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 implied rape of a minor.*

Every Eye Will See

Chapter Three: The Master

"So," Bulma said, holding up two dresses that, for all intents and purposes, were the exact same. "Maroon, or burgundy?"

Vegeta turned back to his breakfast.

"Come on, Vegeta! I have a very important meeting today and I could really use your advice here. You don't want your wife to look like a harlot in front of the entire board of directors, do you? The wrong color dress could have that effect, you know."

Vegeta stuffed a hard-boiled egg into his mouth.

"Fine! Be that way, jerk!" She shrilled, before stomping over to the line of prepared food. She huffed and grumbled to herself as she filled her plate, and for not the first time, Vegeta wondered how someone could bear to be so animated this early in the morning.

"Good morning," their son said through a yawn as he shuffled into the room, rubbing one of his eyes with his tiny fist.

"Trunks which is better: maroon or burgundy?" Bulma presented the dresses to him.

Trunks did not miss a beat. "That one," he answered with a point.

"Really? I thought the maroon one was better..." Bulma trailed off, contemplating both of the dresses.

"Eat," Vegeta said.

She absently took a bite of her food, as she tore the tag off the maroon dress. Trunks tried to stifle his laughter and failed, as children naturally did. Vegeta wasn't sure what it was he thought was funny. He went back to his plate.

It was Trunks who filled the room with noise this time, as he often did every morning. He was going through a new phase in which he obsessed over "drones". Vegeta had absolutely no idea what that word meant regarding a child's plaything, but from what he gathered from Trunks' chatter was that drones flew in the sky and could be controlled by remotes and had tiny cameras in them to show what the drone could see and that most people had to buy theirs but Trunks was smart enough to build his own from scratch and that the parts were supposed to arrive today and he had never been more excited for anything else in his entire life and—

Vegeta stood to his feet and walked towards the window on the other side of the room, leaving an army of empty plates in his wake. He had unlatched the window when Bulma cleared her throat pointedly.

Vegeta regarded the two of them. Trunks' mouth was open, as if he were about to speak. Eventually, his mouth slid shut, and turned back to his breakfast. Bulma gave her son a soft look that Vegeta could not read, before shooting her husband a sharp glare.

Vegeta kicked off the windowsill and flew off towards the foggy, grey sky.

Their section of Earth was approaching its cold season. The leaves on the trees had traded their rich green color for a vibrant red, and his breath ghosted out in front of him with each exhale. The humans below seemed unbothered by the chill, trotting around energetically as they were, swamped in thick hoodies and hats that hugged their ears. Bulma had expressed her surprise the other day at how lively the city was. She claimed that they were in the 'awkward phase' of the season, where the days were just as unpredictably hot as they were freezing, and most people were unsure when to switch out their seasonal clothes.

Vegeta had very little clue what she had been rambling about. Earth's climate had never bothered him in a profound enough manner for him to care.

It did not bother him now even, soaring higher and higher until the buildings faded, and the clouds encased his body until he was invisible to the eyes below. He could still feel them, though. He could feel the mass of bodies congregated beneath him, just as he could feel his energy thrumming through his veins and warming his blood. He could feel his lungs expanding for deeper breaths, combating against the thin, brittle air. He could feel the slightest bit of chill burrowing in the tips of his toes.

It felt calm up here. Rarely did Vegeta put much value in that word, but even he could appreciate a peaceful morning. It certainly inspired the mind to think.

Think. Contemplate. Brood. The concept was exceptionally strange, and yet it seemed that Vegeta was doing a whole lot of it as of late. Or at least, that was what he assumed this was—this desire to fly where he could barely see but could still feel, alone with nothing but the howl of air and his own thoughts to accompany him.

Long ago, back when he had no wife—could hardly even remember the woman's full name—and Trunks was not even a twinkle in his eye yet, he had done this very thing every morning for hours. He had had a purpose then. That purpose had been to learn.

He had been overconfident, yes, and cocky to boot, but a fool he was not. This planet was strange and vast, and a place he had intended to spend three straight years of his life at the time. He refused to spend those three years completely blind to his surroundings and the enemies that he could possibly encounter. So, whenever he was not training, he was traveling. He kept mainly to the skies, shielding his body in the clouds but giving himself free view to everything below, and he observed.

During his observations, he learned that the humans in this part of the world did not have a monarchy, but rather elected officials. He learned that that was not the case everywhere. He learned that the humans had a surplus of weapons, used by soldiers and civilians alike. He learned that their plants were mostly harmless, as were their animals. He learned that humans liked animals, and that they enjoyed dragging around their domesticated beasts like unruly, yet beloved children. He learned that as the seasons changed, human behavior changed with it. He learned that humans celebrated often. He learned that humans liked alcohol so much they overindulged in it often on certain nights, stumbling drunkenly through the streets, uncaring of how vulnerable it made them. He learned that humans were emotional. He learned that humans looked and behaved entirely differently the further he traveled. He learned that humans were diverse, impulsive, and very, very weak.

Once he finished his observations, he returned to his training, well-informed, but overall unimpressed with his findings.

Several years, a wife, a child, a death, and a resurrection later, here he was once again. However, he had no interest in observing this time around. What was there to observe? Humans, when it came down to it, were very predictable creatures. They behaved the same ways every time he bothered to pay attention. It got old very fast.

So why was he here? That was a good question. Never in his life had he done something like this. Isolate without purpose, that is. Even before, when he frequently abandoned Nappa and Raditz, or when he stole Bulma's ship and left this planet, it all had purpose. The best way to improve was to have no distractions, after all, and every ounce of newly gained strength was worth the attachments he left behind.

And yet he was improving nothing out here, roaming aimlessly as he did most mornings lately. He had no purpose, no goal, so surely, he must be out here simply to think. Or to contemplate. Or to brood.

He thought about a lot of things. He thought about his family. He thought about his allies. He thought about how the person he saw in the mirror was not the same person he would have saw years ago. Months ago, even.

He thought about how all those things made him feel.

It was ridiculous. Perhaps the most ridiculous thing he had ever done.

Vegeta, for the better part of his life, did not feel much in the way of emotions. He felt anger, of course, felt it simmer beneath his skin like water in a hot pot, waiting to inevitably overflow and spill out in a boiling mess of rage. He felt joy as well—felt the satisfaction that filled his chest when he grew in strength, or when he cut down someone who was particularly strong or particularly annoying. Irritation, disgust, even the occasional bout of fear was not foreign to him either. It was not hard to manage these fallacies. He had long since mastered his body. He knew when he could scrunch his nose at corpses that laid at his feet, or when to still the tremors that ran through his limbs. Of course, just because he could mask his reactions, did not mean he was exempt from them. He was mortal just like anyone else, after all. He could mask the feelings, but that did not mean they were nonexistent.

Now, somehow, they existed in a... different way. The same emotions were within him, and yet the way he felt them was like he had never had before. There were even new things he felt, the kind of emotions that he did not know how to put into words. Never in his life had Vegeta felt so out of his depth, and yet he had no answer as to why.

All this thinking, and yet the only thing he managed was to become even more confused.

Perhaps that was what caring about things did to a man. He wouldn't know; he had never cared about anything in his life before. Not in any material sense, at least. Obviously, he cared about his strength, and defeating his oppressors, and other goals he had set out for himself during his life, but beyond that? Had he ever cared about something real—something he could see, something he could touch with his own two hands? No, he did not think he ever had. Perhaps he had cared about his father once, but that was so long ago he would not even recall the man's face if it were not so like his own.

Raditz and Nappa were comrades by necessity. They were devoted to him in every way, but even he knew that his royal status had little to do with it. He had been a child so naturally Nappa gained some sort of familial attachment to him. Raditz had not been that much older than him, and perhaps that was why he—a boy too proud to admit he mourned his parents and long-lost baby brother—was fond of him as well. The two of them hung onto his words as if each one was a hand-crafted gift. They probably would have followed him to the ends of the universe had he asked it of them.

Vegeta could never muster up that level of devotion in return. He had not been good to them at all, really. He would just as soon as fight alongside them as he would break their bones, and yet they remained loyal to him. There was never anyone else as constant in his life as they were, and he did not even miss them.

No, there had never been anything like this before. He never had needs like this. The need to see two sets of bright blue eyes every morning. The need to hear a childishly joyful laugh. The need to count every heartbeat of his wife while she slept. The need to protect.

He knew the word for that need, at least. He was not so emotionally inept as that. Now as far as expressiveness went—

"Yo, Vegeta!"

And wasn't that another can of worms entirely?

Vegeta was reluctant to turn around (and when exactly had he landed, anyway?), but he knew there was no point in trying to ignore him. Kakarot was like an itch that irritated you relentlessly until you finally gave in and scratched it.

Vegeta turned on his heel and there he was, standing tall with his hands on his hips and his lips in a big, idiotic grin.

Of all people, Kakarot was not someone he ever thought he would have to seriously contemplate. He had been on his mind, of course, monopolized it even, so long ago. Still, his thoughts of him were rather simplistic. Become stronger than Kakarot. Defeat Kakarot. Kill Kakarot. There was very little variation between those thoughts.

Then Kakarot died, and after the initial sting of failure that was becoming far too familiar, he had not given the other saiyan much thought. What purpose would it have done? He was dead—there was no point in dwelling on a man he would never get the chance to properly face again.

And yet, here they were.

"Kakarot," he acknowledged.

"What are you doing out here?"

Vegeta glanced at the forest backdrop of tall oak trees behind Kakarot's unruly head. He would concede that that was perhaps a fair question.

"A better question," he said in lieu of answer, "would be: what are you doing out here?"

"Vegeta," the fool complained, foolishly. "You can't answer my question with the same exact question!"

Vegeta arched his brow, effectively sharing that he was quickly losing patience.

Kakarot's cheery smile relit his face. "Well, I was bored, and since your location was on the way to where I was heading—"

"The middle of nowhere was where you were heading? You mean to say that you were following me."

"I wouldn't say 'following'. Maybe... 'seeking' out..."

Vegeta shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you want?"

"Well I was wondering if maybe you wanted to spar for a bit?"

And that was their relationship. Or whatever this was that Kakarot was trying to initiate with him. This would be the fifth time that Kakarot had sought him out, always with the same request.

Vegeta denied him every single time.

Vegeta opened his mouth, another refusal ready to spill from his tongue. He wondered if perhaps there was truly something wrong with the other man's head, that he could not understand clearly that his presence was unwanted; that he could not differentiate respect from fondness; that he could not see that Vegeta had no interest in becoming another figure in his gaggle of infuriating companions; that—

His internal monologue was interrupted by a resounding boom from the sky.

Both of their heads tip upward. There, shining like a beacon in the clear, blue sky (just how far from his home was he?) was the dark object that had broken the sound barrier.

"What do you think that is, Vegeta?" Kakarot asked, the goofy quality of his face having yet to melt away even amongst his confusion.

It could have been space debris. It was small, and non-descript from this distance so that possibility was not outlandish. Yet he knew that a scrap of debris would not fall that way. Debris had no control, and typically burned until there was hardly anything left to hit the surface. Yet this dark spot in the sky drifted downward in a very decisive, vertical line, its pace perfectly even and calculated...

It was not falling. It was descending.

Vegeta hopped off his feet and sped towards the UFO.

He heard Kakarot calling, "Hey, wait!" before leaping into the air as well, and following closely after him.

Chill had ugly hands.

He did not truly know what they looked like of course—the few times he had risked using his sight, his eyes were typically on things other than the intricacies of his body. He could feel though, and he could imagine. He could feel that they were brittle and thin. He imagined that they were sickly pale. He could feel that they were veiny. He imagined those veins were dark like ink on a page. He could feel where he was missing nails (a guard had torn them off not too long ago). He imagined that they were covered in scars.

He did not make a habit of conjuring mental images of his hands, but with nothing else stable to settle his mind on, he figured it was his safest option. He imagined at this particular moment they looked terrible, even more pathetic than usual as they trembled around the clothing he was pulling back onto his body.

First came the shirt. The neck of the fabric squeezed his head uncomfortably, and it was only after he had pulled it all the way on that he realize he had forgotten to unbutton it.

What a stupid thing to forget, he thought.

Despite the struggle to get the collar over his head, the shirt was too large for him. It hid the bite marks and bruises on his torso but did no such service for the rashes on the skin of his neck and the dark hickeys sprinkled around his collarbone.

The trousers were harder, even though they should not have been. They were pooled around his ankles, and his fingers shook violently as he tugged the pants up his burning, slick thighs. It was even more of a struggle trying to maneuver his broken tail into the makeshift hole in the back of the trousers. He had already made work of resetting the tiny bones back into their proper places as best he could, but the appendage was still tender. Once that was through, he pulled his knobby knees up against his chest and hugged them tight, still feeling just as naked as before.

He did not like it when the Warden did that to him.

He smacked a hand hard against his temple, and the fact that he could hardly feel the pain probably should have worried him, but it did not. He knew better than to think that way.

He bit down on the whimper resting on his tongue. It would not help. Nothing would help. The only remedy for the infirmity brewing inside of him was patience. He had to wait for the lingering pain to pass, had to wait for the sickness to pass, and then he would be soothed. It was not a hard task—he knew how to have logical thoughts. Logically, the burning throughout his whole body would fade as per usual. Logically, the shivers that quaked his body would subside. Logically, the shame burning in his gut would go away as it always did.

Logically, he had no reason to feel like this every damn time.

Breathe, he heard Neeila's voice say. He took in a breath. He released it.

He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was honored, really, that the Warden would bless him with such attention.

Suddenly he felt like choking.

Breathe, Chill, Neeila's voice said insistently, smooth like cotton and sweet like the clovers that sometimes grew in the dirt around the barracks. Chill followed her directions with more care.

(Herio, Neeila's older brother, had said more than once that he thought Chill was insane. He wondered how much farther Herio's opinion of him would fall if he learned that the illusion of his precious sorellina's voice in Chill's head was often the only thing holding him together.)

Several minutes passed. This time, when he told himself he was fine, it was much easier to believe.

And he really was fine. It was... unpleasant, but nothing he had not already experienced, and really, it could be worse. He could be trapped below the deck with the other prisoners, crammed together like cattle in a pen, with no room to move and no air to breathe other than the hot breath of the other's around him.

Yes, his hips ached, and his hands still would not stop shaking, but he had a smooth floor to sleep on and clean air in his lungs, and that had to count for something.

And just like that he remembered—he was here.

He felt his body shake for an all new reason. Anticipation, perhaps? Maybe nervousness? He could not really say. He had no idea what to feel really. How was one supposed to react to an experience like this?

He could certainly say that he was curious. What did this new planet look like? Would it be hot there, or cold? What did their people smell like? How would their language sound to his ears?

There was no telling what was waiting for him on the other side. He had the sudden, powerful desire to know. How much longer would he have to wait until he found out?

They might recognize you.

He felt that nauseous feeling bubbling in his stomach again.

He heard a grunt and remembered that he was not alone. His ears follow the clack and shuffle of boots stomping against the hard, metallic floor. Then he heard the groan of a chair being sat in and immediately scurried over to sit by his Master's feet.

He was not the Warden now. Behind these doors, he was Master.

His Master grunted again as he rolled together a tobacco wrap and a line of finely ground herbs. Once it was packed together, he quickly struck the blunt end against the arm of his chair, sparking a flame. Moments later, Chill's nose was filled with the bitter scent of smoke. He hurried onto his knees and held his hands out, waiting to catch the ashes as they fell. The ashes were hot but cooled quickly against his palms.

Several minutes passed in silence. Finally, just as the room had begun to adopt a healthy layer of smoke, his Master finished. There was no ash tray or waste bin, so Chill stuck out his tongue, licked up the pile in his hand, and swallowed. It was bitter and awful.

His Master was pleased, however. He threaded a hand through the spikes of Chill's hair, and he shuddered underneath it. Several seconds passed in silence, nothing but Chill's stifled coughs from the smoke and the soft scratch of his Master's fingers against his scalp.

"The making of history begins on this day," his Master finally said.

Chill, dropped his forehead gently to his right knee.

"By the end of this day, I shall hold the power of the universe in my arms. I do not think there is anyone else in the world who could make that claim, do you? Not even your tyrant papa could have said that."

Chill brushed his hands against the fabric covering his Master's leg.

"I will have the power to truly rid the universe of that other disgusting pest. Never again will he touch me. Never again will he touch you. That makes you happy, doesn't it, my Angel?"

Chill curled his fingers tightly in the cloth. That would make him happy.

"By the end of this day, I will be the highest there is. It will be my name that children give praise too at their bedsides. It will be my name that my people will beg to for comfort. I will be higher than King Hikso. I will be higher than God. Do I not deserve to be rewarded for that?"

Chill hastened to undo the clasp of his trousers, and pulled out what was waiting inside.

Perhaps an hour later, the sticky sensation and bitter flavor had long since been washed away by the nutriments he had been given. The water had been stale and lukewarm, but plentiful. The soup on the other hand had been an almost pleasant surprise. The coarsely ground, boiled corn kernels had slid down his throat like sludge, but it had been warm, and very thick. He had gobbled it all down, licked the bowl, then around his mouth, and then the floor to make sure he had missed none of the rarely rich meal.

In the end, it made his stomach gurgle uncomfortably, but he could not remember the last time he felt this energized. He supposed it was fitting, however. If this mission was as important as the Warden said it was, it would not do to have those essential to its success faltering from exhaustion.

After he had finished his meal and passed his dishes into a steward's elderly hands, he had been led out of the Warden's chambers. He would not have really needed the assistance—the smell of congregated bodies was more than enough of a guide for him.

The room was silent as he slipped inside. He moved across the back wall, until he reached the corner. He curled up within himself on the floor. The room was warm, and the smell of his own and others' sweat tickled at his nose. It was, all things considered, a vast improvement to normal conditions.

He played idly with the strings of his boots while he waited, feeling just the slightest bit overwhelmed. It was all just so hard to grasp. He was truly, physically here. He was here, crouched on the first spaceship he had ever been on, moments away from landing somewhere new, somewhere millions of miles away from the mines and the fields and the barracks and the fences.

How could reality be so undeniably real and yet seem so false at the same time?

There was a loud clunk, then another, and then one more. The guards had assumed formation, and it was time to listen.

"Attention!" The Warden called, and all heads snapped to him. "We have arrived on Planet Earth."

There was no excited muttering or chattering, but the Warden's face brightened as if there was.

"We are to be exiting this ship in approximately ten minutes, and once we are grounded, we will immediately commence our search of the dragon balls. We will split into two separate groups. One group shall be tasked with recovering three of the assets, and the other will be responsible for four. Each group must complete the mission before the sun is in the center of the sky. That is approximately four hours. This planet is large, but no excuses will be tolerated."

A click. "Before you are images of the seven assets..."

Chill already knew what their appearance entailed, whispered in his ear while his Master ran his hands up and down his spine: Orange balls, red stars.

Not that it mattered either way to him, but he knew.

The Warden's boots were loud as he strode across the floor. "The utmost and absolute behavior is expected. Though I cannot imagine why I would expect anything less. I implore you all to remember that your freedom is what hangs in the balan—"

Chill was not the only one who jumped at the sudden, nearly hysterical cry from a guard, "Sir! Sir, you must look!"

The Warden growled, his easy demeanor sliding away as he turned to face the offending guard. "I hope, Officer Vuuol, that you did not just interrupt me for any reason that is less than life-threatening."

"I'm afraid it might be so, sir," the officer replied, his gaze still glued to the window in utter horror.

The Warden narrowed his eyes, stomping his feet harshly against the flooring as he stormed towards the window. He roughly shoved the frozen stiff guard away before glaring out the glass. He did not have much of a reaction at first, simply squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as if he were thinking, as if he were trying to remember...

"Prince Vegeta!"

There was commotion then, guards ungracefully abandoning their posts to race to the windows, trying to get a glimpse of truth for themselves. The prisoners around him were all muttering as loudly as they dared, some in disbelief, some in question, and others who were explaining to the ones in question just who exactly Prince Vegeta was.

It was only seconds later, that every eye sitting on the floor was turned back and staring at him. Chill did not notice the attention. Chill did not notice much of anything at all.

Prince Vegeta. He knew that name of course. If there was ever a name he would know, it would always be that one. Even still...

"But, sir," another guard spoke, her voice rough and disbelieving. "It couldn't be. All records state that Prince Vegeta died over twelve years ago." Her fingers tapped against the small screen before her in efforts to prove her point. "He perished along with all of the natives of Planet Namek when it exploded. Zero percent chance of survival. The only pod reported to have escaped before the explosion landed on Planet Yardrat, and all sources describe the man as unrecognizable and unregistered by any form of government or Galactic Organization. There are no true saiyans left in existence."

The Warden turned his narrowed eyes onto her, freezing her in her place. "Were you under the impression that I did not know that?"

She shot up straight, her stone-faced clearing to resemble some sense of a proper guard's dignity. "Of course not, sir. I was just merely sharing all known knowledge of the Saiyan Prince. If our documents are correct, then there is no possible way it could be him. Could he possibly be a relative, or an earthling that looks similarly to him? I noticed that a signature saiyan tail is missing, and his clothing is too tight for such an extremity to be hidden underneath."

Saiyan. The Saiyan Prince Vegeta...

"No," the Warden shook his head, peering out the window once more. "Vegeta has no living relatives aside from his disinherited brother. And I know what Vegeta looks like. It is most definitely him. I am not wrong."

"But, sir—"

"Remind me why we are here, Officer Weein."

Her eyes widened a bit. "For the dragon balls, sir."

"And these dragon balls can grant any wish that is requested of them, yes?"

"Yes sir."

"So is it safe to assume that resurrection from the dead is included in 'any wish'. Am I wrong?"

Officer Weein faltered. "Ah, well I suppose, sir, but why would the earthlings wish him back?"

"That's not something I can answer, but that is definitely him." The Warden's eyes hardened, studying the man below. "Yes, that's him. That hair, those eyes... that is certainly him. He's not that nineteen-year-old brat who shat all over my hospitality anymore, but that is Vegeta."

A smile suddenly broke over the Warden's face. "Dear me has he grown! He doesn't seem as cold as I remember. Do you see all that curiosity shining so freely on his face? He seems to have lost his touch, don't you think?"

"Ah, yes, uh, I suppose, sir."

"Fucking shut up, would ya? Your noise is gonna get us all in trouble!" A prisoner hissed, barring his teeth in Chill's direction.

Noise? Was he making noise? He tried to think, but his mind would not listen. He realized that his body would not listen either. He felt... detached? Yes, detached, like the threads that held him to his bones and skin had been abruptly severed. Was he in shock? Perhaps his heart was giving out? No, of course not. He was sure that near-death would be a bit more painful than whatever this was. Still, how could he stop hyperventilating when he did not even know how he was doing it?

He did not know. He did not know. He did not know anything. Nothing was making sense. Nothing was making sense.

"—wearing earthling garbs, no doubt. Do you think he has been domesticated? That could explain the absence of a tail. The one next to him has no tail either, but they have similar features. Perhaps he is a saiyan as well?"

"What are our orders, sir?" a different guard spoke up. "If it is true that Vegeta was resurrected from the dead, then it is possible that his comrades Nappa and Raditz were as well. We would have four, potentially hostile saiyans to deal with. If I may suggest, I believe we should postpone the mission. We could return with more officers—"

"No," the Warden cut him off. "There is no amount of guards we could send that would be able to subdue the Prince of all Saiyans, never mind the other three."

"Then what are we do to do, sir—"

"You will do as I tell you, of course," the Warden said brightly as he turned and walked away from the window. "We have no reason to fear Vegeta just yet. He has no reason to harm me. You could almost say we are old friends, he and I."

"Sir, that might be a bit of a bold assumption to bet on..."

The smile slid off the Warden's face and the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. The guard tensed instantly, but the Warden only turned away from him.

Not that Chill knew that. He knew nothing about what the Warden was doing, what he was thinking. He knew nothing of the memories that flashed through the Warden's mind as he regarded the Saiyan staring up that them. He did not know that the Warden saw someone different than he had seen the first time, someone different than the soft-faced boy, only barely toeing the line of manhood, clad in Frieza's armor like a beloved, pampered dog. He did not know that the Warden thought he was still so utterly the same. Still cold, still enflamed, still stunning—

The Warden spun on his heel. The chains on the floor rattled with the force of his stride, and all in his path scrambled away. The Warden reared his leg back and kicked it out hard, narrowly missing Chill's neck. The boy's body flew back, slamming hard against the wall behind him.

He felt the severed threads tie back together as the pain ran over him like water. He did not think he imagined the snap he heard from his shoulder.

The Warden towered over him and the air seemed to crackle with his rage. Chill felt the slightest bit of fear.

The Warden's foot came up to grind into Chill's injured shoulder, keeping him crushed tight against the wall. He whimpered, but stayed still, trying his best to plead with no words.

The foot dragged across his shoulder and came to rest its weight over his throat. "You are a liability. Perhaps I should kill you now."

Chill gagged, and his mouth gaped desperately for air. His nails clawed hopelessly at the boot holding him down, pressing forward bit by bit until he would surely bruise beyond repair. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he wondered just what he had done to make the Warden so angry. He wished he could apologize.

Several seconds passed, seconds in which Chill felt his death was becoming more and more inevitable, choked against the wall on this ship for reasons he did not know, so close and yet so far away, always so far away—

The pressure released. He collapsed forward, hardly noticing his forehead crashing into the ground as he grasped at his spasming throat, gasping desperately through his swelling pipes.

The Warden stooped before him, his voice a low whisper. "I don't want to kill you," he said, running a hand through his locks of hair. "You are valuable to me. No one can do for me what you do."

His tug was gentle, but firm. Chill lifted his head. "I will not kill you, but I do not have to be kind to you. All your life I have treated you like the treasure you are to me, but I don't have to do that. It is a privilege you don't deserve, but you've received it because I am gracious. That can change. You do not want that to change, do you?"

Chill could not find the strength to shake his head, and the moment a hand closed around his neck he sobbed.

"Shh," the Warden—his Master?—hushed, rubbing his thumb gently against the edge of his blossoming bruise. "Swear to me you will behave. Swear to me that you will be good, or I will personally see to it that every coming year of your life is worse than the last." The hand tightened. "Do you swear?"

Chill nodded fervently.

The hand loosened. Hard fingers petted his cheek. "I trust you. You've never let me down, have you? Of course, you haven't, you've always been good for me. You know who you belong to. You are all mine, and nothing of his. You'll remember that, won't you?"

Chill leaned into the touch and nodded, feeling so very tired.

The Warden holds him for a moment longer before rising to his feet. "Now then. Pilot, let down the ramp!"

Seconds later, the entire ship rumbled and creaked. Raw, fresh air filled the cabin as the ramp lowered, and it nearly hurt his lungs to breath. Or maybe it was his injured throat that was the problem. The coolness was not too terrible against the bruises though. Maybe it would prevent his throat from swelling shut altogether. It would be such a waste after his life was so graciously spared.

"On your feet!" the Warden demanded, and so he stood with the others. They lined themselves in a single file, holding themselves still as the chains were locked around their ankles. Despite the pain around his neck and the burning numbness in his shoulder, his heart still pumped wildly in his chest. He was not excited anymore, all of that had burned out of him until all that was left was anxiety and fear.

Chill was a good boy. He was a very good boy. The Warden had said so. He trusted him because he was so good. He was not like the others—he did not need the threat of a cracking whip or public demonstrations, nor did he need wary eyes on him watching him constantly to prove his loyalty. No one questioned his obedience, his servility, because he was a good boy.

Chill had seen others who were not like him, who needed to be broken before they were good boys. Chill did not understand them at all. Neeila told him before that there was no need to break someone in who had nothing to break. She said that like it was a bad thing, but Chill never knew why. He knew his role; clung to his role and lived by it well. He was a servant; a vassal; the perfect slave. He was a monster who atoned for his sins and those of others by submitting to the leash and shackles that fate had designed him for.

The leash strung him to the world. The shackles were his existence. Without these chains what would he have then? Certainly not a beloved Master who pet his hair and held him closer than he did anyone else.

Chill did not want to lose the place that was made so perfectly for him. He did not want to stop being the Warden's good boy, but this... this was a risk. Just because he was a good boy, did not mean that... that man would be. This was too risky. What if he caused trouble? It would be all Chill's fault, and who would be the Warden's good boy then?

A smaller voice told him that was not the real risk. The voice told him that the risk was not that that man would cause trouble, but that he wished he would.

No, no, no. Chill did not want that, he truly didn't. He was the Warden's and no one else's.

Yet he was curious. He had always been curious about the one who had carried him. The man was an enigma—not so well known as his tyrant father but feared enough that his name still crossed the lips of people even after his supposed death. Powerful, he had heard, and ruthless. A servant of Frieza but never secretive about his loyalties, who had in the end, turned on his lord the first chance he got. He knew little else aside from that. How could he not be curious?

Curiosity about a dead man, however, was different than one that would breath and speak right in front of him. Now he could know, and he should not want to know, but he did. What would the man who carried him in his body think of him? Would he look at him with pity? Disgust? Would he be horrified by the life he had brought into this world? Would he even care?

(Sometimes in the dreams Chill wished he didn't have, his carrier would know him the minute his eyes fell on him. He would run to him and hold him and pet his hair and tell him he was a good boy over and over again. He would say he was proud that he had been so good for so long and give him extra rations at dinner and hold his hand so that he would never get lost. He would wrap him up in warm blankets at the end of the day and tell him stories in a soft voice. He would kiss his forehead and promise that he would be there when he woke up. He would be like the parents Chill had seen around him, who even when their children were crying and screaming and behaving so badly, still treated them like they were gifts.)

Nausea suddenly rolled in his stomach. Chill did not want to know. Chill wanted to go home and never leave again.

"Now then, let us give a warm hello to our old friend!" the Warden exclaimed, and they stepped out into the light.

TBC

Sorellina = little sister in Italian, which in this universe, is the native language of Neeila's people.