Welllll…I've started a V/B story.

I was actually planning to just make this a one-shot, but, when I thought about it, it made more sense to make it a whole story. Frankly, I have no idea where this idea came up—was kinda watching this show that had to with ghosts (don't ask XD) and it said that people believed that mirrors were, like, portals to and from the Spirit World—or something around those lines. As I kept thinking about this, the idea for this story hit me and I just had to write it down!

So, yeah, not sure how long this story will be—or how good it'll be for that matter, but, hey! We'll see how it goes! XD

Rated T just in case—cuz, there is some axe-murder action (which I actually based off of an actual murder) going down in this first chapter o3o This'll probably one of the most gruesome-starting stories I'll write…

And please excuse the fact that my fight scenes might not be very good… *sweat-drop*

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, or Dragon Ball GT in any way, shape, or form.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to work on some school projects and cry about this TT_TT


"C'mon, Vegeta! Hurry!"

A young man with hands stuffed in his pants pockets raised his head when he heard his name. "What, Tarble?"

Another young man, who appeared to be younger than the first, walked backwards, his back facing their path, while he faced the eldest of them. His youthful features brightened as a grin spread across his face, his dark eyes sparkling. "C'mon; Mom said we had to get groceries for her while she works!"

The former frowned—although, it was more of a scowl, his thick eyebrows knitting. "I know that, Tarble, but we do not have to hurry, you know."

Tarble's grin didn't fade, and he simply said in reply, "Yeah, but I want to get this done so we can do something else, Veggie!"

Vegeta let out an irritated sight and shrugged noncommittally, his eyebrows slightly rising. "Whatever you say, Squirt."

It was Tarble's turn to frown. His face settled into a pout—which, surprisingly, didn't look foreign to his face—as he glared at his older brother. "I'm too old for that nickname now! You should know that!"

"As am I too old for 'Veggie'."

Tarble "hmphed" and he spun back around, crossing his arms over his chest as he continued to glower. Vegeta rolled his eyes at his brother's behavior; but, there was a ghost of a smile on his face.

Vegeta Ouji, named after his father, was somewhere in his mid to late twenties. He was a handsome man to say the least—his skin a dark bronze color, his hair as dark as night and swept up into a flame, his eyes a deep, dark, entrancing abyss. All the women in his hometown practically swooned over him; he paid them no heed for he wasn't interested in any women at the moment. He was the eldest son of Vegeta Ouji, Sr. (he hated being called "Junior") and was, strangely, an exact copy of his father in appearance—excluding the facial hair.

Tarble Ouji was the youngest of the two Ouji brothers, being somewhere in his late teens. His skin was a much lighter tan in comparison to his brother's; his hair wasn't as spiky as his senior's either—a thick strand of it hung down over his forehead—but, it was black all the same. He had eyes that were soft and gentle, in contrast to his elder's sharp, intelligent orbs. Tarble adored his older brother dearly, and he knew that Vegeta was fonder of him than he let on.

Vegeta sighed again, and his onyx eyes trailed up to the crystal blue skies. It was a beautiful day; Vegeta loved these days of Indian summer. The cool, crisp air gave him chill bumps, but didn't mind it at all, it felt refreshing to him. He did, in fact, prefer this weather over any other kind—not too hot, not too cold.

He loved this town in all its beauty—he had grown up here, after all. It was a quaint little town, peaceful and quiet—just how he liked it. His family was rather wealthy—the wealthiest of the town—which was one of the other reasons why women here threw themselves at him. Eyebrows furrowing once more, he scowled at the thought. As much as he loved it here, he hated its snobby, insufferable women. He swore that if one more woman tried to—

"Big Brother!"

Vegeta blinked, shook his head, and sped up his pace to catch up to Tarble.

"Tarble, wait up!"

After a long day of buying groceries and chasing Tarble around, the Ouji brothers returned to their home. It was a rather extravagant house for its time—a lovely Victorian-style house (with some added flare) with five bedrooms (the fifth one being a guest bedroom), a large kitchen, and a beautiful parlor. Many paintings and other décor littered the walls of the Ouji home—along with a few mirrors here and there.

The two young men kicked off their shoes and strolled into the kitchen, dumping the groceries on the counter. Their mother turned from the stove; however, she still continued to stir some substance in a pot. Soup, Vegeta assumed.

"Oh, Vegeta, Tarble, you're back—just in time, too. Lunch is almost ready."

Vegeta's and Tarble's mother was a gorgeous woman in Vegeta's eyes. He could think of no other girl (especially those who would flirt with him) could make her beauty. She had silky, dark brown hair that was currently tied up in a loose bun. Her skin was the same shade as Tarble's—a soft tan that brought out her stunning hazel eyes. An apron was fastened around her waist, covering her gray dress.

"Thank goodness! I was starving!" Tarble licked his lips at the mouth-watering smell. "Smells good, Mom!"

"Thank you, dear," she smiled faintly.

Vegeta grunted, rolling his eyes. His stomach, to his dismay, growled loudly, answering for him, and the young man's cheeks darkened with an embarrassed blush.

His mother laughed musically. "Well now, Vegeta, I don't suppose that was your stomach growing, hm?"

Vegeta growled in embarrassment and crossed his arms. The kitchen filled with laughter.

Their mother's laughter quieted down as she returned to stirring the soup. "Now, boys, your father has informed me that there's a meeting at the town hall tonight and we're all going. Simultaneous groans resonated behind her. A little feminine chuckled followed. "Now, now, you two, don't act like that. Besides…" She grinned deviously. "Vegeta, you might find a lady friend…"

Vegeta forcefully slammed his hands on the table and roared, "MOTHER!"

Tarble howled with laughter, so much, that he started to bawl.


After the town meeting late that night, the Ouji family returned home, exhausted. Vegeta was so tired, that he plopped down onto his bed and went straight to sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, not even bothering to change into his pajamas.


A door opened with an insidious CREAK! and heavy boots thudded across the wooden floors. Something metallic gleamed in the moonlight—something that was deathly sharp. The metal object was connected to a long, wooden handle, marred with scrapes and deep nicks. A hatchet…

The axe head scraped across the hallway floors—leaving a line in both wood and rug—and was dragged towards a bedroom.

The masked figure entered the master bedroom, where Vegeta senior and his wife lay. Both were fast asleep, completely oblivious. The figure approached the bed and stopped beside it abruptly.

The axe was raised into the air, its head glimmering with a sinister shine, and then it suddenly swung down.


Tarble's eyes flew open and he sat up, his hair a tad bit ruffled. He was a light sleeper. His room was coated in darkness, except for the soft, pale light from the moon that flooded through his window. He swallowed nervously, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, and flung the covers off of himself, placing his bare feet on the cool wood floor. He cautiously and silently crept out of his room towards his brother's room. Once he reached the said room, he hurriedly shut the door behind him, as quietly as he could.

His instincts screamed at him to GET OUT, GET OUT! but Tarble refused to leave his brother behind. What kind of brother would he be then? He didn't know what—or who—it was, but Tarble knew something was wrong.

"Vegeta…!" Tarble whispered fiercely, shaking his older brother's body.

"Hrrrrrmmm….five more minutes…" Vegeta mumbled, batting Tarble's hands away.

"Vegeta, I'm serious, wake up," whined Tarble.


"Vegeta—big brother—wake up now!"

"Hn?" Vegeta's eyes fluttered open, letting out a gaping yawn. "Tarble…what're you…it's two in the morning—"

"Never mind that!" Tarble snapped. "We need to get out of here now!"

"What?" Vegeta sat up—his hair was ruffled with sleep—and he glared icily at his brother, suspicion filling his eyes. "Why would we—"

"Something's wrong, Vegeta! We gotta get the heck outta dodge!" Tarble urged him desperately, pulling on his brother's arm.

Vegeta huffed in exasperation and got out of his bed, grumbling under his breath. He put his hands on his hips and said gruffly, "Look, Tarble, you probably just had another nightmare, so go back to be—"

The door suddenly swung open and hit the wall, the knob leaving a nasty dent in it. The brothers whipped around, startled, the darkness of the hallway visible in their sight, to see a dark figure standing stiffly and wielding a bloodied axe. Vegeta's eyes widened with horror at the red-stained weapon, his heart leaping into his throat.

No…no, no, no…

The eldest couldn't form a sound, stricken by the dread that pooled in his stomach. He knew that his parents were dead the minute he saw the blood, never to be awakened from their slumber.

He hoped they had felt no pain…

They stood there for what seemed like hours to Vegeta, his dark eyes meeting with the masked murderer's cold ones with an unwavering gaze. Tarble was trembling, fear laced into his eyes, his gaze shifting uneasily back and forth from the killer's masked face to the weapon, whimpering quietly.

"Tarble…" Vegeta breathed out softly, his voice hardly above a whisper.

"Big Brother—"

The figure lunged.

Tarble yelped, stumbling back away from his brother and the man. Vegeta, on the other hand, snarled and charged at the axe murderer—rich boy or not, Vegeta knew how to fight. The man swiped at Vegeta, the blade barely missing the latter when he jumped out of the way, and the oldest Ouji countered by reeling his fist back, aiming for the man's gut. Quicker than Vegeta expected, the masked man—who, Vegeta had absentmindedly noticed, was a bit short—evaded the attacked with ease. Vegeta felt stinging pain in his spine when the end of the axe handle jabbed him in the back. Effective, but not enough.

Vegeta managed to reach his arm back; his left hand gripped the wooden handle and then he violently spun around, his hand sliding down to make room for his right. He grasped the handle with impressive strength, pushing back as hard as he could.

Meanwhile, Tarble was cowering in a corner, quivering with fear as hot tears spilled down his cheeks. This couldn't be happening! This had to be a nightmare! His parents…he had feeling that they were dead—he was sure that his brother felt the same. How could this be…?

Wake up, wake up…


The teenager snapped out of his daze, his gaze locking onto the struggle between his brother and the mystery killer. Both of them had a hold of the axe, both pulling and pushing with equal force. As Vegeta managed to pin the man up against the wall, he yelled, "What're you doing, you idiot?! RUN!"

Tarble shook his head, scrambling to his feet, and he frantically ran past the two out into the hallway as fast as he could.

The man's icy eyes snapped to Tarble's disappearing figure. Vegeta's eyes flickered towards the hallway, mentally begging his younger brother to keep going, don't turn back—

He never saw it coming. The man somehow managed to twist the axe—causing Vegeta's arms to crisscross—so that the axe head was pointing to the ceiling. He brought the axe head down and its smooth, flat side clonked Vegeta on the crown.

Vegeta toppled over, letting go of the handle in the process, and collapsed onto the floor, astonished. Spots flitted about his vision; he groaned as he could only watch helplessly as the heavy boots of the masked man hurried out of his room with loud thuds.

He blinked a couple of times, grunting, trying to get his thoughts straight. He then heard a muffled scream and a thud of a body hitting the floor. Vegeta groaned again, once again trying to regroup himself.




"Urg…" Vegeta forced himself to his feet, growling in rage and frustration, the sore on his head throbbing excruciatingly. He touched the tender spot, wincing, and he pulled his fingers back, seeing scarlet on his fingertips.


Vegeta looked up at the doorway and was startled—he was afraid to say he was terrified—to see the same man standing there with fresh blood dripping from his axe to the floor. Vegeta's pupils shrank and his eyes grew to that of saucers.

No…no…no, no, no…

Tarble…his little brother…

An enraged snarl ripped from his throat, his fists clenching to the point of his nails digging into his palms. He was about to do something extremely rash—something that would lead to a sooner demise, before he froze when he saw that man's mask was gone. Tarble—Tarble…—must have torn his mask off.

Mouth agape in shock, pain, and hatred, Vegeta stammered, "Y…Y-You're…"

The blade sunk into Vegeta's left shoulder before he could another word out. His words were lost and were replaced with a painful scream as the axe blade was then ripped out of his shoulder, blood welling from the fresh wound. The young man staggered back, his back hitting the full length mirror behind, and he slid down to the floor, leaving a smear of scarlet on the reflective glass.

More agonizing pain exploded from his stomach as another wound was made. Vegeta choked and blood flew from his mouth, his body pitched forward a little from the cough. He moaned in pain, darkness creeping into his vision.

The last thing he saw in this world was the axe flying towards him.


Nappa had been a long time business partner and a friend of Vegeta Ouji senior. The two adults had known each other since high school and became partners the minute they both became the owners of their respective businesses. This earned him the right of babysitting the Ouji kids—the little rascals!

The tall, burly man walked down the sidewalk towards the Ouji household, hands stuffed in his pockets, whistling an old tune. He and his partner had planned to go out for brunch on account of the successful meeting last night. They had decided on brunch because there was no way they would be up in time for breakfast!

Nappa reached the house, his whistling quieting, and he knocked loudly on the door. "Yo! Vegeta! You ready to go yet?"

No answer.

Nappa's forehead creased as his eyebrows knitted in confusion. Mrs. Ouji would've surely answered the door. If not Vegeta Sr., then she would be the first one up. He knocked again.

"Hey! Hello? I don't mean to be a bother, but it's eleven o'clock! We planned to have brunch! Hello?!"



Nappa tried the door. He turned the knob and the door oddly opened. Unlocked?

"What the…?" Nappa muttered under his breath. Peaceful town or not, the Oujis always locked the door—Mrs. Ouji was a worrisome woman for her kids. The middle-aged man unsurely entered, hoping he wasn't walking in on the Oujis getting ready.

"Um…hello? Ouji? You up yet?" he called out, confused. The house was strangely silent.

"Okay…seriously, this is creeping me out—" Nappa stopped in his tracks when his eyes fell on a body lying motionless in the hallway. His whole face paled. It was unmistakable—that was Tarble. The rug was dark around the teenager and, Nappa noticed, there was some red liquid oozing from the rug to the wood flooring. He swallowed disbelievingly, hoping what he was thinking wasn't true.

"T…Tarble, kiddo…?" he gulped, kneeling down to get a better look at him. There were several gashes on the teenager's reddened back. Nappa turned Tarble over and nearly gagged. Blood had dribbled from Tarble's mouth and his eyes were blank. "Urn…" Nappa checked his pulse.


Nappa swallowed hard again, finding it difficult to do such an easy thing. He gingerly laid the kid back down, murmuring something, and stood up. After a moment of eerie silence, Nappa carefully stepped over Tarble and suddenly bolted down towards the master bedroom, praying that it wasn't so with Vegeta Sr. and his wife.

He skidded to a halt, running into the bedroom, and was met with the same horror. Both Vegeta and his wife were motionless as well, the same state that Tarble was in. Nappa had to keep himself from vomiting again.

It couldn't be…it wasn't so…

The thought hit Nappa like a ton of bricks. He had almost forgotten! The other Ouji kid—Vegeta! All hesitation was gone as Nappa zipped out of the master bedroom, back down the hall, towards the oldest brother's room. The minute he entered, a gasp escaped his lips. The body of the younger Vegeta was laid up against a full-length mirror, his eyes closed. His torso was covered with horrid wounds—although one was on his shoulder—and little trickles of blood had run down his forehead.

He must've tried putting up a fight…

Nappa's heart never beat so fast in his life—he was sure that his heart would give out. He stood there in terrified silence, staring as Vegeta's body.

It wasn't long after that Nappa had somehow ran to the window in a daze, threw it open, and screamed out to the people of the town who were already wandering about.


"Why, it is such a lovely house!"

"Isn't it? This beautiful home has lain untouched for years, yet it still holds its original charm!"

"'Untouched'? Why is that?"

"Oh…well, most people couldn't afford this place way back then—as you can see, the architecture is marvelous!"

"Oh, yah! Indeed!"

Bulma Briefs listened to her parents chat with the real-estate agent about the dusty old house jadedly. Her blue, scrutinizing gaze shifted about the parlor, untouched by time. They style seemed outdated, and Bulma inwardly scoffed at the taste of style of the original homeowners. Everyone knew that you don't put—

"Come, come, Bulma, sweetie!" her blonde-haired mother cooed, clasping her hands together. "Let's go see the bedrooms! Who knows"—a bubbly giggle—"you may like one of them!"

"Hmf, sure…" Bulma muttered, crossing her arms under her breast. The 16-year-old was in a relatively bad mood—for reasons one could only guess. She followed her parents and the agent down the hall, the only one noticing the strange dark spot on the rug. They looked at one of the rooms—the agent suggested this one be a guest room—and then continued their way down the hall to the next room.

"This—I'm sure—would make the perfect room for you daughter!" said the agent, showing the Briefs the room. Bulma looked about the room. It was larger than the first room—it had a decent sized bed, a large closet, and a mahogany dresser. Her blue orbs then fell on a mirror that was placed beside the dresser. She arched a thin eyebrow.

"Don'cha love it, Bulma, dear?" Mrs. Briefs asked, giddy.

"Why, yes, it is a nice room," Dr. Briefs agreed with a nod of his head, his lavender moustache twitching.

"…What's with the stain on the mirror?" Bulma questioned, gesturing with her head at the red stain that streaked down on the left side of the mirror.

The agent stumbled over her words at bit. "Oh…that…? Why…it's…paint! You see, the former homeowners were well-defined artists of their time!"

"Oh-ho-ho! Really?" Mrs. Briefs giggled. "How wonderful!"

"The homeowners' kids had this room—I suppose they might've gotten a bit carried away with their paintings!"

"Oh, mah! Such kids they had! Hahaha!"

Bulma scowled, glaring at the red spot. Yes, that was a plausible answer—there had been some paintings hanging in the parlor—but Bulma knew that the agent was lying. Kids or not, they wouldn't paint on a mirror, unless they were really childish…or were innocent toddlers…

"Now, let me show you the master bedroom…"

"Oh, yah! But, I do believe I'm already sold on this house! How 'bout you, dear?"

"Yes, yes, I am, honey—it is quite a lovely house. I'd be able to get some peace and quiet when I work."

"Great! I'll show you the master bedroom, then I'll give you the papers…"

The three adults left the room, leaving Bulma in the room to stare at the mirror. Her feet carried her closer to it, close enough for her to touch it. The teenaged girl looked at her reflection—turquoise hair, azure eyes, pale skin, dark red sleeveless shirt, and yellow shorts. Bulma furrowed her eyebrows curiously, and she tentatively reached out to touch the dusty glass.

It was one of those mirrors that if you pushed it a bit, it would swing a bit—top forwards, bottom backwards, back and forth.

She blinked a couple times, wondering why she was so transfixed about a mirror.

A hand suddenly appeared in the mirror and pressed against hers. Bulma's breath hitched in her throat, but she couldn't move or speak—her hand frozen in place. The hand was large in contrast to her small, delicate hand. It appeared to be a dark tan color, and it made her skin color seem paler.

Her eyes slowly moved up from her hand to meet dark, empty orbs. She didn't move again, despite the fact that she was seeing something that was definitely not her reflection. Bulma stared, mesmerized, into this entity's dark, onyx eyes. This said entity was a man—a handsome young man—with hardened features and flaming, charcoal hair with a widow's peak. He was staring right at her too.

A staring contest was held between the two, each one's gaze refusing to falter, completely hypnotized.

Bulma slowly opened her mouth to say something—

"Oh, Bulma!"

Bulma snapped out of her daze and looked over her shoulder when she heard her mother.

"Sweetie, come here!"

The teenager blinked and glanced back at the mirror. The man was gone and she was, once again, staring back at herself. She timidly pulled her hand away from the mirror, and the girl slowly back away from it. Bulma couldn't decide if she should be scared…or not.

Leaving that thought hanging in the air, Bulma left.