Hey Guys, Ruebo here. Long time no see, or write I should say. I hope you enjoy this short four part story. Please feel free to leave a review! I would really appreciate it. Private messages are welcome as well. Please consider the graphic nature of this piece before reading. ^-^
"Vegeta, hand me the bow"
"You're putting that on it?"
Woman, only you could look at me like that and live, let alone walk away. Nothing in itself is strange about presenting a gift. It's common practice among the galaxies. Even members of my race were proficient gift givers. The word was foreign to me in the human sense of it when I came to this blue marble. I had only heard 'barter' or 'trade'. No gift is one sided. No amount of advertising and human consumer brainwashing garbage can convince me otherwise. I know it inside and out. Forward and backward. Over and under. See the picture yet? I know you will Bulma.
"I know you're not into the wrapping and all that jazz, but just let me enjoy it, Mr. Kill joy"
There it is. The difference. Human beings are among the few interplanetary species that put forethought into the presentation of said gift. Wrapping it in flimsy, colorful paper to catch the eye makes it somehow more valuable in their crooked agendas. Clumsily tying ribbon on it increases its appeal somehow. Will wrapping a space craft make the thing run any better? Will putting a sticky bow on a plasma cannon make it more accurate? Will wrapping consumables-food and water make them taste better? Hell no.
"Use a different one"
"Next you'll be saying that I should wrap you up because You're the Gods' gift to this planet"
I don't discriminate against custom, but that doesn't mean I will participate. If you can even call this a custom. On planet Vegeta, Yadnom, Murabi, and all of the kingdom's territories it was best to not to wrap whatever it was. Just leave it alone. It was easier to avoid standard and keep both parties equal. If someone dared to wrap something it must be adorned lavishly and worthy of the eyes. That old king killed for less. If one presented him fine crystals from the moon of Maysee 6 earnestly in their bare dirty hands he would remember and spare the whole coalition when they failed on their next mission. If the same thing was presented in cheap red paper it was a disgrace. The hand was better. Ignorance was better. If you insist on doing it woman, at least do it well.
"Whatever. Bulma, I'm telling you—don't use that one. It's homely"
" Since when did you become an expert, dad?," Trunks halfway laughed.
Even my father wasn't exempt from this rule. He was vulnerable to both sides. My mother presented me to him in her own life blood. I was rendered to that white lizard tyrant wearing my finest clothes. I was instructed to behave accordingly. Disrespecting the royal line with my angry tongue wasn't going to be tolerated. I was to treat Freiza with the same respect I paid to my father. The fate of my race depended on it, but it was all horribly futile.
"I should know. I was one"
Come now, the silent treatment? I raised you to be more hardy than that boy. It's not the tiny red peel and stick bow that's swallowed whole by the palm of my hand, or the fact that I pulled the wide banded ribbon from your mother's soft fingers. Your eyes are almost the same shade of color as your mother's, but my son your eyes are light and airy—electric blue on even the darkest of days. You're hands are as engulfing as mine, now. You're shoulders are broad and your back strong, but I still see him in you, that hell raising boy that used to wrap his arms around my waist. Now you're big enough to join your arms around my back. You had to ask. Now you know. You were aware since your childhood really, but I see something different today. I see that it's sunk in, settling your smile beneath your flared nostrils. You're looking into me, like your mother does at last.
"Dad… I'm—"
"Never mind that"
"Vegeta, honey—," Bulma tried, "I would like to know what's wrong with it. If you feel like it"
You know better than to push me, always have. Don't cock your head over your shoulder, woman. Don't let the corners of your lips turn down. Don't let the attractive agitation fade away into something else. Too late—shit.
"It's the color"
"What?"
Don't look so surprised.
"Don't do red. Use another one. It's not kawaii"
"This isn't something you see everyday. Dad using air quotes"
Stop trying to change the subject.
"Why not red, Vegeta? It's her favorite"
Come now woman. I never took you for one to have lust for violence. What else is red…
" Bulma, take a second. Think about it"
" You do it, Vegeta. I warn you;I can wrap circles around you. Remember Christmas, birthdays… all me baby! I've got to see this"
The blame doesn't rest on them. It's not their natural implication, their trauma. I spent many evenings tugging at the red tie around my neck, watching guard over her as she conducted her meetings. As soon as we broke the threshold of the front door. I would rip it off and wind it around me fingers when out of her sight. She never knew. The tie was her gift to me— the irony.
"Did we miss something?," Bulma leaned closer.
I recognize that look, Bulma. You never were good at hiding it. Trunks borrowed his stoney face from me, but I can still see it—the wide spooked gaze as I straightened up my thrown back neck. My throat still tickled with passing laughter.
"No, you didn't. Just thinking…"
Seeing the red band would invoke images of slashing and gore beyond what was thought possible. Trunks may understand. His mother? Definitely not.
"Anyway, you pick out one then"
You're always so eager to just move on, Bulma. Is it a survival tactic?
"Fine"
It's alright son. You can move. You can let your brows rest again over your eyes. I'm just doing what is correct. Your sister deserves one that is fitting.
" Watch and learn woman. You want to see kawaii. I'll give you kawaii. This will do nicely"
"Didn't see that coming," Trunks gulped.
"Holy crap, Vegeta, I can't believe this!," She giggled.
"Eat it and weep, woman. Suck my—"
"You wish—"
"Alrighty then…. Dad:1 Mom: 2,546"