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A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating; work became all-consuming for a while there. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/added to favourites/followed so far – I appreciate all of the support!
Vegeta
Year 754
"Initiating planetary orbit."
Waking to the sound of his pod's computer is nothing new. His first thought is another purge, and it is only as the pod slowly drifts around to face the planet below that he thinks no, not today.
Today he is no longer one of Frieza's soldiers. He is the agent of his own existence. He is free, and when he kills next, it will be because he has chosen to.
He stares at the view out the window, the planet's surface a marble of orange and red. The sight is enough to bring his memories of Vegetasei to the forefront of his mind, and he clenches his fists, grinding his teeth together against the unwelcome tightness in his chest.
"What is it?"
He starts at the sound of Bulma's voice, having forgotten her presence in the pod. Only now does he realise that she is still lying across his lap, her legs hanging haphazardly over the edge of the single seat. She blinks up at him, her brows drawn together in concern, and he is struck once more by how utterly fragile she is. He has never met anyone with such a low power level before; she is barely stronger than a houseplant.
"Vegeta?"
"It's nothing," he answers, avoiding her direct gaze. "We're orbiting Gargantuan. Once night falls on the southern city we will land."
"Oh."
He can feel her gaze lingering on his face, and he keeps his eyes trained ahead, on the planet below. It is uncomfortably warm in the pod, and he resists the urge to push her onto the floor. He doesn't know why he suddenly gives a shit about the fact that she might not appreciate such rough handling.
"Thank you for stitching my arm. You've done a good job. You even applied antibiotic." Her voice is barely more than a whisper, tinged with surprise and far too much emotion for his liking. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair; for an insignificant weakling she somehow seems heavy.
"I did my job. You could have done yours faster. You almost had us killed."
"Hey, no fair," she pouts, and finally she begins to shift, swinging her legs around and off the armrest. Her movements are slow and sluggish, the aftereffects of the stasis drugs clear in the way she lurches off the seat and onto her knees, twisting until she sits facing him with her back against the pod door. "Woah," she mutters under her breath, her head leaning back against the window, and he doesn't miss the way she cradles her right arm, nor the reddened flesh on either side of her bandage.
The thought that he has placed his life in the hands of such a weak creature is enough to chill him to the core. As she regains her composure, he contemplates once more the idea of ridding himself of such a disability.
"The training equipment you promised," he begins, and she opens her eyes, the hardened blue gaze – filled with cautious intelligence – is a reminder of why he did place his trust in her. "When will that be ready?"
"When we find a bigger ship, or somewhere safe to hole up for a while. Obviously I can't build anything in a pod this size," she gestures, shifting her legs until her feet press at his shins, "and you can't train in here either."
"Obviously."
Silence stretches between them, the air around them cold as the air conditioning flushes out the remnants of the stasis gas. She turns away from him, her eyes watching the planet below, and he wonders what she is thinking.
He doesn't need to ask. He's found that Bulma can never go for more than a few minutes without opening her big mouth. "My solar system had – has – a planet that looked like this one," she offers, her eyes still trained on the sight below. He stares at the back of her head while she continues to ramble on. "A gas giant, called Jupiter. It was uninhabitable, but the colours are so similar to this one. I saw it once. I was pioneering space travel when Zarbon arrived on my planet. I still don't know why they sent an elite to purge Earth. The people are – were – like me."
He already knows she's from a race of weaklings; he did read her file, after all. "Resources," he tells her bluntly. "Some planets have enough valuable resources to warrant a single elite that won't fuck up the landscape and blow every mineral-rich deposit into smithereens."
"You sound like you know what you're talking about," she says, and he doesn't miss the accusation in her voice.
"Of course," he fires back. "I'm the Prince of all Saiyans. I am the elite. But you know this; you read it on my file. You know how many planets I've purged, how many billions have died by my hands."
He's got her back up now, and watches as her left hand curls into a small fist. She keeps her face hidden behind the frame of her long hair, though he can see the reflection of her eyes, dark with bitterness, in the glass of the window.
"We're going to kill Frieza," she says with finality.
"I'm going to kill Frieza," he corrects her.
"With my help. With my training equipment," she asserts, and when she turns to face him her face is ablaze with fury. "I. Will. See. Him. Dead," she hisses, her lips pulled back in a snarl.
He is caught in her stare, his blood singing beneath his skin in the sight of such sudden ferociousness.
"You will," he tells her, and the weight of this promise settles uncomfortably against his heart.