Summary: Before Earth, before his change of heart and before his family, there had been a son he'd never wanted, made from Frieza's seed and born from his body. Then he was dead, and Vegeta made sure to forget he had ever been there at all. Only, he isn't dead. He is alive. Tormented and abused, but alive, and now Vegeta will do what he couldn't have done the first time. He will save him.

Warnings: Rated M for language, abuse, sexual violence, depictions of rape, mpreg, etc.

*This chapter includes child abuse, graphic depictions of violence.*

Every Eye Will See

Chapter One: The Question

"Alright then, just answer me this: If you had to pick just one thing that you hated the most about this hellhole, what would it be?"

He had never answered her question, though that did not save his thoughts from straying towards her words. He had pondered over it during the hours as he worked, and he had to admit that that was a difficult question to answer. He was rather certain that he was in no position to feel hatred towards anything, but he would not deny that there were some components of his life that he was not particularly fond of.

In time though, his answer had come to him. He supposed that if he had to pick one factor that bothered him the most about his home, about Tene'mareen, it would most certainly be the heat.

Nothing, good or bad, was ever as intense as the heat—it was brutal, suffocating, and never, ever changed. He knows, however, that that was not where the true problem lied. It was not so much that the heat was unbearable in temperature, or even the fact that it was nearly intolerable in its consistency. Rather, he thought it was the results that the heat led too that made it so bothersome.

It was the heat that caused rivers of sweat to ooze from every pore of his body, soaking his skin and clothes alike, stinging his wounds, and sticking his untamable hair to his face. It was the heat that made his body heavy and lethargic, weighing down on his bones, causing every swing of his arms to be even more strenuous than the last. It was the heat that caused his light-headedness and nausea, forcing him to stop and rest only when he was certain there was no one watching who would punish him.

It was the heat that reminded him that he was several kilometers underground, where the oxygen around him was even more thin and enclosing. It was the heat that reminded him that the only morsels currently sitting in his stomach was a burnt sausage link and a ball of dry, lightly cooked dough that had been given to him at the start of the day, and that any energy his meal provided was long lost by now. It was the heat that made his tongue dry and his throat scratchy, while once again, simultaneously reminding him that the canteen attached to his belt was bone-dry, and would not be refilled until he was finished with his task for the day.

It was quite shitty, he supposed, but he was used to it. Other than that, nothing really bothered him.

He was nearly done with his task. As far as tasks went, the one that occupied him now was not exactly the easiest, but he supposed it was not quite the hardest, either. It was all about rhythm, really. If he followed it, then he would have no problems, and if he focused on it hard enough, it would distract him from the aches in his arms, and his throats desperate need for water and fresh air. 'Mindless', he supposed, was a good word to describe it. Just him, the axe and shovel, and the darkness.

And it was very dark. Even he knew no natural light could exist so very far below the ground, but unlike the other prisoners, he did not need to see to work.

He never needed to see.

The rhythm was an easy one: swing his arms hard, shovel up the remains, breathe deep (that was an important one), and repeat. So, he did just that—he swung his arm down with nearly a painful amount of force, connecting the blade of his axe with the wall of coal. He stilled his breath so his panting would not overshadow the telltale sound of chiseled rock hitting the ground. The crumbles were loud, and if his estimations were correct, it would be just enough to fill up his shovel, which would in turn, fill up his cart, end his task, and have him back just in time for dinner.

The thought of food filled his body with a powerful amount of excitement, prompting him to scoop up the coal and deposit it into the cart with perhaps a bit more vigor than necessary. Clump by clump the pieces of broken rock cleared from the ground, finding home in the large cart behind him. His task was to completely fill three carts, and after many hours—or at least what he assumed was hours—he was almost finished.

When the edge of his shovel brushed against solid ground, he realized he had scrapped up every last piece. He did not bother to hide his relief. He allowed a deep sigh to escape his lips, but not too deep, of course. Too deep and his lethargic muscles would fail, and his strength would flow away with the oxygen leaving his lungs, and while his task was complete, he still was not quite done.

He found it hard not to find solace in his completion. Work did not seem to bother him as much as it did the others, but he still shuddered every time he was assigned to the coal mines. Unfortunately, it was very often—the mines were Division III's claim to fame, after all.

Suddenly, he felt his knees buckle and heard his shovel fall with a clang. His head spun, and the coal-filled cart he rested against was all that kept him from crashing to the ground. His distracting thoughts had caused his strength to leave him after all, it seemed.

His muscles could not quit though, not yet. He still needed to escape this oven that was certainly trying to cook him alive. He needed to last long enough to make it back to the surface, where the heat there was at least breathable. On the surface he could breathe, and drink, and eat, and maybe, just maybe, he could sleep.

That thought revived his strength, enough so that he pushed off of his makeshift crutch with near ease and moved to the back of his vertically lined carts.

He took a deep breath. This was the hardest part, but the last part, and he was ready.

With his feet braced with stability, his hands spread wide apart, and all of the strength in his small body, he pushed against the cart. It took a while, but he eventually heard the groan of the wheels finally beginning to turn, and he threw all his might into keeping them that way. The first cart was not so bad, though the weight of the second and third was nearly unbearable, the rusted and near useless wheels only worsening the ordeal. Still he pushed—the tendons in his body pulling tight in lieu of muscle, sweat dripping down his back, growls falling from his lips—the thoughts of murky water and thin soup driving him. The wheels made awful squeaks of protest as they dragged across the track, and the pace was impossibly slow, but it was moving, and that was all that mattered.

Think of how good that water is bound to feel going down your throat, he thought. That soup is going to take all this pain away. Maybe if you're lucky, there will even be meat in it. Maybe if you're luckier, it will be rice porridge. You're never going to find out wasting time down here.

It was his own encouraging thoughts that finally brought him to the end of the track, the thump of his carts bumping into the others in front jolting him back to reality. He fought against the urge to collapse against his cart, knowing that he would never get up again if he did. He ignored the cries of his worn muscles, limping and staggering over to where he knew the guards were waiting.

Once he was near enough, he clasped his hands behind his back, and bowed his head. He was silent as they approached him, obediently holding out his leg as they checked the digital bracelet locked around his ankle, before checking his number off on their paper chart. It was required procedure, but still rather pointless—everyone knew who he was.

"Move on," they told him, so he did. He dragged his heavy feet towards the lift, where he would stand next to the others who had finished just as he had for the next quarter of an hour.

When that time had passed—resulting in only four other prisoners completing their quotas—the guards forced them all back, until there was at least a meter between the two groups. He was small—even smaller than the other prisoners—leaving his mouth pressed tightly into the back of whomever stood in front of him. He did not need consistent air, however, and be ought to be fine until the lift reached the surface. He decided to count to pass the time, just like Neeila taught him. One. Two. Three. Four…

He reached three hundred by the time the lift finally stopped, just as he does nearly every time. Sometimes it changed, depending on which level of the mines he was in, but it typically was somewhere between two hundred to six hundred seconds to reach the surface again. Five minutes, this time. The coal and salt mines were long and very, very deep.

That was only to be expected of course—as stated before, it was what Division III was famous for. Division I had the agriculture; Division II had the aquaculture; Division IV had the plantations; Divisions V and VI had the factories and textiles; Division VII had the lumber; Division VIII had the brick kilns. They had the mines, and lots of them.

Once the door opened, the packed bodies immediately began to slip out of the lift. While all of the other prisoners were as thin and lanky as he was, his short stature and inability to navigate the way whilst so compacted resulted in him being jostled roughly about. Despite his best efforts to keep himself upright, he could not help the ankles that tripped him up, nor could he help colliding into the back of the person in front of him.

He felt the person turn. Next, he heard a snarl. "Get the fuck off of me!"

Then there was a shove, and he was on the ground. He clasped his hands tightly behind his neck and curled his knees until they touched his nose. He felt several misguided kicks to his body, the stumble of someone tripping over him, and the tug from a foot stepping on his hair before it was over. The ordeal had left him a bit disoriented, but he stood enough easily back to his feet.

Suddenly, the subtle smell of bread caught his nose. He did not even have the time to pinpoint the exact location of the aroma before it was gone just as quickly as it had come. Given by the deep laughter of the guards overseeing them, they must have thrown out food, and were amused at the way the prisoners had scrambled after it. He had missed his chance.

That was fine, though; he still had dinner to look forward too.

After a few more moments, the laughing guards finally calmed. He could hear the thwack of the long metal sticks the guards always carried on their persons as they collided with the backs of the other prisoner's knees. He got the hint to move before one could hit him. He stumbled along with the other prisoners, elated that he would not have to try to sleep on an empty stomach. The slow ones, the ones still working in the mines would be lucky if they got the leftover broth. Even if they did, most of them probably would not survive the night.

It was unfortunate, he supposed, but if they wanted to live to see another day, then they would have worked harder. It was as simple as that; there is no point in wasting sympathy on those who did not deserve it.

"So, did you think about my question?"

He had.

"Well?"

He was silent for a moment. Then he opened his mouth and let out a hard breath.

"... The air?"

He gave a tiny shake of his head, though she was not far off. He breathed hard again and waved a hand in front of his face.

"The... heat!"

He turned back to his food.

"Hmm, that's a good one. Yes, I imagine working wouldn't suck so much if I didn't have a lake's worth of sweat running down my face from sunrise to sunset."

She was exaggerating, of course, especially given that there were no such things as a 'sunrise' or 'sunset' here—at least, not as far as he knew. The tiny crystals embedded in her pale skin would have shimmered properly if there were.

Several moments went by in silence, in which she did not speak. He wanted to know her answer. He chewed his lip and finally gave in, lifting his face until it was level with hers.

He could tell she was smiling, but she said nothing of her victory as she hummed deep in her throat. He imagined a contemplative look in her piercing green eyes under the pile of thick, light yellow hair tied up at the top of her head. She claimed she did not have the heart to cut it, despite how it overheated her.

He stopped imagining it. He had no right to think about her appearance.

"I guess if I had to pick something I hated the most..." she paused to ponder, then said, "it would be the screaming."

Ah, he had not even thought of that. He decided that screaming made a close second. He thought, not for the first time, that life would be a lot easier if he were denied hearing as opposed to sight. Few things were more irritating than the screaming. Neeila claimed that it was because his hearing was sensitive like hers, even though he did not share her long, pointed ears. He never really cared for the technicalities—it did not make it any less annoying.

He could not hate it entirely though, as screaming did serve a purpose. Rarely did screams happen with no purpose. Whimpers and groans and whines, perhaps, but never bone-chilling, ear-shattering screams. They were helpful in the sense that he was warned ahead of time about the danger that had caused the screaming and could make an effort to avoid it.

There was screaming now, somewhere off in the distance. Faintly he could hear the pounding stomps of fleeing feet, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the soft pattering of rainfall. An acid storm.

Acid storms were common—some severe, some not so much. He did not necessarily need the sound of screaming to know that one was imminent, because the air always took on a harsh, metallic scent just before the raindrops fell. Acid was bad. Acid ate through your clothing and seeped into your skin, burning away all affected flesh like candle wax. It cared nothing for the agonizing pain it caused as it burned away at a body until even even the bones were mush, nor did it care for the lives it ended.

It was like he had said—nobody screamed for no reason.

He focused on his mess-tin that was not, in fact, filled with rice porridge (a shame, because he liked rice porridge). He tipped the edge against his lip to allow the bland soup to pour down his throat, careful not to let any drip. He listened to Neeila recount her day of collecting corpses to be cremated while he ate. He always listened to her talk about her day, even though the stories were always of the same variety, just a different task. He liked to hear her talk though, so he never complained.

Once he was done with his soup, he licked around the edges and sopped around the inside with a piece of bread he had saved from breakfast. Neeila hurried to catch up, and once both of their tins were completely dry, they returned them, and drank the water they had been given.

Then, they separated to stand for the evening roll call. Roll call was a long event; thousands of prisoners needed to be accounted for, after all. Several were late, and they had to wait for them. Then a group tried to escape. They were all caught and executed. Then others who had committed crimes earlier in the day were executed as well. Then the guards counted again.

Finally, it ended, and they were all sent back to their barracks for the night.

The day was over.

... For everyone else, anyway.

He had obediently returned to his barrack along with everyone else. He had laid curled up on the rock ground in the corner, far from the overly packed cots and other bodies that littered the floor. He was so tired, his body practically molding into the flooring as it begged to sleep. Undeterred, he pinched the skin of his arm and gnawed his lip to keep himself awake. He had promised himself that he would practice every six days, and he would not break his routine now, especially considering the progress he hoped to make today.

After several minutes had passed, he assumed that everyone was asleep, or close to being. He rose to his knees and turned to face the wall. He trailed his hand across the bottom until he found the loose slab. He pushed on the wood, each movement against the equally ground emitting a sharp scrap. He did not worry though. If any of the others happened to not be sleeping like the dead, then any sounds they might have heard were drowned out by snoring and crying.

A few more pushes, and the block was moved enough that he could squeeze through. Then, he was out.

His ears were on high alert, as was his sense of smell. He detected nothing, just as he had assumed he wouldn't, but he still made an effort to stay low as he crept through the barracks. Guards normally did not patrol this early during the resting hours, but rather a bit later, when other prisoners thought that it was prime time to attempt an escape.

Not that he was trying to escape, but he just as equally had no intentions of being caught.

Once he was out of the barracks he continued on, his footsteps light against the stone ground. It was so quiet during this time—no shouted orders; no clacks of shovels and pickaxes; no creak of machines; no scraping of coal; no screaming; absolutely nothing. No matter how many times he snuck out, he was still awed by the complete and utter silence. He was not quite sure how he felt about it.

He continued to shuffle along, his lips mouthing along with each step as the numbers grew into the difficult range. He heard the sound of shifting dirt, and effortlessly stepped over the body convulsing on the ground. Whomever that was must be near dead if they could not have even make it back to their barrack despite being this close. If they did not die naturally, then they certainly would once the guards found them.

He kept moving.

Another hundred footsteps later, he had reached the fence, though he did not really need to count his steps to know. He could practically feel the energy that thrummed through the wires from where he stood—100,000 volts at max currency that stretched for miles and miles, completely enclosing all of Division III.

The walls of the Northwest Cliff should be left from this spot.

He crouched until he was on his knees, crawling along the length of the fence, hidden among the shadows from the eyes of the sentry towers. He doubted anyone was truly patrolling up there just yet—he could not even hear the hum of the watch lights yet—but one could never be too careful.

Two hundred and fifty seconds later, he reached the wall. He would not be climbing it today; instead, he plopped down on his rear. He focused his hearing, trying to find any out-of-place sounds. He heard nothing. He was alone.

He was ready.

He reached out his hand and brushed his bony fingers across the dirt. He passed over several pebbles but deemed them too small. He stretched his fingers out further, until he passed over something more solid. He picked up the stone, and analyzed its weight and shape in his hand. It was medium-sized, oval-shaped and bumpy, and heavy enough that he felt the pressure of it in his hand.

It would do.

Setting the stone back down in front of him, he took a deep breath. Then he leaned forward, braced on his hands, and thought only of the stone. First, he tried to picture it in his mind, which was hard in itself, given that he did not actually know what it looked like, and the other pebbles intercepted his concentration. Once he was certain that his mind was completely fixated on the stone, he pushed deeper, passing the grit and tiny cracks, slipping through the molecules of the inside.

He found the core. Gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow, he focused on the stone, imagining it disconnecting from the ground below. It rose into the air, leveling up to his nose. Excellent.

He was not done yet though. He had mastered levitation ages ago.

Focus... Focus...

The rock swooped up high over his head, before swiveling back down. It was bigger than all of the other rocks he had used, but now that he practically had this one mentally mesmerized, he could move it almost effortlessly. Back and forth it swung, going higher and higher into the air. He spun it, released it, and caught it again. He moved it faster, zipping it around like a tiny, round rocket.

After a while, he started to feel sweat drip down his temples. Despite how easy it was to make the stone move, the level of concentration he was putting forth was quickly putting a strain on his mind. He did not stop. Instead he kept the rock going higher into the air, so high that it was probably invisible against the backdrop of the sky. The rock's signature was starting to become weak, and the center of his forehead was starting to throb, but all this meant was that he was getting better. Who wouldn't feel excitement in the face of improvement?

It was when the bracelet around his ankle suddenly started to vibrate furiously that his concentration nearly broke. He just barely stopped the falling rock from crashing into his head, his hands held up as an extra precaution. He ignored the anklet, and focused back on the rock, intending to complete the goal he had set out for himself.

He thought hard. The whole circumference and its depth lit up in his mind. The stone trembled in the air, every atom quaking in a frenzy. The core glowed bright behind his eyes.

Then it exploded, dust and tiny shards of rock raining down as all that remained.

He collapsed then, his spidery hands gripping his head as he cried out. His temples were impossibly tight, and a fire burned through his frontal lobe. Still, he could not believe he had actually done it. He had been trying for ages to get that right!

He laid on the ground, spent for several minutes, until the anklet started to burn—the demand for his presence was quite pressing, it seemed.

He staggered onto his knees, but his headache was manageable by now, and would only proceed to get better. Besides, it was tangible proof that his practice was paying off, and all the valuable sleep he was losing was not for waste; he was perfecting the Mind Power.

Of course, it was not his power, and it was not a particularly good one either. It was a demon's power. Only a monster could enjoy forcefully ripping away control and taking it into their own hands. Only a beast could love having a power like this at their disposal.

But he was the child of a demon; a monster; a beast, and it was the only power he had. Besides, it was not as though he planned to commit any atrocities with it. Even if he wanted too, how much damage could he possibly do with the ability to float palm-sized stones?

He frowned and decided to stop thinking about the tyrant that sired him. There was nothing to gain from such disgusting thoughts.

He remembered the anklet and cursed himself for all of the time he had wasted. He hurried along and prayed they would not notice that he was not in his barrack as he raced towards the grand building.

TBC

Tene'mareen doesn't mean anything special. I just made it up.