[ P R I N C I P L E S ]
i am who i am who i am...
but who am i?
He was so tense it hurt. His muscles were coiled, stiff
and taut. There was a low, groaning creaking sound, that echoed all around him.
He cringed, his body tightening impossibly more, his spine tightening like a
bow. He shivered and took a deep breath, trying to regain his senses. He was
horizontal, laying on some cold, hard floor. The air smelt stale.
Slowly, he lifted himself up on his elbow. His arm spasmed and he
twisted around on his back before he collapsed and then proceeded to sit up from
there. He found that the left arm was numb.
It was so dark. And quiet.
Was he dead? But being dead hurt. Forever. He couldn't be dead. He drew in
another gulp of air, gathered his sporadic strength and stood the rest of the
way up. His right arm out in front of him, feeling for any obstacles, his left
arm frozen curled around his stomach, he managed to find a doorknob. After a
moment's hesitation, he stepped out.
Ah, merciful light. However dim as
it was, it was light, and as soon as his eyes adjusted he took full advantage of
what so many too for granted and gazed around. He was staring at a wall. To the
right was where the light was coming from; squinting, he could faintly see
furniture. Must be a living room. He turned carefully, not wanting to lose his
balance. He had just come out of a bathroom. Since when did he sleep in the
bathroom? He treaded slowly into the living room.
Craigie...?
Who else would it be? He was sprawled out on a hide-away bed, a TV
blaring. Some old black and white movie was on. Vejiita bit his lip and frowned,
and headed to the kitchen that was across from the television set. He turned on
the faucet at the sink and cupped his hands under the water, then splashed it on
his face. The cool liquid did little to clear his mind.
Where was he?
When he first saw Craig, he had first imagined that he was still living at
Freeza's headquarters, waking up from the usual nightmares preceding a day of
bloodshed. It never came to mind that everything that had happened between
leaving Freeza's headquarters for good and settling on Earth was all just a
dream; Vejiita never dreamed. Or, if he did, it was labeled a "hallucination."
But this wasn't a hallucination.. He was pretty sure of that, at least. It was
too real. Hallucinations, or whatever what might be distorting his perception at
the time, never resembled anything real.
He gripped the sides of the
counter, which was damp from the water that had dripped of his face and littered
with grease-stained paper plates and old take-out bags and silverware. All he
could here was his own harsh breathing. It sounded especially loud in his ears.
He peeked through one eye, gazing at his left arm. It was shaking
unnaturally, his fingers gripping so hard his knuckles were white. He tenderly
touched it with his other hand, then pinched hard. He didn't feel anything. He
tried to relax his death-grip on the counter, and the concentration it took for
him to do so showed plainly across his face.
"Dammit..," he swore
softly, tears of frustration brimming, almost but not quite flowing over. He
felt so helpless, unable to even ease-up the muscles of his arm. He spied a
small knife in the sink, one just barely large enough to slice an apple in half.
He snatched it and held it close to his face, examining the edges. Deliberately,
he lowered it to his arm.
He could not stand this numbness. This
numbness that seeped into his brain. He pressed the tip of the blade in first.
He felt nothing, but his heart started beating all the same. He positioned the
blade flatter, and pressed harder, and drew it across his skin. There–! He felt
something. He hiccupped softly and stopped cutting. Blood slowly dripped
from the two-inch long wound. He did it again; slicing at a slight angle to the
first slash.
He slumped against the counter and stared at the two small
wounds. They were minuscule wounds compared to any random injury he had endured
in his life. But, tonight, they meant so much. They meant pain, and in that,
success. Pain was good.
The blood hemorrhaged down his arm into the
crook of his elbow. It gradually overflowed there and dripped onto the linoleum
of the floor. He heard the faint splash of liquid hitting floor. It startled
him.
Vejiita dropped the knife still gripped in his right hand and threw
back his head and screamed.
He woke slowly, trying to ignore
horrible sharp spot of pain in his back. He twisted around, not quite
stretching, simply trying to find a position that would put less stress on it.
He quickly stopped, however, when he heard a horrible grating sound accompanied
with the surface he was leaning against slowly suddenly give away. His head
something hard and all was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, fearfully, he
opened his eyes, hoping to see something other than the impassive darkness.
Luck– He could see! He blinked a few times just to make sure it was for real. He
had a horrible habit of second-guessing himself. He had a great view of an
upturned chair and the bottom of a card table.
He swallowed, wincing,
his throat painfully sore. He sighed and stretched half-heartedly, his attempts
of waking up once again rewarded by inexplicable aches. He cut short his yawn
and drew his partially out-stretched arms around his midriff. He was shivering.
He turned over and crawled up from under the table. Had to quit dreaming and
wake up.
He bent his arm back, quite irritated at a stubborn substance
that he found making movement a hassle. Blood. He stared at his bloodstained arm
and shirt, and made the mistake of swallowing again. Should he be surprised? He,
of all people, should expect to wake up to the sight of blood. He walked
awkwardly to the kitchen sink, twisted the faucet on, and positioned his
discolored arm under the freezing water. He could only stand the cold for a few
moments, however, and discontinued his washing-up prematurely.
Where he
was standing, at the barrier between the kitchen and the living room, there was
a window, half-covered by a thin pillow cover, to his far right. It was just
barely dawn. Ahead of him was the pull-out sofa-bed Craig, his limbs sprawled
out and entangled with the sheets, a worse mess than last night. There was a
window behind the sofa, as well, but it was obscured more thoroughly but a sheet
so it was hardly detectable. He maneuvered his way between the narrow space
between the TV set and the end of the sofa-bed successfully, and rested on the
arm rest of the couch.
Craig was sleeping so soundly – Vejiita hated to
wake him up, though it was tempting. His thoughts hardly lingered on how he
slept through Vejiita's earlier howling this morning. The explanation was
obvious, considering his history. He focused instead on the television program.
If he recalled correctly, there was a black and white movie on when he first
passed through this room. He found himself staring at a grayscale screen this
morning. He wondered when Craig's interest in classic movies developed.
After countless minutes sitting numbly and staring at a gray, blurry
screen, something else catches his attention. It is the green digital clock
sitting on top of the television set. The numbers had all switched in unison, to
6:00. For no good reason, his gaze automatically went to Craigie, as if the
change of the hour would mean he would wake. No such luck.
He must have
fallen into a light doze, or spaced out, more likely. Either way, he came to at
a touch, a tense squeezing around his ankle. His reaction was a sporadic jerk,
so violent he lost his balance on the arm rest and slipped onto the mattress.
Craig seemed to be most startled to have Vejiita fall from nowhere right
next to him. He blinked a few times before mutter, with a strange, lopsided
grin, "Hey, there, mornin'."
Vejiita frowned. "When where you going to
inform me that you were here?"
He rubbed his eyes and shook his head,
rolling around and sitting up. "I've been here since October, smart one."
"October?" Vejiita repeated, dread washing over him. Craig made it seem
like it was such a long time ago — "What's the date today?" he asked, almost
desperately.
Craig, who was in mid-stretch, moaned and then said, "Hell
if I know. Some time in December, maybe?" He shrugged.
December. It had
only been in the middle of November yesterday! He slumped into the cheap
mattress. A month. A month was a long time, especially so someone who couldn't
remember a time he spent more than three days as himself. The terrible truth was
searing a hole in his consciousness.
"Have you seen my keys, Chesta?"
Chesta. Chester. That name... Such a strange name. Vejiita had
accumulated many nicknames throughout his life, the memorable ones received with
Craig at his side or by Craig himself, and rarely had they ever been flattering.
But this Chester.... Vejiita wracked his mind, trying to grasp on to a ghost of
an idea.
Then he remembered the crumbled up ball over paper set
somewhere on his desk back at Capsule Corp. It spoke of a stranger who called
himself Chester who all too frequently possessed him. He and the other
strangers. And here, his only friend in the universe, the only creature who he
had though to really know him, could not even tell the difference between
the real Vejiita and the imposter.
"Dammit, I can't find my keys." Craig
sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, Vejiita saw him shrug. "Oh well.. I'm
gunna take a shower, kay? I really stink." Craig said this humorously.
Frustrated and upset, Vejiita pulled himself out of the mattress and
pushed aside the makeshift curtain. Though it was early, the weak morning
sunlight reflected strongly of the piles of pure white snow coating the
buildings and streets that made up the view. He cringed at the glare and nearly
withdrew, but the unwelcoming darkness of Craig's apartment wasn't where he
wanted to think today. The smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol – and God knows
what else – were not calming.
With considerable difficulty, Vejiita
heaved the frost-incrusted window up and stepped out onto the fire-escape. It
was freezing – he welcomed the bitter wind. It proved he was alive. He shut the
dirty window partially and sat in the snow, resting against the side of the
brick apartment building. He tucked his hands under his arms to cease their
shaking and curled his toes nervously. He inhaled deeply; the fresh smell of
snow intermingled with car exhaust.
He bowed his head and tightened his
arms around himself more securely. His feet were numb by now. His half-lidded
eyes rested on his left arm. It was still blood-stained, however faintly. He had
failed earlier to wipe off the water, so it had dried with an unmistakable pink
tint to it. He considered his actions earlier this morning. It had all made
sense at one a.m. He supposed it was all for the best; the two slices on his
wrist didn't even itch, must less hurt. Mere scratches, he dismissed.
A scraping sound to his left startled him. Craig stuck his head out,
looking around, apparently taken aback by the bright landscape as much as
Vejiita had been, for he was squinting royally. He finally spied Vejiita and
clambered out.
He shivered. "Kinda cold out, isn't it?" He shook his
head, his hair still damp from his shower.
Vejiita looked away. "It's a
bit chilly." He glanced below. Most of the snow that had collected on this
fire-escape had fallen through the wire mesh floor when he had sat down. He
could clearly see two large, dark green Dumpsters directly beneath him in a
snowy, vacant alley way. He wondered how many stories up they were.
Craig was saying something. "What?" asked Vejiita.
"You look
sad." Vejiita thought he heard concern, true concern in the other's voice. He
rubbed his face.
"No. Just kind of tired."
He laughed. His
laughter is different from the last time I heard him laugh, Vejiita thought.
"Yeah, I believe you," Craig said.
A dull throb, soon promising a
relieving numbness, worked its way slowly up his legs. He shifted uncomfortably.
"You believe me?" he repeated. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Craig
was still blinking and looking around, his eyes narrow slits. Vejiita guessed
that it had been awhile since he had last seen natural light. Or any light, at
that. "I dunno. You just came here all upset and stuff." He chuckled, his voice
still hoarse from sleep. He patted Vejiita's knee with something other than
companionable affection. "I guess I would be too, with the shit you got into."
Vejiita's throat tightened. "Shit? Craig, what happened?" The other
Saiyajin obtained an untypical expression of disquieted bewilderment.
"You... Are someone different now," he concluded aloud.
He
sucked in a deep breath. "No," he said firmly. "I'm who I am,
alright?"
"Alright, calm down—" Vejiita sighed and tipped his head back.
"I'm just saying you're different form before. It's hard for me to keep you all
straight." Vejiita flinched at his wording. Keep you all straight...
Craig continued uncertainly. He was horribly out of place here, trying to
explain a complicated situation to a touching Saiyajin. "I guess.. Chester's
been here most often." He cleared his throat. He was finished.
After a
moment, Vejiita took a deep breath. There was no reason to get upset about this.
"So.. Tell me what happened?"
Craig shook his head, shrugged. He flashed
Vejiita an apologizing look. "I don't know." He paused, collecting his thoughts.
Vejiita inhaled deeply again, trying to relax his tense shoulders. If he didn't
relax he was going to cramp up or get a stiff neck. "You came here, two or three
weeks ago.." He rubbed his ear, trying to remember. "You looked kinda flustered,
or something. Like you had just been in a fight."
"A fight?" he said
softly. He nodded.
"But you didn't say. You just looked. Looked kinda
messed up, scattered. I let you in, like, you took a shower... Then fell asleep
and the next morning, you know. You just moved in."
Vejiita swallowed
uneasily and said, "A fight," he repeated.
"Or something."
"Did
I say anything else?"
Craig shifted so he was crouching on his toes
instead of sitting in the snow. Vejiita silently blessed Craig for not making a
big deal about all these questions. "You said nothin'. I just all assumed."
Vejiita nodded. He supposed that out of everyone, Craig knew him best. Craig
could decipher his obscure moods, what the silent responses meant. There was
probably a fight. A bad fight.
The other suddenly pressed his finger to
the two slashes on his arm. "What happened here?" Vejiita jerked away, replacing
the wounded wrist under his arm. He felt guilty about them.
"Nothing
happened," he said frigidly. Craig shrugged. A moment later, he got up and went
back inside, clumsily crawling through the half-open window. He left Vejiita
outside. It's because of the cold, he told himself. He got cold.
Son Gokou had been laying half awake, half asleep in bed when he
heard a smacking sound against his window. He was about to ignore it and curl up
to go back to dreaming between the shores of joy and slumber, when he heard the
wet smacking sound again, louder. He recognized the sound as a slush ball being
thrown against a solid surface. Was Goten outside already, playing in the snow?
Now annoyed, he pulled himself out of the nice warm bed and stumbled to the
window. The snow of small yard and forest area surrounding it were tinted
reddish-orange from the slowly rising sun. Near the forest, he saw something
move quickly. He reached out his senses and caught a whiff of a ki he hadn't
felt in weeks. Silently, he pulled some clothes on and hurried outside.
"Vejiita?" he said softly. Had it all been a dream? He studied the
ground, searching for foot prints that looked fresh. No, he and Goten had had a
snow ball fight yesterday, and it hadn't snowed again since.
Vejiita was
an obscure guy. Although it wasn't his nature to hide, it wasn't like him to
throw slush balls instead banging on his door either. Lurking in wait, however,
was more like him. He headed towards the forest.
Sure enough, only a few
feet in, an ice cold hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder, locking him in
place. He was a sight. He was shivering vehemently, his eyes narrowed in
something else than irritation. He was dressed in nothing but a short-sleeved
blue t-shirt and a pair of khaki cords, ripped at one knee, his feet in black
athletic shoes that looked like they had been chewed on by dogs. He noted with
some interest a silver hoop pierced in the cartilage of his upper left ear.
Vejiita didn't remove his hand; if anything, he tightened. Gokou finally
turned and pried his hand, red with frostbite, off his arm. "Vejiita," he said
in acknowledgment. A light went on in his eyes. He nodded. He seemed pleased.
Gokou frowned. "Come with me inside." Vejiita followed after a moment of
thought.
It was barely eight a.m. on a Sunday morning. Chichi and Goten
would be sleeping in for at least an hour longer, as Gokou had originally
planned. Studying Vejiita, Gokou wondered why he didn't have that nauseous
feeling in the pit of his stomach like the last time he had seen him. Maybe it
was the paranoid darting of Vejiita's eyes, or the slight tic of one of his
eyebrows. His over all appearance was not that of intimidation. Or murder.
But... What was he to believe? The nervous wreck or the killer Vejiita had
proved he still was?
Vejiita cleared his throat. "Kakarotto.. Quit
looking at me like that." Gokou blinked, and looked away.
The other
Saiyajin sighed miserably and fell back into a chair. "I don't like the way you
were looking at me." Gokou was about to reply, but he wasn't finished. "I don't
know why you're staring at me like that. I didn't do anything wrong. I never
did. I swear. So quit looking at me."
He hesitated before finally
speaking. He didn't think he was looking at him in any particular way.
"Vejiita," he began, "you did do something wrong—"
"No, I didn't."
Gokou frowned, beginning to go from frustrated and confused to angry. "I
think that killing your own son is doing something wrong, Vejiita." He regretted
it as soon as the words were out.
His head snapped up, his eyes wide and
horrified. He murmured a hoarse curse and stood up, knocking the wooden chair to
the floor. Vejiita looked around, in a panic, and spotted the door. Even though
he was still soaking wet and shivering from his skulking in the forest, Vejiita
made a mad dash to the door.
Listening to his instincts, Gokou followed
close behind.
He couldn't have... They couldn't have... He was
lying, the boy wasn't dead!
Vejiita soared through the air, on the brink
of going super Saiyajin, leaving a yellowish-white streak of exploited ki in his
wake, blending almost perfectly in to the sky. He fought to keep his cool;
usually when he lost time, the last thing he remembered was nervousness or panic
or danger. Then nothing. But occasionally he felt himself gradually blacking
out. He tried to keep his senses.
It wouldn't be so bad if they
stayed within my ethnic code, he thought bitterly to himself, turning
slightly east. He didn't even notice Kakarotto directly behind him, pursuing
him.
He landed hard in the yard of the housing buildings of Capsule
Corp., nearly flipping over when his feet hit the slippery ground. He swallowed
nervously, his throat sorer than ever. Okay, ahead of him was the gravity room.
To his right was home.
"Vejiita!"
The voice was loud, but not
harsh. He didn't move. Kakarotto came up to him. "Vejiita," he said again.
"Relax."
"He's dead, and I'm supposed to relax?" he all but screamed. He
heard him sigh.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to upset
you. He's not really dead..."
"Then why did you say that?" he asked
stiffly, the words noticeably forced to hide the dread. He feared the answer.
But none came. "Where is he?" Vejiita settled on asking. He had to be bad
if the damage was so horrible that Kakarotto couldn't even speak of it.
"Follow me." His words were less than a whisper. Vejiita followed him
again, the world black and silent, save the blurry sight and soft sound of
Kakarotto's feet.
^^^^^^^^^^^^
It was a calm night. Half the sky
showed the heavens, clearly showing a black sky speckled with twinkled dots,
stars and suns of worlds that would never be visited by the natives of this one.
The other half of the sky was black also, but it was an obstructing black, that
gave not a beautiful sight but ice crystals. Snow fells softly on the ground,
promising another few inches to the already vast snow drifts.
It would
have been a decent sight, thought Montgomery, had it not been so cold. And
distracting at that. He slammed the gravity room door solidly, knocking the
gathering snow off the top of the circular building.
With Kakarotto
leaving him alone unless beckoned for some formal sparring, Montgomery had been
able to catch up on the training time that Chester and Vejiita so smoothly
dismissed. They sickened him sometimes, even more than Kakarotto. They had no
pride in their heritage, no dignity in themselves. Fortunately for them all,
Montgomery was more than happy to carry the taxing burden of keeping the body
fit and healthy.
He repressed a slight shiver.
He didn't care
for Earth's constant interchanging seasons and climates — he couldn't name Fall,
Winter, Spring, Summer in order to save his life — but the snow was mesmerizing.
Never, in all his life, in all his travels from world to world, had he ever some
across precipitation in the form of ice. Rarely did any world have such an
imperfect axis. Earth was a one of a kind, that was sure. And it's uniqueness
was slowly but surely driving him crazy, if not just off task.
He
snarled to himself and bit the palm of his hand in frustration. Get on task,
you fucking idiot. You beginning to become like Hardy!
Glancing at
the digital clock built into the gravity console, he was pleased to see that at
least the time was being cooperative. Only ten p.m., plenty of time for a
good workout before morning! He programmed the complex computer with out
difficulty, his eyes sliding from the clock to the gravity indicator screen. The
lights dulled to a moribund red.
Conditioned to this change, after over
a decade of this sort of training, Montgomery could scarcely keep his mind from
shutting out all outside nuisances, concentrating just on himself, his body. On
the workout; all that mattered.
A severe banging sound successfully
roused him from his hypnotic work out making his head throb for more reasons
than one. He could tell by the ki, strong but squelched, that it was Trunks.
That damn boy. Occasionally he was good for drilling with, but tonight he wanted
precious privacy. "Trunks, go the hell away!" he hollered.
Trunks
replied, but his words were muffled, lost in the wind and between the multiple
layers of steel the incased the gravity room. The lights suddenly shifted into a
blaring white, successfully and completely snapping Montgomery from the
atmosphere he had so carefully orchestrated in the room. Damn that boy and his
emergency key.
The nasty hybrid had no idea what it took for him to get
a good work out these days. Kakarotto's senseless companionship and Craig and
his tempting narcotics were always right under his nose. In addition to that, he
had yet to stamp out the noise in the back of his head. His time in this room
was his time. Not the hours spent stoned in the laundry room with Craig.
Not the high-strung sparring sessions with Kakarotto. He trained so often for
more than exercise, he trained to think.
His sight darkening, the
edges red, he stalked over to the exit, swinging it open before Trunks had a
chance to do so himself. He grabbed the teenager by the throat and flung him in
the room. Through a hail-storm of obscenities, he made out, "Why the fuck are
you disturbing me, you cur?"
Trunks flinched visibly, rubbing his
bruised neck. "I – I just haven't seen you around lately.. I was worried about
you...?" The explanation ended in a meek question. Normally, his father didn't
get this angry when disturbed, just extremely annoyed.
Montgomery
didn't even hear the boy's retort. The entire evening was ruined, and all he had
to look forward in the morning was a splitting head ache and a sore throat.
Damn, was he yelling loud. Screaming, cursing the boy and his human heritage.
When he looked at this creature, curled up against the console, more afraid of
his father than he ever remembered in his life, it triggered something in him,
buried deep under years of repression.
A response to fear.
What
he loathed, what he fed on, what he feared himself. Fear was bad.
...For
Trunks, anyway.
As it always had been when he was younger, when he had
beaten down an opponent – in routine training periods or on the job – he had
always killed them, whether he really wanted to or not. Fear was not tolerated.
Fear in a father? Even worse. It was mutiny!
Mutiny.
Well, that was what he was made for! Senseless murder, chaos, fire!
Mutiny on the lords who owned him! As easy as one would draw in a breath, and as
frantically as a man struggling for air, Rob mentally throttled Montgomery and
tossed him aside. He did it! The provoking obstacle was removed.
A
fleeting victory, forgotten as soon as it was acknowledged. Montgomery was no
longer an issue, but his prey was. Wide-eyed and already bleeding, the child
stared at him, as if he could tell that the merciful, righteous Montgomery was
gone. He whispered something, a quavering word asking for pity. Father..!
The meaning of the title was all but lost to Rob. He understood language, unlike
Rip, but it didn't really mean anything to him, really. They could not
show pity. They could barely speak at the best of times.
Now, for
example. Rob could only grate out harsh growls and snarls, a poor imitation of
the nearly forgotten Saiyajin language. He was pleased, however, that
intelligible noises scared the boy more than Montgomery's laughable curses, and
didn't bother to straighten out his speech.
A smile, as crooked as
danger, pulled back Rob's lips. He rose his left hand, a wicked gleam to his
eye, and punched Trunks hard in the shoulder. He screamed; this was no flesh
wound. Ligaments mangled, the ball-and-socket joint shattered to dust. Rob
laughed; he was just beginning—
^^^^^^^^
Vejiita fell back
against the wall, covering his face with his hands. Appreciatively, Kakarotto
shut up, the seemingly endless list of damage ceasing abruptly, setting the
clipboard he was reading off of to the side. He didn't need a explanation of the
injuries he had apparently dealt out white bandages and hard casts covered the
damaged area's of the boy's body.
Two weeks. It had been two weeks since
this had happened, and Trunks could barely open his eyes. Half a month and the
only recovery shown was that it was unlikely that he was going to die. And his
own father had done it to him. Vejiita knew, probably better than anything, what
it was like to have a father as an enemy, as a feared oppressor. At least
he had never had to go through the heartbreak like Trunks probably did.
How would he take it when he summoned up the strength to stay awake for more
than a few minutes at a time?
He was forced to accept the truth: there
were other people within him. He hadn't wanted to accept it, though he knew it
was true all along. Even before Craig's note did he have a suspicion. He would
never kill his own son. At least not Trunks, he was a good boy. But who would
believe him? He was insane. He had people who possessed him and did bad things
and left when people starting pointing fingers at him. Leaving him to blame and
helpless to defend himself against a mystery transgression.
Helpless. So
helpless.