"I'm not holding it. it's your baby," I yell over the speeding traffic, "you hold it." My hands are full anyway, holding my bucket of chicken legs. It's a big bucket, and babies and food don't mix. That badly-disguised smell of urine is enough to ruin my appetite, and I only just got it back.

Bulma snorts again and pushes the infant my way. I dodge, step back. Behind us, freeway traffic rushes by without taking notice. The gas station with adjoined catering stands in front of us. It's where I got my chicken bucket. The food smells great but the sitting area was too crowded, so I declined to eat inside.

This place is a literal hell on Earth. A hub of traffic drives by in designated lanes, in perfect order. Like a space-port hub, only with noise. Thousands of travelers and wares passes by in their loud machines. If that's not bad enough, there's also sleeping, eating, peeing people. Truck drivers and tourists and bums. It's a veritable cesspool of germs; life pretending at following the rules. But I doubt half these fuckers even wash their hands once out of the toilet, yet they munch down their burgers and shakes with their dirty hands happily anyway.

I want nothing to do with this place; with you filthy, stinking, unnerving humans. I'll never get used to you; I know for certain now, after over a week on the road. How many of you fucks are there, anyway? There must be millions. Perhaps all monkey do breed like the plague if there's enough of them.

We've travelled from Red Rock across the land, making our way towards the sea. And I can't wait to be over water; that nice quiet, uninhabited sea. Even if it means getting stuck in a hoverjet cabin with this so-called family of mine all day. At least it will get me away from the grind and grime that is earth's travellers. At least I will not have to suffer anymore highway restaurants.

Regardless, eating from here is bad enough, but at least this stuff is seared and heated. I have a strong stomach. I can eat crap and not get sick. So I agreed to eating; I will condone the eating, and yes, I suppose that requires stopping and getting the actual food. But I draw the line at waiting outside of this dump. Baby-hugging while I wait on this vixen is like ten miles across that line.

"It's your baby too." Bulma counters, exasperated. "Besides, it's basic manners to help the designated driver out when she has to relieve herself. Just hold him for a second. Geesh! Don't tell me you're afraid of babies."

"I'm not afraid," just disgusted… Drooling, stinking, shedding, pooping freaks. Seriously, what don't they do? It's like the basic rules of good hygiene are imprinted onto their DNA, only in reverse. How can she even stay close to it without barfing? No wonder Saiyans dropped their young in some canyon and waited for them to pick themselves out on their own. Then again, personal hygiene never really made it to the list of Saiyan virtues, did it? Perhaps Saiyan mothers wouldn't have minded.

"I can't let Trunks loose here with all the traffic, Vegeta. Just hold him for five fucking minutes." She holds it out to me, her tone imploring. I am aware that this is rare for her; that her need must be great. NOtthat this affected me, but..

I stare down my nose at it. Just over a year old, and my son can't even walk; can't even talk yet. I try and overlay the image with what I know he's destined to become: a warrior; a Super Saiyan.. It's not enough. All Sayians become Super these days, so it's hardly special. Not anymore. Yet during my pauze its grubby hands reach out for me. Bulma, ever the one to pounce on an opportunity, pushes the infant against my chest and runs off inside. "Thanks; I can hardly hold it in!"

I'm left awkwardly juggling my extra large chicken leg serving and a sticky little brat. Is that snot running from its nose? Eww. It also seems attracted to my food, as much as I try and keep them separate. Seriously, it doesn't even have a full set of teeth yet, but it wants to steal my chicken?

"You can't have any." I drawl. It keeps insisting, keeps reaching for the bucket, so I decide to play a little game with it. "Except for this one." I hold the bucket under one elbow and select another chicken leg, then intone with passion: "I had this one especially prepared for you."

I hold the leg out for the little creature, and it happily grabs it while I smile down. This does not scare the brat at all. "I had it laced with a special poison," I elaborate as the creature stares up at me blankly with that dumb severe face. A shame it didn't get its mother's good looks.

"It is odorless and tasteless. But by tomorrow, your insides will start melting and you will die in the most agonizing way possible." The boy does seem to understand because it pauses, the leg halfway to its mouth, and regards it intently. "Or perhaps it is a perfectly fine piece of leg and totally safe to eat. Who can tell?" And I start to laugh, loudly.

Mind fuck complete. The child stares at me with a slight frown as he contemplates my words. Or so I believe, until the purple haired freak starts chuckling along with my laugh. I quiet and frown back, wondering what it finds so funny. The child continues laughing and babbling, and then just shoves the food into its mouth, bone sticking out as it claps excitedly.

Is the thing really too stupid to understand what I said? It was never meant to be funny, so I scowl and give him a little shake. His ridiculous cat-ear cap falls off, and the little twat looks at me accusingly, tears in its eyes. Yet I ignore the impending danger, because I'm angry now. Seriously, how has the woman already ruined my son? Or is the runt just genetically inclined towards stupidity, towards trust? "You do realize in the real world you'd be dead by now."

I think I've finally reached a brain in its thick skull, because something lights up in the baby's eyes. The Trunk-thing grabs my chest, pulls itself up a little higher, and looks from me to the bucket. Finally, it pulls the chicken bone from its mouth and asks, experimentally. "Da?"

"Yes, dead. Very much dead." I take a calming breath, remind myself that's not really my problem. Still, I'd expected better. Yet for some inane reason, my words make the creature happy. Happy! Food forgotten, it drops the bone and throws its chubby arms around my neck, cooing again. "Da!"

I stare confused, an odd sensation twisting my gut. "No, dead!" How have you humans survived this long? Is its vocabulary truly made up of only five words? This cannot be normal for Saiyan children. I snarl the word, hoping that repeated exposure will make it stick: "Dead, dead, dead!"

"Da-da!" It responds happily and tries to rub its snotty, dirty face against mine. No; no! I am aware of my genetic involvement in creating this thing, but I will not have this parody of a Saiyan imprint on me like some puppy! The little degenerate...And why is it trying to get closer still, breathing through its mouth as it drags itself closer and closer to my nose? Oh, no! it's doing the woman's thing... It's trying to kiss me!

Revulsion and panic war as I dislodge the child from me, icky fluids grazing my lips. I hop on one leg, using my other to wedge the extra-large bucket to my side, and pry the baby by the back of it's ridiculous onesie with both hands. It's actually pretty strong; far stronger than a human baby should be, and it's seriously fighting with me, grabbing for my hair, ears, any purchase. Its foot nearly connects with my nose.

During the altercation, my bucket of chicken slips. Left between the choice of a perfectly good meal, and an annoying little monster... I drop the child and save my lunch.

The moment I grab for the bucket, I am aware that this decision is going to cause me grief. wince a little as I straighten back up and look towards the rest-room, expecting this to be the moment Bulma returns. Human infants break easy, but the boy is half Saiyan, and the fall was only about four feet. It wouldn't actually splatter and break, or anything like that... would it? Yet that hardly matters, because the boy will scream, regardless of any real damage. It'll scream and the woman will know and... It's not on the ground.

Well, that's.. I mean, where can a baby even go? It can crawl a little, but I've unfortunately witnessed how fast it can go and its top velocity is pathetic. So how would it have gotten away this fast? I look left, right, then turn around as some ridiculous instinct suggests I at least make sure it's not actually on the freeway. When I do, two little arms settle around my neck softly and there's a giggle in my ear as the boy presses up against my back.

I'm stunned into silence for way too long, all worry of stink and drool forgotten. How? How does a child that can hardly reach my knee jump me in the neck? "Did you just fly?"

"Dah," the baby coos.

I disentangle the brat from my back and bring him in front of my face with one hand. "Fucking freak," I admonish, the corner of my mouth tugging up involuntarily.

It was the sheer need that pushed me, my first time. The first time I flew, in that nursery that looked like Red Rock canyon. I saw that child's blood flowing; I saw the last one of us able to stand dying, and I knew it was my last chance. I was exhausted and desperate, but the need for survival drove me and I flew.

I must have been around two years old by your reckoning. And escaping that way, by flying, made me instantly famous on Vegeta-sei. It made me worthy of being the next heir in the king's eyes, and rightly so. None of the other children managed, though I know several must have been quite a bit older. They saw what I did, but none followed me into the air. None of the others had the strength, had the worth to pass that test. They just laid down and gave up in that fucking death trap.

Still, I only learned because I had to; because I would have starved if I hadn't. This little guy? This brat would have taken a bit of a tumble, but nothing life-threatening. He's just doing it because. Because it's fucking fun, perhaps? And how old is he now? Wasn't that stupid party a while back a celebration for his first birthday? That's crazy fucking young to fly.

"Va'halan, brat."