A/N: Thank you nashi. You are my number one cracker. ^_^
Chapter 7: Triumph
The darkness was unlimited, comforting, like an enveloping blanket that keeps you eternally warm. The lack of feeling in all its glory, bestowed upon him the absence of failure, as well as the general lack of pain that accompanied being second best. His physical and mental body were one, each playing on the other's general lack of vitality. And he was alone, so blissfully alone, because now he didn't have to live up to any standards, or have any responsibilities. He was just suspended in an endless abyss of darkness that seemed to sing him lullabies with its silence. It was as if he was in a state of partial awareness, as if he was perpetually half-asleep. He was slowly drifting away, lazily, down the river of Styx.
Then, subtly, a shadow of something moved about, catching his tired eyes. He slowly turned to examine his surroundings, despite the fact he was completely aware of everything. Confirming his results, he returned to his relaxed, emotionless state, when suddenly, there was another small glimmer. Small, almost non-existent, but surely there; he let curiosity arise in him. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't harmful, otherwise he would have detected the threat immediately. Although, if he was attacked at this moment, there would be absolutely no way for him to shield himself, though this realization hadn't occurred to him, since it was too stressful of a notion to process at the moment. Unconsciously, he pushed everything detrimental aside, even if he had to use negative means, such as denial, to do so.
With slight, gentle, force, the glimpse of something else pressed on, becoming larger. There was something being offered somehow, he could feel it in the core of his being. He did the equivalent of sniffing it out, and he found it to be not only benign, but hesitant on its part, as if it wasn't sure that it should be there, as if it wasn't sure what would happen to it because of its location. Like a lost puppy following him home, he drew in this small treasure, as he was sure that this is what it was.
Due to the hospitality, and general lack of foreshadowing, he dared to give it a closer look. He pulled it near to give it his full attention, and full examination. It was something foreign within him, but it wasn't forceful, so he welcomed it. It prodded gingerly, asking for acceptance: he gave in to it willingly. Instantly, a flood of half-written memories came over him, racing through periods of anxiety, ignoring the brief flashes of pain. It discarded the worry, the sadness, the fear - but it offered something that was worth so much more, especially to him.
There were nameless faces, bland figures, but powerful, riveting associations. The odd smell of unacceptableness wafted in and consumed his nose, making it crinkle in disdain. It was a scent of danger, the scent of...power. Danger with power. Power that was greater than his. He should have felt afraid, he should have been trying to think of ways to save his skin, but instead he could only think of that Earthling saying: "The bigger they are, the harder they fall." He wasn't going to show emotions his enemies could feed off of. He wasn't going to give them reasons to walk all over him. Even if he was to be defeated, he would do it with this head held up high. Unbreakable, unmoving, like a mountain.
The gift persisted, as if nudging him on like there was more to see. He felt confident that he could withstand whatever was being dished out, so he continued on this trek, this exploration. More blank people, and again that smell of unwanted attention. And yet, this time, there was another smell, the certain stench of a cold sweat. A worried sweat - from his enemies no less. It made him feel proud that though the handicap was upon him, he could still cause the mighty to tremble before him. He swelled and beamed inside of himself, but only for a moment, for he wouldn't, and couldn't let such things get to his head, otherwise it would cost him dearly. Fights were executed, arms and legs, fists and feet, flying about, some landing hits, some hitting him. He persisted, never dare considering giving up, never daring to consider abandoning the things he was protecting. And even after all was said and done and fought, he let the others leave the fight with their souls intact with their bodies. This was his honor, this is what truly fed his pride.
There were times now, coming to him, times lacking constant threats, and instead giving relaxation. The feeling of the sun's rays warming his skin. The soft breeze caressing him, running through his hair in gentle waves. The pleasant scent of nature so strong that with your eyes shut you could not tell where earth ended and sky began. The sound of running water murmuring old tales to him, lulling him off to sleep. And then, again, there was a stark exchange. There was activity, but it was welcomed. His muscles stretching, his nerve endings tingling, his heart thumping enthusiastically from the prospect of what he lived for. Fighting. He never turned down a challenge, but he never instigated one either; the reason simply being that he bent to the wishes of the ones he cared about, and he wouldn't endanger himself simply for his own enjoyment.
Then there was a pain. A pain unlike that he had ever felt before. It wasn't physical, but he was well educated in the art of non-bodily injury. It was the pain of silent rejection. A rejection of one's self knowingly. The denial, the disbelief of the proof worked for only so long before he embraced the truth. He embraced it and rose above it. He accepted his status, and then created his own. The pain had transpired into pride.
Then, a great thing coursed through his veins. Something he had achieved, but never fully mastered. There was a power, from him, over people. Others were weak, and he was strong - so very strong. With this, he could do anything, but his will kept him from straying. His ambition sealed his fate. He would not go looking for a fight, but come to meet one if it was advancing upon himself, or his residence. He had everything he wanted, so why was he not out there, living? He never felt more alive then when he was threatened, whether the threat was docile - friendly - or aggressive - hostile - from a disturbed individual to a life-long companion. It was something instinctual, in his nature, unchangeable, unbreakable. He was unbreakable. His body could be beaten, but his mind and soul would forever be untainted. He refused to be broken.
Scars began to heal.
Warmth came next, glorious warmth like that of the sun on a spring day. It was different, however, because it radiated onto every inch, seeped into every pore, soothed every ache imaginable. He felt relaxation, himself drifting. It was splendor, a great gift, one of the greatest he had ever received. Warmth. And with it came another; another feeling so foreign it exalted him momentarily, till it faded and he just felt, wallowing in it. Safety. He felt safe. Not just because he could protect himself, that he could protect others, but because this warm imperfection convinced him, without persuasion and without promise, that he merely was safe. No harm would come to him. Not now, not ever again. At least, for this moment. And this moment was eternity, and it was all that mattered.
Sensation, a notion, an innuendo of a presence. He wasn't alone, he was here with the gift-bearer, he could feel it now. It failed to startle him, failed to cause anxiety, or wonder, or nervousness. He opened up willingly to the intangible unknown, unworryingly. He was safe. The presence came forth, slowly, hesitantly, submissively. No harm would come to him.. A flicker of emotion sent - a relaxed invitation - a hello. Gently a response, an emotion sent back. Curiosity. A reply - assurance. In return, timid - questionative. Confusion was felt by the possibility of multiple meanings. Clarification - quiet, almost small. Misunderstanding. Persistence. Refusal. A plea.
The plea felt awkward, as if out of place. Somehow the plea was a sign. He hadn't expected it in the slightest. He almost felt flattered. Patience. He contemplated slightly before deciding to give in. The question "why?" had to be answered. Words, almost formed, the ideas being bounced back and forth from the outside force. Structure was being built, like a miniature city within the bounds of infinity within himself. The architect unknown. His pulse quickened. The gift-bearer presented more, prodding with a bit more confidence. Something said unspoken, something that triggered an intense avalanche. A rush of deconstruction, making his senses turn hyper-active, swept through him, capturing any and everything non-domestic. He refused.
The scars were still there.
He denied the invader any more dwelling within the inner-most sanctum. Another plea. It was ignored. Repeated again, louder, more anxious. His comfortable solitude was broken, he bitterly realized, and he would not be left alone, not anymore. Rampant, seething, anger began to encompass him as he clasped onto the intruder as in a moment of panic, it, or they, began to flee. He felt a surge of rage from his awareness. The trespasser's presence shrunk pathetically, trying vainly to escape him. He ripped the gifts from their places and discarded them carelessly, assured by his apprehension that they were not all that they appeared to be. Nothing ever was. Partially unwillingly, and partially on purpose, he sent his hostility to the presence he had ensnared. It thrashed in a futile attempt to wrench itself out of his hold.
He was being flooded by emotions, all that had been neatly tucked away and forgotten, that had been replaced with lethargy. The darkness lost its comfort, and had morphed into a type of threat, to not only the visitor, but to the owner. Rationality sunk its shameful teeth into him, jolting him free from his delusional world. Clarity shocked him to the core, realization joining the fray. Almost shyly he relaxed his grip on the presence, venturing a try at communication.
'..Kakkarot?'
A soft, near silent reply, 'Yes, Vegeta..?'
Abruptly, the younger Saijin found his eyes opening to the hospital room, his head resting on Vegeta's shoulder. Trunks was sitting in a chair, staring at them with a look of concentration etched on his face. Goku sat up and was about to speak when Trunks suddenly approached the head of the bed.
"Papa!" he cried out in pure joy.
Chapter 7: Triumph
The darkness was unlimited, comforting, like an enveloping blanket that keeps you eternally warm. The lack of feeling in all its glory, bestowed upon him the absence of failure, as well as the general lack of pain that accompanied being second best. His physical and mental body were one, each playing on the other's general lack of vitality. And he was alone, so blissfully alone, because now he didn't have to live up to any standards, or have any responsibilities. He was just suspended in an endless abyss of darkness that seemed to sing him lullabies with its silence. It was as if he was in a state of partial awareness, as if he was perpetually half-asleep. He was slowly drifting away, lazily, down the river of Styx.
Then, subtly, a shadow of something moved about, catching his tired eyes. He slowly turned to examine his surroundings, despite the fact he was completely aware of everything. Confirming his results, he returned to his relaxed, emotionless state, when suddenly, there was another small glimmer. Small, almost non-existent, but surely there; he let curiosity arise in him. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't harmful, otherwise he would have detected the threat immediately. Although, if he was attacked at this moment, there would be absolutely no way for him to shield himself, though this realization hadn't occurred to him, since it was too stressful of a notion to process at the moment. Unconsciously, he pushed everything detrimental aside, even if he had to use negative means, such as denial, to do so.
With slight, gentle, force, the glimpse of something else pressed on, becoming larger. There was something being offered somehow, he could feel it in the core of his being. He did the equivalent of sniffing it out, and he found it to be not only benign, but hesitant on its part, as if it wasn't sure that it should be there, as if it wasn't sure what would happen to it because of its location. Like a lost puppy following him home, he drew in this small treasure, as he was sure that this is what it was.
Due to the hospitality, and general lack of foreshadowing, he dared to give it a closer look. He pulled it near to give it his full attention, and full examination. It was something foreign within him, but it wasn't forceful, so he welcomed it. It prodded gingerly, asking for acceptance: he gave in to it willingly. Instantly, a flood of half-written memories came over him, racing through periods of anxiety, ignoring the brief flashes of pain. It discarded the worry, the sadness, the fear - but it offered something that was worth so much more, especially to him.
There were nameless faces, bland figures, but powerful, riveting associations. The odd smell of unacceptableness wafted in and consumed his nose, making it crinkle in disdain. It was a scent of danger, the scent of...power. Danger with power. Power that was greater than his. He should have felt afraid, he should have been trying to think of ways to save his skin, but instead he could only think of that Earthling saying: "The bigger they are, the harder they fall." He wasn't going to show emotions his enemies could feed off of. He wasn't going to give them reasons to walk all over him. Even if he was to be defeated, he would do it with this head held up high. Unbreakable, unmoving, like a mountain.
The gift persisted, as if nudging him on like there was more to see. He felt confident that he could withstand whatever was being dished out, so he continued on this trek, this exploration. More blank people, and again that smell of unwanted attention. And yet, this time, there was another smell, the certain stench of a cold sweat. A worried sweat - from his enemies no less. It made him feel proud that though the handicap was upon him, he could still cause the mighty to tremble before him. He swelled and beamed inside of himself, but only for a moment, for he wouldn't, and couldn't let such things get to his head, otherwise it would cost him dearly. Fights were executed, arms and legs, fists and feet, flying about, some landing hits, some hitting him. He persisted, never dare considering giving up, never daring to consider abandoning the things he was protecting. And even after all was said and done and fought, he let the others leave the fight with their souls intact with their bodies. This was his honor, this is what truly fed his pride.
There were times now, coming to him, times lacking constant threats, and instead giving relaxation. The feeling of the sun's rays warming his skin. The soft breeze caressing him, running through his hair in gentle waves. The pleasant scent of nature so strong that with your eyes shut you could not tell where earth ended and sky began. The sound of running water murmuring old tales to him, lulling him off to sleep. And then, again, there was a stark exchange. There was activity, but it was welcomed. His muscles stretching, his nerve endings tingling, his heart thumping enthusiastically from the prospect of what he lived for. Fighting. He never turned down a challenge, but he never instigated one either; the reason simply being that he bent to the wishes of the ones he cared about, and he wouldn't endanger himself simply for his own enjoyment.
Then there was a pain. A pain unlike that he had ever felt before. It wasn't physical, but he was well educated in the art of non-bodily injury. It was the pain of silent rejection. A rejection of one's self knowingly. The denial, the disbelief of the proof worked for only so long before he embraced the truth. He embraced it and rose above it. He accepted his status, and then created his own. The pain had transpired into pride.
Then, a great thing coursed through his veins. Something he had achieved, but never fully mastered. There was a power, from him, over people. Others were weak, and he was strong - so very strong. With this, he could do anything, but his will kept him from straying. His ambition sealed his fate. He would not go looking for a fight, but come to meet one if it was advancing upon himself, or his residence. He had everything he wanted, so why was he not out there, living? He never felt more alive then when he was threatened, whether the threat was docile - friendly - or aggressive - hostile - from a disturbed individual to a life-long companion. It was something instinctual, in his nature, unchangeable, unbreakable. He was unbreakable. His body could be beaten, but his mind and soul would forever be untainted. He refused to be broken.
Scars began to heal.
Warmth came next, glorious warmth like that of the sun on a spring day. It was different, however, because it radiated onto every inch, seeped into every pore, soothed every ache imaginable. He felt relaxation, himself drifting. It was splendor, a great gift, one of the greatest he had ever received. Warmth. And with it came another; another feeling so foreign it exalted him momentarily, till it faded and he just felt, wallowing in it. Safety. He felt safe. Not just because he could protect himself, that he could protect others, but because this warm imperfection convinced him, without persuasion and without promise, that he merely was safe. No harm would come to him. Not now, not ever again. At least, for this moment. And this moment was eternity, and it was all that mattered.
Sensation, a notion, an innuendo of a presence. He wasn't alone, he was here with the gift-bearer, he could feel it now. It failed to startle him, failed to cause anxiety, or wonder, or nervousness. He opened up willingly to the intangible unknown, unworryingly. He was safe. The presence came forth, slowly, hesitantly, submissively. No harm would come to him.. A flicker of emotion sent - a relaxed invitation - a hello. Gently a response, an emotion sent back. Curiosity. A reply - assurance. In return, timid - questionative. Confusion was felt by the possibility of multiple meanings. Clarification - quiet, almost small. Misunderstanding. Persistence. Refusal. A plea.
The plea felt awkward, as if out of place. Somehow the plea was a sign. He hadn't expected it in the slightest. He almost felt flattered. Patience. He contemplated slightly before deciding to give in. The question "why?" had to be answered. Words, almost formed, the ideas being bounced back and forth from the outside force. Structure was being built, like a miniature city within the bounds of infinity within himself. The architect unknown. His pulse quickened. The gift-bearer presented more, prodding with a bit more confidence. Something said unspoken, something that triggered an intense avalanche. A rush of deconstruction, making his senses turn hyper-active, swept through him, capturing any and everything non-domestic. He refused.
The scars were still there.
He denied the invader any more dwelling within the inner-most sanctum. Another plea. It was ignored. Repeated again, louder, more anxious. His comfortable solitude was broken, he bitterly realized, and he would not be left alone, not anymore. Rampant, seething, anger began to encompass him as he clasped onto the intruder as in a moment of panic, it, or they, began to flee. He felt a surge of rage from his awareness. The trespasser's presence shrunk pathetically, trying vainly to escape him. He ripped the gifts from their places and discarded them carelessly, assured by his apprehension that they were not all that they appeared to be. Nothing ever was. Partially unwillingly, and partially on purpose, he sent his hostility to the presence he had ensnared. It thrashed in a futile attempt to wrench itself out of his hold.
He was being flooded by emotions, all that had been neatly tucked away and forgotten, that had been replaced with lethargy. The darkness lost its comfort, and had morphed into a type of threat, to not only the visitor, but to the owner. Rationality sunk its shameful teeth into him, jolting him free from his delusional world. Clarity shocked him to the core, realization joining the fray. Almost shyly he relaxed his grip on the presence, venturing a try at communication.
'..Kakkarot?'
A soft, near silent reply, 'Yes, Vegeta..?'
Abruptly, the younger Saijin found his eyes opening to the hospital room, his head resting on Vegeta's shoulder. Trunks was sitting in a chair, staring at them with a look of concentration etched on his face. Goku sat up and was about to speak when Trunks suddenly approached the head of the bed.
"Papa!" he cried out in pure joy.