Rights: All rights belong to Akira Toriyama, Toyotarou and Toei Animation

This is based on the manga cannon, so there may be some discrepancies with the anime.

WARNINGS: This story is very, very dark, with a large amount of violence, gore, and sexual references, including references to non-consensual sex.

By the time Vegeta returned from more training the next day, trailing sweat and heat in his wake, Bulma had completed his forged passport and birth certificate, having settled on a date which made him significantly younger than her, but still old enough to have fathered a boy Trunks' age (just in case). He had a far better photo on his than she did on hers, she had to admit, and wondered whether she ought to have rectified that in order to make it more authentic. But in the end she had decided not to, enjoying a nice picture of her husband as good as any.

Postponing the presentation until they were alone, since Bulma did not want to reveal her clandestine activities to her parents or Trunks, who was mischievous enough, Bulma perched on the bed, waiting for her husband to finish his shower. He had reeked of perspiration and dried blood from whatever he had hunted, but returned too close to dinner to remedy the situation, instead ponging out the table and later the living room as he caught up on that boss fight with Trunks. Growing accustomed to the smell, Bulma had returned to see her boys after putting Bra to bed, reclining on the couch to watch husband and son interact. Vegeta was still getting his head around the controls, growing more and more frustrated over time as he failed dismally at the game, no matter how often he practiced.

Watching him shout at the television or his controller was the best entertainment of Bulma's day, and sent Trunks into peals of laughter as well, much to Vegeta's ire. Eventually, despite the handicap that was the saiyan prince, father and son had managed, after several attempts, to defeat the boss and progress with their game, Vegeta declaring the boy's bedtime after the finishing cut scene was complete.

And then he had stomped off to bed, grumbling his confusion about how he could struggle with such simple controls when he had participated in battles in space. Maybe that was the issue, though. Maybe it was actually too simple for him.

But she wasn't about to try to reassure him, no, she merely mocked his bravado as he escaped to their shared bathroom, shoulders hunched up to his ears and hissing at her at intervals.

By the time he had freshened up he was both calmer, and looked glorious, glistening with water, damp hair spilling down his back like that ruffian Raditz.

He had despised the comparison when she had made it initially, making it clear that he and Raditz were people cut from very different cloths.

He was right, she had told him, Raditz was far taller and more intimidating.

He had hit the roof.

Now, though, she had grown to adore the look, which made him seem quite juvenile, despite his gleaming physique. She followed the trail of his muscles as he moved to join her, towelling his hair in a desperate attempt to make it stand up again.

"You could just dry it with your ki," she pointed out, hiding the nefarious documents behind her to prevent water damage.

"No, actually," he objected, "I may incinerate the ceiling. And then you would get angry."

"Well, whatever. Wrap your hair up because I want to show you something."

"Wrap it?"

"In the towel. Look, let me do it."

Performing the ancient art of towel wrapping was much more difficult on another person, but Bulma managed it, letting loose a serious of guffaws as she took in her husband, looking baleful underneath a heap of fluffy cloth.

"You look ridiculous!" she informed him, to which he scowled and turned away.

"Whatever," he answered, "Didn't you have something to show me?"

"Yes!" she announced, offering the documents out to him, "This is your birth certificate. And this is your passport. I made you younger, because otherwise you'd get strange looks with your saiyan genes."

"Hmm…" he considered them, inspecting and turning them over, "Such flimsy pieces of paper and cardboard."

"Actually, there's imbedded plastic."

"Even so…we were chipped from birth."

"Yes, I read. Do you remember the procedure?"

"No. Saiyans have memories from far earlier in our lives, as we develop so quickly, but even we cannot recall our first hours. And I never did see it performed. But it was not unique to the saiyans. You would be able to research it further with other species."

"Maybe I'll look into it," she allowed, leaning over and placing a hand on his bare knee, looking deep into his eyes.

"Are you ready for this?" she asked, "This new stage in your life?"

"No. I have yet to gain control over my power, no matter how hard I try. And the Earth is too delicate for me to experiment with."

"Oh, that's a pity. But that's not what I meant. I was speaking about whether you were ready psychologically. This would be a big step for you, a huge change."

"Indeed. It would be a massive change," he looked down at his folded hands, "but one for the better."

She nodded, reaching up to rub his shoulder, letting her eyes roam over his naked form, resting on the new tail she wanted so desperately to play with. He blushed, still feeling shame despite all of their years together, making her laugh and poke his adorable cheek. How he could be embarrassed of his form was beyond her.

"Stop ogling me," he whined, turning away.

"Oh come on, you can't walk out undressed and expect me to play it cool."

"You swiped my clothes!" he accused, still not facing her, "I saw you."

"And I saw you, too!" she gave him a coy wink, which made him place his head in his hands. "Gosh, Vegeta, we've been married for over a decade. You're ridiculous!"

"I merely have a sense of modesty and propriety, given my position as prince."

"Oh, please. Saiyans aren't exactly shy about their bodies. Goku does give a dime—"

"Kakarot does not count."

"—from what I heard, Broly liked to display his rather impressive chest, and then there's the outfit Nappa showed up in."

Vegeta groaned into his hands.

"And you," she continued, "Parading around in those tight, spandex shorts like you're out to give the ladies a heart attack."

"I do not parade. I train privately. You're the one who hacks into my system to watch with your intrusive cameras. I wear proper clothing when out in public."

"Yeah, proper clothing which displays those magnificent biceps," he reached up to cover the offending muscles with his hands as she continued, "or else leaves nothing to the imagination."

He harrumphed, "It's the height of modesty where I come from."

"Speaking of where you come from, it's not only the nature of your species which makes your own bashfulness surprising, but the fact that you grew up in a space barracks."

"Yes, well," his eyes narrowed, "those places give you reason to cover up."

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head, "Just…ribbing. That's all."

"That's all?"

"Yes," there it was, the tell in his eyes. He was lying. So she raised a brow at him, letting him know that she was onto his deceit, but he continued to look at her with a steely expression, unrelenting in his reticence.

"Well, anyway, you've really got me in the mood, now."

"It's your own fault for pinching my pyjamas. That was all part of your master plan, I suppose."

"Indeed it was," she smirked, "Because I intend to celebrate this new chapter in our lives. What do you say, big guy?"

It was a formality, of course, to ask him, Bulma considered as she tore off her nightgown, revealing a set of compelling neglige, sure to get any female-oriented creature going, even a prudish saiyan (although nothing she had ever worn before seemed to affect him). Vegeta had never turned her down, not since they married, viewing the act as a husbandly responsibility, even though she had gathered from him that he enjoyed it (but really didn't understand all of the fuss, because training was better). So Bulma was already peeling off her bra, in a very sexy manner, thank you, when Vegeta surprised her into stillness.

"No."

"No?" she fiddled with the strap.

"You heard me well enough. I'm sorry, but I can't do it tonight."

"What? Why?" her thoughts immediately went to the string of inconsistencies in his character, of unsolved mysteries simmering in his subconscious, waiting to be solved. His illness, his subservience, his apologetic nature, his tail…

"I still cannot control my power. I could hurt you."

Well, that was disappointing, because it revealed this factor not to be a new and separate clue, but merely related to another piece of evidence which might not be one to begin with. Vegeta was always growing stronger, after all, and his saiyan genes gave him a significant boost whenever he recovered from near death, not that she condoned the use of such things (and really did not want to consider the ramifications of that, anyway). His strength increase, while surprising in that he still could not control it, might not be a hint at all.

"That just makes it more exciting," she coaxed, winking and sidling over to him, only to be rebuffed.

"No, Bulma. It's too great a risk to take. I will satisfy your needs when I have my power under control. Not before."

"Aw…"

"Can you imagine what I would have to say to the others if I killed you?"

"Doesn't seem like a bad way to go."

"Bulma!" Vegeta roared, face turning into a tomato, making her giggle as she found her pyjamas.

"You better hurry up and fix this problem, honey, because I really need a night with you. Seeing you in those clothes, or in nothing," she winked at him again, "not making love in over two months now…I'm getting desperate."

"You've been longer."

"That doesn't mean I should! So you better get on top of this, oh husband mine."

"As you command, wife."

Bulma nearly spat coffee over her beautiful new table cloth as she beheld the front page of the newspaper her father was absorbed in.

"Hey, Dad!" she exclaimed urgently, "Can you please pass me the front page?"

He acquiesced, giving her the much coveted paper, complete with advertising and sensationalist reporting.

And a blurry picture which looked a lot like the saiyan loitering by the servery, waiting for his mother-in-law to finish with the pancakes.

A streak of blue, yellow, white and of course black greeted her eyes, above the bold headline "Mystery Wilderness Destroyer".

A creature has been spotted in several locations about the globe in the last few days, devastation accompanying its movements. Great swathes of land have been laid to waste as the creature has destroyed them, leaving a trail of craters and ash behind. Photographers from the Morning Herald have managed to capture a rare shot of the figure, whose movements are generally swifter than the human eye can follow. Believed to be responsible for the unexplained craters appearing in Antarctica, as reported three days ago…

And it just went on.

"Vegeta," she growled, rubbing her forehead. Father and son turned to look at her quizzically as Bra announced "Da!" happily.

"You're in the newspaper!" she growled, expanding as his face remained blank, "As in, your little training sessions have been spotted!"

"So?" he asked, thanking her mother (thanking her mother!) for his portion of pancakes.

"So? So? Vegeta, do you have any idea what this means?"

"It's fairly obvious that I don't. The other fighters and I often engage in such destructive activities."

"Not really, only Piccolo, and of course he doesn't care about any media attention. You, on the other hand, are married to the President of Capsule Corporation. We've been over how big and famous my company is. Can you imagine the hullabaloo if people realised that you, as in my husband, are responsible for this?"

She shoved the picture of a crater-pocked arid landscape in his face.

"The press would have a field day! Stock prices would plummet, investors would pull out in spades and I'd be out of a job! This cushy life you're enjoying, not needing to work or anything, that would all end in days! Heck, I doubt either of us would be able to find employment with the negative connotations of your destruction."

Vegeta frowned thoughtfully, "Wasn't I photographed when I first landed here?"

"You…" she trailed off, dread filling her stomach, "You were? But…" she fought for composure, "Your appearance has changed a lot since then. An astonishing amount, actually," she gave him a questioning look, to which he merely shrugged.

"It's been nearly twenty years and no one has made the connection, despite all the functions you've accompanied me to. I doubt anyone's going to realise now, so I think we're in the clear on that one. This," she shook the paper, "however, has got to stop. They'll be more prepared next time. They might be able to capture you on video and slow down the playback to get a good shot of your features. We can't risk that!"

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Find somewhere else to train! You used to gallivant around space all of the time. Now you can use instant transmission-"

"Actually," he attempted to interject, but Bulma's voice ran over his like a truck.

"-you can go off-world and do some training and be back in time for dinner. Mum can make you a packed lunch."

"Oh, I'd love to," Panchy sang from the stove, where she was preparing another helping of bacon for the insatiable Trunks, a 'growing boy', "I'll make you the most scrumptious assortment of sandwiches—"

"That won't be necessary," Vegeta cut in, vetoing her spiel on delicious packed meals, "I already have a destination in mind, and nothing else will survive the environment in question."

"Not even a watch?" Bulma asked.

"No, not even a watch."

"How will you know when to come home?" Bulma pressed, not wanting to spend another night worrying over his whereabouts.

Vegeta winced, "Trunks can contact me telepathically."

"Telepathically? But Vegeta I thought you—"

"No I can't," Trunks objected, "You've never taught me how."

"Well, we'll have to rectify that, won't we?"

"Not today," Trunks sighed, "I have class, unless you'll let me wag?"

"Of course not! You will go to class and receive an education befitting the child of a prince!"

"Thought so," Trunks mumbled.

"We will simply have to conduct our own lessons this weekend. Make sure you finish your homework in your free afternoons."

"Yes, sir!" Trunks brightened up at the prospect of learning such a unique and potentially useful skill. Bulma didn't like to consider what he and Goten might get up to with the added benefit of being able to communicate silently. She was pretty sure only one party in a conversation needed to have the ability, as she doubted Vegeta would consent to teaching Goten.

She was confounded that he had agreed to teach Trunks, to even consider communicating telepathically when he had confessed to her that the he had struggled with the ability ever since the destruction of his planet, when his telepathic connection had conveyed all the agony and fear of billions of dying saiyans, all projected into his young mind simultaneously.

"Honey," she broke in, eying Trunks, waiting for him to finish his meal and bolt like he usually did. Sure enough, he was gone in a flash, complaining about being nearly late and blaming them for holding him up when, really, he ought to have set his alarm for earlier.

Vegeta turned to her, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"Honey, you…you told me it hurt you immensely to even try it. That you had difficulty doing it. Has that changed?"

He pursed his lips, "Since we last spoke about it? Yes, the situation has changed. Although I doubt I will ever possess the abilities of my ancestors, I am now capable of basic conversation without earning myself a migraine or unconsciousness."

"Oh, well, that's good news. And I'm kind of glad you haven't reawakened all of your previous capabilities. It's an invasion of privacy, what you could do before, and I'm sure you don't want to feel double the pain when you have to fight with Goku, either against him or another opponent."

"I could usually block it out. It was just…so many at once. It overrode all of my failsafes, so to speak. Saiyans died all of the time, after all. I couldn't become catatonic at each death, at every spark of pain."

"Still, it's probably better for your relationship if you don't have the capacity to kill him with a thought."

"That was only used for executions!" Vegeta protested.

"And he hasn't earned the death penalty?"

Vegeta lowered his eyes, "I suppose he has, and ignorance of the law has never been an excuse, on your planet or mine. But I wouldn't do that to him, even at the height of my animosity towards him. He does not deserve such an ignoble end, and it would be cowardly of me not to dispose of him in physical combat. Many of my ancestors eschewed mind-killing for the sake of honour, even when they possessed the ability. It was a mark of being physically inept to have to resort to our telepathic abilities, though they were what gained us power. Mostly, we used them to command and influence, not to murder."

"Will you be teaching Trunks any of the more advanced techniques?"

"Of course not!" Vegeta blistered, "He's far too young to be trusted with such knowledge, and I do not feel he has a need for it in any case. Although we may connect with members of other species, it is a less intimate bond, and there are no historical cases of it being used to kill such people. With Broly subdued and the saiyans of universe six predominantly friendly, if they are even similar enough for such a technique, I do not believe he will ever need to learn it. The same is true for the other abilities we have at our disposal. It is not as if he will need to command a large army over multiple galaxies. Basic telepathy is all we will be covering."

"Oh, good. I can just imagine him giving Goku a headache if he annoyed him. I wouldn't want him to abuse the power."

"I will emphasise the gravity of the abilities we have inherited, and the strictures surrounding them. He can be responsible when he feels the need, and he won't disobey me."

"I certainly hope not. But be careful, he is a teenager now, and for humans, that's a rebellious period."

"I shall keep it in mind."

Bulma had no idea where Vegeta had absconded to for his training sessions, as he refused to say. And that just made her even more curious, even more certain that there was another clue. To something, at least, even if it didn't relate to his behaviour or Frieza Planet 95. Unless he had returned there. She didn't think he would tempt fate or his own guilt complex by going back to a world he had purged, but she couldn't rule out the possibility. Maybe he was determined to face his demons, forcing himself to come to terms with his past actions, by exposing himself to what those planets had become in the intervening years.

He was tight-lipped about the whole affair, but didn't seem psychologically disturbed, as she would expect from a jaunt to the scene of one of his missions. What really struck her, though, was his immaculate appearance. Whenever he returned, his clothing was pristine, only a minimal layer of sweat present. Not another mark or blemish, when usually his gear would be pocked with scorch marks and tears no matter how resilient she made it. His clothing had been in such a state whenever he returned from his sessions on the desolate wastelands of Earth. Now, though, it had not needed a single repair job even though he had been wearing it for a week.

A whole week. And yet it didn't smell too terribly, certainly not as much as a week's worth of training would warrant.

That was unusual.

Speaking of unusual, Vegeta continued with the unfamiliar attitude: apologising, thanking, being submissive, and taking a strange turn at irregular intervals, as if something had jogged a particularly traumatic memory. Vegeta used to have such moments, and probably would have again after confronting Frieza Planet 95, but the frequency was alarming. Even Panchy had noticed, moving forward to calm him after he was affected by something out the window.

Maybe if Vegeta had returned to normal behaviour, she would have let the lies, the deceit and the enigma slide. Probably not, she conceded. But his continued problems only made the resolution of them more urgent. How to do so was the real issue, though. She thought that giving him a purpose beyond mindless training, allowing him to save people, to atone on a more intimate level might help him, just as Gohan had suggested. But aside from the forged documents, which were easy to prepare, she was having trouble making arrangements with a hospital. Any hospital. She had even enlisted Dr Green to assist, but the kindly woman didn't have the connections in the medical world that she once possessed, having retired from general practice, being only employed now as part of Capsule Corporation's stand-by medical team, which didn't get all that much work. She had suggested a few former colleagues, but they had been intensely suspicious of her claims, and one or two had hung up on her almost immediately.

This was going to be more difficult than she had first anticipated.

But she certainly wasn't going to admit defeat, not when she had noticed how important this idea had become to Vegeta. He was really warming up to it, and dare she say looking forward to it. She wasn't about to let him down at such a crucial juncture in his life. This could be such a good opportunity for him as a person, if only she could succeed.

Vegeta would need to fulfil his end of the bargain as well. She doubted that the medical personnel she was trying to convince would give her an ear unless they saw Vegeta's healing abilities in action. It was a matter of persuading them to let him try.

She sighed into her cup, contemplating her dilemma, coming to the conclusion that nothing more could be done on that front until he had his capabilities under control. And who knew how long that would take? Vegeta had been very tight-lipped about the whole affair, but it was taking far longer than either of them had anticipated – he'd never had such trouble before, as far as she knew. It was yet another item to add to the list she kept in her office drawer, which was growing longer by the day. She was recording everything she had been told, every suspicious action or incident, every changed trait or characteristic. Nothing was adding up yet, but it would.

Finishing her morning coffee, which she had decided to have in the kitchen for variety's sake, Bulma turned to head back to her lab.

And screamed at the sight which met her eyes.