These Things Come in Threes

by BonJiro

They were all prepared for the worst, hurtling ever closer toward the inevitable encounter with the Androids and their own potential destruction. But life has a funny way of changing when the end seems nigh; counted days become precious, and even the rarest opportunity can become obvious... if only one has the courage not to see it squandered.

11. Nightmares

Chapter 11: Nightmare

A few days had rolled by since the Saiyan Prince had demanded new sneakers, or anything at all for that matter, and despite herself, Bulma felt her world shrinking to focus upon her houseguest once again.

The two had not spoken since, and she was convinced that—between their initial argument over the footwear and the strange aversion to elevators the Heiress had witnessed of him—somehow, the pair had taken a step back… or at least, missed an opportunity to move forward.

Robbed of even the chance to check up on her guest over the course of dinner, with the Prince now taking his meals inside the ship itself, the growing questions invading Bulma's mind seemed even further away from answers than before. She knew the Saiyan apparently had no qualms in speaking to her mother; at least enough to inform her that he would be eating alone these past few days, and ensure the blonde would cater to his wishes.

But when it came to the Heiress herself, it seemed Vegeta was all too keen to avoid her entirely, making himself scarce enough that, for a while, she wondered if he'd taken off again.

Bulma wasn't sure exactly what had sparked the sudden change, at first. Her initial guess was that the Saiyan may have been embarrassed, visibly shaken as he had been that day. It was an unusual display on his part, and one she could easily guess was an intimate and private thing he normally kept hidden from others—the fact that she had not only seen it, but seized upon it to question and console, could well have caused his reticence with her since. Perhaps he feared being pestered about it as curiosity clawed at her, or thought she may try to rub it in his face and humiliate him, paranoid as he seemed to be about such things.

And yet, he'd just as quickly brushed it off thereafter, rolling his shoulders as if nothing had happened, collecting his new shoes and going about his business as normal. He hadn't been overly defensive or swift to revert to hostility; if anything, it was almost as if Vegeta wasn't truly aware of how obvious his small episode had been.

So by and by, Bulma dismissed that theory.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the sneakers themselves and how the two had, very quickly, forgone any previous diplomacy to fall into the old habit of an argument simply for argument's sake.

The Heiress, having slept on it and scoured every interaction that day for some clue as to his behaviour now, conceded that she had once again not handled it as well as she should have. Sure, neither had he, just waltzing in and demanding new shoes after shoving them in her face… but after the great pains she had gone to with the Prince now, not to reward his progress was a mistake. He was making small strides otherwise, and her taking even the slightest improvements for granted or ignoring them—no matter how well deserved her day off was—did nothing to encourage further effort on the Saiyan's part.

It was like training a puppy. One had to be diligent, and consistent with him.

Loathe as she was to admit it, he had returned to her household under the premise that she, too, would be making small compromises, after all. Even so, she didn't like the impatient expectancy he still held—whether he started asking for things or not, Vegeta still treated requests like demands, and wanted them fulfilled immediately.

But as Bulma thought long and hard about the day she had called him back, and the argument a few days earlier, she began to cross-compare the happenings between them. Seeing now how easily old habits could go sliding back into place, she found herself running over the entirety of his stay in her head, picking up the patterns where she could and making notes of them. No matter what had happened between them, whether they were on good terms or not, there had always been one suspicious constant she had neglected lurking in their midst…

…Their 'accord'.

Perhaps that was why, until now, the Heiress had been unable to place what exactly they were to each other, though they did hold a rapport. The day she'd flown out to the mountains had confirmed it to be mutual, even if the Prince bit back on it as best he could. Yes, both seemed able and willing enough to offend and hurt the other, but that had happened more often than not on miscommunication or issues of trust, rather than malicious intent. That, too, was mainly Vegeta's doing. The Saiyan could twist words back on themselves with such ease; it may as well have been folding paper craft. It was simply unfortunate her temper drove her to respond in kind.

Regardless, everything he did concerning her seemed to be based around this private contract he'd contrived, and yet, he still somehow managed to conveniently leave her in the dark about the specific details therein.

There was to be no relationship or rapport between them from his point of view, she realised, and it hit her on the second night as she almost choked on a sip of coffee. The only thing the Prince had made an effort to forge between them was some flimsy contract that held them both in check to one another. In fact, Vegeta tried his damnedest to keep it that way.

Many punnets of strawberries had been consumed these past few days, sacrificed as brain-fuel in pursuit what rules the accord may actually contain.

One of the conditions of living with each other was that they were not to be friends, or even able to be called willing associates; that much she was sure of. At best, they were reluctant allies in a time of war, bartering services to one another in the hope of victory over a common enemy, and nothing more. This was, even after everything they'd been through thus far, how Vegeta preferred to see her and any kindness she showed him—obligatory services forced by verbal contract.

He was determined to hold to this strict code of conduct with all his usual tenacity, and slowly, his behaviour began to make sense.

Anything more between them simply wasn't written down in the rulebook. That was why the Saiyan reverted to the very baseline of interaction with her whenever he could get away with it, withdrawing from her and wiping clean any progress made. This was strictly business in his mind. Every time she did otherwise and started to creep over the lines, she apparently broke his sacred rules, and he punished her for it in some obscure way.

One mistake on her part, and the Saiyan would force her to start over from scratch... but now, it seemed, he was looking for any little transgression he could to do it. The Prince was not willing to—or perhaps not yet even able to—relent or concede that they were, in fact, friends. This 'accord' in his head was the excuse he needed to avoid that; the one thin line preventing a major breakthrough with him.

And yet it was the accord that had allowed her to talk him down from a tree and back home. It was the only thing responsible for the slim understanding they had, to begin with…

Wasn't it?

Even so, Bulma found she could no longer accept this pact comfortably, now that she'd sat down and truly studied the fine print—it wasn't terribly difficult, she just forced herself to think like a complete asshole. Clinical, detached, and a means to an end that required no true companionship or emotional investment whatsoever: by the morning of the third day, she knew that was what the accord demanded of her.

It was wrong, somehow; inhumane and impossible, not to mention the apparent cause of most of their problems. A Saiyan may not see any problem with it, or any difficulty in holding to such a way of life, but it required a coldness of heart she simply did not possess.

The Heiress was incapable of simply standing aside as he expected her to and leaving him be in a 'pile of blood and rubble'. Whenever she saw the hollow look in his gaze, or a flash of hurt swirling misty upon his features, she could not help but grow concerned, possessed by the sudden want to alleviate it. As much as she tried to withdraw from him, to just give him what he wanted and have this remain at arm's length, she simply couldn't.

Her care for him—or anyone—was not something she could turn off at will, and though Bulma saw nothing wrong with this, to the Saiyan it would seem she was unable to hold up her end of the bargain; making a liar of herself. The Prince had distanced himself from her once again—probably out of disgust for her 'pitiful sentiment', or some such nonsense.

But that instinct of care was growing stronger, despite him, and slowly Bulma found her mind turning to his mental and emotional wounds as well. She couldn't stop it, and it was only going to make things worse, currently tied up in red tape as they seemed to be.

If he reacted so resentfully to mere medical attention, clearly, the Prince would have absolutely none of that.

Still, she found herself wondering; what if it wasn't there? What they were friends, and if Vegeta allowed that to be their rightful place in his world of categorized control—without rules to hinder and dictate her level of care—how might things be different?

It was a deal she'd unwittingly signed, and a promise she could never have kept in the first place, let alone now. Surely, their accord had a rule about both parties being made aware if one of them couldn't hold to it, right? Like the tattered relationship she and Yamcha clung to, things would never get better than if she allowed them to stagnate. This was as much her fault as the Saiyan's, so long as she allowed 'the accord' to remain unchallenged—like Yamcha had said, nothing good can come of simply 'suffering' one another.

Not to mention that if she could break through some of the Prince's ice, Yamcha's warning about what he was capable of would lessen—the things he did with a cruel smile were one thing, but what about the content smile she imagined of him?

But taking away his secret weapon for controlling their proximities—dragging him out of his comfort zone—wasn't going to be easy, either. It was a leap of faith, to be sure, and Vegeta would likely fight her tooth and nail on it, but the Heiress knew there would be better things to come of it.

Now, she just had to convince him.

It didn't help her case when, spotting the thick smoke pouring from the exhaust of the gravity capsule to stain the crisp morning air, Bulma had found herself sprinting across the lawns in panic—still dressed in her hideous pink nightgown, of all things.

The Heiress very nearly skidded to a halt across the grass, throwing an arm out to catch herself upon the vibrating metal of the hull and panting as a logical mind tried to keep pace with the rest of her.

Flicking open the small box on the side, she could only be thankful for the previous lesson as the inviting green of the emergency shut off switch greeted her. The very last thing she wanted to do in this situation was trap the Prince inside again, but as she'd told him once before, she learned from her mistakes when she made them. A new opening mechanism in the door allowed a slight tweak on the design, and a small battery had been included to power the hatch enough to open whenever the generator was cut.

Just like you keep saying, Bulma, you're a total genius! Now breathe, calm… inhale…

Without warning or hesitation, Bulma would slam her hand down upon the button once again as the powerful whir instantly began to fade and die, bringing a small comfort to her in knowing that she had foresight enough to install it. Stepping back as a sharp hiss signaled the internal latch releasing, much to her relief, cerulean eyes would track the heavy door as it lowered to open, eventually settling upon the grass to form a ramp.

Letting her body slump some for the scare, hands rose to slide twitching fingers through bead-head blue curls, not taking note of the slight tangles she found there as she let loose a small sigh. Oh, there we go…Now we wait for the yelling, and everything'll be back to normal…her brows furrowed slightly to crinkle the top of her nose, however, when she realised the rest of this day would likely be spent on repairs.

…Yep, back to normal alright…

There was no way to tell immediately what had gone wrong, but any malfunctions when dealing with the intense gravity he trained in could easily prove lethal. She could've smacked him for such flippant disregard of his own safety; she knew Goku well enough that a Saiyan's sense of smell was impeccable, and there was no excuse for Vegeta to not have been aware of the smoke.

Figures… Probably waiting for another 'near death power boost', the cheating bastard.

As the very last of the mechanisms stopped firing within the machine, the silence was deafening—not a sound pervaded the air. No shuffling of feet or beeping of idle droids, and more than that, no angry cursing or growling to be heard at all. A moment of denial hit her, cynical smirk worn to mutter about the thick-headed brute as hands were held to her hips.

But as the seconds wore on with nothing gleaned of the Prince's welfare, Bulma's vision sharpened upon the open hatch with all the precision of a hawk.

A twitch ran through her legs, beckoning her to just run up the ramp and inward as soon as she could to soothe her small worry. It was an agonizingly small eternity that seemed to pass, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet anxiously as she waited for any sign of the Saiyan. Tugging nervously at the front of her nightgown, the Heiress began to chew on her bottom lip with unease.

Oh, come on, come on…! Yell out or threaten me or growl… or something!? she pleaded internally, slowly becoming more frantic with each passing moment. 'What have I told you, Woman? Stop interfering!'—his voice ran through her head with imaginative hopefulness, but still, only silence returned to her.

When after a full minute, she could see no spiky hair or annoyed scowl, the Heiress couldn't help herself as she cupped hands around her mouth to yell.

"Vegeta! What are you doing? Get out of there, Buster, I mean it!" she winced a little for how desperate it sounded, but in that moment, concern had consumed her too far to truly care. "You can't keep training if there's no gravity! Come on!"

It was only then, as her gaze still scoured the opening for his familiar sight, that Bulma noticed the visible wave of heat escaping into the air; shimmering and warping the vision of the bold letters branding the ship as their own.

That was not a good sign. "…Vegeta!?"

Her legs moved on their own then, bare feet striking the metal in rapid succession to see her up the ramp in a flash and tearing across the threshold, only to be stopped in her tracks as she hit a wall of searing, thickened air.

"Whoa!" She flinched for it, an arm coming up to shield her face from the sudden burn—it was comparable to stepping inside a blazing furnace, stinging her eyes and settling heavy in her lungs. Blinking rapidly to keep her vision clear, her anxious gaze began to tear the capsule apart for the surly Saiyan, blue curls whipping this way and that to the turn of her head as the Heiress ran further inward.

Oh gods above… no, no, no…! Where is he? If he's dead, I'm going to kill him…! Her mind ran wild with awful possibilities, even as she rounded the small chamber in search of him like a madman in the desert chasing a mirage. Why would he train through this kind of heat? Couldn't that idiot tell something wasn't right, or did he just not care?! Vegeta, you blockhead…!

It was clear the Saiyan was not to be found within the main chamber. Passing a smashed defense droid on her right, she ran for the only place left for him to hide, coughing a little for the burning air around her as it dried her throat. With a shaking hand reaching to grip the handrail, Bulma was almost ready to jump down and forgo the ladder to the lower quarters entirely, but the flash of skin below gave her pause. Staring down in horror, her breath hitched as her fears were realized before her, the Heiress' stomach lurched with a wave of nausea she found hard to swallow.

Not six paces from the base of the yellow ladder, an already worn in set of sneakers was the first hint of him, as wide eyes traced upwards to see the Saiyan's crumpled and unconscious form.

…Shit…!

She was moving again before she had fully processed the sight, pivoting to slide down the sides of the ladder without touching a single rung in her haste. Her hands burned for the heat of the metal, enough to leave them reddened, though the Heiress didn't take any notice in her panic. Two swift bounds was all it took to see her kneeling at the Saiyan's side, frantic as shaking hands hovered helplessly over his bloody form—awful streaks lined his flesh from where the droid lasers had struck him openly.

Bulma could guess he'd become sluggish and fatigued, probably suffering from heat stroke, though it was clear he'd actually sought to take a break…even if it did come just a tad too late.

If Vegeta had the sense enough to attempt rest, that was all the evidence she needed to know how bad the situation was.

Taking to his shoulder and leaning over him closely, she gave a gentle though slightly desperate shake in the hopes of waking him. "Vegeta, can you hear me? Get up, come on, something's wrong with the generator… it's overheating, there's smoke everywhere, and it's like a hundred degrees in here! …Vegeta?" paling now with visible dismay, she continued the subtle rocking and urgently studied the lines of his face—sweat glistened on his brow, and it unnerved her to see him without his usual scowl.

His features seemed too serene, stilled and bereft of any trace of his fiery temper… almost as if his mind was no longer connected to it at all, and never had been. A cut under his left eye and smeared blood over his cheek, surrounded by light bruising over the side of his face and topped by a split brow—blunt impact. At some point, he had fallen from a height and not had the awareness or ability to protect his face from slamming into the tiles below.

The sight of him seemed to wash through her whole form and bring a shudder, wiping a heavy hand over her forehead as blue curls began to cling to her temples with sweat. The heat was blurring his outline before her and making the world seem hazy, and briefly, she entertained the hope that it was just a bad dream. Tracing a worried eye over the rest of him, the awful thought struck her that this was how he may look were he actually dead.

But as weak and ragged breath filtered in and out through his battered body, she could only sigh in great relief for it, hanging her head as she slumped forward.

Slender fingers brushed the thick skin of his forearm and she sent him a pleading look, drawing close to speak softly as she tucked a stray wisp of blue behind her ear. "…Hey, come on… You're really heavy, don't make me carry you…" as she said this though, her voice was already wavering to crack. Slowly moving to grip his arm, ducking her head to wrap it around her shoulders, Bulma shifted in an effort to hoist him up. "You're going on a diet when this is… over with...!"

How lucky she had been last time, she noted, that Yamcha had been there that day to help her pluck the Saiyan from the ruins.

Shifting the Prince's weight uncomfortably as she tried to pick herself up from the floor with him in tow, she struggled—the heat and task at hand made the blood pump through her skull like a drum, beckoning a headache to take hold. She coughed some as her legs threatened to buckle, but despite it, she continued to try. Pulling his arm, cheek to bloodied cheek with the Saiyan and half hunched, the Heiress managed to turn and take a few noble steps before the impossibility of the ladder haunted her vision, and her heart dropped into her feet.

Staring up at it with a frustrated whimper, her body shuddering with strain under his dead weight, she knew she had to leave him and get help. Falling to her knees in a failed crouch that made her wince, she was careful to set the Prince down as gently as she could manage onto his back, letting his arm slip from around her neck slowly and quietly apologetic for it all.

Staring down at his handsome visage marred by injury, it seemed so very far from the smile she envisioned for it, and her heart broke a little in that. A sniff took her, eyes already glassy from the heat, and rubbing her nose lightly on the back of her hand she choked back a futile sob.

Once again, he'd come to harm in one of her machines—one she'd outfitted specifically to make him more safe, and yet, here he lay all the same. No wonder he doesn't trust me, she thought, defeated and saddened by her small failure.

This kind of temperature isn't normal, the pressure system I put in doesn't have enough coolant to deal with this… it would've shorted out a while ago. That must be why the air is so thick in here…it's almost stifling…Oh no, what if he has the bends? Plus concussion... heat exhaustion, even... why would it get this bad in the first place, that the generator would overheat? I worked through these designs myself! What did I miss?

Staring at him, she shook her head slowly, unable to tear her eyes away; …Vegeta, how long have you been in here like this…?

Fearing the worst, the Heiress would move quickly to her feet again, her gaze scouring the small kitchenette until a small case on the wall was spotted. Opening it with haste, shaky hands fumbled with the emergency oxygen mask inside, and taking a small canister from the clipping, Bulma would return to kneeling beside him. Tearing the plastic with her teeth before throwing the packaging aside, a short twist of the nozzle would allow him a limited supply, enough for her to make it to the house and back. She moved carefully, making sure the breathing apparatus was in working order before affixing it to his face, sliding the strap through thick black spikes and adjusting it to sit right over his nose.

"Just wait here, Vegeta… I'll be right back, okay? Don't… don't get up… just stay…" she managed, gesturing her hands as if to reassure him and voice wavering as regret seeped up with a sting. At this point, it was more to comfort herself. "You're going to be fine... it takes more than this to stop the Prince of all Saiyans, doesn't it...?"

When the Heiress slowly stood to leave him, it pained her to tear herself away. But with only a moment's hesitation passing as one last rueful look was taken, she was up the ladder again and running faster than she had in some time, yelling out for help even before she was halfway back to the house.

---

The next two hours had been chaotic to say the least.

Pansy had been alerted to her daughter's cries for help first, abandoning her soap operas without even a thought to record them. From there, Dr. Briefs had been alerted by intercom, he too abandoning his work to leave it in the hands of the interns, but not before a concerned Goku had appeared at the scene as well. The employee emergency ward had been told to make arrangements for receiving the Prince, and a physician had been called immediately.

Having sensed the dramatic fall in Vegeta's ki from afar, Goku had paused his own training session to keep tabs on the situation just in case, but when he had felt the elevated stress levels in Bulma's energy as well, it had bad news written all over it. Knowing full well of his fellow Saiyan's penchant for self destructive training methods, the orange garbed Warrior was quick to help, stepping out of the ship with an unconscious Vegeta in tow just in time for Bulma and her father to reach it themselves. He set about getting the Prince into the safety of the compound, staying close to the rather distraught Heiress as the others prepared medical treatment.

From there, many of Bulma's fears had been confirmed with testing, once the doctor had arrived to assess things. Thankfully, the Saiyan showed no symptoms of decompression sickness, so at the very least, the gravity had shorted out before her pressure valves did. His concussion was confirmed, and fears of a possible coma came of it on the physician's part, but all in company knew that diagnosis was based on human biology and may not hold as accurately on a Saiyan patient. Even so, they agreed it would be wise to keep Vegeta awake after he did regain consciousness, especially when his dehydration and heat stroke were confirmed as well.

Placed on an electrolyte drip, the Prince had been moved into what was originally supposed to be his room, oxygen mask removed and concerned 'family members' told to monitor him closely with the air-conditioning on high. Pansy had resigned herself to worried tears in the kitchen, removed by her consoling husband. Goku had carried a desk in for Bulma and set it at Vegeta's bedside, while the Heiress retrieved her laptop and resolved, once again, to stay close at hand while her old friend offered a reassuring smile.

An optimistic pat on the shoulder, a few words about how she and Vegeta were getting on now, some thanks for his help and a sigh or so passed before Goku pressed two fingers to his brow, bidding her goodbye and seemingly vanishing into thin air. Both of them had agreed not to inform the injured Saiyan of his rival's aid or presence, knowing it would not be well received when he woke.

All the while, Vegeta's demons were running free from their cages, tearing through his mind with reckless abandon, trapped in his own head as he was for the moment and stripped of lucid control.

Smoke.

He could smell it even before the visions of his internal hell became clear, toxic and vile to be mixed upon the smell of burning flesh—a scent he knew all too well, plucked from many distant memories, but most freshly of all from one of the more recent ones. The Prince stood consumed by it, blinded by a swirling miasma as the orange glow of flames flirted with such darkness. Thick skin twitched as one or two of them reached out in the haze, fires licking at his skin with pitiful flickers, spluttering weakly in the smog.

There seemed to be no end to it, no horizon to focus upon, and gaining a stronger sense of self within it, Vegeta's gaze grew paranoid and lost.

He could've sworn he felt the flicker of ki hinting at Kakarot's presence—but as always, in such a place, his expatriate was built of fleeting taunts. No sooner had he begun to pinpoint his senses upon such power, hoping for direction or bearing, had it fled him to simply disappear all together.

Where have you run off to? A sneer came about as he ticked on the mystery, searching blindly to pick up any trace of the other.

A few steps were taken, unsteady upon uneven ground, unexpected as the earth seemed to shift beneath him unnaturally. Caught by it he would glance down, a quizzical twitch taking his features, but as he lifted his foot he found only familiar rubble where he had expected dirt and rock. Warped and twisted metals splayed out underfoot, the largest of which held bubbling paint to read 'CAP'; sticky strings of it clinging to the bottom of his sneaker as it was pulled away. At the sight, a dull sense of unease crept into his stomach, and instantly, he became aware of faint dizziness as the memory came flooding back.

…The explosion…

With a slight shake of his head, some private expression of confusion to himself, the Saiyan's attention lifted to peruse the thick smoke once more in question, haunted by hidden flames. He didn't know what this meant, or why he was here, but it unsettled him. There was something intimately frightening about this place his mind had forged for him, taking him back to that fateful day, but even in the midst of it, Vegeta couldn't be sure what it was.

Perhaps some lingering anxiety about foreign technology, or the fact that death had swept its bony fingers across his shoulder that day, threatening to drag him back to a fate he'd come to dread—the worst a man could bring upon himself, he knew, languishing in an afterlife of misery and agony.

A faint breeze blew hollow to stir the thick black clouds around his body, sending a few embers past in its wake as he considered such things. Tilting his head, Vegeta watched them in silence, the first few skidding past his feet aimlessly. A crackling pop came from the left of him then, unleashing a flurry of them like fireflies, landing lightly upon his flesh to prickle and sting. He flinched for them, swatting at his arms to be rid of them, and turned a frantic gaze about himself in search of some clue as to what the memory beckoned.

The fires were closing in on him, he realised, scowling as he took an instinctive step back. The vengeful glow loomed threateningly all about him, growing in their intensity with a distant roar. He was no stranger to the symbolism of being trapped or surrounded, he supposed, but something about these flames struck him as odd. They brought no sweat to his brow, nor did the embers burn—if anything, they were akin to stabbing icicles, piercing into his hide to freeze. He could smell his own skin burning in the stale air, but the heat had all but vanished.

Why is it so cold…?

As an obscured inferno raged higher around him, bare hands flexing at his sides pensively, the bitter chill began to seep into muscle even further. It confused his senses, sapping bodily sensation to leave him numbed to the danger that encroached. Unsure of it all, his eyes searched the darkness still, looking for escape as shivering arms crossed over his torso—he did not cross them as he did in waking. Here, he held himself limply as if to comfort, shrinking amongst the smoke and rubble and lost to it as his breathing began to draw shallow.

He knew this sinking feeling, like the life was being sucked from his bones. When finally the cold sting settled like a knife into his chest, he was sure of it, an icy chill finding an old scar to bear down upon it as if pointing to the tale it told. With a want to freeze his very heart and stop its frantic beating, the smoke twisted and writhed to lick senseless skin.

Cloaked in a chemical embrace, the husky breath of wind whispered of machinery and oil all the while. Burning rubber, a thick taste like iron upon the air and the sound of live wires sparking somewhere in the ruin, the Prince coughed for the foulest mix his tongue could endure. The lines of his regal visage twisted in disgust for it, almost pained, and he gave a desperate snort to rid the smog from his nostrils. It was overwhelming him, blurring his vision and stinging his eyes as the Saiyan struggled through the smoke.

A flash of shadow gave him pause however as he brought an arm to wipe his sight clear, and blinking, second-guessed it.

What… Kakarot…!? Whipping his head to and fro, he darted forward in desperation to catch a glimpse of it once more, though no trace of the warrior could be found. No… No, it wasn't him… Am I seeing things? But no sooner had he dismissed it did a silhouette flit across the corner of his eye, revealed by the ghostly fires.

Snapping his head to the right focus upon them, a fearsome scowl knitted his features together with malice. He saw one, lithe and quick, and then another close behind, circling him like prey as they slipped in and out of his awareness. He could sense nothing of their powers, and the darkness hid their faces from his view, but instinct betrayed them.

He needn't see them to know who they were. He knew they'd come for him, bringing his old friend death along to reclaim the one that got away.

The boy from the future had told them all what was lurking in the shadows.

Gritting his teeth with a low and desperate growl, the Prince was quick to take his stance as he tried to track them, but by the time they had gotten his notice, all movement had ceased.

"Don't play games with me…! I know you're there!" it echoed out into the shroud a fierce thing until it hit the wall of smoke, losing its volume to become a weak and vulnerable tone as it was warped and consumed by the darkness.

When he received no answer, shaking hands balling into readied fists at his sides, Vegeta forced his voice louder with every intent to cut through the shade. "Show yourselves, you cowards! Don't you dare mock me! I will have it, and when I do, I will destroy you!"

Rolling twisted through the smoldering wreckage, unrecognizable and distorted as the sound traveled, the faint echo of laughter returned to him.

Unable to contain his anger as Saiyan rages flared, the Prince would launch himself at full tilt toward the very next shadow to catch his predatory gaze, a primal scream tearing from his throat to reflect all of his frustrations and fears. Like electricity sparking to life in his veins, all of the power he could muster rose up to its master's unstable call as the burst of an aura consumed him. Teeth bared and wild eyed, he sent his fist hurling forward to cut through the smoke like a blade. In that instant he felt vindicated, new energies boasting of his accomplishments thus far, and for a fleeting moment he was invincible within himself; close to his goal as promising sparks of gold took hold.

He could feel the sanguine tug of something more, bubbling as the first few drops overflowed from the hidden well within—if only he could strike them, feel the bones and cartilage part and give way under his fist with a wet snap… the floodgates would unleash the deluge he thirsted for.

But when his blow found slim purchase, he was halted there, his own bones shunted painfully in recoil as they connected with what felt like a wall. Unmoving and unmerciful, the chilling feel of a foe's fingers curled effortlessly over his own to stop him there, hitching his breath where he stood.

The smoke dissipated slowly, pushed back from the force of such impact, and as more of the sickly white hand was revealed, the sweet flicker of hope fled him as well. Black fingernails bit into his knuckles, and with a force he could not hope to replicate, his fist was manipulated painfully back on itself; using the leverage of his wrist against him to wrench a pained gasp from the Prince.

Though the discomfort moved him to lower himself, seeking instinctual relief from such torment, his heart sank even further still. Vegeta stared wide eyed, blanched by horror as it washed through him to replace swiftly fading power, he could feel himself sinking lower. Finally pressured to kneel, the laughter returned.

He recognized it now… indeed, he could never forget such a terrible sound.

…Frieza…

Black lips curled to reveal pearly white teeth, a fond and almost greedy curve gracing them slowly as the smoke continued its retreat—even death itself seemed to cower away in fear, when tempered by the strains of his mind.

"Vegeta…" the regal tone slithered out with amusement, holding all the charm of an old friend though he laced it with a cruel and tactful superiority. "…Still chasing that old legend? How dull."

Jaw clenched with enough force to crack teeth, dark eyes met the eerie flash of the Tyrant's own red irises, and the very last of his strength left him. Desperate to rise from the forced kneel—simply unable to stomach such a thing—Vegeta poured all of his will into his legs, wishing for the power he'd built p moments ago to flow through his veins and release him from this insulting hold. Unable to even pull his arm back and free, the Prince clawed at the wrist of his most hated foe, though for all his efforts, it drew only an amused scoff from the overlord.

All at once the despair came flooding back as the Saiyan struggled, and knowing he could not overcome such power, just as on Namek, his will to fight began to wane.

Shackled within the confines of such mental chains, these old demons that darkened every corner of his mind with uncertainty and doubt, he would not stand. He couldn't.

No matter how much strength he garnered in waking ours, when he found himself here in the depths of slumber, his weakness was law. Vegeta was no more in control than the isolated boy he had been upon the Tyrant's ship; wondering when his Father would come for him and waiting for salvation that would never arrive.

Each nightmare haunted him so, for he never truly knew if they would end. There were occasions in his young life when he would awaken with a start and call out to those long passed, expecting to find himself back in his palace chambers and desperately searching the room for familiar things to comfort. Each time, he was left instead to stare at the blank white walls and uniform black tile of a tiny space expected to house three, clutching the thin sheets of military bunk while Nappa snored above and Raditz stirred enough send the child an odd look from the floor.

The greatest of his nightmares had turned out to be reality, after all.

The Prince closed his eyes tight with a want to wake, shaking his head forcefully as if to rid his ears of the sound of the Tyrant's voice. He would not relent in full, grounding out pained words as the pressure on his wrist increased, threatening to crack suddenly feeble bone.

"N-no… It's real. I've seen it, and so have you…!" with the last shred of tattered pride, he held his head high and returned a glare that glinted with absolution, unwavering in his defiance of the old Lord as he hissed. "I'm stronger than he was when he fought you. I've surpassed the point at which Kakarot transformed on Namek, and I grow stronger by the day! It is only a matter of time before I too become a Super Saiyan!"

Frieza watched with an amused coyness as Vegeta seethed below, though there was no anger to breach the serpentine features as he stared him down. The sleek form he wore boasted of superior power—the skin he wore when he had felled the Saiyan—and an idle flick of his fleshy tail behind was the only movement to the otherwise still Tyrant. He did not strain his grip even as Vegeta renewed his struggle to rise against it. Effortlessly putting the Prince in his rightful place, the overlord would squeeze the captured fist to break fingers, returning him to his knees with another strangled sound of agony.

Calm and collected, he gave a thoughtful tilt of his head, providing Vegeta a perfect view of his own defeated state from the reflection upon glasslike purple flesh.

"Pride isn't Power… Need I remind you that these delusions have cost you dearly before?" there was feigned pity lingering in the low tone, bored and factual as an icy gaze swept the scar where, once, a killing blow had pierced Vegeta's heart.

The corner of his black mouth ticked. "It's only fitting, I suppose, that you would turn to the embodiment of an old enemy in your obsession with myth and history… Isn't that just like you, though, to go back on your own creeds when the means justify the end? A traitor in every facet, even to yourself… What would your dear father think; to see you so dependant on weaklings and would-be Tuffles…?"

"My Father would think only of how best to see you die! If it meant making an ally of unlikely sources, so be it!" he argued forcefully, his voice graveled and coarse with hatred. "She may share similar traits to them, true enough, but the Earthling does not think me a slave where you and Tufflekind would! I know she won't rest until we've both achieved the victory we set out for!"

Slowly, the Tyrant's free hand drifted toward the mark, and the Saiyan's dark gaze followed the movement with silent panic, blood running cold with what he found there.

Held gently between black nailed fingers was the blue ignition key—the key to his power, the very symbol of his accord with the Woman—glinting back at him with cruel irony.

"She's as delusional as you are if you both think a few technological marvels will save you. But, as I discovered after so many years of disappointment returned for my charity toward you, Vegeta, she'll find her efforts fruitless in the end. You talk a big game, but when it comes right down to the nitty gritty, dear Prince, you can never back it up."

The tip of it was pressed into the mottled skin sharply, twisted to draw a slim rivulet of blood. The Saiyan winced under the sting of it, far harsher than it ought to have been as the trickle cleaved an incarnadine streak down his side, and through it all, the Tyrant continued his verbal assault.

"Four day assignments dragged out to a week, even with your fellow primates tagging along. Constant medical tank sessions despite your claims to swift Saiyan healing… Biting off more than you could chew when picking fights with my officers over ration allotments. Droning on and on about being a Super Saiyan with that cocky grin, only to be put into a grave shortly after…"

As the Prince's gaze fell away, caught staring at the rubble beneath him as a sense of helpless dread washed over his cold form—venom from such poisonous words—Frieza's hand fell away to leave the key embedded into his bleeding chest. A grimace swept the overlord's features unseen by the Saiyan, and the cruel flash of crimson eyes swept him as a disgrace.

"I do hope you apologized to the Good King for such misplaced faiths, when you were reunited in Hell… Send my condolences to the poor woman for falling into the same trapping as he did."

Beaten down by the demons of his mind and weary of them now, lashed by the darkness that lurked there, Vegeta's head hung as he endured such pains. His eyes cracked open to the sight of the key, still stuck fast into scarred flesh, and his throat felt dry as vile air cycled shallow through it. Despite everything, standing on the very brink of his internal defenses, the Prince would strain to speak still, giving flimsy denial in the vague hope that it would be truth when he woke.

"…Then I'll… I'll train harder still…" he offered weakly, barely above a whisper as the ghost of his usual scowl flickered over his visage. "I will prove myself worthy… and you, and Kakarot, and everyone else will see my true destiny unfold in spite of you all."

"Even I didn't think you were this foolish, Vegeta… But, if you've indeed surpassed your little friend's turning point, perhaps now it will be clear."

A devilish smile flirted upon the corners of his lips, dimples forming to move the lines of his cheeks and crimson eyes closing to the pathetic sight of the fallen Prince. "Your destiny has always been to cling to this poisonous dream of yours, watching the clock ticking away, until out of time and with nothing to show for it… you perish like the rest of them."

It struck with such quiet force, whispered delicately to languish there between them as the last of Vegeta's spirit left him slumped there, sapped with the rest of his power as the icy tyrant stood firm. Dark eyes wavered upon the feet of the specter that haunted him still, and the cold claw of doubt that had set about sinking talons into his heart finally broke through to tear it asunder. The smoke had returned cautiously to billow around them once again, a haze of the unknown, closing in with that awful and deathly chill.

Wh…What if he's right…? If I'm not strong enough… No, even if I continue at this rate… If I can't transform, I'll just… be… Torturing him even further, as if this vision was not enough, Vegeta's own voice echoed all around them as if the smog contained a thousand hidden mouths, drawing the Tyrant's smile into a wide and vicious grin of satisfaction.

Kakarot could do it… by this point, I saw him do it…But, why…? Why can't I do the same? Even that boy from the future, he… he doesn't even look like a Saiyan, and yet…I am an Elite, a Saiyan Prince, it should be my right alone that… my… my birthright; the reason I live and breathe at all… but even now, after everything… I can't even get close…?

If I'm not… If I can't… What if It's… just like before…? Slowly, the presence of even Frieza before him began to grow distant as the shadows came like a shroud to cover him, and the Saiyan's gaze lost the very last of its fire; hollow as sorrowful despair seeped in to stare blankly into darkness.

…Will I really die… so easily again?

Then it came, drifting upon the faint breeze to find him lost within the smoke, and like a torch to drive back the darkness, another voice filled the vile air to lend him strength.

"Shh, Vegeta…You won't. It's just a bad dream…"

The pain in his wrist was gone, the hand that held his no longer a dominating thing, but a soft and gentle brush of fingers upon his knuckles. Blinking as he was snapped from such dark reveries, Vegeta cold not pinpoint when the change had come, but suddenly he found the rubble beneath was grass—green, crisp and neatly tended, like the lawns outside his capsule. He could smell no smoke; no trace of the warped machinery or the stench of burning oils or flesh. He felt the hand shift to unfurl his injured fist, easing beneath it to hold and support as the Prince lifted his head, and the Tyrant was nowhere to be found; banished by her voice.

Cream flesh replaced sickly white, and cerulean wavered over him instead of the cold crimson stare.

His brow twitched as her laid weary eyes upon hers, furrowing to question as he watched her warm and worried smile replace the mocking black lips from before. Surprise flashed unsure across the lines of his face, sudden epiphany sweeping him as he found he was liberated, free to stand as the woman beckoned him upward. Shaky on now stable ground, the Prince rose upward slowly, half expecting some awful trickery to melt her skin and reveal the cruelty being done as Frieza's face reclaimed hers.

"…Wh… What did you say…?"

Yet no further horrors would come while she stood there it seemed, her voice lilting around him once again, sounding so very close he could almost feel her breath upon his cheek. "There you go… Shhh… you're okay, Vegeta. You're safe, and the doctor gave you a tentative clear… there was an accident, but you're going to be fine…"

Bewildered by it—and at a loss for how to respond to such confusing information—the flame haired prince could only stare at the strange apparition of her. Why was she here? She had never entered his dreams before, but suddenly, a dream was all it ever seemed to be; the strain of it lessening toward that realization. His mouth ghosted a few syllables but nothing came of it, and unable to place the odd sensation she stirred of encouragement—seemingly bolstering his resolve within himself—Vegeta wondered of it all.

Silent as he regarded her, studying her gorgeous features with morbid bemusement and unabated shock, the Saiyan barely managed a whisper when his voice returned with an incredulous squint. As it left him, the very last of the smoke vanished to become an inviting golden light.

"An… accident…?"

He questioned it autonomously; taken aback by the news—in the chaos of it all Vegeta frowned pensively, straining to recall such a thing. A flash stole his vision, filling the scene with reddened light and the whir of the gravity capsule, and a blunt pain began to throb through his head. Cringing as the sensation grew stronger, he stumbled back a step to recoil from it, an uncomfortable pressure spreading across the side of his face and seeping into his eye socket. His hand rose to gingerly soothe the hurt, brushing over the side of his temple to trail down his jaw line, and the fleeting vision of blurred tiles beneath him echoed strong.

Blinking away the brunt of his discomfort, his eyes would open to focus upon her once again, dark gaze wavering over the reassuring blue of her own as he cautiously licked his lips to speak.

"How long will it be… before I can train again? Is the ship damaged?"

Seemingly satisfied now that he had come to stand, Bulma removed her hand from his to settle it on her hip, offering a relieved and considerate sort of laugh that confirmed what she'd said once before—a thing is never going to be more important than a person.

"Yeah, sorry… the ship's a little bit under the weather. But trust me; I think you came out worse. Don't worry, Vegeta, it's still intact… we got you out of there before anything too drastic happened…"

Idle, his hands flexed by his sides as he took this in stride, weighing what the next few days would cost him as a rueful sort of grimace twisted his mouth. Brows knitting together, Vegeta would draw a slow and steadying inhale, letting it slip in a sigh—he knew there was no helping it. The wayward echo of a thought distantly sounded to roll across the grass aimlessly, wondering what had happened to send an otherwise ordinary training session into yet another setback.

Staring at the grass between their feet, drops of dew to be found glistening gold in the light there, he gave a small and accepting nod. The emergency shut off, his mind ventured it with ease, and again, Bulma's word was confirmed; not a method of control, but one of safety. A cynical smirk found him, ghosting the curve of his mouth, and dark eyes closed for it as the pieces began to fall into place.

"…You're at my bedside again, aren't you, Woman?" shaking his head lightly, he glanced up at the apparition of her, and the smirk faded into something more solemn. It made sense now—she was talking to him as he slept, and apparently, he was talking back through a haze of unconsciousness. "You just can't help yourself… I could tell you a thousand times, and it'd still be the same…" he scoffed lightly, unsurprised in all honesty, though his usual condemnation did not stain his tired voice. "…You bleeding heart, leave your sentiments out of this… All this coddling is going to hold me back even more."

Silence drifted between them uncertainly for a moment, and the image of her flickered as if about to fade and weaken, a strange look of pathos marring her relief as it did. He heard her sigh, her head inclining with her own doubts, but just as quickly as they came, she banished them from her features to perk up; determined to push through. With a playful wink that caught the Prince aback, unused to her presence in such a manner as it was, let alone the apparent power she held in his own mind to sway him, the Heiress shook her head lightly.

"No way… I'm letting you off that easy, Buster. You've gotta rest right now, so say whatever you want, I'm staying put." She smirked benignly, wagging a finger at him in point. "It's okay, Vegeta, I'll make sure you won't fall behind; trust me. After all the trouble you've put me through, if you're not a super Saiyan by the end of this, I'll slap you so hard you'll see the curvature of the Earth. That would not be cool, okay?"

The golden light grew stronger and threatened to eclipse her. On instinct, spurred to move in curiosity, he took a step toward her, but the woman only seemed to fade further from his vision; ethereal as this world began to slip away. "I made a mistake, Vegeta, but I've learned from it. I promise this'll be the very last… There's going to be a few changes to things, but if you just stick with me on this, it'll turn out better for everyone. Just try not to be a complete jerk about it, okay?"

The pain was fading from the side of his face and the old scar that the key had pierced as her voice drifted around him, and the Prince felt himself losing his grip this strange hybrid of dream and reality, dark eyes tiredly tracing the very last faint outline of where the woman had stood.

"Change…? What kind of… changes…? Woman… what mistake…? J-just… Just fix… the ship…" he offered in the haze of reverie, even his own voice leaving the body he had forged here to echo as thought.

…Keep to the Accord…

"But, don't worry about that right now… After all, it is a Friday. Just rest up, take a day, and you'll be back at it before you know it…" he heard her say, drifting distant as he began to wander into the light without purpose, as if drawn to follow. The further he ventured, his steps soft upon the grass, the heavier his eyelids became. Finally they were closed, and his body light; sense of self waning within this place as his steps faded with it.

"…Wake up soon, Vegeta."

A/N:

I think the most tantalizing thing about writing scenes that take place INSIDE Vegeta's brain is that he cannot freaking hide. I'm IN there. I SEE HIM. He's VULNERABLE.

I love it… but then Frieza appeared, and now, I'm sort of glad I don't have to live in there like he does. :/

This chapter totally took off on its own and ran away from me. I've literally had to shirt the original idea for the latter half of this chapter to next chapter, because Vegeta's dream was originally just a short scene.

But as soon as I wrote the 'demons in his unconscious head' bit, this wrote itself… and yet still somehow came out not only on track, but like, I couldn't have planned this on purpose any better, really.

I really liked the flipping dynamic of Bulma talking to Vegeta in his sleep and getting unfiltered info, but he was going to wake up originally. I agree with Bulma though, he needs rest right now, so he can stay there till next chapter. Fuck him.

Onwards to Glory! (and finally, FINALLY, next chapter, the ROLLERCOASTER BEGINS!)