edited and re-uploaded on the fourteenthh of
february. thanks darke. warnings are for drug-use and maybe non-con and
some darkness.
[ C O W A R D I C E ]
He stared at the back of his shirt, a bright yellow bounding
through the thick forest, quickly disappearing. Gokou didn't dare exhale until
Vejiita was completely out of sight and even then it was a shaky breath. So
close to death, so many times and it still proved to make you appreciate the
next day that much more. He had faced off against Vejiita many times in the past
and this time he was positive he had never gone against him before. That
delirious look in Rob's gleaming eyes was one he knew he would have immediately
recognized
He shivered and rubbed his arms, heading back to his home. It
was really quite to chilly to be outside without a shirt on, anyway.
He was running, flat-out running away from him. Neither was a
threat to one another but that scarcely meant he wouldn't cut him down out of
spite. That went both ways. Killing or being killed. Rob did it out of Chester's
sake.
So here he was, running through the thick forest with wild
abandon, tearing through thick shrubbery, scratching his face and his arms and
rocketing over fallen logs, rotting and damp from melting snow, occasionally
tripping and crashing into the earth. The adrenalin was pumping through his
veins, giving him a scary rush, not unlike the rushes Chester and Craig
concocted out of substances. He was savage, uncaged and free, foaming at the
mouth.
He licked his dry lips, tasting the salt of his sweat and the
metallic tang of the blood. His breath came in great heaves and in the back of
his throat he tasted another suggestion of blood and salt. It had been too long
since he had sprinted over rough terrain; his lungs were working hard again. He
grinned, lips cracking and wiped his brow. It felt good, though.
Rob
thought he could have gone on running forever. The pain, he could ignore. The
exhaustion that told him to stop before it was too late, before he
collapsed as a shivering pile of fatigue and bones. Running from no one for any
good reason to nowhere in particular.
He came to a sudden stop, skidding
to a halt and nearly flipping over. All too suddenly, the wild forest had come
to an end and Rob found himself just two feet away from stepping on a gravelly
surface, which he was sure would be less yielding than the mud if he should
trip. A metal monster roared by and he was quick to leap backwards into the
snowy ditch. Dammit, the road.
Ah, well. He could use the rest. Not
really, but he'd take advantage of the opening for some rest. Rob curled his
fingers together, ignoring how rough the skin felt when he rubbed two digits
together and starting walking. He walked in the ditch, which he knew would grant
a much more taxing journey than walking on the margins of the road. Where was he
going? He wasn't sure as to which direction – north, south, east, west – only
now it was left or right. He chose left, keeping in the ditch.
It was one of the more unpleasant ways that he remembered having
been jarred into existence. From darkness, to a different type of darkness he
had only a few moments of peace and scattered confusion before blinding lights
backed by unyielding metal slam solidly into his side. He held his stance for a
moment until the valley-shaped ditch he was in worked against his balance. He
fell back into reasonably soft dirt but, as was his luck, he hit his elbow
against a misplaced rock. The feeling in that arm was replaced with a less
desirable tingling.
He sat up, squinting through the headlights and
trying to focus on the indistinct shape that was making unclear noises. Jerked
up by his half-dead arm, he nearly crashed his forehead into Craig's. He finally
made out coherent words through the garble: "What are you doing out here?"
Vejiita took a step back, pulling himself free. He was limping a bit, he
noticed; he expected quite the unpleasant bruise on his thigh in the morning. "I
don't know..." He still couldn't see Craigie's face, silhouetted by the
headlights. He did not bother to volunteer any desired information. Vejiita just
knew that he found himself riding shotgun in an old coupe that stank of pot. And
had ripped upholstery, he noted, inattentively picking the cushioning oozing
from it.
Nighttime, Vejiita thought to himself, pulling more fuzz from
the seat. Of what day? He glanced out the window. The upper half of the window
had been broken out and was replaced by strips of duct tape, but he still see
out. It wasn't very cloudy but just enough to keep Earth's only natural
satellite obstructed. He could not calculate the time of the month.
Feh.
What good would it do when he had no idea what month it was?
"No. He didn't say where he was going. He didn't say much at
all."
His voice seemed to echo around the room, reverberating off the
walls and ceiling before the empty sound finally made it back to his ears. The
only light was the outdoor light, left on and shining in through the open door.
Not to mention the anxiety was slowly filling him, only made worse by the winter
air flowing in. All of this strengthened the affect of being in a dark, cold
cave.
"Well, what did he do?" persisted the voice on the other line.
Gokou could easily imagine her probing blue eyes staring up at him with a
mixture of impatience and anxiety even through miles of phone line. He fidgeted,
not wanting to answer and hoping she could not sense his actions the way he
could almost sense hers.
He curled the phone cord around his index
finger. "He just... came by."
"And...?" The impatience was overriding
the worry. Gokou let the phone cord spiral free and squeezed his eyes shut. He
didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to talk about Rob...
"We
talked... And then he left."
"Did he say anything? What he was going to
do?"
"No.. Nothing. He just turned and ran."
Silence on the
other end.
"I'll be right there, Gokou. Don't go anywhere."
The
line was dead before the words registered. He dropped the phone back into the
receiver, nearly missing to drop it on the floor. He moved away from the phone
table and sat down onto the couch. He was still shirtless, never having gotten
around to redressing after the encounter with Rob. Never got around to that
bath, either, even though he could really use that calm soak outside. Not only
was his body drenched with a gritty layer of sweat, but also his knees were weak
and heavy and he swore that his hands were shaking.
He hadn't been
scared just for himself but for Chichi and Goten, who were just a few feet away.
If Rob had killed him there would have been no hope; Goten was strong, but not
strong enough. Chichi wasn't a proper fighter. And even now, he was quite sure
that neither of them knew Vejiita's body had hauled itself here under the
authority of another.
A killer, specifically....
Fading.
In.
And out.
Then – the sound of a car door slamming shut, the
noise like thunder in his ears.
Out. In.
Walking across a large
gravel driveway, eyes glued to the scuffed heels of someone's shoes.
He
inhaled deeply, deeper than he should have to breathe and shakily let the breath
out. He shouldn't be breathing so hard, he realized, his heart thundering in
chest, his hearing thrown out the window, the pulse was so strong. And the
adrenaline —
Out.
In again – drowning. Heart pounding
just as wildly as before, he just barely checked his instinct not to breathe in
time. He threw his head back, gasping, feeling lukewarm water drip down his neck
and over his brow into his eyes, which were wide open and staring into a
water-stained ceiling.
Noise. Racket. His head still craned
backwards, his hammering heartbeat tight against his throat, he strained his
eyes to the right, focusing through the dripping water on a door whose paint was
peeling. He relaxed, bowing his head forward. A sink full of water, the faucet
still running. He was in a bathroom and there were loud people somewhere beyond
that door. He swallowed and tried to calm his breath, reaching out to pull the
plug and turn off the water. He stumbled towards the door, snatching a towel off
the rack at the last minute and drying his face off.
He stepped through
the door. Looking around sniffing absently, he took a moment to take in his
surroundings, eyes adjusting to the dimness. He dropped the towel carelessly. A
house full of strangers. Curled with each another on the couch, slumped against
the walls, smoking. An active pair rudely shouldered past him, jostling him.
Someone else dashed past him into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. He
scarcely noticed. He shivered, the water he had missed on his neck chilling him.
He breathed in, feeling his lungs and diaphragm expanding. A lingering stitch
suddenly shot up to a very noticeable ache. He sighed and let it out slowly.
Someone suddenly had a hold on him, strong fingers wrapping around his
elbow and pulling him into the light, shoving him so they were both slumping
against a wall. Vejiita was facing the light, a lamp with a crooked shade and
the other's face was partially silhouetted. He jerked his elbow away; it hurt.
He must have somehow hit it. He was released immediately. Touching with his
other hand, he felt his elbow for why it possibly stung. Vejiita couldn't see it
in the dark light but he knew that he had somehow hit his elbow hard enough to
break the skin.
He stared blankly at the other man; he was caught, what
did he want? The other grinned around an unlit cigarette and suddenly pulled
back his arm and shot forward, his fist propelling solidly into Vejiita's nose.
It wasn't a hard punch, considering it was his nose but it was unexpected
and Vejiita was hardly up to sorts. He jerked back, hands rising to the crushed
cartilage. There wasn't much he could do besides make sure it didn't all fall
apart and inhale blood.
"Why did you do that?" he gargled out, leaning
forward and cupping his hand under his nose to catch the dripping blood.
The other man frowned. He recognized him as Craig now. "Payback."
"Payback?"
"For hitting me. Hey, why don't you put your head
back instead of bleeding all over the place?"
Vejiita shut his eyes.
He'd never hit Craig, at least not lately or in any way that mattered. They were
always ripping on each other – Or Craig just ripping on him and Vejiita playing
along. He didn't say that, though. "I don't like blood running down the back of
my throat."
"Uh huh, sure." Vejiita sniffed and leaned back then,
straightening his body but kept his head bowed still. His cupped palm was
overflowing with blood, the red liquid dripping through his fingers and down his
wrist. He refused to look at Craig. After a moment, Craig sighed. "Fine, look,
I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to hit you..."
"Hnn.... Forgiven," he
muttered, his voice nasal. He glanced up at Craig, for the first time noticing
the dark coloring on his left temple. Craig nodded and pulled him to the
kitchen.
Bulma was there within the hour – only quarter to
midnight, now – her car swerving as she slammed the brakes on too suddenly in
the Son driveway. Her entry to the house, however, was far more dignified even
though the look in her eyes may have said differently. Gokou, too caught up in
his own thoughts or just absentminded had failed to tell Chichi and Goten that
she was coming, so even though her arrival was unexpected she was not unwelcome.
Even so, she only gave Chichi a brief nod and a thin smile; she wasn't here for
pleasure but for business.
It had been a restless wait for Gokou. He had
gone from staring at the phone on the couch to standing at the doorway of the
bathroom, considering a quick shower, to finally pulling up a chair and staring
at the mute television. The hour seemed long then but so short in hindsight.
When Bulma finally arrived he followed her into the kitchen, shrugging
unenthusiastically towards Chichi. She flashed him a dirty look went back to
bed, too tired and hot-tempered to deal with either Gokou or Bulma.
Bulma dropped something on the table, looked around as if to make sure
they were alone. Gokou recognized the discarded item as being the envelope he
delivered a few days ago, only now it looked more used and bloated. He hadn't
looked through it when it was in his possession – he had figured its contents to
be some technical documents – and he had no idea why the fat envelope was in his
house again. He stood silent, waiting for her to start.
She started off
slowly, drawing in a breath and hesitating before she spoke. "Gokou," she
started off, "the reason I wanted to come over here, instead of discussing this
over the phone, was, well..." She stopped at this point, reaching over and
bending back the pin on the envelope and opening it up. First, she extracted
stacks of important-looking papers, stapled and paper-clipped and folded
together. She glanced at them then set them aside, placing the text face down.
Then she pulled from the envelope what she wanted. It seemed to be a book of
some sort; crude, handmade, its twenty or so pages taped together on one side.
She held the book deftly in her hands for a moment, uncertain, before finally
transferring it to Gokou.
The book seemed delicate, wrinkled and ripped.
On the first page, the cover, on the very top were seven large, foreign symbols.
They seemed vaguely familiar; he remembered in a flash a turquoise and pink
shirt that had "girls girls girls" written across the front in symbols very
similar to the ones on paper. A language, Vejiita's language. There wasn't much
else on the cover; the words took up almost a quarter of it and the rest was an
obscure, dark drawing of some sort of dagger.
"Here," Bulma muttered,
patience wearing thin at his simple staring. "Open it, look." She took the
corner of the first pencil-smeared page and peeled it back.
A page full
of drawings, each one separated from another by boxes, in panels. Gokou could
tell already that this was going to be a dark manga, each square shaded in so
thoroughly with the flat side of a pencil that the scenery it was close to
black. He studied the images closely, picking up on a lone symbol of Vejiita's
language here and there. He had no idea what they meant but considering that
they were often written near a certain character's face he made a wild guess
that it was someone's thoughts or words.
He turned the page. Hmm.. Even
being ignorant to the alien language, Gokou had already picked up the general
lay out of the story by the pictures. And he wasn't sure that he liked it. Too
much darkness, the only other color besides black and gray being red. Red
ink.... representing blood... brought forth by the sharp blade of a knife. He
should have been able to guess the contents of this comic book by the lone
dagger on the cover.
It was a short story, two and a half pages long,
the ending with the only character introduced apparently killing himself. Gokou
studied the last panel much longer than he felt was suitable but the cryptic
concept of death was so expertly depicted in the small square that he found
himself frighteningly unable to look away.
Bulma seemed to notice his
daze and snaked a finger out and pointed to a scrawl beneath the last panel.
"Look at the signature," she instructed. He did so, bringing the book up closer
to his face to read the tiny endorsement. It was in English but he could barely
make out any of the letters following the capital V. Of course, he knew what the
name was. And now he knew Vejiita drew this.. thing...
He glanced up at
Bulma. "There's more," she told him, her voice low, "but none as bad as that.
Keep going," she pressed.
Gokou sighed. He wasn't sure to take her word
that the rest of the papers didn't flaunt such grim situations. However, doing
as told and flipping the page he found himself studying a much different
style of art, not sleek or dark at all like the story of the shadowy cutter.
Now, the images varied from sketches of vaguely humanoid machines to different
styles of letter, both English and otherwise, to cartoon-like people.
On
the opposite side of the page of sketches was the beginning of a new story. This
one featured more characters; mostly women and few men in what seemed to be in a
space ship-like setting. This story was also in a foreign language but had more
dialogue, the lettering large and loopy. Words or no words, the entire story
seemed quite silly. Like the first one, a signature was written at the last
panel. It was different, though. This one read simply C.H. V. A date followed
the letters, stating that the little comic was completed on January seventh of
the current year.
There were no more short little stories past the
eighth page. The ninth page was a note of some sort, the forced, angular writing
a mixture of English and another. The remaining pages were more drawings, of
cars, buildings, body parts, flames. To Gokou, they seemed to be nothing more
than a collection of random drawings.
Finished, he looked up at Bulma
wondering what this about and not sure if he cared to know. But she seemed to
want a response from him, her eyebrows raised expectantly and her arms crossed.
"What is this?" Gokou finally said.
"I found all that," she
answered, "in his room. Everywhere, papers, junk."
"But why did you
bring them?"
She sighed loudly and snatched the little book back. "Don't
you see? I found this all in Vejiita's room! It's obvious he wrote it all!"
"Yeah... He draws well." He frowned. He knew that Bulma hadn't brought
samples of Vejiita's artwork to show off his artistic skill.
"Yes, he
draws very well, Gokou," she agreed. "Didn't you pick up how all the pictures
look different from one another? No one else drew them, either. I tore a few of
them out of other sketch books." She pulled up a chair from the table and sat
down. "This leads us to my next point."
Gokou knew what was coming as
she picked up the papers she had set off to the side. Phrases and words like
"trauma" and "distinct personalities" jumped up at him, distinguished from the
rest of the text by bright yellow highlights or pronounced underlines. She
flipped through the pages almost idly, speaking as she searched for one specific
passage.
"You know as well as I do that something is up with him," she
told him, finding the hidden pages and pulling them loose from the others. "I
haven't had much time myself to worry about it until recently and even then I
had to ask Gohan to help me out." Gokou nodded. "Rhys Schultz," she said,
drawing in a deep breath, "is an entirely separate person. Or, more accurately,
Rhys is an entirely separate personality than Vejiita."
For the next
forty minutes, Gokou's half-formed thoughts were completed and suspicions were
confirmed, or steered towards the right direction at any rate. He was fed
technical information, names and reasons given to actions and words recently
witnessed. Vejiita's quirks were revealed to be a diagnosed disorder, a
disturbance of the mind. Dissociative identity disorder. Multiple personalities,
all in one body. Gokou had met them all. Had even had some too-close-for-comfort
encounters with a few of them.
He could even name them: Montgomery,
Chester, Rhys, Rob, Rip. Half a dozen people in one body and most of them too
aggressive for their own good. He was surprised that Vejiita had survived over
forty years without a dominance struggle breaking out between them all. The
stability between the selves within the precarious Vejiita was amazing.
A break in the drawl and Gokou finally said, "I know."
"'I
know?'" Bulma repeated. She glanced up from the list of past cases. "You know
what?"
"What you're talking about. It's true." He waited expectantly.
Bulma eyes narrowed, blue irises deep in thought.
"So you knew all
this," she said slowly, "and didn't say anything?"
Gokou felt a pang of
guilt but flushed it out with logic. Bulma herself had engaged in conversation
with Rhys Schultz and had failed to do any more about it than request that Gohan
do some after-hours research on topics that she'd had a hunch on, and that was
only after a few of the selves had gone haywire on Trunks. And it wasn't just
Bulma's indifference and Gokou's personal loss at what to do with a predicament
such as this that was to blame here. The bottom line was they just hadn't
thought it a problem. Chester was perfectly healthy, though a bit tipsy and
Montgomery was as normal as the preconceived Vejiita.
He had known
everything and still had allowed himself to be deceived. What a fool.
His hand automatically came up to his head, rubbing at his ear in a
nervous gesture and he shrugged. "I didn't know what to say." His eyes darted
down to the book, full of Vejiita's various talents.
Bulma sighed and
let it drop. The important thing now was to do something about it, not
mull over past mistakes. She said, "This is a serious illness. Now that we know
what it is, I think it's important we let Vejiita know."
Gokou nodded in
agreement. "We should ask Craig, too," he suggested, thinking about how much he
was around Vejiita. He certainly, if anything, could provide a different point
of view to some occurrences. Bulma halted, thrown off topic by the mentioning of
Craig.
"Oh, yes," she finally said, almost aloofly. "That would be a
good idea." She nodded to herself, consenting to an interview.
"Alright." He thought that posing questions about Vejiita to Craig would
be more than a good idea. After all, with whom had Vejiita up? Where was Vejiita
always found? Who seemed to be his first choice to seek out when he ran into
trouble? Certainly, Craig wasn't the best choice but just as certainly it proved
where Vejiita's loyalties lied. And, be it Vejiita or Chester or whoever else
was lurking under the skin, there was a bond between the two Saiyajin that Gokou
couldn't hope to understand.
Craig had positioned him in front
of the sink and turned his back for a moment. Vejiita wrapped an arm around his
stomach, one hand still catching the dripping blood. He hated getting his nose
hit. It hurt his whole face. He swore, his eyes were actually tearing up. He
dared to look up, tearing his eyes away from the hole in the collar of Craig's
blue polo shirt. Looked around, inspected the kitchen. There was Craig and also
someone scavenging through a large avocado-colored refrigerator. Feeling Vejiita
stare at his back he suddenly swung around. He glowered at Vejiita, dark brown
eyes narrowing in hostility. You do not belong here. Then he swung around
and left.
"Here."
Craig's damp fingers wrapped around his bloody
wrist, pulling his hand from his face and pressing something cold and wet
against his nose. He recoiled but Craig held him fast, murmuring an annoyed,
"Quit it, I'm helpin' ya, you idiot." Vejiita shoved him away and finished
cleaning up his face by himself.
It took awhile. He leaned over the
sink, his face feeling hot, watching the dark red blood drip from his nose and
into the metal lining until his head decided to stop leaking. By that time
Vejiita had gone through his fair share of water- and blood-soaked paper towels,
having continually wiped up the blood so it didn't start to drip down his face.
He left the mess when he was finished.
He sniffed and walked out of the
kitchen and into the living room. It was dark, if not darker than it had been
earlier. There had been people about, sprawled on the floor and against the
walls. Now there were only a few around, their bodies vaguely defined and only
visible by a blueish light — coming from a television set, he soon realized.
There was always some sort of appliance left on when Craig was around.
An arm slithered around his waist and squeezed affectionately. Speak of
the devil.
"How's the face?" he asked.
"Better before you hit
it," he replied. Craig shrugged. Vejiita allowed his arm to remain looped around
his body. Instead of shaking him loose, he reached up and poked him in the side
of his head. Craig flinched and closed one eye, swatting the hand away.
"Stop that dammit."
His arm slid off and reattached to Vejiita's
wrist. He pulled him forward and Vejiita shadowed him, wiping at his nose
uneasily. He still wasn't quite convinced that it had stopped bleeding.
The house was larger than Vejiita had earlier supposed. More than a
nice-sized living room and a bathroom with peeling paint and a kitchen with a
bloody sink. He was led over discarded shoes and shirts, over pillows and
blankets and TV guides. Craig's grip tightened, fingernails digging into the
tendons of his wrist as if he had to keep a hold of him for fear that he should
escape.
He wasn't even thinking of escaping. Farthest thought from his
head.
On the far side of the room was a dark-colored sofa free of all
but two people, who were currently draped over the armrest on the far-left side.
He sat down on the sofa and craned his head back against the headrest, staring
up at the dark ceiling.
Something smooth and cold was pressed against
the palm of his hand, his fingers automatically curling over it. "Watch it,"
Craig warned from beside him. Vejiita glanced at him, the burning tip of the
cigarette, now lit, and then at his hand. A needle. He glanced back up at the
other skeptically.
"What?" Craig said. "You asked for one."
"I
did not." He was tempted to drop the nasty thing.
Craig inhaled sharply
and when he replied, after another moment, smoke came out with his words. "Over
the sink, two fucking min — oh." His voice dropped suddenly. Vejiita looked away
quickly, focusing on the shining tip of the needle. Craig stuttered for only a
moment, the realization of who really asked for a needle becoming clearer while
Vejiita was doing his best not to even think of it. His fingers trembled,
tightening around the glass.
"Oh, come on," said Craig, impatience
overriding the hesitant concern of the two conflicting statements coming from
his friend, "just take it, can't hurt, now can it?"
Vejiita rotated the
needle around between his fingers, adjusting it so his hand held the instrument
in a manner ready to inject. "What is it?"
"The usual," Craig replied.
He paused. "I don't quite remember the name."
"That's okay," Vejiita
muttered. A searing ache twisted in his gut, centered just below his rib cage on
the right side. He let out a shaky breath, resisting the urge to move forward to
try to suppress the pain. He had hoped when he was younger that these
occasional, sudden cramps would be outgrown someday. Never happened. But he
always deluded himself. With everything.
He squeezed his eyes shut,
hoping and knowing Craig hadn't noticed. He didn't want to cry. Not now. Not
like this. The needle.. It felt so familiar in his hand. He hadn't done drugs
like this since he was eighteen or nineteen or so. And even then he hadn't been
a frequent druggie.
He opened his eyes back up and slanted a look at
Craig. He was amusing himself with the cigarette. Vejiita scooted away from him.
He felt like he was breaking a promise or something by doing this. Almost dirty.
It was wrong, he knew. Illegal, but that wasn't what was wrong about it. He
sighed and shook his head.
Resolved, he lowered the needle.
Yes,
he knew what this was. 'The usual.' He needed no explanation further than that.
He felt a... need. A craving. A shiver running up and down his spine, making him
break out in a nerve-shaking cold sweat. His hand was shaking and he felt like
his mind was going a mile a minute —
Then all came to a lurching halt.
Venom. Poison. He was destroying himself all over again. A path of
self-destruction, picking right back up from thirty years ago. Or... Was it only
a few days past?
A dream or a memory. One of these two
distortions of the mind's eye was what it was and the dream could be a memory at
the same time. How was he to tell? He felt like crying. What was he thinking
last night? Did he honestly hope that taking a drug that rendered senses useless
would help him? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now he was even more screwed. The
only up side to this was that he actually knew what happened.
If that
was a good thing.
He found himself cringing and laying his head
on his folded arms. He had been knocked off the couch a while ago; when, he had
no idea. Insignificant things like falling off furniture were, unfortunately,
not the types of things he remembered.
No, he thought firmly.
Just a nightmare. You got sick.
But... Nightmares don't undo your
pants. Or leave your arms speckled with red and bruising spots or make your
sides ache with red nail scratches, just barely breaking the skin. Nightmares
don't forcibly shove you off the couch you had been dozing on and leave you on
the floor. Nightmares don't have hands.
The minutes after he had pressed
the plunger down and withdrawn a moment later with an empty needle were tense
moments. This was an escape with which he was no longer familiar. Slowly,
though, he felt the anxiety slither out of his brain as easily as tight muscles
were massaged smooth. He felt his heart thud slower and heavier in his chest and
felt a murky drowsiness stealing what vigilance he had in the first place.
It was quiet, a feeling akin to placidity. Silent, save a strange sort
of ticking that he supposed was his own mind talking to itself. Sight was
limited to dark blurs here and there. Touch — he couldn't even describe it.
A mere pressure at first, nothing to be intimidated or excited by. On
his wrist, pressed into the palm of his hand. Then the pressure slid up his arms
— there he felt the first pinch. It scraped along his bare shoulder and to his
back, pulling him close. Breathing was cut short, something warm and sour
stifling life.
He didn't even have the sense to push away.
He
should have. And after a moment, he did but he must have stayed still too long.
Must have allowed the tongue, and encouraged its presence in his mouth for its
owner to take a hint and leave him alone. Instead, his refusal was misunderstood
and the next thing he knew he was rendered blind, some sort of cloth wrapped
around his head, just being tied in a knot in the back of his head. Resisting
hands were held down, arms pinched in reprimand.
Here, sitting shoved in
the space between the side of the sofa and the entertainment center, Vejiita was
almost glad that even though he had some vague recollection; some parts,
probably the worst, were still lost to him. He mostly remembered hands. Hands
and nails and pinching fingers. Sometimes, teeth had scraped across his skin,
occasionally breaking it and breath against his wet skin making him shiver.
Vejiita cracked his eyes open, turned his head so he was looking to the
side. He moaned softly. He was still blindfolded but didn't have the energy to
pull it down. So he just slipped to an uneasy sleep.
At about
three a.m. Bulma suddenly sat up, the wooden chair she sat in scraping loudly
against the floor successfully shocking Gokou out of his stupor-like musing.
Inwardly he shook his head clear of the clouds that taken over his mind, freeing
himself of baffling thoughts that made sense and contradicted each other at the
same time. Sleep, he thought staring up at Bulma, I need some
sleep. He said, "What is it, Bulma?"
Her eyes were serious, edging
on harshness and her voice lacked the slurring fatigue Gokou knew distorted his
own. "Vejiita," she said, "we don't even know where he is." Instinctively, that
ki-related sixth sense reached out, a habit beyond his control.
"Yeah,
kinda," he said, getting a general location and pinpointing on it.
Bulma
had been around him long enough to understand what he meant. "Get up, let's go,"
she said.
Gokou may have been particularly tired earlier but leave it to
the sharp, night air to snap him out of it. Almost like caffeine. However, he
did not protest when Bulma insisted on the car as a means of transportation
opposed to taking to the air with Gokou carrying her.
Fifty-some miles
northwest of Gokou's home the car's wheels hit smooth pavement. It was a road
neither of them was familiar with, it's route being one nobody had ever had a
reason to follow before. But loyally, Bulma followed his instructions hoping
that Vejiita wasn't off somewhere in the thick brush that bordered the highway
on either side. They drove noiselessly, conversation stifled and the radio
muted.
An hour and half later, Gokou jerked himself awake from a doze.
It was barely dawn and the light was dim enough to make it difficult to
determine whether it was still dark or light yet. He looked out the window,
noting that the thick forest that sheltered his home had thinned out
considerably. Houses were built among scattered, low bushes and
strangled-looking trees.
Vejiita's ki re-snarled itself in Gokou's
psyche and, spotting a large green sign with the words "Exit 160" on it, he
cleared his throat and said, "Turn, here."
"What?" she glanced over at
him, surprised he was awake. The exit had come up fast but she swerved and made
it. "Looks like a town," she commented, after driving down a short winding road
that the exit lead to. Gokou nodded. A pretty dumpy town, at that, made up
mostly of bars and houses that looked like they were on their last wing.
"He is somewhere near here," Gokou said certainly. "Turn left."
It was one of the largest houses in the town, if not the newest, built
at the end of a short dead-end road. There were three cars parked in the
dirt-and-gravel driveway. A small, gray car that had seen better days, a large
white pickup truck and a dark blue station wagon, speckled with rust spots. A
large black dog, almost invisible in the dim light, lurked between the vehicles,
dragging a broken chain from its collar. It gave the new arrivals, parked a safe
distance away from the other cars, merely an indifferent sniff.
Bulma
sighed, unbuckled her seatbelt, shoved the door open and stretched. They had
been in the car for a good two hours. Gokou quickly followed her actions then
trailed her up the steps of the already-deteriorating porch. They hesitated at
the door. Despite the chilliness of the morning only the screen door was
blocking entry.
Inside it was dark, the air thick and difficult to
breathe. There were very few people in sight. Just a silent television, couches,
and, to the side, a slight view of a kitchen, the only light source. Since he
was the only one who had a good idea of where Vejiita was, Gokou stepped forward
and approached the largest couch, his face becoming tinted whitish blue from the
light of the TV. Bulma was at his heels.
There he was. He was sitting
between the small space, back resting against the wall and his knees partially
drawn up. The shirt he was wearing was bloodstained and ripped at the collar,
and a floor lamp had been knocked over, tilted and resting against the top of a
CD rack, increasing the feeling of disarray. They approached him hesitantly,
eyeing the blindfold with distaste.
It was almost painful to look at
him, his head tossed back, low, groaning noises rumbling from his throat. He
didn't seem quite awake but was obviously aware of their presence, to a point.
One arm, pale under the influence of the blaring TV, rose up to loosen and pull
the blindfold from his eyes. He squinted at them then ducked his head again.
Gokou heard Bulma suck in a breath but made no movement towards Vejiita.
So he stepped forward instead, taking hold of Vejiita around the wrist. The plan
was to pull him up out of the corner and get him out of this place but the
put-down Saiyajin didn't care for the help.
Twisting his arm away and
dropping it in his lap, he tilted his head up to stare up at the two shadow-like
figures through cloudy eyes. Vejiita didn't feel as if he could be bothered by
these people. He couldn't be.
Inexplicably, he felt himself
becoming drowsy. The figures before him darkened and became indistinct, and he
was sure, in that detached sort of way, that he would have been gone for a time
had it not been for that bothersome murmuring of their voices. He was yanked
fully from the stupor when two hands gripped his biceps, more certainly and
forcefully than before. He was successfully hauled to his feet.
Sight
came back in a painful and nauseating flash but Vejiita managed to hold in the
sparse contents of his stomach and focus. Pulling the blindfold down fully, so
it hung around his neck, he leaned against the armrest of the couch and stared
up at his apparent "rescuers".
They stared back.
Then the woman,
the girl he knew so well took his hand, gently convincing him to come with her.
Standing, however, proved to be as uncomfortable as looking around and Bulma
soon realized that she couldn't support him long enough to make it to the car.
Gokou stepped forward looping his arm under Vejiita's to hold him up. Vejiita
didn't help the awkward situation out of the house, leaning away from Gokou. The
taller Saiyajin got an earful of muttered obscenities.
"Hey..." They
paused and turned around at the soft voice. Gokou recognized Craig instantly,
leaning against the entry way to the kitchen. He had a pained expression on his
face. "Where are you taking him?"
"Just back home," Gokou answered.
"Can I come with?"
Gokou nodded. "Sure you can. I don't see why
not." Bulma made no objection, after all. Craig nodded and trailed them out the
door, scooted ahead of the trio when they descended the stairs. While he waited
for them, the large black dog came from beneath the white truck. Craig gave it a
pat on the nose. All the same, he seemed awful skittish — a bad sign, Gokou took
it, considering the outlandish Saiyajin's usual behavior. But in the backseat of
the car, into which he enthusiastically dove, he seemed more at home,
practically curling up at Vejiita's side. Again Bulma drove, back to Capsule
Corp. Gokou assumed and he kept half an eye on the two in the back seat.
Craig was asleep within seconds but Vejiita, still not looking quite in
his element, gazed out the window, eyes half lidded. Tired, if anything, Gokou
hoped. That was his blood there, on his shirt and he had the busted up nose to
prove it. He must have been in a fight after he left Gokou's home.
Fortunately, the trip to Capsule Corp. did not take as long to the trip
to the house Vejiita crashed at, but it was still a good hour-long trip. Not
that Vejiita really noticed. He wanted to be out of it, wanted to leave
and never know he left. He wanted to be dead. Montgomery wanted to be dead.
Montgomery nearly killed him — again.
Montgomery even came around once,
in the back seat of the car. He tugged himself free of the tangling strings that
kept him at bay, broke through the mesh that wanted him silent and opened his
eyes. He just wanted to look around a bit. He looked at his hands. Dirt was
caught under the fingernails. The callouses on his wrists had been picked at,
red spots of insignificant pain shown where the skin had been bothered too much.
Arms — speckled red and blue and green, bruises forming.
He felt eyes on
him.
Kakarotto.
Montgomery gave him the most damning malicious
glower he could produce, considering the circumstances. Observing Kakarotto's
sudden offended expression, he decided that the point had been taken. Damned if
he was going to let that bastard stare at him like that. He didn't take pride in
what he was doing. ...has been doing for longer than he felt proud of.... But
don't think for a moment that he was going to let others judge him like
this. It was all Rob's stupid mercy and Vejiita's damn cowardice —
Okay,
Montgomery would admit it. He wanted oblivion as much as the other Saiyajin did.
Vejiita always got it, the coward. Whenever he felt over his head or
uncertain, they'd take over. Whenever something scared him, however so faintly,
they came to the rescue. Montgomery had no such defense against the feared. He
just had that needle.
And with that needle, he'd never gotten
that out-of-it before....! Oh shit, he was so mad and unable to become
angry at the same time he couldn't even stand it. Narrowing his eyes at the back
of Kakarotto's seat, he slipped back into a trance-like state. As was customary
when another took control.
He could still sort of see, here. It was more
like a dream, a thought that was almost his own but just out of his realm of
recollection. Thinking — that was mostly what he did, here, when he was in this
mood. He had mistakes to resent, sins to repent and past behaviors of both
himself and others to reflect over.
Functioning could wait. Revenge
would come.