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, and sexual advances made on a minor.*

Every Eye Will See

Chapter Two: The Expedition

He was halfway to the grand building when he heard a scream. Then there was a cry of, "Help!"

Ignore it.

"Help!" Tears were choking the owner of the voice's throat. "Help!"

He really should ignore it.

"No! No! I don't want to die!"

His feet were moving before he could stop them. He groaned to himself but did not stop heading towards the distressed creature. He slowed as he came closer, though, as the ground beneath his feet was steadily becoming stickier, and his nose was twitching from the acrid scent that was surrounding him.

A tarpit.

What a stupid creature. Not that he had any right to think that, but still.

"Help! Help!"

Still screaming. Still stuck. Still stupid, but still in need of help. He did not really care, per say, but leaving someone to die when he possibly could have prevented it was just as bad as killing them himself, wasn't it? That was a bit too like the tyrant, for his taste.

He moved closer, edging his feet until the sticky consistency was starting to become dangerous for himself. He could not see the creature, but he did not need to, given the screaming and erratic thrashing among the hot goo that restricted them, slowly pulling them down until the tar closed over their face, trapping them, suffocating them, until there was nothing left...

Or not slowly, given the intense, but nonetheless fruitless struggle they were putting up. It was idiotic—everyone knew that the likelihood of sinking and drowning in a tar pit was minimal if you remained still—but he figured they must be too scared to think.

He did not quite know fear, so he couldn't relate.

"HELP ME!" The words were more of a screech, and even more furious splashing rang through his ears. He figured that must have meant they noticed him. Perhaps he was close enough to reach out and grab them.

Which was what he did, straightening out his tail to keep his balance as he leaned in. Once their hands touched, the creature was thrown into an all new panic, clawing painfully at his wrist all while holding it in a death grip, thrashing as it tried to pull itself free, only resulting in sinking itself further, tugging his body along with it.

He was starting to regret making such a detour, but it was too late to turn back now. Instead, he braced himself, and pulled hard with all the strength he could muster. He was worried a bit when the body only lifted slightly, but what was he expecting? Tar was not something one could use brute strength with—at least, not his brute strength—it was just too sticky.

Of course, its stickiness was not that big of an issue when it could be sliced through. Anything could be sliced through.

With that in mind he focused just as he had on the rock, though this time on the tar. He couldn't do it—there was no solid form of tar like the rock was, and he couldn't focus on it with the creature thrashing the way it was. He focused on the body then, before easing his way to the tar that surrounded it. It was still difficult, but if he just focused hard enough for an opening...

His timing was impeccable, slicing through the tar just as he pulled his hardest, popping the creature free from the pit. He sent them soaring through the air before they collided hard with his own body, the both of them crashing to the ground.

He grimaced at the return of his headache and the spinning pain in the back of his head, no doubt already forming a bump. All of the air had been knocked from his lungs, but when he tried to refill them, he was nearly choked by the thick hair covering the majority of his face.

During the time that he was gathering his bearings, he learned two things. The first thing he learned was that the creature had eight pairs of ribs, which were sharp and digging painfully into his own. The other thing he realized was that the creature could possibly be female. This he learned, not from the chest area—female prisoners were too underfed to develop proper breasts—but from the missing body parts he was not feeling on his knee, which was jammed up between the person's legs. He could be wrong though. Not all species were built the same, and he knew better than to make assumptions.

Either way, he needed to go. He was late as it was—the intensity of the stinging of the ankle bracelet confirmation in itself—and it would probably benefit him greatly if he was gone before this person realized just who it was that saved them. All he had to do was wriggle out from under them...

"You little shit!"

He had been halfway on his feet when fingers clenched around the spikes of his hair, nails digging into his skull as he was pulled off his feet and thrown back to the ground. The heel of a still-sticky boot smashed into his nose. He felt warm blood ooze down his face.

"How dare you touch me!" Their foot stomped hard into his stomach. "Don't you ever touch me you—you—you demon!" Another stomp. He tasted blood on his tongue.

Ungrateful bitch, he might have thought, if he were anyone other than who he was. As it were, he could not say her reaction was unwarranted.

"I would rather die than have your filthy hands on me! I'd rather die!" Their boot came down again. Then a second time. Then a third time. Then a... no, not a fourth time.

"Halt!" said a new voice, deep and loud as it grew closer and closer. They were caught.

He could hear the shifting of rocks as his assailant backed away. He imagined their body shaking. He could smell their fear. "S-s-sir, please. I-I was stuck—I didn't mean to be out past—"

The guard's whip cracked through the air, slicing through their neck. The creature gurgled, then collapsed—lifeless.

The guard turned on him then, his arm poised to strike the whip again. The blow never came though, as he imagined the guard's eyes noticing first the light-up bracelet around his ankle, and then—more importantly—his face.

The guard stashed the whip back onto his belt. "Get up."

He rolled over onto his knees. He coughed hard, hacking up the remaining blood from his throat. He stood to his feet, though stumbled when the guard delivered a hard kick to the small of his back.

"I don't care who you are; your 'status' means nothing to me," the guard said. "If I catch you out past curfew again, you best believe I'll slice up your body until there is nothing left. Be grateful that the Warden is summoning you."

He nodded quickly and hurried on his way.

One hundred and eighty seconds later, he was at the grand building. The guards before him said nothing, and he said nothing back as they checked his ankle bracelet, confirming that he was indeed supposed to be present here.

Once his check-in was finished, and he was informed of the proper room to go to, he set off. He hobbled as quickly as he could down the empty hall, the pound of his heavy boots against the marble floor echoing loudly through the high walls. He was very late, but at least the room was not far. He may not be able to see the room numbers, but he did not need to know that roughly every seven steps he made he was passing a room, and if there were twenty-four rooms on each side of the hallway...

It was a bit odd, though. The only time he was ever called to the grand building was when the Warden wanted his body, and that always took place in the Warden's personal chambers. What could they possibly want with him otherwise?

There was no point in pondering over it, he supposed. His job was to listen and follow, and that was what he would do.

It was three steps later when he reached the door. The guard waiting sneered at him. He moved onto his knees, bowing his head to the guard's feet. He was sorry for being late, he really was, but words would not help him. Words never helped him.

Instead, he leaned in close, until his lips pressed against the top of the woman's boot. He stayed until the gritty pattern was etched onto his skin, before he pulled back, his head bending down again.

He felt the boot he had just kissed come to the back of his neck, forcing his face to the floor. The pressure, however, was light enough to stave off damage.

"Do you know that the Warden chewed me out over your lateness as if it were somehow my fault?" the guard said, her boot flexing against his skin. "You're lucky I don't have time to punish you. You'd be very sorry, then."

The guard lifted her foot. "Oh well, it will have to wait. Get in there now before I change my mind and indulge myself."

He felt his heart drop a bit. Just how serious was this meeting?

The boot nudged against his hair. "On your feet, now."

He scrambled to comply, darting into the room before she did indeed change her mind.

He tripped in his hurry, skidding against the ground. He heard snickering as he quickly pushed himself upright. He shuffled to the left where all the other prisoners were gathered. All of them were on time. He was almost embarrassed.

The guard from before bowed at her waist. "I apologize for his lateness."

"No harm done. There are more pressing matters at hand," said the voice that he would know anywhere. The only one other voice he knew this well was Neeila's, and hers was nothing like this one. The deep baritone was so engraved in his system that it would sometimes manifest itself as his conscience, a wise and all-knowing guide for his every thought.

He looked like all the other guards—like all the natives of this planet. He had heard that they are tall, with dark brown hair and skin fashioned like cracked stone. Their race was a bit of an anomaly: they had noses, but no sense of smell, and despite their ears being a tad small, they had impeccable hearing. The hostile elements of their planet did not seem to affect them, nor did the lack of consistently clean oxygen harm their systems. They were considered adults after twenty-two years, and most of them understandably became guards, given that their planet was the most infamous galactic prison in the northern galaxy.

He had never seen a commoner Tena—the ones who lived in the towns, their lives separate from the work camps—so he could not say much about them. He did, however, know that all of the Tena guards, no matter their position, wore the same tight, navy jumpsuit, with a large belt around their waists, holding their guns and whips and any other necessities they may need. The only ones who wore different uniforms were the wardens, who sported dark grey instead of blue, and a hat over their heads with their division's insignia engraved in gold—the same insignia etched on every prisoner's shirt, right underneath their identification numbers. Division III's insignia was a jewel. Supposedly it represented the treasures of the mines, though as far as he knew the most abundant material was plain old coal.

Of course, clothing was not the only thing that set apart the wardens from the guards. He did not know much about the wardens from other divisions, but he knew his better than anyone.

His warden was not stoic, nor was he emotionless. He did not stand in organized lines or check his posture to make sure it was perfectly aligned. The Warden, Ziloh, was very emotional, glee and anger fluctuating his moods like an indecisive toddler. He stood in no lines—he made them. He lived by no rules—he enforced them. 'Warden' was not a powerful enough term to accurately describe him. He was a king, a sovereign power that ruled the entirety of the third Division, whose power would pass to his son, and then would have passed to his granddaughter were she not already dead.

As far as Division III went, Ziloh was the highest, and so long as he was alive, he would always be.

"We've wasted enough time. Clean them," the Warden ordered. "Then load them onto the ship. Now. Do not keep me waiting."

He could practically hear the questions swarming through the minds of the other prisoners. What does he mean? Where is he taking us? Are we being tricked? Are we going to die?

He was wondering the same things—or well, perhaps not the last one. He doubted that they were finished with him, and even if they were, would they not have made his execution more... extravagant?

Or perhaps it was going to be so monumental that it could not even be contained on this planet. Maybe they would leave him floating out in space until his body gave out. Maybe they would launch him into the sun. That would surely be grand.

"Attention!"

All thoughts and wandering eyes ceased.

"The task you have all just been assigned is to be completed on another planet. The mission is too important to relay through your anklet messenger."

So, an intergalactic mission. He had heard of them. They were fairly simple: prisoners of certain talents were selected to be transported off planet for whatever job needed to be done, and sooner or later they were brought back home. He was not quite sure what kind of jobs were done off planet exactly, but they must be better than anything assigned here, hence why the others wanted to go on them so badly. Regardless of the glorified tales of off-planet labor, he never had much a desire for them. He hardly had the right to the labor he did now, how could he dare hope for something better?

Which then brought up the question: why was he permitted now? What could possibly be so important for him to do that they could not pick anyone else among the millions of prisoners for it? It was not if he had some special power that no one else could do. There was his mind power, of course, but that was his secret. What else could they need him for?

"The task you are to complete is to retrieve seven balls," said a guard, most likely the one in control just under the Warden. "Each ball is orange and numbered one to seven with red stars. That is all the physical description that will be given.

"The eleven of you have been selected for this mission due to reports of good behavior, your scavenger-type body, your low needs of oxygen, and your past history of efficiency. It is unknown where the balls are located at this time, and you are being given several hours to discover their whereabouts. No more time will be permitted. No failure will be accepted."

"However," the Warden cut in, "if the balls are retrieved before the end of the day has passed, the lot of you will be rewarded handsomely. I believe you will find it to your liking."

He could feel all of the heads around him turn, even more intrigued despite their confusion.

"If you all are successful, all charges against you will be dropped, and you will be permitted to live out the rest of your lives in freedom."

And of course, the group was shocked, but he was not. He had already known what was going to be said. What else could be a worthwhile enough reward aside from freedom? He knew that internally, the other prisoners had known the same thing, but refused to let themselves hope for something that would never happen. He had no such qualms clouding his sense of reason. He had no hopes, and he did not need them. Waiting and wishing for falsities that would never logically come his way was pointless.

He supposed that was one of the things he and Neeila disagreed on. Her whole life was dependent on her hopes: hopes for more food, hopes for less work, hope that her mother would come back, hope that her brother would not leave too, hope that one day the life she lived would finally end and the one she left behind would return.

His life only needed his sense of realism. Taking his surroundings for how they were, doing as he was told just as he was told to do it—he did not need anything else to keep living.

And it was his sense of realism that was telling him this 'freedom' was not applying to him, at least not in the same way. They were not done with him; Ziloh was not done with him. Not until the moment he drew his final breath would they be done with him.

He tightened his nails in the fabric of his large pants, dipped his head even lower, and reminded himself to get over it.

It seemed that the Warden was not done, and he continued with a candy sweet smile, "Now, it goes without saying that absolutely no form of disobedience will be tolerated, and any sign of misbehavior will be dealt with accordingly. Despite the lot of you possessing ideal traits and the importance of this mission, it is still a privilege—a very large one at that. All of your lives are more meaningless to me than the vermin that crawl beneath my boots, and I will not hesitate to take them from you.

"Of course, if you succeed," the Warden said brightly, as if a deal-breaker was necessary, "your freedom is a guarantee. We cannot return you to your respective planets of course, but you can and will be transported to the civilian portion of Division III to do as you please, and your file will be completely destroyed."

It is a lie, he thought. Rewards served no function for the guards when they had punishments. Every prisoner would do the work to the best of their ability to avoid a bad consequence. A reward was like a favor, and the guards did not indulge in favors, ever.

Mind games, that had to be it. What else could it be? It would explain why they would risk taking him off the planet, if not to kill him. He was small, yes, and was fast with abnormally acute senses, but he was not the only one, so why else would he be allowed to leave?

He wanted to ask.

He did not of course. He hated mind games but asking questions might be enough to change their minds about sparing him. Mind games were survivable, death was not.

He followed the guards' instructions and stripped away his grimy clothes. Then he was led into a cubicle, where a pounding stream of hot water burned over his dirty skin and open sores and washed away the top layer of grunge from his thick hair.

What was Earth like?

Then he was taken to the infirmary, where he was sat on a rough cot. He held back winces as they stitched his open wounds closed. He held still as they rubbed salve onto his bruises and burns, their hands unforgiving on his skin as they joked cruelly about how they would need to burn them after touching him.

His body seemed to have taken over for his unresponsive mind as he pulled on the new set of clothing: a clean button-down top, trousers that were the right length, and new, sturdy boots that fit firmly over his feet—so different from his previous ones with holes and worn soles. His movements were mechanical as he tucked the end of the shirt into his waistband, and the pant-legs into the boots.

He was leaving.

Unless it was a mind game.

It took him a moment to register that someone was standing behind him. His heart began to pound as he felt the cold metal of a blade graze against the side his face. It was only there for a second though, pulling against the damp fabric tied tightly around his eyes, slicing it away.

He calmed. Of course, they would need to use a blade—the knot was tight and crusted over; they would never be unable to untie it.

Still, he was uneasy as each second without a blindfold ticked past. The skin that was normally covered by the cloth was raw, blood flowing back at a burning speed, blisters no doubt littering all over the top of his face. His eyes, even though they were scrunched shut, were practically blinded by the light he was never used to seeing without a cover over his eyelids. It made him wonder just how painful it would be if he actually opened his eyes.

He didn't, and instead welcomed the fresh cloth that was being pulled over his eyes. The fabric rubbed roughly against his tender skin, and the tightly made knot caught a few strands of his hair, and yet all he felt was relief.

That was all of the confirmation he needed to know that this was not a mind game. Even for a cruel trick, they would not risk taking off his blindfold for any circumstances. This mission had to be real.

Despite the aches from the rough treatments, his refreshed body felt weightless as he followed behind the ten other prisoners who shuffled along in front of him. His mind was still a bit numb, but his heart was pounding so hard that his whole body shook with each beat. Every step he took with the heavy boots brought him closer to the spaceship. It was only a matter of time before he was inside; it was only a matter of time before he was blasting through the thick, polluted atmosphere; it was only a matter of time before he was gone.

He was leaving. He was really leaving.

He choked as a hand clenched onto his collar and pulled him back. His feet scrambled across the ground, trying to regain his balance. He started to panic, because he knew it was all a lie: the healing, the fresh clothing, the new blindfold, all of it. He was not going anywhere. He knew better than to believe in foolish dreams like this.

The hand holding onto his shirt pulled hard, forcing his face close to his captor kneeling barely an inch away from him. He closed his mouth, but he was not quick enough to miss inhaling the hot, rank breath that nearly made him gag.

"Do not think you are any less of my precious little thing that you've always been," the Warden said, because there was no one else who would say such a thing to him.

The Warden's hand released his collar, only to find itself embedded in his hair. "I wish I could tell you that the only reason I am allowing you to join is because I'd miss having my bed warmed otherwise, but that would not be entirely true."

The nails in his spiky hair dug deep, scratching hard on his scalp. "You should know that I do have every intention of freeing you. However, I believe it goes without saying that your freedom will be a bit... different from the others'."

Yes, he had imagined as much.

He could hear the Warden's smile in his voice. "You understand that we won't have much need for you once that pest is gone. I'm sure the rest of the universe will be quite happy to see you die alongside of him."

Perhaps that was true. Perhaps the galaxy would feel that thirteen years of imprisonment was justice well served.

"Still, as wonderful as it will be to finally see you breathe your last worthless breath, it would still be such a... waste." The Warden's voice dropped to a tender tone. "I hope you don't think I've run out of new ideas and activities for my little Ice-jin boy. There is still so much I can do with you; so many bones I haven't broken; so many places I haven't yet touched."

He was not too sure about that last one. He could not imagine any place on his body that the Warden had not already made his.

"I believe I'll give you a different kind of reward, one that I will much enjoy."

The Warden pulled tight on his hair, forcing his head back as he buried his face in his neck. The Warden inhaled sharply, before piercing his skin with his teeth. He pulled away with a bloody smirk. "And I'm sure you would too. Wouldn't you like that? No longer having to slave away with the rest of the scum? Your only purpose would be to keep me satisfied. To be a slave only to me. To be my Angel forever. Behave yourself, and I will keep you alive. You don't have to die, not when there is still use to be made of you."

Then the Warden pinched his cheeks with one hand, forcing his mouth open to accept the rough tongue that jammed between his lips. The Warden growled against his mouth, his tongue thrusting until there was no place left untouched.

He pulled away with a hum. "You're mine, Chill. All mine."

The Warden pushed him away, sending him stumbling off-balance until his swishing, bare tail saves him. He hurried to catch up with the other inmates, who were already walking up the bridge that led onto the ship. They checked his anklet once more, his title flashing brightly on the tiny screen.

D3-24455. Chill, of Emperor Frieza, of Prince Vegeta.

The device dinged, and he was granted acceptance. He moved along again, his body thrumming so badly his teeth were chattering. He heard the loud clang of the bridge shutting.

"Shut up," he heard the male prisoner in front of him hiss, and he tried, he really did, but his body would just not stop shaking.

This was happening. This was really happening.

The Warden's promise rang in his ears, and as unpleasant as it was, it still mattered little. He was leaving. Even if it was only for a few days, he was going to experience something that other prisoners only dreamed about.

Chill was hated across the stars. He embodied the most disgusting, vile, murderous being who once plagued the galaxy, who let nothing good that crossed his path survive. Chill was the one who had been chosen to pay for his crimes; he was the one still had yet to repay the debt; he was the one with a special place in hell reserved just for him right next to his tyrant of a father, alongside all of the other stains of the universe.

He did not deserve this, and yet here he was.

The Warden's promise ate at him, yes, because nothing scared him more than the idea of being confined to the Warden's bedchambers for the rest of his life. Even that did not matter, though. His future looked grim, but he would always have this memory to look back on, wouldn't he?

He was going on vacation, and that made just about everything after worth it.

TBC

Let it be said that I originally made this story before I learned of the existence of Frieza's ancestor, Chilled. I did not intend to name my OC after him.

24455 is how you would type out 'CHILL' on an old texting keyboard.