—Pressure, on his chest, heavier than anything he's ever known. His lungs burn from lack of oxygen; it comes to him every other ragged breath—nowhere near what his body demands. Every fiber of his being is screaming out in agony. A sharp, incredibly pain radiates through his back and shoulders. All around him, a dry wind whistles. He can feel gritty sand grind around in open wounds throughout his body, but there's no strength left in him to care. The point of someone's boot digs into his side, and his body takes to the air like a plastic bag caught in a breeze. Bone strikes stone. Sickening crunch and shallow exhale. Laughter fills the air—

Somewhere in the distance, there was a steady, electronic buzz. He strained to push through the fog, mostly because now that he was aware of the sound, it was irritating. He shifted his body gently. Something soft brushed against his arms. He tested his eyes, something he immediately regretted. Too bright, he decided, squeezing them shut again.

A groan began to build in his throat, but he forced it down. All that came from him was a weary sigh. He tried a second time, and was rewarded with fuzzy visions of a room— empty, he noticed, aside from himself. Little by little, his vision began to clear. Soon, he could make out that he was in a small, unimpressive room, furnished furnished with a desk, and —he glanced up and over his shoulder— matching bed. He looked down curiously. Sheet and blanket were pulled up around his chest.

"You're awake," a phantom voice said to him. Female." Finally."

His brow creased in alarm. He whipped his head around, directing a startled glare at a long-legged woman with straight, shoulder length blue hair. Her eyes glowed a brilliant blue.

"Where-" he began.

"Nabeno?" she cut in, arching a perfect eyebrow. Her arms folded across her ample chest, a smirk wedged in the corner of her mouth. "Dead. At the last second, Goku showed up—he's always doing that," she sighed and shook her head. "Even did it when he was a kid. So Goku showed up and finished him off, just in time..." she paused, as though perhaps she shouldn't be telling him these things, then began in another direction. "Well, anyway, Gohan was injured pretty bad, too—ChiChi says he just got out of bed a few days ago. You know, it's a real drag senzu beans aren't in season all the time, otherwise—"

He managed out a thick, strange sounding, "stop. Just...just stop."

"Huh?" she said, dropping the details of her story. She frowned. "Your voice," she said. "it's…different."

"Stop," he repeated weakly, tiredly. His head suddenly felt as though it weighed a ton. "Who are you?" he demanded, then more fiercely, "who am I? Tell me!"

"What do you mean?" her eyes were wide with fear. "Vegeta, you're not making any sense."

"Vegeta?" he said distantly.

"This isn't funny" she spat, hands at her hips. "Stop playing games!"

"I'm not playing any game!" he insisted.

Taking a step back, the woman raised a hand to her mouth. She said quietly, "You really don't know…?" He stared into her eyes. His chest felt heavy and cold, like he'd been forced to swallow a boulder. The silence stretched for what seemed to be an eternity. She swallowed. Her voice came out husky. "And...You don't know who I..."

Again, he stared.

She dragged her tongue along her lower lip, sucking it in and chewing on it nervously. She rubbed a hand up her forehead and back through her bangs, her head bobbing gently, as though trying to convince herself the situation were indeed real. "So," she began, spreading her hands palm down in the air. She swept them away from each other. "You don't remember..." She searched his eyes as though expecting him to suddenly remember, and when he didn't, she supplied him with, "I'm your wife, Vegeta."

The word hit him like a brick to the stomach. "Wife?" He wasn't sure why that seemed unlikely. After all, he didn't know a thing about himself. But the fact that there wasn't a ring on either of their fingers seemed to support his suspicion. And anyway, if he was her husband, shouldn't she be hysterical right now? He narrowed his eyes skeptically. "We're married?"

"Well…" Bulma, now sitting beside him, let her gaze drift away. "Not in so many words."

"Separated?" he ventured. Perhaps that was the reason for the lack of concern.

"What?" she cried, waving her hands. "Nonono, we're married, we just didn't have your typical white-chapel Earth marriage." He could only stare at her like a deer caught in the headlights. "Look, never mind all that right now. You're home."

'Home' told him next to nothing, but it wasn't her fault. He vaguely became aware that the buzzing sound he'd heard earlier had stopped.

"So, you really don't remember anything?" Bulma asked timidly.

Pulling the sheet aside, he slid his legs over the edge of the bed, inspecting his feet, legs and knees. He shook his head gently. "Nothing." He couldn't remember his parents, if he had any, his friends, what he did for a living, where he lived as a child, family pets, grandparents- nothing. It was all just an expanse of nothing inside his head.

She seemed to falter, but then came at him with another question. "Nothing...?" she probed helplessly. "Not even—"

"I don't remember anything!" he shouted, shooting to his feet. He stared pointedly at her. Inside his chest, his heart slammed against his ribcage. "Can't you understand that?"

"I'm sorry!" she apologized, holding her hands up defensively. "This is hard for me, too, you know."

"I didn't get that impression," Vegeta said.

"Are you sure you don't know who you are?" Bulma asked hotly. "Because you're sure acting a lot like someone I know."

He was about to respond when the low murmur of voices found him. He listened hard, eyes flicking from Bulma to the ground. They weren't alone. The pitter-patter of feet tore through the lower half of the house, racing up, up. He balked, took a step back. Did they own a pack of wild dogs? He wondered. He braced himself for the stampede, but one never came. Instead, a short, lavender-haired boy skidded into view, grabbing the doorframe dramatically. He grinned widely, took one look at him, and yelled, "Dad!"

"Dad?" he repeated in bewilderment.

Bulma exclaimed, "Trunks!"

"Trunks?" What kind of name was that?

The boy said again, "Dad!"

There you have it. Another one of those fics. Proof that I have way too much time on my hands at the moment. Critique, suggestions, and flames all welcome. Also, yes, I am addicted to using dashes, commas, and ellipses. Sue me. (please don't!)