Summary of Last Chapter:
The story starts with one of Vegeta's many instances of being physically abused by his father for failing to satisfy his high standards. We're introduced to Nappa, who is the teenaged bodyguard of Vegeta, as well as Dr. Briefs, a replacement technician and mechanic for the Saiya-jin king.
"…Who are you to question my actions?! …"
"…He seems to be breathing at a normal pace. He'll be fine…"
"…Damn boy…"
"…We should leave the young prince to rest…"
He found it hard to breathe, as if an impossibly heavy weight was sitting on his chest and strangling the very breath and life out of his lungs. Each movement was sheer agony and would only result in unbearable stings. He felt crippled. He probably was crippled. But then again, every time he was lying in this room, he always believed he was crippled, only to wake up to see that he was just fine and it was only the bruises that were giving him such a hard time.
He hated this room—not as much as the room, of course—but he hated this room and its smell of plastic gloves and medical equipment. Always and always, he could hear a small beeping from a contraption sitting beside the uncomfortably hard bed; a contraption that showed a line that would sometimes zigzag up and down and sometimes fall silent into a straight line. The beeping got on his nerves, for sometimes the beeping was like a soft whisper, and in other times, it seemed so loud that his head and eardrums were surely to explode.
He felt heavy and useless, and his eyelids refused to open and stare out at the bright, white light and the faces that would embroider his view. He kept them closed, for darkness was something his eyes were always accustomed to, as he lived half his life in it. There were tubes up his nose and he was dying to yank them out, but it was impossible to move and his arms were strapped down to his sides.
It was always during these moments that he shut his eyes and mind down, and opened up nonexistent memories that he would create just for his thoughts' pleasure. He'd create places he'd never been to, people that failed to exist, emotions that were never revealed, feelings that he had never witnessed, and all this just to escape the fear and darkness that would envelop him. Thinking was far better and far more satisfying than the miseries of reality, for reality was a place of darkness that lacked everything that his heart desired…
He ignored the pair of gloved hands that touched and observed his every wound, and focused on what his mind saw. And with these strange, complicating, heart-ripping dreams, he finally breathed a steady breath and fell asleep. He would deal with reality later when he would actually have the strength to pull those annoying tubes out.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
King Vegeta was fighting back a longing need to meet his hard, bony knuckles against the unconscious boy's jaw. It seemed that as of late, hitting the child was the only way to satisfy his intense, violent needs. You would think that in four years, the boy would learn how to behave like a proper Saiyan royalty! Four years. Four damn years had passed and nothing had changed.
Frieza was to return this very evening and inquire about the army of strong Saiyans he had failed to organize. The mere thought of it sent the Saiya-jin no Ou pacing back and forth with concern. How was he to explain this to Frieza? What valid excuse should he use?
"Your highness," a doctor said, trying to catch the king's attention without angering him. "Your highness, your son will be fine. His injuries were not severe enough for the use of a regeneration tank. He should be back on his feet without any defects in six hours." The doctor paused to order his assistants to carry Vegeta's limp body into the regeneration tank. "However, there is something I'd like to discuss with you that caught my attention."
"Is it mandatory?" King Vegeta asked, rubbing his temples to ease his growing migraine. "Can it wait for later? I have matters to tend to and must prepare for Frieza's arrival."
"Hai, your majesty. I know you are a busy man, but this concerning your son—"
"Then it can surely wait," came the snide response. However, King Vegeta stayed put once he saw how serious the doctor looked. He sighed. "What is it?"
"Vegeta's power level has increased dramatically over the past couple of years. The strongest I've seen yet for a twelve-year-old Saiyan. The constant states of unconsciousness that he falls into (the doctor was sure not to call them an act of abuse for it annoyed the king) forced his power level to multiply ten-folds countless amount of times."
King Vegeta snorted stubbornly. "You shock me, doctor. He has yet to prove to me this 'strength'. He has always been a weak pushover with only a bad temper to back it up."
"And another thing… It appears that the prince has developed an unstable mental condition—"
"I am a busy man," King Vegeta cut in, narrowing his eyes. "If this is all you have to tell me, then I will cut this conversation to an end. I have much more important things to concern myself about than the boy's 'strength' and his condition or whatever it is you were going to say. After all, as disappointing the boy is to me, he still manages to get back on his feet."
"Yes sir."
Both watched as the assistant doctors gently placed Vegeta inside the pod-like tank and fastened the mask over his nose and mouth. When the door was closed, the doctor pressed a few buttons and almost immediately, the tank filled up with a blue liquid substance. The low hum of the regeneration tank was the only sound heard and for a while, everyone just stood there, waiting for the king, who began to pace again, to give them any further instructions.
The door of the medical room rapped and the king pointed to a short, stout little doctor, then nodded over to the door, a silent instruction to open it and allow the knocker to enter. The doctor obeyed and they were faced with no other than the respectable head technician. Dr. Briefs, dressed in his usual white lab coat, which was the only thing, beside his glasses, that gave him the character of a wise and intelligent old man, stepped in and peered at the group of men that were physically stronger and larger than him. He took not a moment of intimidation, however, and took his glasses off to wipe a fingerprint off with his shirt.
The king straightened his posture and mustered up a pleasant smile despite hectic circumstances.
Dr. Briefs smiled back and bowed before his superior. He caught sight of the regeneration tank and the young prince's face that floated behind the circular window, and tried not to frown. He did not think he would ever get used to the boy being refined inside that contraption so often.
"What is it that you want, Briefs?"
"Lord Frieza has been sending in more and more orders as of late," Dr. Briefs began, wary of any sign of temper triggered by the mentioning of that name. "I'm afraid that I cannot seem to keep up with the pace, so I have a favor to ask of you."
"Depending on the favor."
"I'd like to send for my daughter, Bulma, to help assist me with some of the newer projects." He quickly continued before he could be interrupted. "She's a young girl, two years the prince's junior, but she is already decent in how the world of mechanics run. She's a fast learner and will be able to keep up with whatever assignment that I give her. I am only asking for your permission."
"Two years the boy's junior—she's five?"
"Ten."
"Ten, five. Same thing," the king mumbled. He stroked his brown goatee and lifted a thick brow. "I am guessing that I will have to have one of my men retrieve her. Is she aware of the help that you need?"
"Yes."
"All right then. I hate children, but if you insist that she will become an advantage to me, then I suppose I won't mind. I already have a handful with the boy messing up all the time—I will not tolerate any sort of trouble from this child. Is that clear, Briefs?"
"Yes sire."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A slow sense of consciousness settled in just as the liquid was flushed out, leaving his half-nude body exposed and cold from the aftereffects of staying in liquid for so long. A sense of power that he had lacked several hours before rushed inside of him and the first movement that he made was the downward slanting of his eyebrows. His fingers curled into fists before he lifted it and ripped the mask away from his face. He kicked open the door and stepped out, biting back the shiver that ran from his shoulder down to his toes.
He flared his ki high enough to dry his wet hair and to demolish the beads of blue liquid that rolled off the chiseled muscles of his young body. He eyed the armor that was carefully set beside the tank and refused to waste another second as he quickly dressed himself.
He hurt you again…
Voices. He hated voices, more so because only his ears heard it. When mentioning these voices to someone else, people gave him strange looks and would claim that they heard nothing. It was as if he was cursed with an invisible shadow that continuously followed him around no matter where he went or what he did to preoccupy his mind.
There were always two voices in his head, both of which he abhorred just as equally, and they'd battle inside his mind like two separate beings wanting control of the main body.
He always hurts you. You didn't do anything wrong this time and you know it. He just hurt you for absolutely no reason.
He clutched onto his head as he fought back a headache. Perhaps it was because he was hungry, since it always seemed as if his hunger was never appeased, which may explain why he always heard the voices.
Hunger doesn't have anything to do with it.
Vegeta growled and out of frustration and confusion, grabbed the regeneration tank, ripped it off the wires it was hooked up to, and threw it against a huddled group of medical equipment. He lifted his hand, palm-out, towards that annoying, beeping contraption they called a heart monitor and demolished its existence with a beam of blue light. He aimed his palm at everything else in the room and willingly destroyed everything in sight.
Then after his frustration settled and sensed the ki of a couple of doctors headed his way, he put his arm down and flew out the door, pushing aside the medical experts and heading straight towards the kitchen to quench the undying throb in his stomach. He was physically healed and could feel the healing contraption's success each time he moved his well-built muscles, but the headache and the hunger were two of the most aggravating things the regeneration tank almost always failed to alleviate.
He flew past his father's throne and he bothered not to even breathe around its presence. He knew who was inside there—he knew that both of them were inside, for the mental clock that he had built inside himself instinctively told him that their Lord had arrived. Years of beating had taught him that it was better to stay out of Lord Frieza's way whenever he was near his presence, for he was liable to goof up and humiliate the entire Saiyan race, and it was best to keep his distance from his father, for if he did fall into fault, then a severe punishment would soon pursue.
Knowing this and setting this as his top prioritized rule, he flew past the throne room—that is, he surely would have had a hand not quickly grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down to his feet. A low snarl of detest rumbled in his throat as he looked at his burden.
"Nappa," he hissed, frowning. "Have you been some other bumbling fool, I would be dragging you away this instant and ripping every limb off of your body."
But the threat did not seem to falter the rather serious expression on Nappa's face—and when Nappa was as serious as he was at that very moment, then it was likely that something foul was to conjure. The young prince recomposed himself and yanked out his hand from his bodyguard's grip, silently cursing him for nearly cutting off his blood circulation. He did not take the time to observe his wrist, however, for he was more interested in what Nappa had to say.
Nappa straightened his posture. Vegeta lifted a brow.
"Don't be too angry for grabbing you like that, your highness," he apologized, trying to sound as intelligent and as serious as he possibly could. "But as your bodyguard, I thought it would be right for you to know what the king and Lord Frieza is discussing."
"I don't have any interests in what they're babbling about," Vegeta countered quickly, much too determined to eat and prevent a fainting spell. "I'm hungry, Nappa, and you, a Saiyan, should at least have an idea of how excruciating that can be."
"I know, I know, but this is urgent. Just…trust me. I'll get you your food."
Prince Vegeta blinked with an almost-vacant expression as he watched his older, taller, buffer, but certainly weaker, bodyguard dismissed himself from his presence. He shrugged it off, because knowing Nappa, if his father and his superior's discussion was more important than food (especially for a prince who had starved for a week), then it must be important.
He walked over to the entrance of the throne room, a tall and wide opening that was embroidered with black and gold and secured by two black pillars. He peered in and directed his attention solely upon the two most imposing beings in the room and not at the disfigured and random standby characters that were marked as Frieza's men. The room was made of a golden material that was lighted by the many black candles attached to the candleholders on the wall. Black tapestries fell and decorated the lone, distinguished chair that belonged to his father, but was clearly occupied by an alien.
Be careful… A soft, child-like whining sound—the second of the two voices—entered his mind. …I don't want to go back into that room again. I don't want to fall into any trouble. We're not as strong as we'd like to believe… I don't know if I can take this anymore.
"Just shut up and stop your damn whining," Vegeta hissed quietly so no ears could hear him and discover his eavesdropping presence, though it seemed as if Frieza and his men had already caught him with their scouters. "I am not in the mood to tolerate you."
But I'm scared…
Another migraine brushed against him just as the hunger in his stomach kicked in and he leaned against the black pillar closest to him for support. He deliberately muted out the voice, for this voice was far easier to manipulate than the other, and focused upon the conversation between King Vegeta and Lord Frieza.
"…You've failed me again, Vegeta," Lord Frieza was saying, looking disinterestedly down at the Saiya-jin no Ou, who was on his knees like a slave to its master. He nodded over to a set of contraptions that were carefully placed against black cushions with gold tassels. "Sure your Dr. Briefs had managed to complete all that I had asked for, but you… Your incompetence is really grating on my nerves."
"Lord Frieza, sire, it's just that…" King Vegeta hesitated as he glanced at his court members. "…No Saiyan could ever meet up to the greatness and to the extreme power that you and your men possess. You know that. No army of Saiyans, no matter how trained they are, could ever measure up to your standards."
"Well it looks to me that you just didn't try!" the stronger exclaimed, his suspiciously smooth voice echoing in the large room. His tail flipped back and forth with pleasure at the compliments however, and the prince assumed this because he owned a tail of his own. "If your men are as weak as you claim they are, then by no means there's no reason for me to let your pathetic race live on!"
"But I'm sure we're not so bad that you need to take time to destroy this planet! We've made these devices an—"
"These devices are nothing! There are plenty of more intelligent races out there capable of producing weaponry for my men. Your technician isn't even Saiyan! Your Saiyans have always failed to accomplish anything but boast about a strength that I find to be nonexistent."
"But not everyone is weak! We…We do have a few rare Saiyans that are strong. It's just that we don't have an entire army of strong Saiyans and…and…and just this morning our medical experts have informed me of my son's increasing power. He is stronger than even some of the older Saiyans and definitely more talented than other boys his age."
"How old is he?"
"Eight."
I'm twelve, father, Vegeta thought with suppressed irritation, and his fists clenched tightly as the conversation deepened. What were they discussing him for? And what exactly did he mean by his increasing power? What power? He did not possess anything but an incompetent lack of strength and focus, and his father had thrown this title at him so often that it was like a sure, permanent marking on his record. He was confused, but all thoughts ceased when he caught sight of Frieza's narrow, beady eyes look him over with growing interest. He swallowed back a nervous and unsteady lump in his throat and tried to ignore the observing consideration the powerful creature was throwing at him.
"What is his power level?" Frieza questioned without really taking his eyes off of the prince, and the boy's father seemed not to notice Frieza's interest.
"I don't know that for sure but the experts have it recorded in their file, which I can gladly give to you," the Saiyan King murmured, and he snapped his fingers and crossed a glance at one of the Saiyan stand-bys, who nodded and quickly retrieved the file at record time. The king yanked the folder out of his grip and in contrast to the violence, gently placed it against Frieza's outstretched hand.
Silence pursued as Frieza flipped through the pages and read the information that was provided in the manila folder. With every second that passed by, Vegeta could only grip onto the pillar just that much harder in anticipation of exactly where this conversation was headed. It did not satisfy him at all whenever Frieza passed expressions of interest and intrigue into every curve of his solid white face; Vegeta was good at reading expressions, for reading faces was something he had taught himself to do.
His wariness was cut short when a large, muscled hand placed itself against his shoulder and Vegeta quickly and defensively turned to find himself face-to-face with Nappa, who, in his hand, was holding onto a tray of food. But for once, Vegeta shrugged off the hand and ignored the food, far more absorbed with the scene that was currently taking place in the throne room.
Frieza abruptly closed shut the manila folder.
"I have a proposition to make with you," he suddenly said, and the king looked up with hopeful eyes. "Forget my earlier orders about the army. I will ensure you the safety of your Empire for all eternity and will forget your incompetence of following my directions, if you will give me something in return."
"Anything!"
"Give me your son." A sly smile curled against Frieza's face and Vegeta's mouth went dry with horror. "I propose a transition of your son for the safety of this pathetic planet. My men and I will personally train him, and if he is as strong as this folder claims he is, then it is possible that he will become as strong as my pet Zarbon. You have nothing to lose, except the boy who you consider a pain in the backside anyway. What do you say?"
There was not a single moment of hesitation. The deal was set, signed, and sealed.
Anger welled up inside of the twelve-year-old boy and he could no longer suppress it. His ki burst into a flame of blue light as he deliberately departed from the entrance of the throne room and retreated into his bedroom, where he would confine himself and give himself the time to think and sort out his troublesome feelings. He was not hungry anymore, for there were things that were considerably far more important than food now. But no matter what thoughts intruded upon his head, only one thought plagued him more than anything else:
In just three minutes, the prince of Saiyans had been sold like a slave by his very own father.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
One week later…
Small of height, dainty and slender, curves not yet developed but disillusioned in comparison to the friendly locks of turquoise hair that was curled bouncily like little springs and carefully pigtailed by red, silk ribbons; she was adorned in a petite white sweater and a red skirt, bold and bright, a complete contrast to her black and dark gold surroundings; and her legs were exposed to the public without any fear or embarrassment for only hours before, she had disapproved of the heat and had ripped off her white stockings. She stood clad in her outfit that clung to her entire body with only the white flip-flop sandals to finish off her very presentable self.
She brushed back her bangs, which were curled in front of her forehead, and forced herself to squint those wide, curious eyes in attempts to distinguish her father from the group of big, burly, men. It was not hard, for the almost bald, white head definitely was a contrast to the natives of this strange world, and at the sight of the familiar old man stepping aside from the group with outstretched arms, brought an unbelievable rush of emotions that she, with her youthful self, was incapable of holding in.
"BULMA!"
Those untouched lips broadened into a wide smile as she unlinked her two hands and stretched out her arms to meet her father's. She tackled him, though her lack of physical strength prevented the old man from being thrown back. She giggled, a joyous laugh that was very much lacking on this planet, at the touch of her father's furry mustache against her cheek.
She turned around and looked at the two boys that had accompanied her on her trip. She smiled at them; one smiled back and the other refused to make such an abominable expression.
"Gokou! Raditz! This is my dad!"
"I'm not stupid," snorted the older of the two young men, as he floated off of the ship and headed back towards his home to announce his success in finding his younger brother. "Finally, I can run away and get away from that snickering and giggling mess."
The story of the boys was not at all very complicating. Saiyan boys, she was told, were sometimes sent off to other planets to conquer and purge as a mission that Lord Frieza had requested many years before. Gokou, or Kakarot, as his birth name really was, had been ironically assigned to Earth to take over and destroy, yet an accident had rendered him memory-less of his past at his home planet and had stripped him of his Saiyan characteristics. He grew up with an old man by the name of Son Gohan, whom he had labeled as his unofficial grandfather, and was brought up to be a kind, generous, and an aloof little boy.
But with the newest proposition and the assurance that Frieza would no longer claim hold of the Saiyans, Bardock, the boy's true father, had sent his older son, Raditz, to retrieve the boy (in which he did), but before setting off to the planet, Dr. Briefs had asked for a favor to find and bring his daughter as well, just to save everyone the time and expense. So it was done.
"Fine then, you big mean jerk!" she shouted back, watching as the teenaged boy became no bigger than a speck in the sky. She turned her attention towards Gokou, who was scratching his head and observing the crowd of his own species as if they were aliens. "Gokou! Come meet my Papa!"
Bulma watched Gokou crouch down, preparing himself to jump off the ship since he did not quite know how to fly just yet, but stopped short and turned towards the opposite direction at the sound of angry screams and cries. Bulma squinted her eyes and released her grip on her father, lifting her feet to stand on her tiptoes to catch a glimpse of a boy whose limbs were each being chained down by the hands of strange, ugly creatures.
His body convulsed, throwing and tossing itself in attempts to free himself of his imprisonment, yet the beings that were dragging him towards a large, insect-like ship were much stronger and ignored the boy's struggles. He screamed out foul words, baring his teeth like an angry animal determined to escape from its cage. Bulma watched in amazement as his hands locked into fists and a vein protruded out of his forehead, followed by a bright blue aura that surrounded his entire body—like a living light bulb, she observed.
Her pity for the boy heightened when his slender, brown, furry tail curled around the wrist of one creature in attempts to loosen its hold of him but failed miserably. Angry tears leaked from his eyes, blanketing the sides of his face as he continued to scream obscenities.
"I THOUGHT YOU WERE HONORABLE!" he seemed to say aloud, his voice directed to the caped, lone man whose back was turned against him. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE HONORABLE!"
Bulma clutched onto her father, eyes wide as she stared at the strange boy, wondering what sickness he had befallen or what mental issues he possessed. She never failed to notice the scars imprinted on his arms like permanent tattoos, giving him his character just as the dignified widow's peak and the wild flame of hair did. His dark brows were knitted with uncontrolled anger and his eyes, when they opened, were black pupils that first eyed that lone man with hatred, then became transfixed with hers.
She felt her breath catch as he eyed her with just as much hatred as he held for that caped man, and the boy continued to stare at her as he shouted out more uncontrollable words.
Vegeta never failed to notice the head technician, whose arms were around that flawless, innocent girl with a love that he had never experienced. He stared at those arms with raging jealousy, and then up at the girl who stared at him as if he was some kind of a wild animal. Anger at the unfairness of life, how she could be the child of an understanding man with hands than held rather than strangled, how she possessed an innocence that he had never been given the opportunity to obtain; the unfairness choked him as he was dragged inside a ship that symbolized the end of any hopeful future that he had ever held.
The last that he saw before the ship's door closed on him was the girl, who turned to her father and questioned, "What's wrong with the boy? Where's he going?" which was responded with a weary sigh.
"It's nothing, child. Don't concern yourself about it."
To Be Continued…