warnings: drug-use and some shounen-ai... YES homosexuality. if you don't like that and have read thus far and have enjoyed yourself, suck it up, read, and just scan that part. there's not much, i promise.




Rhyme & Reason 9:
[ L A N D M I N E S ]




A parent should never have to bury the child, she thought as she gazed at the battered teenager. It was two in the morning and even though she knew she needed all the sleep she could get these days, her mind thought differently. She couldn't rest. She was so afraid that the machinery would malfunction, or that Trunks' erratic health would suddenly plunge. But mostly she was afraid he would wake up, in a strange and dark room, with nothing but the indifferent hums of the machines that kept him secure in life and the blinking red and green lights. He needed his mother.

He needed his health. It wasn't fair, for such a young boy, not even in his prime yet, to lay unconscious day and night! They'd use a senzu bean, as they usually did when a comrade was beaten and down, but the specialized personal doctors Bulma had hired were skeptical of the beans. "No foreign food," was a favorite excuse of theirs, when Bulma attempted to use her high-ranking status as president of a multi-million dollar business. Trunks was not admitted "foreign food" because it could jeopardize his health. When she gathered up others to convince them, they inquired exactly how they would give the bean to Trunks. He was unconscious most of the time and they didn't want to risk getting it into his system through needles.

They were stuck with crude machines until he gathered the strength to chew and swallow.

She stared at his handsome face, still bruised and marred. He looked so much like Vejiita almost twenty years ago, when she was in this very position tending to him after he made a miscalculation in the gravity room. But now she felt to pity for that man — never should have!

Bulma shook her head and strode out of the room, no longer in her vague stupor she found herself in, staring at Trunks. Thoughts of his father had kicked her quite roughly from her daze and left her instead in a dark infirmary room.

Instead of going to her room, she took a detour down the stairs and curled up on the couch in the living room, drawing a dark green blanket up to her chin. She grasped a remote resting dangerously on the edge of the sofa and pointed it towards the state-of-the-art home stereo system. The radio was already tuned to a local station, classical music flowing quietly, soothingly, from the speakers.

She had to think and she found it was impossible to do in her room. Vejiita had moved out of her room a long time ago, without even bothering to notify her. It took her a good week to finally realize he had bunked in a different building all together, simply assuming he was training into the night and up before she woke. Only after watching him carry a week's worth of dirty dishes to the kitchen did she realize he was gone for good.

Was that were it all started, six years ago when he moved out? When he left her? Despite her busy schedule and different interests in men, she still found herself thinking of him. He was certainly not someone you had the opportunity to run into everyday — and it was by all means an opportunity.

She missed him. Missed that unyielding and obscure protection and promise of his unending strength, that presence which she fell back on that she took for granted. She missed the mystery of his eyes, how he always hid any charming aspect of his personalty until the most inessential time. Like rushed mornings where she was off to work and had often just come in from a satisfied night of undisturbed training. He could make you cry, scream in fear, or sometimes in delight. He could make your sides ache with laughter, she was certain, if he should ever try.

But she didn't miss the violence. He never hit her. He never hit Bra. He only hit Trunks during sparring, or the occasional cuff in the head in reprimand. But to totally mutilate him? That was unacceptable, by anyone's standards. And what was his reason? The reason: repeated intrusion of his personal training time. Yes, Vejiita was finicky about his training and strength. They all knew that. It was common knowledge. But he was wrong in his rationality. "Repeated"? No, Trunks had only bothered him to collect him for meals or when the gravity room needed it's weekly over-view, checking for minor bugs that could eventually eat up the entire system. Vejiita giving more time to the damnable room than his son quirked the boy somewhat, and became a downright disappointment after his – Rhys' and Chester's— earlier interest, helping him with homework and driving him to town.

He never saw it coming.... She found Trunks lying face down in the ground the next morning, body nearly hidden behind a sheet wind-blown ice. The snow surrounding him was dyed a deep, frightening crimson. His face was bright red, from both frostbite and constant, stifled sobbing into the ground. She had looked up and saw Vejiita sitting casually on top of the tool shed, rubbing his chin and gazing out into the gray sky.

Bulma halted her recollection there. That look in his face.... Calm, but not aloof. His posture, relaxed but not slouched. His eyes... When he met her eyes, she saw a strange look. She wasn't sure what she was expecting; for a person to do this to his own son must be insane! But she saw no rage, no preposterous victory gloat over a "job well done." Even the usual cold, hard blankness was gone. She observed an offhand apologetic expression, with minimal remorse. It was like a merciful gentleman on the street dropping a few coins into a blind man's hand. Jeez, what misfortune. I feel for you, but I can't do anything way over here, now can I? Good luck, though.

She hadn't said anything to him. She quickly scooped Trunks into her arms — he was frighteningly light — and didn't look over her shoulder at him as she hurried inside. A few hours later, after she had been shunned from the operating room and too restless to inside with the others who had come to comfort her in her hour of need, she had pulled on a thick winter coat and stepped out into the midday, winter sunlight.

Vejiita was waiting for her. Gone was the pity, the remorse. It was replaced by that deadpan look. He didn't say anything, however. He seemed to have stuck around to collect what was coming to him.

She wasn't sure what to say at first. Had he counted on that? Did he plan to still only while everyone was in shock then run away when it came to pay the consequences? Well, that wasn't going to happen. She opened her mouth to speak, but only got one word out before he cut her off. "Vejiita—"

Bulma shivered and turned the radio down as a commercial came on. Nothing Vejiita had said had even come close to justifying his barbaric conduct of discipline. "He kept bothering me so I decided to beat him within an inch of his life" summed up his explanation quite nicely. She didn't have a chance to yell at him, introduce to him her own brand of punishment. Without another word, he turned and left.

"More like he turned and fled," said Yamucha, after Bulma had related the story of his departure to them later.

Bulma frowned now, remember how she had immediately agreed, angry and bitter. Yamucha was not Vejiita's number one fan — she could say that about all of them — but he was the only one brash enough to speak his opinions about the Saiyajin. She resented him for that; he had almost successfully turned her against him.

However, she found she could not hate Vejiita. It just didn't.. Make sense, any of it! Vejiita was brash himself, but was not longer that violent, if he ever was. And the way he was gazing at her from the tool shed when she found Trunks. She wasn't quite sure what to make of that. Then he left, after an explanation that was pretty weak for him. He wasn't like that any more.

He wasn't.

She paused in her musings for a moment, trying to mentally ease the tension from her shoulders, shifting into a laying position on the couch.

He wasn't... Was he? Or was she all wrong in everything? Was Trunks' near-death incident a product of her giving Vejiita unwarranted trust? Was he still a killer?

Tears filled up under closed eyelids. Oh, God, no, he couldn't be! But that he was still the monster he had convinced the he was at one time still lingered... Not strongly, but it was there, most certainly. She sighed and let the tears roll freely down her cheeks. This could wait for morning....



Gokou watched the confrontation, trying not to look conspicuous. He had noticed her first, seeing her slim form at the doorjamb out of the corner of his eye. He had been staring at Vejiita, and when he had turned to her, Vejiita had as well.

From where he was standing, in the corner of the room, the back of his legs pressed up against the table of humming and clicking machinery, he couldn't see Vejiita's expression properly, who was sitting closer to the door than him and facing away.

Bulma's visage gave no interpretation of the status of this tense situation, either. Utterly emotionless and concentration stiffly on Vejiita, the blankness of her face made him suspect an unfortunate conflict soon to come.

For a while, no one moved. Gokou didn't dare; this wasn't his business. Bulma started to speak, only making the first syllable out before Vejiita broke in.

"I didn't do it."

A simple sentence, one that, while denying it, is usually spoken when one usually is guilty, too strung up in tension to come up with a better explanation. Not only the sentence, and the sick persuasion that accompanied it, did Vejiita's posture helped twist the sentence. Tense. Hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees. Gokou could imagine, with surprising precision, the Saiyajin's expression; eyes strained upward at the woman, mouth a straight line. An expression of expectancy and nervousness.

"I swear, it wasn't me. I wouldn't do that."

"But you did," Bulma replied, eyes downcast.

Vejiita's head jerked back with surprise. He glanced back at Gokou, confused, then back at her.

"I'm sorry," he said, almost lightly. It was like he had given up. Okay, she's not going to believe me, forgive me. Throw it all out the window. But Bulma's head snapped up. What he said was important.

Gokou remembered, a few months ago, Vejiita clad in casual clothes, actually laughing, apologizing for missing a few sparring sessions. Then, a shorter time ago, he apologizing in the same easygoing manner for leaving a large, misplaced traveling trunk in the middle of the entrance hallway. He met Bulma's eyes, but he did not share the same stunned look she gave him.



"Rob wants to kill you."

Gokou glanced over at Vejiita, who had seated himself between Yamucha and him on the sofa. He assumed that he was talking to him, but his blunt sentence caught Amici's attention as well, who was unfortunately less discrete than Gokou about eavesdropping. In order to celebrate Trunks' delayed recovery, Bulma had invited the Sons, Krillen's family, Yamucha, and a few of Trunks' friends from school (who had been informed he had had the most unfortunate car wreck) for a private party. Most of the others were spread too far away and apart to contact.

He had guessed from how he had so certainly plopped himself down between the two people he supposedly disliked that this wasn't Vejiita... or whoever. Over the last week and a half, Vejiita's selves had introduced themselves to him. Chester was the only one with whom had become very acquainted, for he came out so often these days, and was brazen. Montgomery was the Vejiita they had all grown to love, so to speak, and Vejiita himself had little or nothing to say.

Now, Gokou understood. He understood the occasional haunted, bewildered look in the other Saiyajin's eyes, the utterly scattered look on his face and the distortion of his uniform stiff posture. It was Vejiita, emerging through the others in the middle of the day, his total unfamiliarity in the present situation enough to bring forth one of the other selves, thus obscuring him back into anonymity.

Still, Vejiita's entire predicament was uncertain, to say the least. Trunks had woken up the afternoon after Vejiita came home, and they were permitted, under the head doctor's dubious eye, to feed him one senzu bean. The doctor had nearly passed out on the floor when he witnessed the remarkable outcome of that ingestion, one that could only be called a miracle. He was up and walking at last, and everyone's joyful attention was on him, not Vejiita. Gokou did not miss how he tended to avoid his father for the most part. But then again, most of his attention was on Vejiita.

"Chester?" he presumed, not once thinking that this might be a huge joke orchestrated by the sicker depths of Vejiita's mind. He nodded lightly, his thoughts not focused on recognition but on the subject at hand. Vejiita — Chester — gestured to Trunks, on the far side of the living room, chatting jokingly with Goten and a friend from school.

"That kid, you saw him, didn't you? A few days ago, when he was all beat up. Rob did that."

Gokou nodded. He had never met Rob, and he had only been mentioned casually once.

"Well, it just so happens that you haven't caught his fancy, but his little.... romp with the kid has awoken his old taste for blood." Gokou swallowed nervously.

"What do you mean?"

He sighed and shook his head at himself in disbelief. "And he was doing so good lately!" He glanced at Gokou. "I could have stopped him. But I didn't."

He frowned. "Why didn't you?"

"None of my business!" he replied matter-of-factly. In a deeper tone he said, "But, I shoulda known better. He's hardly capable of handling business, that fool. Oh well. He's okay now." He looked at Trunks. The teenager met his gaze, then quickly looked away. Like his mother, his face exposed no emotion at eye-contact.

Chester then turned his head, giving Yamucha a dirty look. The other man wisely turned his attention back to the television set, apparently minding his own business. Although his eyes were on dirt-biking, his ears were tuned into the conversation to his right.

"Rob... wants to kill me?" said Gokou, getting back to the more devestating subject matter. Chester nodded, eyes intent and probing. "But... I don't think you should worry, Chester." He said the name casually. "I'm stronger than... you... Or whoever. Rob would have a hell of a time over-powering me."

"Montgomery," he informed him. He shook his head. "No; you're forgetting. Rob is not Montgomery. They are two very different people."

Gokou swallowed around a knot in his throat. "But... power is power. Just because... Just because you think you're someone different, doesn't have any affect on physical power! They're two different things!"

"No. You're forgetting," he repeated. "Listen to me. Kakarotto, we're all people in our own rights. ...Vejiita being the one exception, ironically." He smirked grimly at that. "You only have what you think you have. No more. No less. Now, Rob doesn't think a whole lot, but when he does, he develops this sort of sense of almost false power and confidence. Only, it isn't fake for him. It is real, Kakarotto. Too real."

He finished his speech with a severe expression, so unlike the Chester Gokou had come to know. So.... Vejiita's selves had their own distinct personalities as well. They were not just flat, one sided characters, he realized. They had moods, thoughts, desires, preferences of their own. He wondered why he had this rising sense of forlorn.

"What should I do now?" Gokou asked nervously.

Chester broke out into a grin. "Can't help ya there, buster! Just watch your ass!" He smacked Yamucha's chin, stood up, and made his way to the snack table, his mission to warn Kakarotto completed. Yamucha raised his eyebrows at Gokou, obviously not insulted by the playful gesture. He smiled back.

Not many knew exactly what had happened between Vejiita and Trunks, and later, between Vejiita and Bulma. It was never to be brought up, never to be discussed. It was over with. Gokou wasn't even certain himself, and he was there. It just seemed that his apology, as offhanded as it was, meant a great deal to Bulma and convinced her that he was innocent. In fact, it was probably the offhandedness that made it so important.

As far as Gokou knew, he was the only one who had put two and two together and associated with the other selves. Well, Bulma had a vague relationship with Rhys, whose tenderness and intelligence held her at attention. But she did not scrutinize how he preferred to call himself by a different name when he was composed. Nor did she examine Vejiita's plea: "I didn't do it, I swear." She heard the apology and believed him and forgave him. End of discussion.

Gokou, however, didn't deny the facts. He knew them by name, recognized the changes between Vejiita, Chester, and Montgomery, and even Rhys when he once decided to come out and say hello. He didn't know what to call it he wasn't sure if he could explain his half-formed theory. He just knew that it wasn't an act.

He hoped his deepening relationship with Vejiita and his selves would not turn out to be a burden in the end. Montgomery was quite the handful to get along with alone. Chester was great to have around, except that he got crazy sometimes, especially when his friend Craig was around. Vejiita... The relationship with Vejiita was awkward. He had connected a name to a personality for as long as he had known the man, and now Montgomery was Vejiita and Vejiita was.... A stranger. A stranger who didn't seem to want to have anything to do with him at all.

He sighed and scratched his head, snatching a bowl of potato chips from off the coffee table and leaned back and munching.

Vejiita.... What is wrong with you?



Drugs. Mind-altering substances. Medicine, sold at pharmacies prescribed by doctors. Can numb aches, cure diseases, grant rest to an uneasy soul. Narcotics, Montgomery's new solution for everything. Now, Montgomery wasn't much for artificial substances; steroids and the lot. He trained hard, nearly day and night, and stayed fit and kept his focus without err.

Which was how he found himself living off the needle.

It was an interesting predicament, such an unusual predicament that if anyone else should witness they would halt in their tracks and gawk, for Montgomery's actions went against all his personal ways of life. The present situation in his head had developed into something way out of his control, and in an attempt to find what he considered control again, he unintentionally sunk deeper and deeper into a routine he found himself helpless to break.

Montgomery, by basic nature and drilled-in conditioning, was a creature of habit. Wake, stretch, shower, stretch again, eat, jog if weather permits, kata, full-blown training, break or meditation, and so on, with little variation. There was hell to pay, or a reasonable migraine, should this routine be broken or altered. For his entire life he had dealt with and accepted the consistent drone in the back of head. Gradually, over the past few months, it had grown stronger, more vicious. Irritating, distracting, a burden.

Something had to change.

He changed one thing, changed one factor of his routine, which had suited all his purposes in life unfailingly to dat, and everything started falling apart before him. The routine used to be an answer to everything, so he had clung to it like a lifeline. It used to save his sanity, just the consistency of it, plus it gave him time to dwell on any random subject that he wouldn't dare think of out in the open. Now he found he could not stick to his routine. It was too hard, next to impossible. How could one concentrate with almost a half a dozen people chattering enthusiastically in the back of your head for all hours? He just couldn't do it!

He was seething one day, attempting to keep his anger in check by hacking apart logs into firewood out behind the buildings with a heavy, moderately-sized axe. There wasn't a single fireplace in any of the modern Capsule Corp. style buildings, but they were surrounded by a forest, and Montgomery and Robert alike found solace in this repetitive, time-consuming and somewhat tiring activity.

It was a warm day in mid-December, bare patches of dead grass peeking through slowly melting snow. Montgomery's goal was to make his hands numb by noon, and was chopping through some rather solid blocks of wood. Repetitiveness was practically as good as consistency; pretty much the same thing, right? Well, close enough, was Montgomery's reasoning. He was becoming quite absorbed with his new hobby, and although he knew where everyone within a sixty mile radius was, he was only tuning in to those that were intrusive. Craig wasn't intrusive.

The fool was visiting, his weekly load of laundry tumbling in the washing machine, and he had been watching Montgomery chop wood for a few minutes now. He liked to watch him, any "him," be it Mont, Vejiita, or Chester. He used to watch him in his sleep, even. It was the only kind he could hold still, which was fortunate, because it took forty-five minutes for Montgomery to finally acknowledge him. With a brief nod, he laid the axe down near the pile of wood, and gestured for Craig to follow him inside. He caught up with him quickly.

"Why don't you get a job?" Montgomery greeted sourly, displeased with Craig's living style. Craig shrugged. There was no need for him to find a means to support himself; Vejiita or one of his selves paid his rent, and Craig helped himself to meals and showers at Capsule Corp. Any extra money he suckered out of them was their loss.

In the warm entry way of the house, Craig kicked off his soaking wet shoes without haste. He was glad to be inside; walking around in muck was never an activity he would elect voluntarily. Montgomery, not bothering to peel off any wet clothes, left Craig to peer through to door way into the living room. Abandoned. The kids at school, the woman either taking a shower or at work. No one else was in the house. Good.

He walked the rest of the way into the living room and sank down into the couch. To everyone else, there were two postures that characterized Montgomery: arms folded, ankles parallel to each other and his shoulders, or arms on either side of his body, stiff and tense and ending with coiled fists, the rest of his body maneuvered into an unshakeable stance ready for just about anything. But Craig knew one more, and although it was the most approachable posture, it was also his least favorite.

Hunched over. Head clamped between hands, fingers curled into hair. Craig remembered seeing him like this a few times before. Usually it was after a day of "group training", undeniably Montgomery's least favorite exercise. Preferring a more solitary lifestyle, being forced to train with half a dozen other soldiers three times his size not only gave him a headache and put him in an incredibly bad mood, it also made him anxious. He just didn't like all these people! At the end of the day, still stinking with sweat, Craig would trip over him sitting on the floor, in this very position.... Breathing deeply, perspiring unnaturally. When asked what was wrong, he'd just shake his head, slowly sit up. "Hard day," was his explanation. "Strung nerves," was what he meant.

Craig glanced around, taking in, as Montgomery had done only moments ago, the vacant house. "No one here?" he said. His voice was hushed; one might think that they were in a church.

"Empty."

Craig sat down with a little too much enthusiasm necessary for sitting. He wrapped an arm around Montgomery's back and gave him a tight squeeze. "What's wrong?"

He heard him growl, but his answer lacked defensiveness. "Nothing."

"Tell me. Come on. You're all quiet and stuff. What's going on?"

Montgomery sighed and bent his head back so it was resting on the back of the couch. Craig just had to bother him. He was so irritating....

"I.. I don't know, Craig. It's just me. I can't think, I can't do anything right at all. Ever. It's because they keep bugging... It's like my head won't leave me alone..." He closed his eyes.

It seemed like it was quiet for such a long time. Then Craig stood, hauling Montgomery up also as he did so. "No one upstairs, eh?"

"Everyone else is gone," he said reluctantly, uncertain of where this was going. When Craig was silent, neither speaking nor moving in response to the affirmative answer, Montgomery looked up. He met Craig's steady gaze and didn't blink. He saw the concern there, and he saw the mischievousness underlying it as well. It was obvious what he was thinking.

He raised his eyebrows slightly and turned his head to the staircase behind him. "I think my laundry's done."

The laundry room. This time it wouldn't be for leisure. This time, the needle would grant him his great escape. Montgomery took the needle to his vein, and all the confusion that his mind had accumulated due to the noise started to clear up, the noise drowned out by narcotic...



Craig had said to Chester once, after a particularly snotty comeback, that he "hadn't changed a bit from when he was a kid." Craig, from the other's standpoint, could have the exact same thing said about him, as well. His tastes had matured over the years, as all people's tastes did so, he supposed, and instead of turning to liquor as a first and last resort, any sort of drug was now would do the job.

Rhys Schultz personally preferred the liquor, even though he was even more strict about mind-altering substances than Montgomery. Liquor could be sophisticated if handled maturely, he had figured. Plus, everyone except for Chester, Rob, and Rip just became sleepy and laid around while they were intoxicated. If he was unwittingly bothering Montgomery, couldn't he have at least gotten a little drunk? He also preferred hangovers to... this...

Rhys, normally passive to the point of inactiveness, did not often pass judgement on others. But when someone was reckless enough to inject a considerable amount of an illegal drug into his system, then have the gall to hide when less desirable side effects started to kick in, was simply irresponsible. Rhys had always thought of Montgomery as the adult and Chester as the child; he had never once thought that he would do such a thing!

He was left with uncontrollable shakes and an uneasy stomach whose churns were only worsened by the washing machine against which his back rested. Oh, how he wished that when Craig had invited upstairs with the reason that his laundry was done was in fact the truth. He was most uncomfortable against the hot, shaking machine, and found himself unable to move.

He was staring at the small window high on the wall. He couldn't do much else. Nor did he really want to. The window was covered with a thin white curtain, but enough natural light managed to shine through the transparent cloth in order to illuminate the room somewhat. Ah, hell. He didn't really care. He just wanted this to be over with. He didn't like the way he was feeling.. What am I feeling? he wondered. Do I really hate this so much? Is it that bad? Why am I even here? Because Montgomery was driven away, the narcotics having influencened his mind the most. Because Chester wanted nothing to do with it and Rhys, the only remaining reasonable option, didn't have the heart to abandon poor Vejiita into this wasteland. Considering his actions lately, Rhys had the feeling Vejiita would embrace this half-dead condition without hesitation.

He took a deep, shaky breath and consoled himself. This too shall pass.



Maybe it was a bad idea. All of it. He probably should have gone straight back to Craigie's place after the entire Trunks ordeal blew over. Then maybe he wouldn't be in such a hot spot. None of it was even his fault; nothing! Well... Maybe some of it was his fault. After all, he had encouraged Craig to come over all the time, and he didn't make him do anything at all to support himself. Chester hardly did either; he got most of his money from Bulma. Slacker by nature. Old habits die hard.

Chester sighed. He had shared Rhys Schultz's notion that Montgomery was the "adult" and that he was acting as Chester usually did.. put a slight dent in their way of living. Chester didn't want to take control of all the important situations simply because Montgomery thought he was going crazy. He personally thought that he was being just as quiet as usual. Mont was overreacting. Chester decided that he was more annoyed with what he decided to deal with his problem rather than how. Depressants. Could you possibly get any more boring?

He shrugged off Montgomery's preference, crouching down in the snow and packing the white flakes together in the palm of his hand. After years on Earth, he discovered that the pros of the dreaded winters far outnumbered the cons. One: if you stand outside long enough, and even dare to touch the white glop, you developed some sort of immunity to the resulting cold. Two: most other people hadn't discovered this peculiar immunity, and Chester used that against them. And what did that mean? Fun!

An evil grin spread across his features. Kakarotto. The ultimate fun.

Chester was hunkered down behind a few sad-looking bushes outlining the front of one of the fancier Capsule Corp. buildings. They were leafless, but they had thick branches, so Chester assumed that he was well concealed from sight. He liked this hiding spot because there was nothing behind him save a tool shed, and no one ever went there, so he didn't have to watch his back. He was towards the end of the row of dormant plants, so he was partially at the other side of the building, as well as behind bushes. He could see perfectly at this vantage point yet remained perfectly unseen.

He scooped up some more snow, but chose not to add small stones to the snowball. Naw, he'd save those for Craigie or Trunks. Kakarotto was carrying a large envelope and Chester didn't want to make him drop it; that would be rude.

He finally exposed himself, standing up straight and headed towards Kakarotto, idly packing and crunching the snowball in his hands. He was within ten feet of the other Saiyajin before he noticed him, and when he did, he was greeted with a smile. Chester returned it automatically.

"Hey there, watcha doing?" he said, stopping directly in front of him, staring up at him like a child. The smile hadn't yet left his face, but had transformed into a curious little smirk. Kakarotto held up the manila envelope.

"Just dropping off some stuff from Gohan that Bulma requested. Not much besides that."

"Anything for me?"

"Nope."

"I have something for you." With that said, Chester leaned up and rubbed the snowball he had been carrying around into Kakarotto's face.

"Hey—!" Kakarotto dropped the enveloped to the ground and tried to get away, wrapping his fingers around Chester's wrist in an attempt to escape the white-washing perpetrator. But Chester just laughed and managed to shove what was left of the snowball — clumps of snow and ice-cold water — down the front of his shirt. Then he scooped up the envelope, forgotten on the ground, and dashed inside.

He really wanted to get inside. He had conducted an experiment in order to prove or disprove his theory about snow immunity. He was romping around outside sported in nothing but a yellow muscle shirt and orange jersey shorts, both of which were a size or two too large. He was wet, red, and shivering from the cold, so his theory was deemed inaccurate, for the most part. He was used to the cold, but nevertheless still got cold.

He rubbed his toes against the carpet, drying them off and trying to get the blood pumping so he could feel them again. Chester grinned and turned around, the grin widening at the sight of Kakarotto. The front of his shirt was dark with dampness, and his face was as red and wet as Chester's legs were. He tossed the stolen envelope onto the counter, wished for some hot coffee, and waited for Kakarotto to join him.

If he was annoyed at first at Chester's underhanded trick, he certainly didn't seem to mind now. Well, of course he didn't, Chester told himself. He likes to have fun. He smirked at him.

"Hello, Chester," he murmured.

"Hey." Chester nodded and smiled, then visibly scoured the counter and the table top for something to warm him up.

"Nice outfit, there."

He paused in his search, his hand on the cabinet handle, to give a skeptical look at Kakarotto. Never would he dare to say that in Montgomery's presence; whether or not he'd hit you for saying it was negoticable, but the possibility for you to have to state it shouldn't even have to be considered. It wasn't something you'd ever need to say to Montgomery. Looking down at himself, Chester thought, well, no you wouldn't say that. This isn't a Montgomery kind of outfit. Kakarotto's comment, although vaguely rude, was humor, welcome humor.

"Same to you," he replied, implying to the usual orange gi he wore.

Kakarotto smiled lightly. "What are you looking for?" he asked. Chester shrugged, his eyes quickly scanning the contents of the cabinet. Raw spaghetti, cans of ravioli, a few bags of chips. All very tasty and wonderful snack foods, but none fit his mood right then.

He turned to Kakarotto. He had lifted up the fat yellow envelope, inspecting it, Chester guessed, to make sure nothing had been damaged when he had dropped it in the snow. Then he turned around towards the sink, pulling a light blue towel off the neck of the faucet and wiped at his chest. Chester was pleased that he had creamed him so well. He was also pleased to see that a new opportunity had presented itself.

Pushing himself away from the corner, he closed the distance between himself and the other Saiyajin in three long strides. Kakarotto turned, an inquiry about Bulma's whereabouts at the tip of his tongue, but the words never got out. Chester snaked his hand around to the nape of Kakarotto's head and pulled him closer. It was all autopilot now.

He closed his eyes when he felt Kakarotto's lips. They were soft, but still chilly from the snow he rubbed in his face earlier. Chester smiled gently against his mouth, leaning back slightly and flicking out his tongue to lick the other's lower lip. Without waiting for consent, he slipped his tongue through his lips and through his teeth. Easily; Kakarotto hadn't moved much, in all likelyhood because he was still in shock. Good, he thought, standing up on his toes to deepen the kiss, steadying himself by resting one hand on Kakarotto's arm. He wanted more of this... this hot moisture, this exciting tranquility. It was a foreign intoxication that Chester was rarely fortunate enough to experience but was greedily accepted any time the opportunity became at his disposal.

Finally, he felt a reaction. Just a bit — his tongue moved against quite agreeably, encouraging Chester even though it was just an experimental movement: Is this really happening? He would have liked to continue, have more of a response, but just then, Kakarotto withdrew, resting his hands on Chester's shoulders to gently force him back. Chester didn't let Kakarotto go easily; he bit down softly on his tongue before slowly leaving, dragging his teeth against his tongue as he unwillingly left his mouth....

Chester looked up, focusing his half-lidded eyes on Kakarotto's face. Kakarotto's eyes were dark, swirling with confusing. Not disgust, Chester noted, with that small pang of satisfaction he supposed the others often felt. Chester smiled slightly at him, wondering just what the other was thinking right now. He was thinking about their posistion: standing in the middle of the kitchen, Kakarotto's hands on his shoulders, holding him at bay, one of his arms on Kakarotto's arms while the other wrapped around his head to curl in his hair.

Kakarotto opened his mouth, as if to say something. Instead, he just ended up licking the saliva off his lower lip, and glancing away, the skin between his eyebrows creasing in worry. He dropped his arms, knocking Chester's grip off in doing so.

"I... should go. Just give Bulma.. that—" He took a step back. Chester nodded.

"You bet. Seeya around." Kakarotto looked back at him before quickly leaving the kitchen. Chester barely heard the door closed shut behind him.

Chester realized with another twinge of satisfaction that he was no longer cold.



Montgomery killed them all, once. Without their consent. His only possible excuse was that it was a desperate act, a last-minute decision that was only made with only the destruction of the enemy in mind. It had to be just a splurge of prowess; it must have been! For if Montgomery had planned the suicide long before the actual act, none of them sensed the dark gloom that always hung over the poor soul. They were all familiar with that specific gloom. They had always sensed it, that feeling of impending darkness, when Vejiita had felt everything was just too far out of reach to ever get a hold of again.

Those days had passed, for the most part. Vejiita, like most teenagers, had gone through his fair share of depression, each bout concluding with his attempting to take his own life. His grisly undertakings were always checked just in time, be it Chester or Montgomery stepping in or Vejiita simply losing his nerve. When he was older, he didn't toy with the thought of suicide that often, rarely bringing the half-formed thoughts into play. Just as rarely, however, was he actually himself.

Rob tallied up his fair share of kills those years, from nineteen to thirty. Well... Perhaps not Rob, specifically. Rip was usually in charge of the arm, at least, that was responsible for death. Rip didn't care for ki. He'd just as happily throttle you until your windpipe tore through your larynx.

Now, what had Chester said about him? That he wanted to kill Kakarotto? That wasn't necessarily true. He wished to destroy the threat that Kakarotto possibly represented. He had too. He had to destroy the threat that endangered himself, the true threat. He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what he was capable of; what he was uncertain of what he wasn't capable of.

He stood in the clearing before Kakarotto's house. Idly, tensely, he cracked his knuckles, the popping joints the only sound echoing through the twilight air. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled a harsh, shaking breath. He wasn't alarmed. He was always like that. Tense, but unlike Vejiita's skittish nervousness. Restless, but unlike him usually able to do something to bring his head to rest. Angry. Hot anger. He was tremulous from it.

He was staring at Kakarotto's small house, all five senses reeling. This feeling he felt was overwhelming. He hadn't fought for a while. He didn't consider beating up an adolescent up fighting. It was just that: beating up. It was taking advantage of someone weaker than you, scared, perhaps staying still only out of respect.

Respect. Whatever.

There was a noise; the sound of a door slamming shut. Rob flinched intensely, smoothly sliding into a deep crouch. There he was! Walking around the side of his house to a sizeable stack of firewood. Rob's eyes were focused intensely on the large Saiyajin, and it didn't take too long for him to realize that he was being watched.



Gokou paced the living room, restless. It seemed quiet in the house, which was unusual. He wasn't quite sure what made the difference; Goten still had rock music turned up full blast in his room, probably jumping on the bed playing the air-guitar behind a locked door. Chichi had been traveling back and forth across the living room from the soap opera on the television set to the door of Goten's room, murmuring to herself at the television characters and hollering at Goten to turn his music down.

No... Nothing about the rest of his family was different. So it was him? What was different about him?

Nothing, again. Except...

Okay, he had to admit it. It did bother him, it bothered him a lot. He wasn't bothered, however, by the lack of disgust he felt when he had kissed him. It.. was unusual to be kissed by a guy, but not at all unpleasant. He just didn't expect Vejiita to do it.

Or... Chester? He didn't strike him as gay, either. He sighed and rubbed his neck in frustration. This whole thing was warping his mind! He had no idea what to expect from these guys! They all knew him — and after that encounter with Chester it appeared that he was quite well liked — but for him it was like talking to a complete stranger! A complete stranger who Vejiita's face and Vejiita's voice but with different look in his eyes...

His musings sapping his strength, Gokou meandered into the kitchen and opened the door of the refrigerator, gazing into the chilly appliance without really seeing anything. He draped his arm across the door, drumming his fingers.

The look in his eyes....

He bit his lip and softly shut the door. Had he ever noticed before? Perhaps they had been too good in obscuring their separate identities. Or maybe he just never paid attention. Vejiita had always seemed to be a bit off-kilter somehow, but it was dismissed as just the way he was. Well... It was the way he was, but it wasn't something to dismiss. Gokou frowned and bit down deeper, actually feeling a bit of pain in his lower lip.

Vejiita didn't know a damn thing about this.

And the way everyone acted around him, he'd never learn. He nearly killed Trunks, but Bulma let it slide. He said he didn't do it, but that he was sorry anyway. For taking the blame of the other's transgression, he was released, but his otherwise innocent name was smeared. Now, as much or more than as when he first found himself stranded on Earth, he was eyed as a stranger, a threat. It was true; he was a time bomb that could go off at any moment, and nobody knew exactly what could set him off. It could be a sidelong look, a humorous remark taken the wrong way, even if it wasn't aimed directly at him. It didn't even have to be visible; Gokou thought he remembered Vejiita suddenly taking off or scream himself hoarse at someone during preparation for the Cell Games. No one had said or done anything but that didn't matter to him.

He was hated, feared, rejected and avoided, and didn't know why. And wasn't about to ask.

Gokou sighed and rubbed his face wearily; he was exhaused just thinking about it. Muttered half-heartedly to Chichi, he went to the bathroom, pulled off his shrit, found a towel, and went outside.

Shortly before Goten was born, modern creature comforts had made their way to the Sons' conservative way of living, and Chichi had persuaded him to hired a company to install a full-functional lavatory. Gokou still found it recreational to bath the way he had for years: under the stars in a barrel filled to the top with boiling river water.

Outside, he followed the well-worn trail to the barrel. While reaching for the firewood stacked up against the side of the house, summoning a small amount of ki to his finger tips, he realized that he was not quite alone.

He felt different. He sensed a greater concentration of ki, but it was compressed, a swirling mass of furious power curbed by something Gokou couldn't quite fathom. He turned slowly, uncertain of what to see.

He stood much closer than Gokou had estimated, only a few yards and wreathed by snowy deciduous trees. From the large clouds of air he exhaled into the chilly air, he could tell that he was breathing deep. He was still wearing that oversized sleeveless yellow shirt, but he had traded the orange knit shorts for some black jeans. His hands were clenched so hard that the knuckles were white and the veins in his arms had popped up twice their normal size.

"Vejiita....?" Gokou hesitantly called out. He knew this wasn't Vejiita, but he didn't recognize this particular carriage.

The stranger inhaled deeply, on exhale breathing, "Kakarotto..."

"Yes.... Vejiita?" he repeated. The stranger shook his head. "What should I call you?"

The tension in his shoulders visibly went lax. His eyes softened their probing stare; pensive. "Rob," he said shortly.

Gokou nodded. He had thought such. He took a deep breath, dreading future battle with this violent Saiyajin. "I don't want to fight you." Best make that clear from the start

Rob's eyes snapped up. "That... so..." he murmured. Again, he nodded. "Why not?"

"Why would I want to?"

"You do."

"Because I have to," he said after a moment. "Or want to. Practice, for fun, or to save people."

Rob's face was like a wall: blank, hard. Gokou had no idea what he was thinking.

Slowly, he brought up his arm. He was shaking, from the tension that went hand-in-hand along with his appearence, and from simply trying to control himself. Chester was right; attacking Trunks had rekindled his love for bloodsports.

But....

Of all the people Rob had met and slain, of all the rotten, useless souls out there, Chester was his favorite. It could be that he was just oozing with charisma or that it had bled into Rob's mind throughout his entire tentative existence that Chester could not be detroyed and would never go away, but Rob didn't want to make him too angry.

All the same...

Rob gathered the ki into the palm of his hand, grinning when he allowed the unprotected flesh of his hand to be burnt and blistered. Gokou was staring into a fiery ball of Rob: his anger, his hate, a lifetime of treasured punishment and blissful murder. He was staring into evil and he didn't even blink. He was naked from the waist up, his ki was resting at a low leisurely level, nothing but his skin to protect him should Rob fire.

They stood there, Gokou a target at point-blank for Rob. Rob, ignoring the spasming of his arm, was staring deadpan into Kakarotto's eyes. You blink, you die.

But he didn't. He held his gaze steadily, and after a moment, Rob closed his fingers around the ball of energy and it burnt out. He had passed the test.

If he could stare into possible death that way, and know that all it took was a thought triggered by a maniac who had far too many homicides under his belt, and reminisced of those old kills with a smile on his face.... Well, then he couldn't be that dangerous. No fear, no reason to act out. Rob wiped the charrred flesh of his hand off. If he wasn't thought of as a threat, then there was no reason to feel threatened.

Rob turned and left.



Bulma came home close to eleven that night. She was exhausted, but her mind was gone a mile a minute; that was quite the intriguing business dinner! She was sure she wasn't going to get any sleep that night. Too many random, cluttered ideas had suddenly come together during dinner, inspired by her date's ingenious mind.

She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her coat in the entry way, slipping silently through the dark hallway into the kitchen to brew some coffee. Most often, the body refused to obey the mind's wants; she would need to convince it otherwise. Some caffine always did the trick.

Walking swiftly over to the coffee machine, intent on getting small chores done as quickly as possible, she brushed the edge of the table and knocked something off. Annoyed that one of the kids had left homework in the kitchen, she quickly turned and picked it up. It was a large yellow envelope, bulging with papers. She caught her name in the upper right hand corner and recognized the handwriting.

Her mind went blank, all thoughts of coffee and midnight inventing having evaporated. Here was the information she had asked Gohan to research! As a medical doctor, Gohan was more familiar with people than Bulma and she had asked him to check up on a few key subjects when he had a spare moment. She was pleased that he had done so, and so quickly.

Unfolding the bendable clip at the top of the envelope back, she withdrew stacks of stapled together papers of printed-out information from Internet sites and photocopied pages from older resources.

The first stack read, Disorders of the Mind...




notes: ok... this is where the song after which this entire fic is loosely based and named actually starts to show. to read the lyrics, please go here: http://www.geocities.com/coraigu/reason.html