Hello! Welcome to my latest fic. This is written from Vegeta's POV and takes place in the middle of DBS before the tournament of power arc. So this fic is an active WIP and I wanted to encourage more reader engagement. I hope to update every friday until completion. Please feel free to contribute your thoughts and ideas. I look forward to hearing from you guys. Comments and PMs are welcome.
For a boy, his lats and biceps are tone, dare I say impressive. At 8-years-old, he can do more chin-ups than most Earthling men. Still, I must cull the weakness from him; this planet depends on it. Kakarot's boys are uninterested and content to twiddle their thumbs. When the time comes, their efforts will be rendered useless. They'll be tossed to the side like common trash and will be forced to watch this world burn. Kakarot gave them his blood and nothing else. What good is talent without the urge to cultivate it? I refuse Trunks this disservice.
"Stop," I tell him.
He heeds my instructions and drops to the floor. Son, your palms burn red from the chin-up bar. Your sweat-dappled skin and flushed cheeks tell most of what I need to know.
"50 is a lot right?," he asks me.
Catch your breath boy, you'll need it. Why do you rely on me to escape humility? Wipe that disappointed pout from your face. Admonishment from my lips is nothing. Have confidence in yourself- it's well earned.
"Watch me. Go back to the bar," I tell him.
Watching you climb onto the chair to boost your height reminds me that you're not yet a man. You mime me, wrapping your palms around the bar once more.
"Untuck your elbows and point your hands away from you- good."
"Like this?," he asks me.
"Widen the gap between your arms."
"Oh crap, this hurts," he says.
Your groaning doesn't reach a dull ear. Your efforts choke from your tight-lipped mouth. This is necessary. Where is your strength son; trembling already?
"That's the point. Now go, pull yourself up!"
Your wobbling purple mop of hair barely makes it over the bar.
"Dad-"
"Don't stall out. Go!"
His second and third repetition pass in dreadful slow motion. Don't let that tight grimace wrinkle your face in vain. I know you have 5 reps in you.
"I can't do it," he barely coughs up.
"Can't never could do anything. What if your very life depended on it? Go!"
That's it, find that drive to rise above. You're almost there. I see him in you- that young man from the future, the one who hacked Frieza to bits. I'll be damned if I don't plant those seeds and reap the growth to come. The promises of excellence are waiting to be harvested. Yes Trunks, almost there! I'm so-
In a blink it's over. Your weight overcomes your fingers. Red streaks your raw chin and throat. The busted wooden chair lays below you in a heap. Come now, hop up, don't look at me from your hands and knees.
"You nearly hung yourself," I tell him as I yank the tail of his shirt to survey his ribs.
"Ah, come on dad. Lemme go," says, embarrassed.
Did you just shove me away? I'm used to your hateful tongue and witty antics, but this is something else- born of resentment and shame.
"I'll send your ass out of here, straight to your mother if you don't let me look at you."
"I told you I couldn't do it."
The color sharpens in his reddened eyes. Don't let embarrassment burden your heart, boy. You're too young to be given to such embitterment.
"Your mother would have you x-rayed from head to toe. Your choice, all afternoon in a doctor's office or 10 minutes with me?"
"Fine," he gives in.
I swivel your head on your neck. Your face is like looking into a mirror. I couldn't deny you even if I wanted to.
"Any pain?," I ask.
"No."
Your shoulders and collar bones are unbothered. You may bruise, but that is commonplace for a warrior. I would have never imagined that the round 8lb baby your mother shoved in my lap all those years ago would grow into your rough and tumble frame. I never thought that crying infant would develop such a stern face.
"Here?," I ask.
"No, but my side hurts."
No wonder kid, the mottled skin wraps around your ribs and trails to your spine.
"Hold still."
"What's that?," he asks.
"Kinesthetic tape. It will support the soft tissue injury."
Boy, look me in my face. Raise your eyes from the ground.
"So, how many of those fancy chin-ups can you do dad?," he asks me.
"A lot. They're called pull-ups, son."
"Oh, so what did you think?"
"Your traps are weak, just as I thought," I tell him.
What did you expect? You asked for a critique and I gave it. Don't cross your arms over your chest- over your heart my son. I must shape you.
"Where are you going?," he asks me as I put the tape away.
"To get water."
"But what about-"
"You're done here today. Go get some air, boy."
You leave the room, but I still feel your sulking presence, I know you won't go outside. You'll lock yourself in your room and indulge your computer or videogames about a zippy technicolored hedgehog. You'll probably scheme some poorly concocted joke or prank that will still be amusing- you savage. I remember little about being a boy, but I remember throwing dirt clods at my father. I still have the scar on my back to prove it. Your mother still talks about you dumping earth worms into my boots. I practically pleaded with you not to, much to my dismay… rotten-ass-kid. You complained when I 'excessively punished' you with doing my laundry for a week.
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