She seemed to be experiencing several different emotions at the same time. Aside from fear, disbelief was assumably the most overwhelming. Bulma had thought she'd escaped.
"You can't get away from an android," I said slowly, surprised to hear my own voice, "when you have something they want."
Her hand clutched the doorknob tightly. "How...how did you...?"
"Running won't do you any good," I shook my head at her, wagging a finger. "Hell, look where it got you last time."
Bulma swallowed. "I'm not afraid of you." She ignored my statement, her hand remaining on the doorknob.
"Of course you're not afraid." My voice took on a sarcastic soothing tone, my head tilting. "You're standing ten feet away from the very being who killed the man you loved and anyone else who ever had any sort of value to you. Only a fool would be afraid. A real genius," I mocked, my eyes narrowing as her eyes darkened, "a real genius, Bulma, would be furious. A real genius would hate me."
"I do hate you," she returned, not looking away from me. Her voice sounded strange. "More than anything I've ever hated before. For so long I didn't care whether or not I lived. You'd taken away almost everything in my life and for no reason at all."
A cold smile crossed my face. "At least you're being honest with yourself. And you're right," I added, "there was no reason for any of it. It was all in fun." Stepping forward, I extended my hand to her. "That being said... Why don't we shake hands and put it all behind us?"
I didn't know where taunting her like that would get me. Serves you right, I thought as she stared at me. Serves you right for running away. This is what you get. This is what you get, Bulma Briefs.
She didn't move. Her feet were planted, her jaw set. The worry lining her face seemed to deepen more the longer I held my hand out.
"If you're going to kill me," she hissed, her voice low, "don't belittle me first. I've lived with what you've done for so long... Do me a favor, and don't mock me before I die."
She'd noticed the picture's absense and noted the shredded pieces strewn about the floor near my feet. Bulma closed her eyes, clenching the hand that wasn't on the doorknob.
"I have never...done anything...to you," she breathed, almost inaudiably. I watched, feeling my throat tighten as she finally left the door, coming to stand just in front of me. She knealt down, scooping up the pieces of the photograph that once represented the life she'd loved so dearly. The man she'd loved, their son. She clutched the bits of the picture to her chest. I could see her shaking now.
"That makes two of us, then, who got what we didn't deserve." I said, finding that I was just talking to talk now. In reality I didn't even understand why I'd killed her family and friends. It had never occurred to me. Why? I didn't know why. It just was.
She shook her head. "I'm not like you." She sounded convinced. "We're nothing alike. How could you possibly want anything after you've denied so many people what they want?"
Something snapped, and I found myself grabbing her by the collar of her shirt, hauling her up to her feet so we were eye to eye. She stiffened, dropping the fragments of paper so they fluttered down to the floor again, but she didn't make a sound. Bulma was brave, a big girl now who could look after herself, who could raise a son alone.
"I didn't ask for a speech," I snarled. "I came here to prove a point, to make you see how delusional you are, thinking you can get away from me. You are a fool. Your husband was a fool, your son is a fool. Somehow you've managed to survive for this long, and exactly how, I will never know."