collect just about anything that can prove monsters – or in this case, werewolves – exist.
“Try again,” the man growls, pushing the muzzle harder into her chest.
“Alright, alright!” She raises both hands in symbolic surrender. “The name’s Bulma, and I’m a journalist looking into the recent disappearance of missing girls in Eastville.” She is proud of how quickly that rolls off her tongue, poised and practiced. Much easier to say than “Hi, I’m Bulma, a cryptozoologist who thinks werewolves may be murdering women in your town!”
“That doesn’t answer how you got past my traps.”
She sighs and taps the black goggles resting on top of her head. “Night vision with laser and metal detection capabilities.”
“Where did you get that? Are you military? Who do you work for?”
Add paranoia to the list of attractive qualities for this psycho.
“First of all,” she shoots back indignantly. “I made these. No, I’m not military. And like I said, I’m just an independent journalist, but I do enjoy tinkering and developing inventions as a hobby.”
“A …hobby.” He squints skeptically at her and for a moment, Bulma swears those dead, black eyes flash a most unnatural green-gold hue. But it couldn’t be. It isn’t possible. The moon is out and imposingly full tonight. It would’ve transformed any shapeshifter hours ago. Yet this mystery man appeared fully human, even if his manners erred on the side of monster.
No, she thinks. This man is dangerous, but no wolf. Still, she is glad that her pistol, tucked behind her back with a chamber full of silver bullets, doesn't discriminate between beast or brute.
“Not a lot of journalists walking around with that kind of tech,” he mutters under his breath. “Especially not dressed so…”
“Adventurously? Athletically?”
“Hideously.”
She is blinded by rage.
“Hey! I’ll have you know I’m considered quite attractive by many people! And I am wearing the highest quality jumpsuit for trekking through the wilderness. It’s waterproof, fireproof, and–”
“You’re no journalist.”
“What?”
“Why are you really here with all your equipment?”
“Oh, I get it,” she frowns and shakes her head. She’s heard it all before in her father’s boardroom and in her daily life. The limitations assigned to her simply because of her appearance. “You don’t think a woman is capable of being so prepared? Of building this kind of tech?”
“I…what? I never said that!” he counters irritably. Almost, dare she say, flustered?
“Jeez, and here I thought I’d be the one asking you the questions,” she stretches a hand towards him, and he actually takes a step back. “Oh c’mon! Could you at least help a lady up?”
She disregards the tick in his jaw before he reluctantly reaches for her – though the static shock that hits her when their bare palms meet is harder to ignore. If he is also affected by their touch, she cannot tell from his stoic expression.
Bulma dusts herself off and meets his peculiar eyes once more. They are a starless sky. A void of nothingness. It sends an inexplicable chill down her spine. “Uh…well, thanks, um mister…?”
A lone owl hoots in the distance, and he turns towards its direction, seemingly assessing something she could neither hear nor see.
“Get the fuck off my property.”
“What a terrible name for a –”
The sound of the shotgun cocking snaps her back to reality. The muzzle feels like ice against her forehead.
“Get the fuck out. Now!" he warns, voice dropping so low the vocals sound contorted – like two voices converging into subharmonics rumbling at a decibel near demonic.
Bulma’s eyes grow wide as her survival instincts override her curiosity. You got what you needed, and this isn’t worth it…at least not now.
She takes off, running as fast as can to her truck and doesn’t look back until she’s speeding down the road back into town. Glancing frequently in her rearview mirror, she sees only pitch black until she’s pulls up to her temporary home — a dingy motel in Eastville.
As she draws the curtains close, she cannot shake the sense that she is still being followed.
Thank you to the amazing DanizinhaUT for the first piece of fanart I've ever received for my writing! I am eternally grateful 🥲 🖤.