Demons on the Horizon

by Kingswallow

No one had ever dared approach the Saiyans on their own planet before; certainly, no one had ever been so brave or so stupid. But it is when Vegeta is five years old that the whisper of "Frieza" begins to represent something far more dangerous than an average warlord - the name in his ears becomes a being looming in front of him, threatening to blot out the sun.

DEMONS on the HORIZON

Vegeta

Nobody came to Planet Vegeta. The Saiyans came to them. Who would dare set foot here?

"Nappa, again," snapped the young voice of the royal prince.

The elder Saiyan clutched at his side with a grimace, sickly chills crawling up his neck. He was wholly unsteadied by the force of the five-year-old's attack which rattled him down to his bones — Vegeta had become so strong!

Grunting, he straightened his knees. In the back of his mind he was thankful that he hadn't forsaken his armor when the little prince asked him to spar. It disturbed him to think he even needed it against someone so young; a disgruntled part of him was annoyed that his hard work, age, and experience seemed to matter little in this practice match with a boy a fraction of his age. However, he couldn't quite deny the pride that thrilled his blood when he thought of what a king this child would make.

Nappa, the commanding general of the Saiyan Army directly underneath the great King Vegeta, readied himself to shift into a fighting stance. Whatever they had been doing earlier could roughly be called a mock battle, though it had quickly escalated beyond that. He restrained himself out of consideration for his prince's sake, and yet the boy knew nothing of mercy, bored of holding back and unleashing all of his fury. It became an odd "sparring" session, as he struggled to withstand whatever the boy threw at him, full force. His sense of propriety was forgotten into the fight, as he realized that it was not he who had to hold back, but the young Vegeta; and if Nappa didn't fight back, then he would be the one walking away with injuries. The prince was more than a handful.

Halfway into an aggressive offensive position, however, he froze as a connection crackled in his ear.

The royal family and normal-class Saiyans didn't wear scouters outside of a mission, but for the elite guard, it was mandatory. Though an invasion or attack on their own soil was unlikely, the scouter was good for more than gauging power level; it also made a sensitive communication device that allowed the guard to better collaborate an effective protective detail towards the royal family.

Nappa touched his finger to the button on the earpiece. Though distinctly dehumanized through the connection, the voice that punctured through definitely belonged to Zorn.

"Nappa, report to the control room. A space ship has entered our air without contact."

"Nappa, again!" little Vegeta's annoyed voice demanded once more.

Hand falling from the scouter, Nappa's attention was once more drawn to the training room. Vegeta's boyish fists were clenched, and his armor was nearly too mature for his cherub, scowling face. He would have stamped his foot, but he knew that princes didn't do such things childish things. Impatiently, he put his fists up, eager to release some of his unquenchable aggression.

"There'll be time for that later, Prince Vegeta," Nappa said reluctantly, stance falling away and effectively breaking the tense atmosphere of the room. Reluctantly, the boy's stance fell away. "There's a foreign ship trying to land here. I need to find out what's going on."

Still scowling, Vegeta's eyebrows drew together in uncertainty. "Who would be stupid enough to come here?"

A corner of Nappa's mouth quirked up into something of an uneven smirk. "It's probably nothing, but I suppose I have to check it out. You can entertain yourself with the Saibamen until I get back, if you'd like. You can handle it."

"I know!" Vegeta retorted. Then, his face softened, if just a little. "… But I want to go with you."

- x -

An unnatural amount of people were manning the control room of the compound. It was a large room filled with massive bulwarks of technology; communication devices, tracking grids, digital records, information databases, computers, and other sorts of devices the Saiyans had inherited from their counterparts in order to keep their operations running smoothly. The walls were made of a transparent substance that allowed an unmolested view of the universe around them: one that belonged entirely to them. The glass walls converged on a panel that held a giant screen.

Currently, the face of some sort of green alien took the attention of the screen. He was an alien of the handsome sort, dressed elegantly and was well-groomed. It was obvious that he took great pride in his appearance – With a too-high opinion of himself, Vegeta thought – and the drawl in his voice held plenty of self-appreciation.

King Vegeta took a stance before the screen, next to a tech expert who manned the machine that kept the connection running. The monarch stood with his arms confidently crossed, but he seemed angry. Flanking him were a handful of Saiyan elites.

Vegeta snuck into the room behind Nappa, drawing close to the huddle of proud warriors, observing interestedly in affairs.

"Who do you think you are?" Zorn demanded of the stranger, barely controlling the anger in his voice. "What gives you the right to come here, uninvited, and dare land on the planet without express permission? We don't want your kind here, weakling."

The scandal affected not only the royal elite's most faithful: it had spread to nearly every member of the room. The unspeakable gall of this strange alien, to land here and be unleashing demands! Worse, this wasn't even an alien of noble birth, at least as far as Vegeta was aware – and even if the offender was, he certainly hadn't made enough of a name for himself to even register on his personal radar. How could he so brazenly seek them out?

"Peace," the alien said, batting his eyes with a winning smile. "We mean no disrespect, of course. But our previous attempts at contacting you have proven… unfruitful. We had no other choice other than to make direct contact."

The King held up a hand at his guards, letting out a noise of understanding. "Ahh." Despite himself, he smirked. "I see. We received several attempts at contact, but those were, shall we say, buried underneath more… pressing matters. My apologies."

The alien lifted his chin, expression carefully neutral. "I see."

"Onto business, then," Lord Vegeta continued, clearly savoring his upper hand. "Where is this Frieza?" the King asked, pronouncing the name with as much disparagement as something unnatural or unpleasant.

"My Lord Frieza sends his apologies. My Lord wishes to speak to you directly, but he is currently engaged in other matters aboard our vessel. I am his general, Zarbon, and he has given me his blessing to convey his wishes." The alien smiled, tossing his hair over his shoulder. "My Lord wishes to hold a conference with you about both of our futures."

"Are you mad?" one of the elites blustered furiously. "What gives you the right to come here without permission and negotiate a meeting?"

Another jumped in with equal ire. "You have no business here!"

"How dare you!"

"Do you understand exactly with whom you are dealing with, here? We're the Saiyan race, not some petty alien tribe to be bullied and pushed around!"

"If all of you will just calm—"

"This is an outrage!" Nappa interjected. He was calm, but only just, and he pushed his way beside his liege lord, standing between the monitor and the two members of the royal family. "Calm is not a word that enters into it. The others are right: you have no business here. If you wish to insult my king further, then we will not be held responsible for what befalls your ship so long as you remain on our soil."

The handsome alien narrowed his eyes slightly, obviously annoyed at their lack of compliance. But the fluster did not reach his expression. "Look, we are not interested in starting a war. If you remember, we won the last one. It would be wise of you to listen to what we have to say."

"Wise?" the King repeated. "Is that a threat?"

"No. I repeat, my lord only wishes to discuss matters for a more prosperous future. Admittedly, my lord has neglected to keep much contact over the years. But he hopes to reconcile that now."

"Let me make this very, very clear," King Vegeta admonished. "Firstly, I am insulted that your lord would ever think some underling is adequate enough to actually negotiate with me. If he has business, then he will speak with me himself, or not at all. Secondly, your interruption to my daily affairs is not a way to win yourself a prosperous future – in fact, it will make you lose your future completely."

Zarbon's face colored visibly, even through the crackle and static of the screen's connection.

"Your attempts at diplomacy have made my desire to speak with your Lord nonexistent, and I regret my time wasted dealing with you. Of all the rules of engagement, and all the intricacies of formal delegation and etiquette, you've broken every rule. You have nothing to offer me, even as an apology. It is your time to leave."

"I will give you this once," Zarbon said, "you are making a mistake."

"The only mistake I have made is in indulging your foolishness this long," the king said. "You have already landed your ship here – however, I forbid you from stepping one foot upon the rich soil of this planet. If you do, I will consider it an act of war. You are to leave at once."

Zarbon stood before the king's impressive glare, and not so much as withered beneath it. The silent battle waged on for long, terse moments, until the green alien finally mustered a small sigh.

"We will leave," he said tightly.

King Vegeta smirked. "Yes, you will." Then he reached over, and severed the connection with a push of a button.

For a moment, it was quiet following the blanking of the screen. Then the elites turned to one another to grumble filthy oaths and curses against the intruders. Vegeta didn't bother listening; he simply pushed past the legs obscuring his path, and drew to his father's side.

Tugging on his father's arm, he got his attention.

The anger seemed to melt away from the king's face as he looked down at his son. "Vegeta!" he greeted, pleasantly surprised. "Were you here for that?"

The young prince nodded, but he scowled as he thought about it. "Hardly seemed worth breaking up a perfectly good sparring session for," Vegeta complained.

The king chuckled, and his beard curved softly around his amused smile. "Training with Nappa, were you?" he ruffled the boy's hair affectionately, and send an appreciative glance in his general's direction. "I should like to watch that someday. I imagine it'd be a sight to see."

"He lets me play with the Saibamen sometimes," the prince said proudly. "But never mind that! You sure handled that pathetic so-called General, father!"

"I admit, I am impressed with his audacity. But nonetheless, I will be watching the ship leave. If they make decent time in running away like cowards, tail between their legs, then maybe I'll consider refraining from sending an entire fleet of our elites after them to punish them for their insolence."

Vegeta laughed cruelly at that.

"Maybe you should, anyways! Who are they to disrespect the mighty Saiyan race?"

- x -

A few nights later, Vegeta woke to the sounds of feet pounding along the corridor. Irritated, the thought to just roll over and ignore it occurred to him – but then he registered the noise further. Someone was running. Stretching his senses, he realized that it was not just one person, but many; a commotion of activity was echoing around the compound like a frenzied heartbeat.

Immediately, the young Saiyan prince rolled out of bed. He quickly stepped into his body suit, and took the armor from the stand and pulled it over his head. A true Saiyan would never be caught in public without it, especially not a prince.

Opening the doors, he glanced in the hallways, hearing the hush of voices, little conversations overlapping over one another. The words hummed together into one elusive swell of voices, and he couldn't pick out any fragments in particular.

He could already feel the tension drawing in his brow as he exited the room. Several busy elites rushed past him; however, they didn't even look down at him to greet him and acknowledge his presence. Their eyes were busy, on the horizon.

They seemed to be moving towards the central chambers. Vegeta matched their pace, following the trails of the hum of activity.

It didn't take long for him to run into Nappa. The Saiyan wasn't running around nervously, like the others, but his gait looked too controlled and measured by obvious willpower for it to calm his own anxieties. And the prince knew him well enough to notice the exited energy he was throwing. His expression was dark, and his eyes had hardened into beads of black.

"Nappa!" Vegeta called down the corridor.

The General tossed a short glance over his shoulder, before slowing his gait a pace so that his prince could catch up with him. When the boy drew by his side, he murmured, "Vegeta, good that you're awake."

A little breathless, the young prince asked, "What's going on? The whole compound is in a frenzy!"

"I don't know."

Vegeta tripped over a step for a moment. "You don't know?" he asked, more baffled than angry.

Nappa didn't seem any happier about it. In fact, now that Vegeta noticed it, he was far more vexed-looking than Vegeta had seen him in a long, long time. It didn't take long for the shrewd young prince to figure it out; Nappa was angry because he was out of the loop. He didn't know what going on, just as much as anyone else. For the General of the Saiyan Army, and personal bodyguard of the royal family, that had to set his teeth on edge. Nappa always knew what was going on, simply because he had to be a few steps ahead of anyone else – but this time, he was just as blind.

"I've heard lots of rumors, but I won't repeat those," Nappa ground out through gritted teeth. "Nothing solid. Although there is one name that keeps coming up a lot."

Burningly curious, Vegeta demanded, "What name?"

There was something about the way "Frieza" rolled off Nappa's tongue that established the first whispers of doubt in the back of his head.

Vegeta ached to ask more questions, but judging from the stiff posture of Nappa's bearing, he knew that the answers would only be significantly more frustrating. Nappa may have had answers, or he may not have; either way, if he chose not to share, there was probably a reason.

That little voice of doubt murmured in his ear before he pushed it away. But if Nappa was this out of sorts, then whatever was going on was serious – that much was certain.

As Vegeta followed his guardian, he realized there was only one place they could be going: the throne room. The hallways branching from the throne room were surprisingly empty, and much quieter than the rest of the compound. In fact, the silence was comparatively eerie. Vegeta pushed ahead of Nappa on principle, and the unusual quiet of the palace struck him as unsettling. When they finally navigated their way through the winding passageways into the central hall, it became immediately apparent as to why.

Layers and layers of wall-to-wall elite guards crowded inside the throne room. King Vegeta's most trusted men curled around the heavy stone throne he sat upon, and the ranks of soldiers lined the lengthy columned walls.

Prince Vegeta's eyes widened.

The air was thin, packed with the body heat of the most elite of the Saiyan race. Vegeta immediately searched past many heads for a glimpse at his father.

If he thought that the king looked angry the first time this "Frieza's" ship had landed without permission, then now his father was positively livid. Normally King Vegeta held himself with poise, comfortable in his own armor and taking most things in confident stride. At the moment, however, he sat atop his throne, rigid-backed and his jaw locked stiffly into place. He looked barely restrained from rocketing down the platform in a rage. A sharp crackling noise reached the prince's sensitive ears, and with a glance he discovered that his father's hands were gripping the stone armrests so tightly that they were beginning to crack and chip away.

Nappa approached Vegeta from behind, and a reassuring hand led him to take a position by his father's side.

"Father."

King Vegeta didn't respond, but the prince knew that he was heard. Following the king's gaze, the confused boy turned to appraise the spectacle in the center of the hall.

The strange alien before them was small – that was what struck Vegeta first. Small and thin. Taking into account the uproar of the compound, he snorted quietly out of his nose in disbelief. The men's panicked response was almost laughable. And to top it off, the stranger was only accompanied by a handful of men flanking his back. One of them was the General – Zarbon, was it? – that had attempted to contact them a few days prior. Another was a giant pink conglomerate of an alien, backed by only a few foot soldiers.

The boy-prince hedged his bets and tallied the score in his head.

The intruders were easily outnumbered, and, in the case of their environment, outclassed. However, they didn't look flustered or nervous in the least bit. In fact, they looked quite confident. Vegeta didn't know whether they were stupid or if they genuinely believed they stood a chance. Then again, those two were one in the same.

Curiously, he looked them over, and for a moment, Vegeta's eyes lingered over the being named Frieza.

The creature must have felt his gaze. Immediately, he inclined his head, and for a sickening moment, the two locked eyes.

Something akin to a shiver scrawled along his spine as he was caught in the alien's gaze. Vegeta scowled, and shuffled closer to his father's side. Frieza merely sent him an eerie little smile before directing his attention back to the king.

"… As I was saying, you said you wished to speak to me directly. Well, here I am," the alien said pleasantly. "And, I believe that Zarbon that said something about a gift…?"

From behind his back the alien tossed something onto the ground. It rolled on the floor for a while, until coming to a halt at the base of the throne, lolling on one side. A harsh whisper rippled through the crowd gathered in the room, and the buzz of the noise reached all the way to the high ceiling.

Vegeta's lip curled up in disgust.

It was a head.

Worse, Vegeta recognized who the head belonged to. It once was attached to one of the Saiyan elites that spearheaded a project to take over another planet and establish it as a crucial strategic military base – and had been doing so successfully for several years. His name was Celeri, and one of the most active members of the Saiyan Army. He was one of the royal family's most dutiful guards back in his day, and was admired by most of his peers as a fine tactician and warrior.

The loss of such a member of the elite was astonishing. A mixture of anger and shock took over Vegeta, and he appraised the alien with new eyes.

"Do you realize what you have done?" King Vegeta demanded of Frieza.

The alien's sickly red lips curled into a poisonous smile. "I believe I have gotten your attention, Vegeta. Zarbon gave you your warning, and you chose to ignore it. Not only have you offended my most dedicated, sensitive of generals, but I do not care to be snubbed."

The challenge was clear in his words. Vegeta's eyes darted back between him and his father.

His father did not respond, and the alien continued.

"It seems that you and your race needed a reminder of exactly who you belong to. So we killed some time after you so rudely denied us entry a few days back. Zarbon suggested we visit that dingy little outpost you keep so fondly before returning to deliver this little message. I didn't wipe out your planet six years ago, because I thought there might be some benefit in keeping it, with you inside, intact. I made an investment then, and I've come to collect."

What is he talking about? Vegeta wondered, muted. What does that mean? The little prince took his eyes off the foe and instead watched his father's expression closely.

A disturbed silence quiet took over the room, and Frieza, obviously enjoying the audience, rambled on.

"I should think you would recall being invaded, but apparently you Saiyans are both stubborn and soon to forget. We may have left you to your own devices for a short while, but make no mistake: you are a part of the Planet Trade Organization now, and have ever been." The alien's red eyes sharpened. "We have been watching. Our eyes do not leave just because we do. And your actions do not reflect well on your subservient status – it is unruly, and you act almost as if you were independent. We were hopeful, King Vegeta," Frieza pronounced the title laughingly, "that you would not need a collar to constantly remind you of your new loyalties, but clearly…"

The king's lowered, darkening his eyes. He was quiet for a long time, and when he spoke, it was in a voice unlike his own.

"What do you want?" he finally asked.

Frieza only smiled, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. "What we've always wanted."

King Vegeta was quiet once more.

In the lull that formed between the two warlords, another flurry of uneasy whispers rippled throughout the stagnant crowd.

From his place in the throne room, the alien moved, walking easily up the long carpet and the steps to stand so close to the throne that he could lean down and whisper lowly in the king's ear. He was so near that the young prince got his first real good look at him, all the while hearing the words murmured in his father's ear.

"Did you think that we wouldn't notice how unruly you've been?" Frieza rasped. "All those messages, unanswered? Those contacts, sent home? Military expansion unchecked and unapproved missions carried out to other planets? You've grown cocky, my dear king."

The king's face turned stony, pallid and unexpressive. But he didn't quite flinch.

"Continue carrying on in the way you have been," he continued, "and I might be inclined to think that you've committed treason against your sovereign. To repeat the words of advice that Zarbon gave you, although you spurned his graces: do not make me so inclined. I own you, Vegeta. You better start acting like it. Am I clear?"

If the silence was any answer, Frieza pulled back, satisfied. Smiling that dastardly smile, he said, "I am glad we understand each other."

In that last moment, those red eyes turned to the side of the throne. Vegeta had been rooted to the spot, staring, uncomprehending, absorbing everything yet unable to process it. But when those eyes locked on his, he jolted like a live wire, his perspective snapping back to reality.

Almost instinctively, Vegeta threw the alien the nastiest glare he could manage.

The being named Frieza chortled at the response before stepping down from the throne.

"Well now, I feel as though we've made progress. An excellent start, if a slow one. However, if you don't mind, I am tired from our flight and I would like to rest. I expect that you have some decent accommodations in this dump of a planet?" to add further provocation to the insult, Frieza wrinkled his nose as he looked around the throne room. "This… thing… is supposed to be a palace, is it not?"

"Of course," King Vegeta said in a clipped tone, not taking the bait. "Zorn, if you'd please?"

The handsome Saiyan guard bowed to his liege lord, before stepping down from the side of the throne and approaching the intruding party. His face was pinched, but he controlled his tone well as he inclined his head and gestured, "This way."

When the alien turned and walked from the room, it was as if a great weight was removed from his body. Vegeta realized now that he could breathe easier, whereas before there was a pressure on his chest that prevented him from feeling completely at ease.

The blood drained from his face.

The prince thought that the pressure was just the intense presence of the planet's finest Saiyan warriors, all gathered jam-packed in one room. But if it was just that one little alien…

That funny feeling returned, and this time it took a greater effort for Vegeta to shake it off. He snuck a peak at his father, still sitting uncomfortably rigid atop his throne. Just from the man's clamped expression, he could tell that his father felt the drop, too.

A flurry erupted inside of Vegeta, but he desperately squashed it down.

So what if the enemy is powerful? he told himself, over and over, anger seething from his very insides. So what if he managed to kill Celeri? The Saiyan's have faced powerful enemies before! The Saiyans have destroyed powerful enemies before!

Repeating this mantra to himself, over and over again, Vegeta was able to regain a hold of his emotions, and his pride still burned strongly in his breast. He told himself that they would be all right – they had to be. There was simply no other way for things to work. No matter what was happening now, none of it mattered.

King Vegeta covered his eyes with his hands, roughly massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Muttering in an afterthought, he snapped, "… And will someone clean up that damned head?"

No one jumped to that duty, although it seemed like all eyes turned in its direction. Disgusted, Vegeta avoided looking down at the base of the throne, trying to keep the sight of it out of his mind. He told himself it didn't matter – no matter what, it would take more than that to shake the Saiyan race.

It didn't matter because his father was the most powerful man in the universe.

It didn't matter, because his father was stronger than anyone.

It didn't matter…

Right?

- x -

Vegeta found that he could not sleep in the days that followed. His father had placed Frieza at the other end of the compound, but he could still feel his presence.

As the days passed him by in a crawl, he'd had only glimpses of his father. The compound was alive with hushed energy; people bustled about quickly and determinedly, but none of them stopped to inform him of their business. He assumed, obviously, that it had to do with the unwelcome guest.

Either his father was avoiding him, or he was truly that busy. Perhaps both.

Surprisingly, the king hadn't dismissed the alien as he had before. Something was off in the balance of things now; it felt like things had shifted, and the hand that favored them was tipping in the other direction. Rather than ejecting Frieza from the planet, or pushing the rude alien through his intended business as quickly as possible – which is what Vegeta guessed his father wanted to do – it seemed that the royal family was no longer in control of its affairs within its own castle.

The alien said he "owned" us, was all the prince could think. He said that we were subservient. But how? Father never mentioned someone by the name of Frieza, and certainly he never mentioned an invasion!

Frieza kept boasting about some battle that took place six years ago – that was a year before Vegeta was born. But even so, the prince thought that if there was something as significant as a takeover, he'd at least be aware of it! He may have been young, but he was the prince – and he hadn't even heard of the Planet Trade Organization, much less known that he was a part of it.

A very vocal part of the young prince's mind told him to ignore the words of the warlord Frieza; but another persistent part of his mind wondered if there was something his father wasn't telling him.

The activity of the planet only reinforced this. Such business, yet without a word spoken as to why. The prince felt as though he was definitely being left out of some large-scale, well-kept joke. And as people rushed around, making themselves busy, they also seemed to somehow be waiting.

Waiting on Frieza? he had to wonder. The thought irritated him. What royal family waits for the beck and call of a guest? Within their own castle, no less?

Nevertheless, when Frieza deigned to meet with them three days later – a time that he no doubt spitefully dallied – even Vegeta had to answer the call.

The meeting, this time, was more formal. The Saiyans were arranged in neat, comely columns according to rank. Naturally, the king sat atop his throne with Vegeta at his side. Nappa was not present, but the prince suspected that he was embroiled in preparing the army; instead, Zorn took his place on the King's left.

The elites of the Saiyans wore attire suited for a formal gathering, and the prince was in his finest armor.

What was striking about this particular meeting, however, was that the intruder sat atop his own hovering chair before the throne. His seat, however, perched him atop even the platform where the king sat. Not only was it impolite to not stand in the presence of the king, but it was worse that he was seated of a position equating to a higher rank. In King Vegeta's hall, no one sat higher than the king – no one was worthy of such a position, and certainly no one would dare to try and take it.

Except this being.

The faces of the elites were solemn and schooled, and when Vegeta stole glances around the room, he saw nothing in them. But his questions squirmed inside of him in a wriggling mass.

Never before in his life had he ever been so confused. Everything about this situation was wrong, was off, both outwardly and in a way that irritated him down to his bones. He knew that things were happening, but he didn't know what – he didn't know why, and he didn't know how.

His father's avoidance of him of late – or was it avoidance? – had not helped either. He made himself scarce in the past few days, but doing what, Prince Vegeta could not say. He had not been allowed to participate in whatever the elites were doing with the king. Nappa was no better, either; as the General of the Army, he had to work closely with the king, and when the king was locked away in meeting rooms, so was Nappa.

That wasn't to say that he was left alone: his father had assigned several spare elites to follow him around the compound and act as protective detail. Capable as they might have been, they were not Nappa. It wasn't remotely the same situation. He didn't want to spar with them, and he didn't want to talk to them. They probably wouldn't – or couldn't – answer his questions anyways, making them only a frustrating nuisance to his already-troubled mind. He suffered through their devotion with as much dignity as a prince was expected to muster, but when he found the occasional opportunity to ditch them and be alone, he took it.

What the young prince wanted more than anything else in the world was to just talk to one of them, to understand. For as long as he could remember, the Saiyans were the superior beings in the galaxy. They lived their lives reaping the benefits of sitting atop the universe, with the other races supporting them at the bottom. It was a part of their heritage and their culture. Vegeta could never remember a time when they had been so embarrassed, so manhandled, and given so many political black eyes. He couldn't comprehend it, not at his age, and he wasn't inclined to change his ways, either.

The prince wasn't the most patient, either, and it began to eat away at him. As he became more and more impatient, his foul temper – finicky on the best of days – made him unmanageable to his caretakers.

This "Frieza" claimed he had only wanted to make a business deal, so why was he staying? Why was his father just accepting a subordinate position, without even lifting a finger? They were becoming a conquered people without even fighting a war! Or at least, as far as the young prince knew; he wasn't sure of anything anymore. All Vegeta could hope for was that the deal would be over and done with, or it would be so offensive that his father would finally destroy the creature for his impudence.

Deep inside, all he wanted was for his perfect world to go back to normal, and for Frieza to disappear.

As the young heir to the throne stood at attention, posture perfect, expression regal, he hoped that this particular meeting would facilitate such an ending. If they gave Frieza what he wanted, then he would head back to some distant corner of the galaxy, and into obscurity. It wasn't a situation he should have to suffer, but if it expedited their freedom from this guest, then so be it. He was impatient for it to end, impatient for things to return to their status quo.

That voice of doubt was strong, however – whispering that Frieza might not be satisfied with simply being given something, that he would want to take over completely. That he would want to stay – forever. But Vegeta buried that voice. He simply couldn't think about that possibility.

"What you are reading now, dear king, is a list of stipulations for you to take to heart and order your men to follow. Hopefully, it will make this transition much smoother for you. This way, there will be no…" Frieza paused, as if deciding on the proper word. With a sickly smile, he finished, "… miscommunication this time."

The king held in his hands a lengthy list scrawled on a piece of fine parchment. Vegeta wanted to peer over his father's shoulder as he read, but he forced himself to remain at attention. He endured the agonizing wait for his father to finish, forcing his eyes level, at a disinteresting spot on the wall.

Slowly, the king set the paper down on one arm of the throne.

"These demands are…" The sentence couldn't even be finished.

"—Fair," Frieza countered. "And if you would like things to remain peaceful, then you had better swallow them, Monkey King."

Everyone's jaw in the room dropped.

Every attempt to keep his diplomacy about him failed. Rage took a sudden hold of Vegeta, and for a moment, he was blind with it. Fury exploded behind his eyes and all he saw was a hazy red of bloodlust. That last insult was the last – it was the last straw; complete and utter disrespect; it was unthinkable. No one would disrespect his father like that and live to tell the tale! He looked around for support from his comrades, searched the crowd for a rebellious face, but he – shockingly – found none. None!

Those bastards! How dare they allow such a worthless little creature to treat their royalty in such a way! Why? Why don't they fight back, damn it?

Exhausted, confused, and absolutely sick of seeing both his people and his father trodden over so thoroughly while everyone else just rolled over and took it, Vegeta exploded in the deathly silence of the throne room.

"Why should we just do what you say?" he demanded, balling his fists. "We don't listen to anyone other than my father!" Vegeta scrambled up the armrest of the throne and grabbed at Zorn, the guard flanking the King's left. "You can't be that powerful!"

"Prince Vegeta…" Zorn exclaimed, recoiling from the headstrong royal heir, who was grabbing at his face with fingers powered persistently by impatience. Ah. Of course—the scouter attached to his ear. The boy hadn't gotten into the habit of wearing his all the time yet.

"Gimme that!"

With the elder warrior's compliance, Vegeta tore off the scouter and adjusted it for himself. Stabbing the button at the side, the green lens began to shift and flicker with processing data. The numbers fluctuated from zero to one thousand rapidly before focusing – staring at five thousand and then beeping as the number rapidly rose. The little prince glared at it; he'd been taught that it was reliable, a Saiyan's comrade. This would show the coward for what he was.

The numbers kept jumping.

Six thousand, seven thousand, ten thousand, twenty, thirty, forty…

Then, for the first time in Vegeta's young life, it happened. The scouter at the side of his head turned to static, and without warning, exploded right in his ear, metal bits and pieces scattering to the floor.

He grunted as the force of the explosion knocked his head to the side, the smell of burning hair befouling the air and the bite of electrical flames nipping at his ear. Every single one of the guards in the room all jumped forward with various cries of alarm.

The monster laughed, inhuman voice filled with real mirth. It stilled the flight of the warriors rushing forth, and all heads in the room turned to look at the intruder.

"My, he's quite a spirited one, isn't he? As he should be, I suppose, as the proud little heir to the Saiyan throne. Still, he should leave this conversation to the grown-ups…"

Stunned, Vegeta slowly looked up, still wincing and cradling his left ear. An emotion so powerful began to foster its beginnings within his heart at that moment, as he glared with all his might at the creature standing before him. He didn't know where the feeling came from, but a fiery hatred began licking at his heart and soul. The emotion was fizzling and crackling, beginning to manifest itself as the monster locked eyes with the prince, smugly refusing to look away.

And yet, despite his fury, a strand of sense held him in check, chaining him to the floor. The number, before the scouter has exploded, hadn't stopped increasing… and even before that, it had said…

A hand placed on his shoulder snapped him back to reality, but at the time any other sense was faint compared to the burning sensations tingling across his scalp. "Ignore him, my prince," a hushed voice whispered soothingly in his ear. Zorn. "Please, let me escort you back to your private chambers…"

Vegeta shooed him away violently. "No!" he hissed and struggled. "I am the Prince of all Saiyans! I have a right to be here!"

For a moment, it was quiet. Then…

"No."

Freezing, the young prince recognized the sound of that voice. It was the voice of his father. By then he realized that this was the first time that he had heard his father speak during the entirety of the conference.

But there was something wrong with it.

His father was tall and strong, impressive even for a Saiyan. He was the king, after all. And when he spoke, he did so with as much surety as a monarch was entitled to and expected to have. But now, his voice sounded tired, almost as if he had endured years' worth of great strain all in the matter of hours. Peering closely, he noticed that his father looked more exhausted than he'd seen him in a long time – the folds underneath his eyes were dark, and wrinkles Vegeta had never noticed seemed to have sprung up overnight on the king's face. An unfamiliar expression cloaked his countenance, and it made the blood in the prince's veins run cold.

"Zorn, please take Vegeta back to his quarters." The King refused to look anywhere other than straight ahead, at Frieza. But what was more significant to the boy was that, in looking at the demon, he refused to look at him.

What was he hiding on his face?

"…Father?" he ventured uncertainly.

"Son, I expect you to obey Zorn and allow him to take you to your room right now."

"What?" Vegeta recoiled as if he'd been slapped. He's always attended these meetings, but what's more, the resigned tone of his father's voice set him on edge.

What's the matter? he wanted to scream, and shake him by the front of his armor. Look at me!

"But father—"

"I said now, Vegeta!" the King snapped, an expression of pure anger overtaking his face. But it wasn't directed at him; he still hadn't given his son so much as a passing glance.

The world seemed to be caving in around him. Wounded by his father's dismissal, his glower turned to look down to the floor, ears heating in embarrassment and fury. A hand touched his shoulder, and it took all the willpower that Vegeta had not to jerk away from the touch. He allowed himself to be led from the throne room.

He could feel the red eyes of the demon watching him as he went; but he couldn't feel his father's. As Zorn escorted him gently away, Prince Vegeta threw glance over his shoulder back into the throne room, eyeing his father as the doorway grew smaller and smaller, almost out of sight.

He implored the king to watch him walk away, to say something, to do anything.

Look at me.

King Vegeta never did.

- x -

Vegeta had sat, alone, in his room as the hours dragged on. Zorn had offered to stay with him, but the prince had sent him away, too embarrassed to suffer the presence of another living being. Thusly, he had nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. He wanted, badly, to know exactly what was being discussed in the throne room – what Frieza's plans were, how his father reacted to it. He knew that the Saiyans' future was being discussed in there, and intuitively, he knew his future was, too. Vegeta wanted to be a part of it all, and he wanted to be among his brother Saiyans.

He knew he was missing out. His gut – perhaps his strongest sense he had – told him that crucial things were transpiring, and he was sent to his room like a naughty child. But certainly he had a right to be there. Certainly he did.

His father hadn't forgotten about him, had he?

Some time later into the night, the door to his bedroom slid open. Nappa hung in the doorway, trying to gauge the prince's mood. But the prince neither flinched nor responded to the intrusion.

Nappa found Prince Vegeta curled into a ball in the corner of the room. He only ever did that when he was well and truly upset. Something about having everything in his sight, with his back completely protected, offered the young prince some solace – it made him feel as though he was in control of his environment. Often times when he was young, and he got into an argument, or when he had a tantrum, he'd run to his room, lights turned off just like this, and sit until he felt like he had composed himself.

What do you mean, "when he was young"? Nappa thought to himself. The prince is still very young. He's still just a boy…

After a moment, the mumble of something came from the corner of the room. Nappa strained to hear it.

"I don't see why father doesn't let me participate in these discussions," Vegeta sulked.

The Saiyan General sighed silently, closing the door and standing awkwardly in the corner of the room. He didn't know what to say – he didn't think there was anything that he could say that would appease the prince, or make the situation seem any better – at least, not without lying.

When even Nappa faced him with silence, the prince felt irritation prickling at him again. Turning his gaze from the corner of the wall, he shot a heated glare at his bodyguard.

The expression on the General's face made him sick. It was the same look that a lot of the Saiyans had been wearing around lately. It was a quiet look, yet it spoke loudly. Every man, including the guards in the elite, had the same gloom shrouded around him. The palace had been quiet, the men no longer jested or boasted, and his people walked the halls with a kind of lifelessness that a clock progresses with. All moves were mechanical, all words rehearsed, any mirth dry and done so with little effort into it. That look had overtaken everything.

"What's that look on your face for?" he accused furiously.

Nappa's brow wrinkled momentarily in confusion – whether real or falsified. "Vegeta, I don't—"

"Don't you play dumb with me!" he howled, throwing his arms down. "And you will call me by my title!"

There it was: the breaking point. Nappa's eyes widened, when he realized just how serious the outburst was. Prince Vegeta was haughty and liked to flaunt his mantel, but when it was just the two of them, in private, he'd never taken a first-name business personally before.

Attempting to placate his prince, he bowed. "My apologies, my prince."

But Vegeta would not be satisfied. The look returned again, whether Nappa was conscious of it or not, and this time it was more noticeable than before.

He didn't want to think about it – he didn't want to realize what it meant, what the implications of the expression were. He had seen it before, in fact. Many times, even for his young life.

He remembered a year back when his father had taken up a large project. This one involved yet another planet – some Arcosian buyer out in the universe wanted it for himself, and was willing to pay a hefty sum for the renovation. It called for the extermination of the inhabitants living there.

Vegeta remembered how restless he had been then, and the subsequent joy he felt when his father allowed him to take the assignment. To him, it meant that his father trusted him, and was finally beginning to recognize his abilities.

The pod he was assigned to carried him on the long, six-month journey to the galaxy where the planet was located. He had been excited, anxious, and restless to land. By the time he had safely crashed onto the surface of the planet, he was more than ready to go.

The planet held value mainly in the ground; it was an overall average planet on the surface, but the buyer was interested for what the ore in the rock would bring. Apparently the mountains hid beneath them large deposits of rare, precious gems and metals that would bring in a great deal of money to the buyer, and the Saiyans by association.

The inhabitants of the planet were aware of the wealth and demand for their natural resources. They had cultivated ways to bring the ore up efficiently, and refined processes for turning it into useable goods. The demand always brought in good prices for those involved, and generated a large source of the planet's income. However, because the materials were so rare, they insisted on hording the wealth all to themselves – they refused to partner up with anyone else, and so established a monopoly on the regional trade, selling their metals and gems at outrageous prices and keeping the profits all to themselves. Apparently, they angered the wrong type of business associate, who wanted a piece of the pie and was rejected. Vegeta was unaware of the methods this unnamed buyer used, but apparently he gained access to leaked information on the planet's refining process, and the people living there were no longer an asset to him.

Perhaps some would call it cutthroat, and perhaps others would call it "just business." Karma, even.

Either way, it all ended the same; it didn't really matter for the dead. Despite their ruthless business savvy, the race itself was completely peaceful; they had no armed forces to speak of, and clearly hadn't invested in any means of protecting their assets.

That was their foolish mistake.

With a host of reasons to eagerly tear into the species, Vegeta did. He butchered every last one of the people living there: fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, children, it didn't matter – a job was a job, and he wanted to make his father proud.

There was a reason that this particular mission stuck with him, however. For one, it was his very first genocide. For another, it was the first time he had seen the look.

As he was nearing the end of the job, the surviving aliens became desperate. For the most part, the young prince ended their lives quickly, in large bursts of energy. When he fancied taking their lives with his bare hands, he did so; they had no means of defending themselves, so the fights were always over with soon, and their lives were extinguished nearly as instantly as they took in their last sight: a pair of dark, murderous eyes. But Vegeta had inevitably missed a few, and those few were fleeing desperately to the corners of the planet, attempting to escape death.

Vegeta hunted them down.

There was one alien that he could recall most vividly. He was humanoid in appearance, and roughly comparable in physiology to a weak Saiyan. Vegeta had let him run for a while, flying above him and stalking his movements to stretch out the chase as long as he could.

There was a time when the man became desperate, and he tried every trick to escape that he could – but Vegeta would not lose him. Eventually, the alien was sapped of strength, and he couldn't run any more. Exhausted, breathing heavily, the man vomited, garbling at him in some foreign language that he couldn't comprehend. He fell hard to his knees and his legs trembled as he tried to move, but his body failed him.

When that time came, Vegeta descended.

Curiously, this was one of the first times that Vegeta had bothered looking into an alien's eyes as he killed them. He had fought people face-to-face before, but he never ended it just like this – the person had always gone down fighting. But as he stared into the face of this alien, unable to even put up his arms in defense, Vegeta hesitated.

What gave him pause was the look on the man's face. It was completely empty, save for the last glittering of his eyes. It had a lot of emotions dully blooming under the surface, but notably, Vegeta saw a look of resignation as the man consigned himself to death. There was something that gave him chills in the way the life and hope simply bled away from the man's face. There was plenty of fear there, but an overpowering incapability to fight back prevented the man from acting upon it.

He was afraid, hopeless, and pale as death. His face was already that of a corpse's long before Vegeta let his energy fly.

At the time, the look had only blipped in his mind as a courtesy. But it didn't stick long in his mind after he had left the planet, ready for sale. Realizing it now, that was the look that he had been exposed to for the past few weeks.

Vegeta didn't think that such a look was fit for a Saiyan. It was especially unfit for a man such as his father. In his mind's eye, he could see the face of his friends and family, the face of his father, in the place of the alien he had killed a long time ago.

Right now, he and everyone else was that pathetic alien – and Frieza was standing in the place of the conqueror. He was staring them down, and they were…

That one thing – above all others – was what shook Vegeta so profoundly to the core.

The King had been afraid.

Something inside the young prince crumbled right then, and with a shriek he started to sob uncontrollably. He hadn't cried since he was an infant, so the wails that echoed off the walls sounded unearthly and strange to his ears. He attacked Nappa with a flurry of clumsy, angry punches, but in his state of despair, they had no potent force behind them. He was simply, blindly upset, and could only understand his emotions by using them to lash out.

Nappa caught the little prince as he was attacked, and did the only thing he could: he wrapped his arms around the boy and held him tightly to his front.

A mortified scream was muffled into the large Saiyan's chest, and Vegeta pounded furiously on the breast plate with balled fists. His body convulsed in sobs that wrung all the energy out of him, purging all of his anger, helplessness, humiliation, and anguish in one tearful mess. Nappa bore it well, and eventually, the sobs quieted down to tears, which quieted to choked noises and weaned off into exhausted sniffles. His arms tired from fighting and they fell away as he collapsed, utterly spent, and gave in to the hug.

If his father had been afraid, then Vegeta had every reason to be afraid, too. He wanted to fight back; he didn't want his face to look like his father's: devoid of hope and the willingness to fight back. His biggest fear was that he would look in the mirror and see that same expression there as he had seen on the others'.

Vegeta had seen the number on the scouter before it exploded. Those numbers rolled in his head right now. And deep in his gut, he knew instinctively that the number there was much lower than a genuine reading.

He knew all this; but despite these grim realities, he still wanted to fight. He hadn't consigned himself to anything yet, other than to being a proud Saiyan.

When Vegeta closed his eyes, he saw that same expression on his father's face. And beyond that, he looked into his future. The two of them had often stood at the top floor of an observatory and looked outwards, onto the horizon, where glory and conquest stood waiting.

Now at the periphery stood a demon, cackling and ready to engulf them both along with the rest of the Saiyan race.

With that image in his mind, he clenched even tighter to Nappa, who was the only thing real right at the moment, the only thing keeping him grounded. Relief, however frail, abated his torment when his guardian responded in kind, returning the embrace fiercely, allowing him to ride out his grief. He didn't want to let go, because he didn't know what would happen after he did; he didn't want to face the world as it was turning into.

The look on his beloved protector's face confirmed his worst fears. Frieza was not content merely to take what he wanted from the Saiyans and go. He wasn't leaving.

Vegeta didn't want to think of it right then, but things would never be the same after this. Nothing could ever make it go back to the way it was. There would be no more security, no more carefree evenings with his father. He would no longer feel the same kind of protection and brotherhood with his brother Saiyans. The freedom to do as he pleased was revoked, and his freedom of peace of mind would never return. It was hard to think anything other than that it was all over.

But he wanted so badly to fight.

Nappa shushed the last few tears that slipped down his prince's cheeks, saying nothing.

"If only…" the little prince choked out, "… if only I were stronger."

Nappa squeezed his eyes shut, the words clamping onto his heart. A shudder passed through him, and he gripped his beloved prince tightly. Words from earlier that night echoed, haunting and unrelenting, like a throbbing blister in his mind.

What he would never, ever tell his prince was that he wished he was stronger, too. Strong enough to protect his prince from such heartache; strong enough to protect him from these trials.

Strong enough to protect him from being taken by Frieza.