Welcome back! Chapter two is here. Enjoy! Please leave a review or PM if you would like. Let me know your thoughts/ questions. Thanks!
The weight of the newspaper in my hand is satisfying in a peculiar way. The nonsense of this city keeps my eye for Japanese sharp, but I would never willingly admit that to Bulma. For a moment, I forget about the white lather on my face. I slowly drift my straight blade razor up my neck while reading this garb about the first female mayor in West City. Kuddos to you Mayor Usagi; you have a vagina. Who cares as long as the woman is capable. Several of Frieza's task force groups were headed by females. This planet is strange indeed.
Bulma?
The razor clinks into the sink as she grab my wet hand.
"What the hell!," I tell her.
"You'll never believe it! Hurry up, they're waiting," she says.
"Who's waiting?"
"Come on," she lulls me with a smile after her dainty hands towel off my half-shaved face.
She led me down stairs, out to the front patio, never parting her rosy lips to speak. There they waited for me.
"Uncle Tarble came to see us," Trunks says.
There my brother stood, barely taller than that boy of mine. His brown tail excitedly swayed at the sight of me. His slight frame is eerily familiar. His black hair stood on end, except for that sparse annoying strand that he's always refused to clip. Not much has changed. I remember being knee high, standing behind my father's back while he bickered with a scientist about Tarble's development- or lack of it rather.
"It's awesome to see you guys," Bulma says.
How could I forget his little humanoid tag-along-wife. Her round oval head barely reaches his hip. Her tad pole face looks up at me with a polite smile. Her gloves and boots swallow her pencil limbs. Her beady, unblinking eyes move to the bundle hugging her plum colored dress. Surely that isn't what I think it is- a child? Shit, how do they even fuck?
"Vegeta Nissan," Tarble says with a bow, "I'm glad to see you well."
As a Saiyan, Tarble stuck out like a sore thumb. These mannerisms and gentleness weren't niceties to him. They are him. That old king sent him as a wailing toddler to some obscure mudball because of thinly disguised shame. I still hear my father's gonging voice, 'If he can't fight for himself he'll live by himself.'
"What have you come for this time? Need us to take out your planet's trash again," I ask him.
"No," he snickers, "Not exactly."
Your laugh is still the same snorty chuckle that I remember. You'll never grow out of it I suppose
"Hello brother," Gure says to me.
Her voice is high pitched, but not shrill, lacking any piercing edge. I nod to her quickly, trying to hide my gnawing curiosity. I can't bring a syllable to cross my tongue. I see you Bulma, soaking this up with that shit-eating grin on your face and laughter ready to split your lips.
"Oh, I nearly forgot," Tarble says.
Brother, what- or who- is this squirmy thing in your arms? Don't tell me; I think I already know.
"Adelia," he says to the child, "This is daddy's older brother, your uncle. His name is Vegeta."
Don't hand it off to me Tarble! Bulma's damn persian cat is bigger; it's hair alone weighs more than this scant little thing.
"Adelia?," I say.
"Un-huh, we call her Delly for short," Gure adds.
Her- it's a her. She looks like a little dolly rather than a living breathing being. Her black eyes look into my face. Both of her hands brace my thumb. Her bald head turned on her thready shoulders. Her egg-white skin is just like Gure's. Her ears are just holes on the side of her head.
"Kunkle-Geta?," she pipes up.
"Yeah, uncle Geta," Bulma giggled, "Isn't she cute!"
You'll think cute woman when a fucking hawk swoops down and packs her off somewhere.
"Mommy?," Delly says as she leans over my shoulder with her arms extended.
Don't worry, child. I'll surely oblige you. The feeling is mutual. I'll gladly give you over to get the image of splattering my brother's only spawn on the concrete because her tiny form slipped from my grasp. Despite kneeling, Gure still relies on her tip-toes to retrieve you kid. Your mother looks like a little girl with her favorite toy rather than a calculating, level-headed adult.
"What's the matter Trunks?," Bulma says, taking note of the confusion plastered on the boy's face.
Don't look at me, son. Your speechlessness comes honestly.
"Trunks," Bulma saves him, "I'm sure she would love to play with you. She's going to want to get to know her cousin after all."
"Mom, I can't train with her," he speaks up," she's too tiny."
"Maybe not, but you could let her check out your old toys, you could tell her a story, or maybe show her something fun," Bulma suggested.
Gure stands the girl up on her own feet. She ambles around my patio like a knobby kneed toddler. You're hiding nothing, boy. I see that coy smile on your lips. Be glad your mother is tactful. We would be up shit creek without her.
"Delly," Trunks gasped at her with feigned excitement, "Do you wanna blow some bubbles?," he says with a smile, "Or I could show you how to color?"
The girl looked to her mother with her hands clutching her baby powder pink dress. Gure gave her a reassuring smile before telling her something in their beepy language. Delly nodded at Trunks. Be careful son, lead her off slowly. She can't walk as fast as you.
"Trunks," I acknowledge him, "Be sure to look after her. Do you understand me?"
"Okay."
"Do you?," I say.
Don't gulp at my stern request, boy.
"Yes," he says.
Tarble turns his smiling eyes to me and says, "I do need your help with something though."
"With what exactly?"
"I hoped to probe your memory. Do you remember Varouk?," he says as the children prattle off into the distance.
My memory- you came all this way to ask me a question? I remember a wide lumbering shadow of a man with a scar gouged into his scalp beneath his short hair.
"I suppose," I began as the blurry details re-emerged. I recall him, following our mother, always looking down his long hooking nose. 'Come Varouk,' she would string him along all over the palace.
"Wasn't he her eunuch?," I added.
"I think so," Tarble responds, "Anyway, three months ago an alien girl just shows up at my house- out of the blue- from off world. She says she was Varouk's hand maiden and she wanted to carry out his dying request."
"Tarble, you aren't that guillable, are you? They both died with the destruction of Vegetasei. What did she scam you out of ?," I laughed.
"See that's it, not a thing. She gave me something instead. First of all, I was barely three when the home world was destroyed. Do you think father sent them off world, too?"
"I doubt it," I say.
"But do you know for sure?"
"No," I admitted.
With another step, Tarble was on his way to his space pod. Where are your manners, leaving Gure all alone with us- your spooky little mystery-creature-wife. Of course, the women would make themselves at home and take their seats at an umbrella covered table. They chat mindlessly about Bulma's nail polish as if they've known each other for years. Gure shamelessly shares a recipe for skillet seared eel chops- what ever the fuck that is.
"That sounds delicious huh?," Bulma elbows me.
"Sure-yeah," I play along.
"So, how old is Adelia?," Bulma asks Gure.
"Almost two," Gure says.
"How-how was your labor?," Bulma struggled out, trying to think of something to keep the conversation alive.
Oh-kami, why? I don't even want to think about-
"Oh," Gure says with blush beneath her eyes, "I-" she pauses, "I lay eggs."
Of course. Of course you do. Oh, thank kami. Here comes Tarble. Never in my life have I been so elated to see my dwarf-ass brother.
Tarble holds a tight roll of thick leathery fabric beneath his arm. He takes a seat with us after depositing it on the table. Don't keep us waiting unroll the damn thing faster.
"That's father's cape," I say dully.
Why all of a sudden, brother, can't you bear to look at me?
"I know," Tarble says flatly.
Trust me, the edge in your voice is nothing. Don't worry; it takes much more to cut me.
"Now," Tarble says, resuming his approachable tone, "Varouk had apparently promised mother that he would somehow get these to us."
I can't quite put my finger on it. Something in Tarble reminds me of someone or something I know. His smooth, mild mannered voice puts me in mind of Kakarot's oldest, yet his good natured spirit isn't quite as tame as a half human. He's an anomaly in Saiyan standards. He's tenacious, but he lacks that vicious edge. I've seen him hateful and brash as a little child, but it was fleeting- gone in a breath. Tarble is a smooth operator, cool as a cucumber, just like that boy from the future.
"Here," Tarble says.
A ring rolled from his cupped hand to my palm. He could have easily put two of his fingers inside of it. He might have been able to wear it on his thumb with a little yarn for bulk. It was a big brassy thing and tarnished on the inside. A square garnet colored stone flattened it on one side, still firm in its setting. It was tagged with a piece of yellow paper and some twine.
"Can you read it?," Tarble asked me.
I feel my pupils strain over the tiny script, following every stroke of the pen. I brush my thumb over it with hope that something would come to mind. The only word that comes is 'archaic'. The scribbly swoops and whirls of the letters perplex me. I recognize it as the written language of our people, but nothing more, like recognizing the face of an acquaintance, but not their name.
"No," I tell him.
"Well," Tarble sighs, "I just hoped that maybe you could since you were a little older when Frieza-"
"I was barely five when it all happened- barely."
Silence creeps over the table. My eyes landed on the two other things laying on the folded leather. Tarble pinched the writer's quill between his fingers. Its pearly alabaster end was still stained with smudges of ink. Wispy rose gold colored filaments decorated the feather's ends. A round, glossy, clear stone was embedded at the top of its stalk.
"Thank you for trying anyway," Gure spoke up.
Bulma, you say nothing, yet your face says it all. Something akin to pity downturns your eyes. Curiosity marks your lips with unspoken questions. I muster a nod for Gure as Tarble rendered the quill to my hands, along with its undecipherable label. The quill is delicate, faltering under the weight of its own colored plumage.
"And this," Tarble says as he weaves a silver chain between his fingers.
"He spills it into my hands after I lay the quill to rest. The ornament on the chain was a chunky diamond shaped piece of metal, like two pyramids with their bases glued together. The texture is porous, like pumice stone, yet carried a metallic sheen. My thumb found a tight seam in the middle.
"Do you think it's an incense censor of some sort?," Tarble asked me.
My mind settled on the after images burned into my mind's eye.
My father shoved me from his lap. He stood from his throne in the presence of the court. I remember feeling so tall at the top of the steep marble steps with him.
"Bow, the queen mother approaches," he commanded.
There she was- my mother, stepping ceremoniously to the throne. Her face was hidden beneath her knitted purple-lace robe. She lowered her curtained head to my father in an act of submission. She offered him the bare undersides of her arms to him and her open hands. A ruby crusted band garnished her left hand. Her trusted eunuch Varouk paced by her right side, matching her saunter. An eager scribe followed well behind them, taking notes with the same embellished quill.
"Adorn me, Varouk," my mother said.
Her voice was a well-mannered, raspy treble, deep and slow. From the edge of his robe, Varouk pulled the chain. He looped it over mother's head careful not to touch her.
"Greeting to my king and the heir-prince," she called to us as she began to scale the stairs.
"Mommy!," I cried out for the first and last time.
I'll never forget the flash of father's garnet ring. He struck me down to my knees with the back of his hand. The hard stone burned my cheek. I clutched my face with my hand. I knew better than to say a word or show my wet eyes.
"I told you to bow," father seethed, "You too greet the queen mother with respect."
"No," I finally answered Tarble, "It was mother's- a necklace of some kind. The ring is father's signet ring, and the quill belonged to the royal scribe.
"I see," Tarble says after a pause, "It's something to remember them by, I guess."
I don't need any blasted keepsakes to remember them- to remember that.
"Take all of it if you want it," I say.
"You don't want to divvy it up?"
"No," I tell him.
"But mom must have wanted us to."
"Yeah, mom," I can't help but snicker, "Trust me, they weren't exactly sentimental."
"Vegeta, please, at least help me figure out these labels. I think…we owe it to them."
Tarble, you still haven't learned to control your emotions. You let your mushy heart run amuck within you.
"No. Besides, I can't magically conjure up someone who can read it. Check the galactic archives if you want to know so badly," I explain.
"There aren't any resources for translating it," Tarble says, "The written language is academically dead."
A determined, knowing smile crawled onto Bulma's face. She drummed her hands on the table before framing her forehead with her fingers.
"Maybe a little magic would help you two, Vegeta," Bulma says, "Baba the fortune teller could get someone for you who could read it."
"If you've ever had a bad idea woman, this is it," I tell my wife.
Don't lean closer to me. Bulma, your eyes can't fool me. I know a game of enticement when I see it. Brushing my knuckles with your soft fingertips won't manipulate me.
"Vegeta," she says to me almost in a whisper, "You should help Tarble."
My only sibling…baby brother.
"I don't want you associating with those low class children again," the king says to me, "Do you understand me?"
I looked into his face, deep into his menacing scowl.
"They called Tarble names, said he was small and sickly. They called him weak, so I busted their damn mouths!"
The king turned on his heesl. The cape sailed above my head before gracefully draping his back once again. I stiffened my knees as his stomping boots approached. My fingernails dug into my palms. He yanked me up by the collar of my armor, literally choking the defiance from my mouth.
"I don't care if it's a grown man next time!," he yells and I feel his humid breath on my face, "We don't associate with the low-class trash! I'll handle your gimpy brother."
He dropped me to the floor, blue faced. I heaved for air and studied my boots rather than his back.
"Bulma, call Kakarot," I hesitantly say, "He knows where to find the hag."