Golden Valley Hotel.
The trail ended at a massive skyscraper, a gaudy pillar of gold glass that overshadowed the rest of the block.
Holy shit... Oolong thought.
"...It's huge!" Goku said.
Bulma held the Radar up to check.
She didn't need to look twice; the signal was flashing rapid-fire.
This was it.
"Great, the signal is inside. This is going to be a pain..."
She turned to Oolong, grabbing him by the shoulder.
"Oolong, turn into a cop. RPD. We need a badge if we want anyone in a place this fancy to take us seriously."
"Sure."
POOF
A quick burst of smoke, and the pig was gone. In his place stood a broad-shouldered beat cop with a sour expression.
Oolong tugged the brim of his cap down, puffed out his chest, and did his best to look like he wrote tickets for a living.
They stepped inside, the street noise instantly replaced by soft music.
Bulma took the lead, doing her best to look like just another guest, while the boys flanked her.
Goku and Oolong didn't look at the decor; they watched the elevators and the exits.
The woman behind the desk looked up.
Her hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful, and she flashed them the kind of bright, empty smile that comes with a paycheck.
"Welcome to the Golden Valley. Do you have a reservation?"
Oolong stepped forward, clearing his throat and putting on his deepest, most authoritative voice.
"We're here on official business. An investigation."
The smile didn't stick.
She blinked, looking from the police badge to the kid in the martial arts gear, trying to make the math work in her head.
"An... investigation?"
"That's right, we have reason to believe a high-profile criminal is currently hiding out in this hotel. We need access immediately."
"In that case, let me call my supervisor—"
"No!" Oolong interrupted, stepping in before the woman could reach for the phone.
"Don't do that. You'll just draw unwanted attention and spook the suspect. Just check us in like regular guests and give us a room key. We need to move quietly."
The receptionist hesitated, her hand hovering over the intercom.
"I... I really shouldn't. It's against protocol to bypass the manager for police matters."
"Look, lady, we've got a net tightened around this whole block. You really want to be the one who pokes a hole in it? Imagine the headlines tomorrow: Receptionist lets killer walk. You can kiss this job goodbye. Just give us the key."
That did it.
The color drained from her face.
She didn't ask for a warrant or a badge number; she just turned to her screen and started hammering on the keys, desperate to get them what they wanted.
"Right... of course. Room 1204. Here is your keycard. Please... just try not to make a scene."
Without waiting, Bulma stepped up.
She swiped the key card off the counter before the woman could even let go, flashing a grin that was all victory and no gratitude.
"Don't sweat it. We handle stuff like this every day. You did the right thing."
The receptionist didn't go back to work.
She stared at their retreating backs, and the panic started to fade, replaced by a sinking feeling in her gut.
She leaned over the counter, squinting at the officer waddling toward the elevators.
Since when do cops run a sting with a teenage girl in tow? And a little kid? Wait... none of that makes any sense!
//////////////////////////////////////////////
Room 1204.
The latch clicked, and Bulma finally deflated.
She let the air out of her lungs in a rush, dumping her purse on the dresser.
By the time she turned around, the boys had already launched themselves at the mattresses, face-planting into the expensive linens.
"We really pushed our luck there. But it worked."
She didn't waste time celebrating.
She just looked down at the device, double-checking that the signal hadn't moved.
"Dude, staying in character is a nightmare. It wipes me out. I'm gonna need to take five in the AC like, every ten minutes, just to keep it together."
Oolong groaned and let the magic go.
The uniform flickered, then burst into a cloud ofsmoke.
When the air cleared, he was just a pig again, looking thoroughly drained.
"That's fine, we just needed the foot in the door." Bulma replied, looking over at him.
Goku bounced back up on the mattress.
He crossed his legs, leaned forward, and gave Oolong a questioning look.
"I was wondering. How do you actually do that? Turn into people, I mean. Is it a secret technique?"
Bulma grabbed a chair, spun it around, and took a seat. She looked at Oolong, expecting a good story.
"He's right. When we first met, my brain basically short-circuited. How does that even work?"
Oolong shifted his weight and rolled onto his back. He lay there for a moment, watching the ceiling fan spin round and round.
"Believe it or not, it's more like a curse. And Yamcha's little buddy, Puar, is the one to blame for it."
"You mean that floating blue cat that's always hovering by his shoulder?"
"That's the guy. Another shifter. We're cut from the same cloth, animalia spawns. I know you want to dissect it and put it in a beaker, Bulma, but you can't. It's just magic. I'm walking, talking proof that your textbooks are missing a few chapters."
Goku went quiet.
He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, eyes locked on the pig. He wasn't missing a word.
"Puar had a complex. He wanted to be human so bad it hurt. So, rumor has it he tracks down this witch, real knockout, claimed she learned from the big boss herself, Uranai. She sells him on this ultimate ritual. And I gotta admit, at first? It was legit. He could shift and hold the form forever. He thought he'd hit the jackpot."
"So how did you end up involved?" Bulma asked.
"He felt bad for me, I guess, so he tried to bootleg the ritual, share the power without asking the lady in charge. Big mistake. She caught us mid-act and absolutely lost it. She didn't just stop us; she broke the magic. Cursed us both. Now Puar is stuck on the same timer I am. He tried to pull me up and just ended up falling down with me."
Oolong sat up, looking at his hooves.
"So, here we are. But look, I ain't crying about it. Honestly? I'm grateful to Puar. He gave me an edge. If I didn't have this trick up my sleeve, I would've been dead meat a long time ago."
Bulma looked thoughtful.
"Magic, huh? In my head, I'm still calling it molecular instability, but we can go with your version. It adds a little drama to the file."
The room went quiet, letting Oolong's story sink in. Then, a sharp rap on the door broke the spell
"Room service!" A voice called out from the other side of the lock.
Bulma opened the door to find a woman who looked entirely too intense for room service.
She was tall, with wild dark hair and a face like cut glass.
She stood there in her crisp black-and-white uniform, holding a tray, but when she saw Bulma, she froze. The recognition was instant.
"I knew it! My eyes didn't deceive me... you really are Bulma Starch!"
"Huh? You know me?" Bulma asked, taken aback.
Before Bulma could react, the woman reached out and grabbed her hand.
It wasn't aggressive, though. The hard edge in her eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a giddy smile.
"I love your work! I mean it. You don't see that kind of genius every day."
Bulma felt a little heat rise in her cheeks.
She couldn't help it; her ego purred.
Usually, people only cared about her dad or the next big Capsule Corp release.
Getting credit for her own brain, and not just her last name, was a nice change.
"Well, thank you! I appreciate that. But I think you've got the wrong door. We didn't call for room service." Bulma said, smiling modestly.
The maid blinked, looking confused.
"Oh, god, I am so sorry! I must have misread the ticket. That is so embarrassing... please, pretend I wasn't here."
She stopped in her tracks, then immediately started raiding her own cart.
She grabbed a stack of the thickest towels and a handful of the fancy imported soaps.
"Actually, wait. I can't let a Starch use the cheap stuff. Seriously, take these. The standard room towels are like sandpaper, these are the ones we save for the suites."
Bulma grinned and took the heavy stack of linens. She wasn't going to turn down luxury, especially not when it was hand-delivered.
"Oh, wow. Okay, you twisted my arm. I definitely appreciate the upgrade. Thanks for looking out for me."
The woman bowed and hurried off with her cart.
Bulma threw the deadbolt.
Oolong was already leaning against the bedpost, rolling his eyes hard enough to hurt.
"Wow. It must be so difficult being you. I don't know how you survive with people throwing free luxury goods at your face every five minutes."
"Don't be a hater." Bulma tossed the fancy soaps onto the dresser, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
"Look, usually I'm just 'Dr. Brief's daughter.' Everyone wants to talk about him. Having someone fan-girl over me for a change? Yeah, I'm gonna enjoy that."
///////////////////////////////////////
She walked away with a spring in her step.
As the distance from the room grew, that sweet, customer-service smile warped into something much uglier.
She didn't look like a fan anymore.
The performance was over.
Pathétique. Honestly, I feel cheated. I didn't even have to try. You throw the little brat a single crumb of flattery, and she eats right out of your hand. Disgusting.
A dry, scratching sound clawed its way out of her throat, a laugh.
Soaked. I soaked every fiber of those towels, every inch of that soap. It is a ghost, cherie. No smell. No color. Just death. You take one breath, you wash your face once, and, clack, your heart stops. You won't even have the air left in your lungs to scream for your monkey.
She smoothed down the front of her apron, snapping the fabric flat with obsessive tugs.
Every crease had to be gone.
To her, this wasn't an assassination.
It was hygiene.
It was scrubbing a stain off the floor so the Great Pilaf wouldn't have to step in it.
She slipped into the security booth.
The guard was still there, crumpled in a heap where she'd left him.
She stepped over the body like it was just a pile of dirty laundry, not even glancing down.
Her eyes were locked on the wall of monitors, and that ugly smile came back.
This place... it is a sewer. Un véritable cesspool. Putting cameras in the rooms to spy on the guests? How perverse. How... dirty. But I suppose I shouldn't complain. Their little voyeur habit is giving me a front-row seat to the slaughter.
She stared at the grainy footage of Room 1204, her face completely void of emotion.
She looked like a statue watching a snuff film.
"I will let them choke. I will let them foam at the mouth. And when the room is finally quiet... alors, I walk back in. I step over the corpses, I take the dragon balls, and I deliver them to the Great Pilaf."
Bulma eyed the stack of fancy soaps and plush towels on the counter, then turned to the others.
"Well... hate to let good swag go to waste, but we're on the clock. We need to find that Dragon Ball, not play spa day. Besides, let's be real, I'd rather wait and shower in my own bathroom anyway."
Goku agreed.
"You said it! Besides, I took a bath... uh, three days ago? I'm still fresh. No point doing it again so soon."
Oolong let out a yawn, sprawling out like a starfish on the mattress.
"Hard pass. I'm an eighteen-year-old man, okay? I ain't rubbing rose petals on myself. I got a reputation to maintain."
She grabbed her purse and marched toward the hall, completely oblivious.
She had no idea that being a snob about hotel plumbing had just saved their lives.
"Alright, boys, let's move! Time for the glamorous part of the adventure... banging on doors and annoying the neighbors."
In the security room.
The woman froze.
Her perfectly polite posture snapped like a twig.
She bent backward at the waist, arching until she was practically looking at the floor, her fingers digging furrows into her scalp.
She just stood there, twisted, staring upside-down at the monitor where her targets had just walked away unscathed.
"UNACCEPTABLE! Non, non, non! Do they have no taste? That was imported silk! That was artisan soap! I fed her vanity on a silver spoon, I played the groveling fan perfectly, and she just... walks away?!"
She wore a path, turning on her heel every three steps.
Snap.
turn.
Snap.
turn.
She looked like she was trying to crush something invisible with her teeth.
She wasn't screaming yet, but she looked like she was about to bite through her own tongue.
My evening! My beautiful, quiet evening! I had the Vinoro uncorked! It was breathing! I was supposed to be sipping a vintage red while they choked to death on Channel 4. But non! Now the wine is sitting there, getting warm, while I have to go downstairs and snap their necks manually. Quel cauchemar!
A noise stuck in her throat, half-scream, half-snarl.
She clawed at the uniform, tearing the polyester down the middle and stepping out of the pile of trash.
The real Dame Kurella stood in the center of the room.
She wore a floor-length black gown that looked painted on, cut with a modest neck that hid everything but her intentions.
She adjusted the heavy white fur wrapped around her arms, then checked her heels.
If she had to kill them manually, she was going to look expensive doing it.
She stopped in front of the mirror, snapping into a rigid stance.
Hand on her hip.
Back arched.
The ugly scowl vanished, replaced by a bored stare.
She checked the hang of her gown, making sure the silhouette was flawless.
"il est temps de tuer"