Rhyme & Reason 12:
[ W E L T A N S C H A U U N G ]

"world view"




Vejiita was aware of himself in an instant but noticed his surroundings much more slowly. He was flat on his back, stretched out, almost comfortable. He forgot about Chester's eternal black eye and Montgomery's accusing shout. They both became a memory of a memory, easy to ignore and discard. Vejiita forgot about them without any effort.

In fact, the troublesome thoughts of those who occupied the shadows of his mind were so easily forgotten that he wanted to sink back into oblivion, forget everything and everyone. It would be so easy. Just lay back, clear his mind, force himself to be at peace with himself as much as he has ever been...

He shifted his weight slightly, fully intending to do just this, to allow himself to be a goner. However, as he tried to move into a more comfortable position, too greedy for perpetual placidity and too confident in this downward-spiral plan, he felt something that was none too relaxing.

A chill.

An icy metal surface came in contact to his hot skin. When he had moved, he had shifted just enough to move to a part of the table where his body heat had not previously warmed the metal. It wasn't the cold that nearly shocked him out of his skin — it was what a metal table meant.

He gasped softly and in a jerky motion, he arched his back and slid off the examination table, moving faster than his mind could follow. Barefooted and disoriented, he slipped on the slick tile floor, barely managing to catch himself by his elbows on the side of the table.

Wisely, he chose to pause here to catch his breath, sort out his thoughts and let his body wake up. His sight was temporarily shot, having been jolted out of his stupor too quickly and he wasn't quite sure if he could trust his knees. He shook his head, peering past the black and red haze that impaired his view of the world. Something was coming into focus. A shiny, horizontal surface hovering a few inches in front of him. The darkness clouding his sight cleared up; a hospital tray, holding a few rolls of gauze, an empty syringe, a bottle of pills, a scalpel or two.

He swallowed nervously and forced himself to walk. His steps were strained, joints painfully stiff. The familiar pain in his stomach returned with a new vengeance with almost enough force to cause him to double over. For a moment, he considered turning back in hope that laying still would cause the twisted stitch of pain to subside, but he knew from past experience that it throbbed as healthily holding still as it did in motion. He could deal with this. It wasn't like giving care to it now would make it any better.

His skin suddenly broke out in gooseflesh. The table, the surgical knife, the tell tale knot in his side. A small dark room, illumination manipulated by four glaring, white walls. The pieces were slowly coming back together, the picture forming being one that he had thought he had destroyed permanently. The dust of his earlier childhood had never been brushed away; childhood was now.

He swivelled around, panic seizing him once again. Oh, thank God, he thought. No one's here. No one to hit him, to grab him and strap him down on the table and to slice him open and mess his innards up. Thank God his father was nowhere in sight. But.... they could come in any minute. He turned with difficulty, taking in his surroundings much more slowly. The instant he spotted a door he was there, shaking and clammy hands twisting the smooth knob. The door gave in and he stumbled through, shutting it behind him with a soft click.

Slowly drawing in a deep breath between his teeth, he felt along the wall near the doorway, finding and flicking on the light. Bright fluorescent lights drenched him from above, nearly blinding him for a second time within the hour. Before he squinted through his tightly clenched eyes, he inhaled deeply. The strong smell of artificially-scented soap and sharp tang of lemon disinfectant was giving him a headache. He slit an eye open, slowly recognizing the white, ceramic facilities surrounding him.

Vejiita sighed, feeling his face draw into a scowl of both annoyance and deep-set worry he decided that staying in the bathroom, behind a locked door, would keep him much safer than sitting out there, exposing his belly. At least here he would have the illusion of safety and that was all he could ever ask for.

He rubbed his nose, trying to snuff out the harsh scent of disinfectant; he could do without a headache right now. He needed to be on full alert. As many aches and pains that dominated his body now, he needed to be mentally prepared. He liked to think he could be good at verbosity when his limbs failed him. Now, though, it was quiet. Silent, a vacant buzz humming consistently in his ear. He blinked hard and turned towards the sink, his intention being a drink of water. He caught sight of his face before he could reach the faucet. He gave up on thoughts of a refreshment.

He took a step and a half backwards, backing himself into a wall, immediately allowing his knees to give out on him at this sudden resistance. He didn't want to look at that face. He didn't want to look at anybody.

His stomach churned and he turned his head, eyeing the toilet a few feet away from him through blurred vision. Bile burned at back of his throat and the deep breath he inhaled rattled shakily through his body, appeasing the tremors he was being overwhelmed with little success. He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting so badly to somehow just leave his body behind and become nothing more than air, a soon-to-be forgotten memory.... Wishful thinking, he knew this but hated to acknowledge, but in bringing up his hand to wipe away the tears, induced by overwhelming anxiety and stress, he nearly stabbed himself.

He stared at the thin instrument; it was as long as the end of his middle finger to the center of his palm, a stainless steel implement ending with a blade that sliced through the skin of his thumb so smoothly that he barely felt it. A drop of blood oozed out and dripped leisurely down his palm, down his wrist, on the stiff white hospital slacks he wore.

He remembered that dreary morning a month ago, in Craig's rundown apartment where he had played with a kitchen knife. His body, he believed, was too worn-out and battered and scarred for a man of his age. It was because of a lifetime of violent labor, starting from the day he could walk and it's completion not yet in sight. Sometimes, he just couldn't take it — in his head and in his mind. He broke down that night. He cut.

What did he have to lose now? They'd cut him open eventually. He could see them now; pale, raised skin crisscrossing his torso, visible reminders that he wasn't in one piece. They'd cut him open and fuck with him. His gaze shifted from his marred flesh, ignoring the droplets of blood that trickled from his elbow. He looked at the scalpel, recognizing it as the one that had startled him outside on the hospital tray. At some point, he must have grabbed it. He wiped the blade free of gore on his knee and pondered what to do with it next. It had already broken his skin, and it was meant to do so again. No silly doctor was needed to mess with him this time.




Vejiita had been out for a long time. He had seemed to be partially conscious on the way back to Capsule Corp., but by the end of the hour-long road trip he was gone to the world as he had been for the past two days. When they drove into the Capsule Corporation complex Gokou noted, not at all surprised, that she veered off the usual driveway to the housing buildings in favor of the small but classy hospital. The gray building was square shaped standing out among the domes and was built close to the main laboratory. Its purposes for being on the complex were primarily for emergencies.

In this very building now, walking leisurely despite his long strides, Gokou tried not to worry himself too much about Vejiita's condition. The elder Saiyajin hadn't looked at all well in the car — he had been much paler than usual and it wasn't the ashen look one might develop from lack of sunlight. The bruises speckling his arms and the busted nose suggested a struggle but they weren't that serious. Certainly not enough to knock Vejiita out for a day and a half.

Gokou was a worrier. His anxiety — not just his moral sense — kept him concerned with other people's well being. Helping others so they were safe and fighting to keep the world free of danger were all his principal goals. His personal peace of mind, however, was always something else he made a point to secure.

He stopped at the last door of the hallway. Peering through the narrow window of the heavy wooden door, he looked past the fine chainlink wires that strengthened the glass. This was where Vejiita was. He knew this because he had carried him inside himself. From his vantage point, there was no sign of the other Saiyajin.

Without realizing that his fingers were brushing the cold metal of the doorknob and easily twisting it one half-turn to the right, Gokou stepped into the small, colorless room that Vejiita was supposedly occupying. His senses were immediately flushed with the bland, rubbery, too-clean odor that all hospitals had. It had been there outside this room and in the waiting lobby but in this room he thought it was going to knock him senseless.

Upon further inspection of the surroundings, Gokou determined that his earlier glance was accurate. The white-sheeted bed in the center of the room was messed up, the covers thrown back and a small tray near the bed that looked as if it had been shoved aside so it was no longer aligned parallel to the edge of the bed. Indication that Vejiita had been here but had made his exit with little grace.

He looked around the small room. Windowless, the only exit being the door through which Gokou had just entered. Those in the waiting lobby or reception desk would have spotted and stopped the ailing Saiyajin if he should have attempted to leave that way.

Eyes scanned the small area, locking in on the second door of the room. Identical to the door that led into the hallway but without a window, Gokou guessed that it was a closet or bathroom. To test his assumption he accessed his sixth sense; Vejiita's ki resided behind that door.

Gokou set the neatly-folded clothes he had been sent to deliver down on the unmade bed. The clothes that Vejiita had been wearing were ripped and stained and covered with mud and dead leaves. The deep sleep he had only come out of recently certainly proved that he had needed the rest after a wild night. Gokou cleared the distance between the bed and the door quickly, side-stepping and trying to ignore the needles and other small medical instruments scattered across the floor. His fist hovered hesitantly a few inches in front of the smooth surface, uncertain if he really wanted to see Vejiita right now.




A red sun. A red sun swirling timelessly in a moist sky of flesh. Slowly growing larger, consuming more of the sky, expanding steadily across the horizon until the substance was spread so thin that it was nothing more than a pale smear. The silent God who was responsible for this red circle's death sighed tiredly, bloodied finger trailing up his stomach to start anew. He hadn't stopped bleeding from the small stab wound he had afflicted on himself and he found the gore to be the most suitable of paint, coloring thoroughly and thickly.

A crash of thunder behind him tore him from his bleeding, his finger jerking away from his side, his elbow smacking the wall in his surprise. He jump up, stepping away from the door. Through the buzz in his ear, he heard his name....

"Hey, Vejiita. Are you in there?"

The voice was not familiar but the question was. He didn't trust his own voice enough to answer or his hands enough to open the door. He responded indirectly, slipping around the toilet and moving aside the pale yellow shower curtains. He twisted the plastic faucet so the arrow was indicating towards the far end of the red area — hot. He slipped in, panicked, not wanting to face anyone should the speaker come in. Bracing himself against the wall with one arm, he waited for the sound of departing feet through the loud spray of the shower water. Then he turned off the water. Whoever had talked to him was convinced that he was in the lavatory and quite alive.

Pulling his conclusions primarily from the overall cleanliness of the bathroom, he realized that he was not a kid anymore and this place was not a threat to him. However, sick as he was and as disoriented as he remained, he took his stubborn anxiety and fear anger out on the knot of pain in his stomach. It was gone now. Leaving behind just him and the hole in his side for the time being, bleeding idly.

He slipped out of the square shower stall, yanking a fluffy white towel off its metal hanger. He scrubbed his face with it, quickly rubbing it through his hair and wiped off his shoulders before pressing the now damp cloth against the deep cut. Vejiita exhaled hard through his teeth, exhalation a cross between a sigh and a snarl. He didn't regret stabbing himself but now he didn't really understand why he had done it in the first place.

Tossing the blood-smeared towel back in the shower, he peeked through the door. Nothing had been touched or moved and no one was in sight. The bed was still a mess, the door was tightly shut and whoever had called to him earlier was gone without a trace. His eyes zoned in on some light-colored clothing on the foot of the bed. Thank God. Something to wear other than the hospital slacks he was wearing; currently soaking wet and sticking to him like a second skin.

The white slacks dropped to the tile floor with a damp smacking sound. Vejiita found that his lips were betraying an amused smirk. Underwear. Boxers, dark red plaid with frogs. Vejiita wasn't one who wore undergarments religiously and always they had been quite plain. Whoever had been in charge of picking out clothes for him would have had to be either Craig or —

One of them.

Vejiita's lips tightened into a somber straight line. The thought took all the humor out of the frog-boxers. He felt sick thinking about it but it put them on anyway, as if those who possessed them were some sort of gods who needed to be appeased in order to behave.

The jeans were pulled on and buttoned without fuss and the undershirt was slipped over his head with minimal trouble. He dropped the black and gray button-up shirt to the floor for later. He eyed the bed, the fatigue he had been ignoring scraped up inside him, making his eyelids droop and his knees feel like water. Very heavy water. He took a clumsy step forward and allowed himself to fall on the bed, twisting himself around to stare at the flourescent light seeking to blind him from above.

The last thing he wanted to do was sleep. His head wouldn't let him forget how bad hospitals were and the fact that he hadn't seen anyone yet put him on edge. But he couldn't possibly fight this forever. He had to sleep. You always succumbed to it eventually — it was inevitable, sleep. He knew it. Sleepless nights turning into sleepless weeks had always ended up with him collapsing like some narcoleptic. He closed his eyes and the lights in his head went out within that second.




Craig leaned against the smooth, white concrete of the building, warm enough to be an actual living, breathing thing. His black eyes were wide and awe-struck, focused on the crackling fire which was quickly eating up the east fringes of the Capsule Corp. complex. His eyes danced red, reflecting the orange flames. He licked his lips slowly then snapped himself out of his daze by giving his head a hard shake, not unlike a dog shaking it's coat free of water. He glanced to his right, his eyes still glazed over. To his newfound companion he said, "Now, wasn't that the shit?"

Yamucha made eye contact warily, wondering what this fellow was on. Yamucha had a strong impulse to get away from him. Unfortunately, Son Gokou had asked him to hang around Craig, keep him company. "Humor him if you must," Gokou had told him. "He's a friend of Vejiita and you know what that means." Yes, he certainly did know what that meant. Vejiita's friend's mischief rivaled both Trunks' and Goten's together and bordered on devilry.

The human was reminded vaguely of his few years of high school; daily schoolwork and nagging teachers aside, the kids were what drove him to the desert. Preps, jocks who lived to make an impression of the sidewalk in your face and girls so high-maintenance they brought the joy out of dating and even sex. Circles of friends, every other one a back stabber who just used you to help back-stab another, asked you to do favors in return for a permanent place at the top. Yamucha couldn't help but resent Gokou and even Bulma for taking advantage of their friendship and sending him on a guilt trip to baby sit this guy.

What use was Craig anyway? All he had done was set off a series of cheaply-made firecrackers, successfully alighting the small, private forest at the edge Capsule Corp.'s territory. He had laughed when a tree collapsed, laughed at the small team of firemen who had arrived to put the fire out. Yamucha snorted to himself and took a few steps away from the other man. Seemed a lot like how Vejiita was; a jerk who usually ended up making things worse — except this one meant to do it.

Preps and asshole Saiyajin. He never had to deal with this out in the desert....

He was pulled from his sulking from a yell above, more like a howl than any human bellow. A small ki blast, easily mistakable for a firework, was shot off from above him into the yard fire causing the firemen to shout out in anger. The igniter slid down the side of the gently-sloping building shortly after. Yamucha groaned audibly at the sight of Vejiita, looking deranged as usual.

Joining them, waving two fingers in greeting, he jabbed Yamucha numerous times in the stomach and side. "Hey, you, how you doin'?" He laughed then turned to Craig. "Nice shirt," he offered, rubbing his arm lightly. Craig flashed a shy grin.

The shirt looked like something he had pulled out of the donation box to the Salvation Army. Dirty white, short sleeved and made of thin ribbed corduroy, the shirt was a mixture of a mechanic's apparel and tacky 70's clothes. On the left side was an oval, red-seamed patch with the name "Frank" sewed in the center in red, cursive thread. Adjusting the fake leopard skin collar, Craig replied, "Thanks. My mom says it detracts from the goofiness of my face."

Vejiita smirked and shook his head. "Yeah, sure, your mom." He wiped the grit from the roof off on his pants, adjusted the collar of his black shirt so it laid flat and made his way to the entrance of the building, slipping through the glass doors and disappearing. Craig dropped the garbage left over from the fireworks. Yamucha tailed him, intent on keeping his word to Gokou.

Yamucha saw that Vejiita had already made himself comfortable on a green-padded wooden bench in the reception area, his head titled up and eyes glued to the television set bolted into the corner of the room. Yamucha allowed himself to be yanked forward, his will to get away from these two far from conquered but he found that his chances of escaping — and getting more than two feet without getting pantsed (which, he imagined, would be the result of leaving) — were zip.

He followed the Saiyajin's gaze, looking at but not watching the newscaster tell the public, face professional and bare of concern, of the devastating earthquakes that plagued the ever-luckless third world countries. Yamucha tried to look at Vejiita out of the side of the eye without the sharp warrior noticing him. From what he could gather, the alien's attention was focused on the thirteen-inch screen six feet above ground.

Suddenly he looked away, his lips curled in a snarl. "Bah," he muttered, "where the hell is the remote?"

"Velcro-ed to the side of the TV box," answered Craig. Vejiita squinted up at it.

"Damn, is that far up." Yamucha waited for a moment for one of them to stand up and get it; certainly that was a simple task as Vejiita, at least, could fly. Simple to hover up to the television and pull the remote off or just change the channel manually. But, no. Neither made any move. Craig, to his left, was staring at the human's knee. Vejiita on the other side, picked at a hangnail. The overall silence from the two was unnerving.

He cleared his throat and glanced at Craig. "So.. are you a Saiyajin or what?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I mean you don't have a tail."

Craig drew a blank for at least twenty second before his face broke out into a smile, the equation that tail plus a crazy guy setting things on fire equaled Saiyajin finally registering. "Yeah, about that. I think it got hacked off in prison."

"Prison," he repeated.

"Yeah, fuck it hurt." From the expression on his face, Yamucha would never know, for apparently the memory of getting his tail cut off brutally did not pain him. He was smiling and shaking his head to himself, entertained by the thought. Leaning over Yamucha, he inquired to Vejiita, "What happened to yours?"

"I think it burnt off in hell, Craigie."

The statement was followed by a few moments of silence, the quietness bothering Yamucha almost more than the two Saiyajin on either side of him. Attempting normalcy, he dug into his pocket and extracted a red and white pen with "Quality Tan" advertising printed in worn-out blue. Then he picked up the local newspaper off the coffee table, flipping through the pages and folding back the paper when he found the crossword puzzle.

He wasn't the best at crossword puzzles, he would admit that much, but the trivia he had acquired throughout his life provided him with just enough correct answers to encourage him to keep doing them. However, giving the box-inhabited game a closer look, he saw that it had already been completely filled out incorrectly in black pen.

Slowly, his gaze slid over, appropriately settling on man to his left who was drawing cartoons on the knee of his pants with a white and red clicky pen. Meeting Yamucha's eyes then looking at the paper in his lap, Craig chuckled softly and muttered with could have possibly been shame, "Oh, I didn't know you were into word puzzles..."




Bulma sighed and paused, setting down the cardboard box which was burdening her. Why she decided to clean out all the old junk she found decaying in the back of the closet was beyond her now. This morning she had been motivated to clean out the junk, telling herself it needed to be done and that there were benefits involved, depending on how one wished to look at it. She didn't often become introspective, but the rare times she did, such as sitting down in the center of the room with an old photo album or some memorable childhood object, reminiscing, she enjoyed it wholeheartedly. She decided she needed to make more personal time.

And now, with an apparently psychotic Saiyajin who turned out to be multiple people, the stress was almost overwhelming. Everything Vejiita had ever done was turning out to be not all of his fault and that those other "people" were responsible for doing those awful things. Now with him being unconscious... Having taken the week off, Bulma was hoping to isolate Vejiita herself and get some sort of idea about from where these problems were coming.

She frowned down at the dusty box that was over flowing with old, out-of-date clothing and purses she couldn't believe having ever bought. That closet was nearly cleaned out now; she had been working since eight this morning and it was almost noon. Seeing how this was the last of the lot and it was noon, Bulma decided that a break was certainly well deserved.

That was where she saw him. In the kitchen, standing over the stove with steam curling up around his face, his skin breaking out in an artificial sweat. He was poking a large blue spoon at something inside the pan resting on an orange-hot burner with as much concentration as she had ever seen from him. Her eyes slid over to a body resting on the table, his back facing the stove top and the doorway in which Bulma stood. Yamucha, looking highly uncomfortable, sat at the table staring at the feet of the sleeping man. Seeing Bulma, relief washed over his face. Silently he got up and left, pushing the chair in behind himself. She nodded her thanks for him staying so long.

A fine but visible tremor suddenly thrilled its way through Vejiita's frame, notifying him abruptly that he had company. He looked at her, a sly grin sneaking onto his face. "Hey, good afternoon."

She nodded politely and smiled. "What are you making?" He tilted the pan so she could see.

"Started out as an omelet, but then I didn't want to go through with that flipping thing. So now it's scrambled eggs with junk in it. Want some?" He took the pan off the burner and set it on the counter. Bulma winced, hoping that the hot pan wouldn't leave a permanent scar in the expensive counter top.

She shook her head. "No thanks, you can have it all."

He jerked his head in a short, happy nod. "Rock on." With that, he slouched over and leaned against the counter top on one elbow, using the other arm to scoop up the eggs and ham and cheese concoction with a fork. He was a picky or maybe just a temperamental eater, poking through his meal and occasionally stabbing up a yellow mouthful.

While Vejiita played with his food, Bulma opened the refrigerator and extracted some flavored yogurt, her choice in food not so much to extinguish her hunger but as an excuse to stick around. Like Vejiita, she ate at the counter, avoiding the table that was currently doubling as a bed.

Vejiita studied her for a moment before initiating the conversation. "You seem unnaturally calm."

"Why wouldn't I be?" she asked.

He lifted a shoulder. "Never mind." He sank his teeth into a grinning lip then quickly shoved the fork in his mouth. "This tastes funny. I think I need more salt." He extended his arm to get the tall wooden salt shaker on the other side of the counter.

Bulma's attention was caught by something under his sleeve. She grabbed his wrist before he had a chance to move away, her reflexes startling her as much as the one she had captured.

However, he lacked the shock at being caught and of her quick movements. Instead, confusion blighted over his face momentarily before transforming into a muddled annoyance, instantly starting to wrench his hand free. He gave her a small, baffled smile as if suspecting that she was "up" to something. "What are you doing? Let go."

She held tight and undid the button on the cuff of his shirt with her other hand and pushed the sleeve back. Three nicks, lined up one by one on his arm, varying in length from a half an inch to almost two. She easily pushed the sleeve past his elbows, staring at the fresh cuts that definitely weren't there when she had checked him into the hospital.

Face serious and still uncertain, Vejiita pulled his arm away and twisted it for a better look. His fingers came up and ran over the glistening, red slash marks. The faint wince that flashed across his face momentarily was not bothered to be suppressed. "Hmm...," he murmured, brows creased in concentration. He inspected his other arm. It was less damaged surface-area wise, but two red circles suggested stabbing rather than cutting. "Weird. I barely even felt this stuff." He held his arm out in front of him, rotating it to see all sides. Sighing, he finally lowered it, awe gone from his face.

He suddenly seemed to notice Bulma, still standing next to him, one eyebrow arched and gawking at him with an expression of astonishment. He returned the expression, although he was more shocked and outraged. "What, you think I did this to myself? You dumb girl, of course I wouldn't!"

"I'm not speaking to Vejiita, am I?" she meekly guessed.

"No!" His eyes flashed. "I can't believe you don't know who I am..."

"And you are...?" she ventured.

The corner of his mouth jumped. "Chester. Chester Hardy." His eyes narrowed, angry that he was so easily confused with the others. "Duh."

Bulma herself was unnerved by the fact that she had not been talking to Vejiita this whole time. She was not well acquainted with any of the others yet and had hoped to get to know them in a less casual and unexpected fashion.

"Well," she started uncertainly, "can I talk to him?"

"Who?" Chester scraped the rest of the omelet out of the pan and tossed the fork in the sink, the sound of metal clanging and scraping against metal making Bulma wince.

"Vejiita," she said flatly, trying not to lose her patience.

Chester's face twisted into a confused frown, his brow wrinkling and a lip curling up. "Why do you want to see him?" He followed the fork's path to the sink, leaving the warm pan on the counter. Grasping the shiny sliver knobs and giving them a quick twist, water poured through the long-necked faucet and he angled one arm under the spray. He hadn't noticed these cuts earlier but now that he had, they stung like hell. He hoped some cool water would soothe the stinging sensation. "I don't want to talk to him."

Bulma shook her head. "I want to." She moved away from the counter so she was behind him. Methodically he moved his arm back and forth under the stream of water, ignoring her until he was finished and drying off with a towel. "Please, just for a little while."

He turned slowly, his tongue smoothing over his upper lip, considering her request. His eyes lifted to meet hers but before he could say anything, they focused on a point past her shoulder instead. She turned as well, following his gaze. The little smirk that lighted up his eyes was not lost on her.

Gokou was standing in the entryway to the kitchen. Currently, he was locked in a staring contest with Craig, formerly known the limp person passed out on the table. But now he was wide awake, stretched on his side with one leg crossed over the other and upper body supported by his elbow, chin resting on his palm. However, Craig wasn't what had caught Chester's attention. His eyes were boring into the side of Gokou's head.

As always, Gokou acknowledged the other Saiyajin, a friendly smile spreading over his face. Chester winked back, the mischief growing ever brighter. He caught Bulma's eyes and said, with more resolution than before, "You don't want to talk to him. I see no point in it." He moved around her, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down.

"What's going on?" asked Gokou with the smallest touch of uncertainty. He was keeping a wary eye on Chester, who was slinking his way over to his side, and try to keep the mood light. Vejiita hadn't responded earlier to his presence earlier in the infirmary. Gokou had wanted to stick around, wait in the lobby and see how Vejiita was doing, but he needed to get back to his own family. He had no doubts that Chichi would be a little more than rubbed the wrong way after he had up and left at the break of dawn and didn't return for two whole days. He was partially correct, but his short-tempered wife knew Gokou well enough to understand his need to care for his friends — no matter what his character was like.

He returned to Capsule Corp. after squaring everything away with his wife and persuading Yamucha to do him the favor. He had just released the human of his duty and had finally managed to track Vejiita down. Hovering outside the door had given him a bit of insight as to what Bulma was trying to pull out of the ever-grinning Chester. Too bad he hadn't realized beforehand that he was more a distraction than help.

Chester was behind him now and when Gokou turned around he was standing there, arms crossed behind his back and feet spread out, a grin stretched out across his face. Gokou raised an eyebrow, trying to humor him, then turned back to Bulma. He hoped the other Saiyajin would place himself in his line of vision.

"Well, I've been trying to have a conversation Vejiita but he's being a—"

Bulma's sentence was cut short by Chester clearing his throat loudly and rubbing his finger along his lower lip. "Excuse me. Chester." She faltered at the correction for a moment, then realized that he was right.

"Chester is refusing to cooperate." She stared at him, keeping his attention. "And this is serious."

He shrugged but was apparently won over by Bulma's reasoning. "Fine, if you want to talk to him so badly, I guess I have no real reason not to let you. But I swear, he doesn't know anything."

"No?" spoke up Gokou. Chester shook his head, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. He shook his head.

"Not a damn thing, so if you're trying to pull information, forget about it. And right now I don't feel like sharing." Chester's face was hard now but there was still that twist in his lip that suggested that he was not so very angry. From the table, Craig smirked and pulled a deck of cards out, slipping off the surface and seating himself. Shuffling the cards occupied his hands while he listened in on the conversation. After a moment he started up on a game of solitaire, absorbed in his activity in seconds.

"Chester, it's not my intention to interrogate him, or any one of you," said Bulma. "We'd just like to talk to him. About you." She cut him off before he could make out a word. "About this whole situation, not you specifically."

Chester snorted softly and shrugged. "Whatever. I'll be back later."

Gokou watched carefully. He wasn't sure what to expect... it had to be subtle, the transition, for everyone to have missed it all these years. But it almost seemed as if this time should be dramatic. This was it, after all. The changing of one personality to another, a whole other person rising from the shadows. Chester went inexpressive for about five seconds, his face turning to stone and his eyes blank and empty.

Then Vejiita stood before them. Gokou was certain that this was Vejiita. The posture with which Vejiita held himself was one Gokou was beginning to recognize. The Saiyajin's eyes darted once or twice, quickly taking in his location before recognizing the exit. He shifted his weight towards it, inconspicuously inching towards the only way out. He avoided looking at the three other people in the room.

"Vejiita?" Gokou asked, spellbound. The other man' eyes hardened at the name, glaring at him and trying to control his jumpy nerves. Vejiita had a sudden flashback, remembering being half guided, half carried out of a dark house with Kakarotto all over him. His breathing quickened suddenly but it was a short panic attack, hard to catch and hold onto as everything else was about him. His racing heart beat was slowed immediately by well-exercised endorphin.

He inhaled deeply and breathed out, "Yes, what is it?"

Gokou glanced at Bulma, waiting for her to raise her eyebrows in encouragement before continuing. "Vejiita, I think we should talk."

The lack of expression that suddenly came over Vejiita's face, any emotion or prospect for negotiation shut down under the weight of a mastered poker-face. Gokou feared yet another transition, thus losing Vejiita for a undetermined amount of time, but staring into his dark eyes, he was quite certain that he hadn't gone anywhere yet... but that was no reason to patronize him. "Talk about..." Vejiita murmured, the hardness in his eyes slipping for a moment as his directed his gaze downwards. "Talk about... what?"

Gokou bit his lip. He had been hoping that it would be easier to get a straight answer out of Vejiita than Chester but it appeared that it was going to be even more of a challenge. The stubbornness was not entirely unexpected. Gokou was frustrated with it but Bulma was more understanding. Chester was being difficult for the sake of being difficult, perhaps his own insecurities and wanting to be around Kakarotto making the situation worse also. After all, talking to Vejiita meant that Chester was out of control — for the most part.

But Vejiita — he needed help, he needed it badly and wasn't going to ask for it himself. His doggedness was all about self-preservation and reputation and denial.

Bulma spoke up before Gokou could form a sentence, taking hold of Vejiita by the arm and gesturing for him to sit down at the table. He did so, resting an elbow on the surface, just barely able to see Craig carry out his game from the corner of his eye. He paid no mind when Bulma took a seat across from him and said to Vejiita, "Can you tell me what you remember from two days ago?"

"Two days ago..." he muttered to himself, his eyes flickering away as he brought up that night. His eyes flickered off to the side, his mind traveling two days in the past. They had lost their defensive blankness for the time being and were pensively distant. Then, for a moment, his face was pure shock and he turned around sharply in his seat.

In the process of moving three cards to another length of cards, Craig took his time in noticing Vejiita. But when he finally did look over him, he just offered him a quirked eyebrow, his expression plainly saying, "What? Why do you look at me?"

Then he put his expression into words.

"Come on, Vejiita. You don't remember?" Like Chester had earlier, he bit down on his lip to keep himself from smirking. Vejiita shook his head. "No? Sano? You don't remember Sano or his house or anything?"

"No," Vejiita said softly, moving his seat so he was facing the table, not Bulma. Craig exhaled through his teeth and started to gather all the cards up into one pile, shuffling them in his hand for a moment then set the deck down.

"Damn."

"Why, what happened?"

Craig drummed his fingers on the table. He was stalling. A sharp pain started to develop in the side of Vejiita's head, a killer headache coming to life. Vejiita closed his eyes for a moment and took a few deep breaths as if he were preparing to meditate, which didn't sound like a bad idea at the moment. "Craig, just tell me." He bit off the end of each word. He loathed to know what Craig knew but he couldn't stand being in the dark for much longer.

Craig chuckled nervously, biting his thumb nail before he went on, "Um, well, you know, I gave you that needle. I had thought you wanted one earlier so I got ya one." Vejiita kept his eyes tightly shut. He already knew it was bad and didn't help that he had an audience here to listen to Craig's story. "You took it anyway. I left after a bit."

"Where?" Vejiita asked. His voice sounded so loud to him; he realized that he was almost yelling.

"With some girl."

"Ah."

Vejiita pulled the black button off the cuff of his shirt. He rolled it on its edges between his thumb and index finger. Craig didn't continue his story and Vejiita's vocal cords seemed to have frozen up on him, for he could not find the voice to tell Craig to continue.

From behind Vejiita, at the counter, Gokou cleared his throat softly and hesitantly said, "Okay, then what?"

Craig scratched his head then fingered a stud shot through the lobe of his ear. "I came down like an hour or something later and I saw you with Sano, you know. That was Sano's house so I thought, okay, he saw that you were with me so he went to introduce himself or whatever."

"Or whatever," Vejiita muttered.

"Uh huh, I guess. So you were getting it on with Sano — I didn't have a great view and I didn't stay and watch, but that's what it looked like, you know. When I was in the kitchen looking for something to drink, I ran into Sano. He didn't say nothing to me, though," Craig said, glancing over at Gokou to make sure he was still listening. The tall Saiyajin's eyes were narrowed, stern and thoughtful. When Craig broke the contact Gokou shot a glance at Vejiita, noting the hunched, tensed shoulders and the way he was popping his knuckles repeatedly. "Just bumped into me and told me he was going out for a bit. You were somewhere on the floor by then." He prodded Vejiita's arm with his finger. "You seemed okay enough so I went back upstairs and hitched a ride back here with you guys later.

"And that's all that happened."

Yeah... That made sense. The pieces fit together, more or less, or rather the sequence of events Craig spoke of matched what Vejiita had barely remembered. Some of it was becoming clearer as he thought about it with a more positive outlook. Of course, he quickly shut down on that train of thought; he didn't need this sort of stuff going through his mind right now.

He stole a glance to the side and though he couldn't see the other's faces clearly, he knew they would be staring at him. What else was there to look at? Vejiita swallowed a gulp of air and stood up, nearly knocking his chair to the ground. He stormed past Bulmaand Gokou and found himself outside, squinting through the gray, afternoon sunlight and suffocating under with the strong smell of cinder and smoke.

Exhaling sharply to clear out his nose, Vejiita looked around helplessly for a moment, realizing that although he was outside and free of prying eyes for now, he didn't really have anywhere to go. He slumped against the building and slid down into a crouch.

He stared unblinkingly at the singed remains of the once quite healthy forest. He wasn't going to move. He wasn't going to curl up and cover his face and he wasn't going to cry. He'd sit here in neutrality forever if that was what it took to save face.

The door slammed and Craig noisily stepped outside. He took a bite of an apple and swung his arms at his side for a moment, apparently taken aback by the brightness the same way Vejiita had been. After two more bites and more mindless gazing, Craig flung the half-eaten fruit into the distance, bent over to wipe his hands on the grass, and approached Vejiita.

He waited for Vejiita to look at him before he spoke, drawing shapes into the dirt at their feet. Vejiita kicked his hand and Craig said, "You know, I didn't mean for that to happen." Vejiita made a soft noise of doubt and narrowed his eyes at the horizon. "I mean it," Craig continued. "Sano's usually a pretty nice guy, I didn't think he'd bother you like that."

"Fine, whatever. I don't mind."

Craig patted his foot. "That's good. You know, I have a few bucks."

"That's nice," Vejiita commented, watching Craig pat his buttocks where a few folded up bills resided.

"Yeah, the girl just gave it to me. She's a real sweetie, I hope I see her again." Craig grinned. "So, wanna go down to the store?"

"No, I don't."

"Yeah, you do, come on." Craig grabbed his hand and tried to tug him up and he eventually gave in and stood on his own. "We'll drive," he informed him, jingling car keys in Vejiita's ear. Vejiita didn't bother to ask where he got those keys. Craig would probably just tell him that "he had his ways" anyway.

Vejiita slammed the door of the dark green car shut, turned the volume of the radio up, grit his teeth, and didn't look back. If anyone cared enough to get into his problems, they'd come find him themselves. Vejiita never had to doubt that.