Disclaimer: While perusing Dragonball Super Z fiction by their fans, I noticed a story with the same title as this piece. I had already settled on this as the title for this story when I saw it, and was a bit upset/disappointed. I did not steal this title from there, and I highly doubt she would want to steal mine from me. I can only assume that great minds think alike. Here, I hope, the similarity between the two ends; I have not read said piece yet, and don't plan to until I finish this.
I don't own DBZ, or anything related to it. However, the events of this story and the new characters I created are from my own imagination, and I ask you to please not steal it in any way or distribute it without asking my permission.
By Demara
Three-hundred and fifty times the usual force of Earth's gravity; it lent the very air so much weight that the red tiled floor cracked and decayed at the edges. Only the emergency lights remained, the others having shattered from the pressure long ago. The faint light cast a surreal color over the interior, giving life-breath to the shadows.
Through them a figure moved. One moment he was a mere a whisper of the still air. Then he was a panting man glistening with sweat, a body of tense sculpted muscle. He performed an acrobat's dream as he flew and flipped through the air.
Each movement was fluid from years of repetition.
A punch. The memory of an orange-skinned alien's flesh buckling under the force behind his fist, eye bulging. A delicate wing of fine bone snapping like dried weeds, sending a shower of feathers to fall like a soft spring rain.
A kick. A henchman of Frieza doubling over, mouth agape, to reach reflexively with his hands to protect the wound. His foot swinging high, knocking a surprised creature accross the jawline and ear, head spinning so fast the neck snapped.
The flare of his ki in his hands. Charred rubble, the scent of delicious smoke in his nostrils. A planet lying in unsuspecting peace, then the blue and green globe rupturing and churning with his blow.
These and a hundred more recollections of foes and victories long gone flickered in his mind as he went to war against the shadows. Each one showed him the errors, the off-timing, the single unstrained muscle. What had sufficed in the past would no longer.
Vegeta, Saiya-jin no Ouji, was - despite all his skill, training, experience, and grace - still not the best. For this he now braved the intense gravity and fought off exhaustion and collapse as long as possible.
"Kakarotto," he hissed under his breath. Imagining the goofy third class warrior brought a dark scowl to his face, deepening the lines about the bridge of his nose and forehead. The power that one idiot held was amazing.
Another kick higher than his shoulder, then a punch low into his invisible enemy's gut. It was becoming easier to move now; less strain on his muscles, less choppy movement. He gave himself a moment's pause to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of one gloved hand. It was singed from ki and one finger poked through. He'd need new ones again.
"Computer, increase gravity to three seventy-five," he called to the air. The machines in the center of the domed building beeped, then the engines whirred louder a moment. Quickly the pressure rose again. The air pressed down harder on his head, shoulders, and the arm he held outstretched.
Once again it was a struggle to move against the heavy, compresed air. It was very much similar to a human child wading through water and trying to walk normally. It made him compensate awkwardly a few moments as he experimented with it. Soon his movements began to become smoother again as his finely-tuned body adapted. It was still hard work, of course, but he managed to regain his natural grace. Then the routine began all over again.