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 and graphic depictions of violence and death.*
Every Eye Will See
Chapter Seven: The Race
The ride towards the first dragon ball was long and uneventful.
The seats of this aircraft were comfortable enough, at least. They were made with some kind of thin-furred fabric, and while it was not particularly soft, it was not hard either. It was simply solid beneath him, and he liked it.
Though he supposed it was not the seat in particular that he liked so much, but rather the sensation that came with it. The vibrations were light, but he could just scarcely feel the rumble of the small aircraft against his back, neck, and head as it glided through the air.
He supposed he should not be so impressed by the slight rumble—it was such a miniscule thing, after all—yet there was something... soothing about it all. It made his mind feel clear, and it was only when his mind was clear that his thoughts were decipherable.
He supposed he had a lot of things he ought to think about. Like Vegeta, and the alleged brother, and saiyans, and Earth, and unfairness, and why—
But no, there would be none of that now.
"Oi," there was a slap on his shoulder, the offended skin stinging from the force. "I bet that orange guy burned his hand after he touched you," said the random prisoner, who sounded very amused by the whole thing.
It took Chill a moment to recall. He had already forgotten about that shameless whore of a man who had apparently worn orange clothing (or he himself might have been orange—he wouldn't know). He certainly was not thinking of him either.
He was not thinking of the others either, as a matter of fact, whose bodies were so crunched with his he could hardly move his legs. He thought nothing of their taunts, just as he thought nothing of their pinches and kicks at him. He had already done his part in taking up as little space as possible in the compact carrier—all he could do now was wait until they grew bored.
It took a while—it seemed that the attention of the orange man had excited them—but eventually they all left him be. They were all still close though, his sensitive nose told him with a wrinkle, as did their loud gasps in his ears and the brush of their bodies against his.
He allowed a finger to uncurl and wipe away the sweat line that trailed down his temple. He was not fond of being packed together like this.
He hissed as he wiped at the sweat again, the salty mess running into his wounds. Blood still oozed down his wrist from the lacerations on his knuckles, and the shredded mess that was left of his palm. The worse of the pain had ebbed. A sharpness was all that was left despite how extensive the wounds seemed.
He tried to flex his fingers and frowned; despite the numbness, the muscles were reluctant to move as they should. He wondered how helpful he would be in finding the dragon balls with only one properly functioning hand.
That thought made his abrupt frown clear away, and the corner of his lip twitching slightly instead.
He had a use here. Yes, he knew that the real reason the Warden had brought him was so he would have something to warm his bed, but he did not have to be permitted off the ship to fulfill that purpose. But the Warden had allowed him off the ship; allowed him to join the expedition; allowed him to participate.
Even after the fiasco of earlier, he was still here, still valued as an asset to the mission. Regardless of the abuse the others gave him, he was just the same as the other prisoners here. The advantages he had developed around his small frame would not be overlooked today, nor would his prowess in speed and climbing. His skills may not be unique, but they were his, and he would flaunt them as much as he could while he had this attention.
He would prove it to them. He was useful. He was a good boy. The Warden will see. They all will see.
He braced himself for the craft's descent, gritting his teeth against the uncomfortable fluttering in his stomach as they dived towards the ground. The several changes in speed jerked them all forward and back, the lot of them swallowing back complaints as they tumbled into each other. Still, despite the body flopping rather heavily on his chest, Chill's anticipation did not falter.
Several second passed (during which the body from before moved and Chill could breathe again) before the dome lid above them lifted. He could feel the brightness of the Earth's sun against his face as he slid out of the vehicle and onto the grass. It was an odd sensation; despite the immense heat there was no sun on Tene'mareen—at least, not one that he could specifically feel shining, not with the ever-present blanket of clouds in the way. The sun here, however, was a lot like Neeila had described from her natural home. It was not the same, he supposed, (it was not particularly hot, as she had stated) but something else that was hard to explain.
He thought for a moment and decided that the rays felt like a hug. Chill had not experienced many hugs—he could not help but to shy away any time Neeila tried—but he imagined that it would be something like this. A comfortable embrace against the cool vastness of air.
He wondered which Neeila would be—the sun or the air. He would say the sun, but there was something so... open about her, an untamable, stubborn, freeness in her spirit. He doubted she could settle for something as constant as the sun. Perhaps she was a bit of both?
He wondered what she was doing: maybe sleeping or eating. Most likely, she was working. Perhaps she was wondering where he was, why he did not meet her at the mess hall after roll call as was their (proclaimed only by her) tradition. Perhaps she was wondering when he would return, stupid jokes and whimsical dreams waiting on her tongue for his ears to hear.
Suddenly, he wanted to see her, and the thought made a... feeling bloom in his chest. It was not a nice feeling.
How odd.
"Attention!"
Chill's head snapped up as his arms slammed into the small of his back, his legs stiff and feet firm in the soft grass. Quick, precise, movements so familiar he did not even need to think on it.
"Forward."
Their line moved in tandem; their every step so intertwined that the chains shackling their ankles together jangled in perfect unison. Chill liked the sound. The other prisoners could hate him all they wanted, but there was no denying that right now, in this moment, he was a part of their unit—a single component that summed into the whole.
With every given direction, his curiosity of this environment grew. It was a much different place than the last one, he thought. The weight of the sun had faded, and yet the air here was incredibly thick and moist. He still was not hot (his body was accustomed to far worse) and yet sweat beaded underneath his fringes. The grass here was longer as well, the soft blades just managing to caress him through his pant legs.
There were a lot of sounds here too, he realized, and they were much different than the ones he had heard before. There were no sounds of voices, or the loud beeps and screeches of the vehicles, or the sizzling of meat cooking over charcoal. Instead, he heard the rustling of vegetation, the patter of what seemed to be running water coming from every direction, the squish beneath their boots as they stepped over particularly wet areas.
He heard animals.
He believed that they were animals, in any case. He was not familiar with such creatures aside from the hunting dogs and the larger beasts they were permitted to utilize when transporting large hauls of coal. Neeila told him about the animals on her home though, how some were used for work while others roamed free, and how unique they all were.
He figured that they were different, but these animals reminded him of the ones she had described. Most of them made quiet subtle sounds, like the croak of an amphibian, or the scurry of reptiles. Others were loud, like the sharp coo of birds and their flapping wings, or the distant growls of creatures he could not identify but acknowledged their danger, nonetheless.
Then, he heard it. A cry, so sudden and loud that it cut through the air like a knife through fermented butter. There was another cry, distinctly different and yet exactly the same. He felt every hair on the back of his neck raise, and a tingle shuddering his veins. The cries grew louder as more of the beasts joined in, his heart beating to the rhythm of the song. The cries were wild, unlike anything he had ever heard, and yet it was familiar. He knew nothing of primates, Earthen or otherwise, but he knew this sound.
He knew this sound. He wanted this sound. He desired it.
I hear you, he thought. I hear you. Can you hear me too?
A rumble grew in his chest, and he did not fight it. He felt it climb from his lungs and throat, and once it reached his tongue, he opened his mouth and let it free. It was only one, and it was short, but his shriek was loud, unlike any other sound he has ever made. It tore from his body like it had no business being denied in the first place and echoed through the trees around them like a summoning.
For a long moment, all was silent.
Then he was on the ground, the damp grass grazing the new, biting cut along his cheek.
He had been attacked.
He scurried onto his knees; his body tensed low to the ground. His lip curled back, a snarl aimed at the assailant, daring them to come again.
He heard the whip crack against the air, and he remembered. The snarl died as he was filled with mortification. What had he just done?
He felt a hand tighten in his hair, dragging him onto his toes. He kept his own hands at his side, fighting against the urge to relieve the harsh grip. The Warden's breath was hot and heavy over his face.
"Do not ever do that again, you monkey bastard," The Warden growled down at him.
Chill whimpered, and for the second time that day, fear pounded in his chest. He knew the Warden very well. He was a man made of callous smiles, cool deliberations, and witticism-veiled cruelty. He was a man who loved to manipulate, and to play games. It was very rare when the Warden was truly angry, especially at him.
He said he would prove himself to be a good boy, and yet here he was, time and time again, being bad.
The Warden gave him a final growl before releasing his hair. Chill stumbled, the taut chains around his ankles his only defense against crashing to the ground again. He righted himself and held himself as still as he possibly could. He could still feel all of their eyes on him and wished desperately that the ground beneath his feet would open up and swallow him whole.
Finally, after what felt like years and more years, a guard spoke up, "Sir."
The Warden raised a brow at him.
"The locator says that the dragon ball is one hundred and thirty feet upward, presumably in that tree."
"Our aircrafts only fly about fifty feet off the ground," another guard added.
"Yes, I am aware," the Warden said. He hummed for a moment, regarding the tree before them. Then, "24455! 78646!"
Chill snapped to attention, as did the boy three paces down from him. They waited for their chains to be unlocked, and once they were, they both stepped forward. The two of them stopped at the same moment, their bodies close enough that their arms nearly brushed.
Chill was familiar with the other boy, whose true name was Rungo, not the series of numbers. Rungo was not much older than Chill, but his weathered body made their ages seem decades apart. He was short, appearing even more so due to his permanently bent spine. His bald head was infected with hot sores, and the stump where his left arm used to be was scabbed and crusted over.
Most parts of his appearance were told to him in detail by Neeila. Some faults, however, he learned on his own, as he had felt them pressed against his own skin. They shared a barrack, after all, and had even shared a bunk on more than one occasion. Chill knew firsthand how pitiful Rungo must look. He was a walking corpse waiting for a grave to lie in.
And yet, the brittle bones of his legs were stronger than average, and the hand he did have had incredibly useful claws...
Chill would just have to be better. It was not personal; after all, Chill thought rather positively of Rungo. He had never been particularly cruel to Chill; never messed with him while he slept; and in fact, was one of the few people who would even allow Chill to sleep next to him, instead of simply kicking him back down to the floor. He slept next to him as if he were any other, with no regard for how the rest of their barrack-mates felt.
He figured that that meant that the Cold family had never affected Rungo in any way, at least not enough to warrant even some 'hatred by association'. He was completely indifferent to him, and Chill valued that.
Still, he had a point to prove here.
The Warden regarded them. "Go into that tree and retrieve my dragon ball. You have three minutes."
"Yes, sir," Rungo answered for them. They both walked forward until they were at the base of the tree. Chill took a deep breath, trying to ease all of the tension from his body.
Rungo only had one arm, but Chill equally only had one truly reliable hand at his disposal. Additionally, Chill had no idea how high the tree was or what it looked like, or even what the ball looked like. All these disadvantages with only three minutes to work with... this would not be easy.
But he would do it.
He would be the one to reach the ball first. He had never seen Rungo in action, but Chill knew that he himself was no amateur when it came to the act of climbing. Would he call it a talent? Perhaps. The art just came easy to him, eyesight or no. Neeila had complimented him on it several times. 'I've never seen anyone climb that fast, Chill!' she would say. 'You were born for this!'
Sure, this tree was probably different than the rocky ledges he scaled back home, but he had faith in his victory. It was not really a race, he knew, but he had to win this challenge. He would put forth all the effort he could in making that happen.
He was the Warden's good boy, and no one would ever doubt that again.
He breathed out again. No more thinking.
He felt his fingertips twitch, his brow furrowing deeper. He imagined the tree in front of him, a force taller than any he has ever seen. He imagined the tree as very thick, its bulky frame casting a shadow over them. He imagined very few branches, and slippery moss, but he also imagined tough bark he could grab, and odd ridges he could dig his feet into—
"Go!"
Chill sprinted forward. Just as he reached the base of the tree he stopped, bent his knees, and leapt as high as he could. He latched onto the tree, his nails digging into the bark as his feet steadied him.
Then he was off.
It was much different than climbing a rock wall, Chill confirmed. For one, the mossy bark was incredibly moist, and the force of his grip allowed many tiny pieces of wood to splinter his skin. Still, he refused to slow. He utilized every bit of momentum to push himself harder, higher, closer.
He could hear Rungo's scrabbling beside him grow louder—was he competing with him too? It was an all-out race up the tree, shards of bark flying down as the two climbed higher and higher. If asked, he would not be able to explain just why he was so determined to reach the ball first. Surely even proving his point did not call for this level of will.
He had no answer. All he knew was that he wanted to win.
He could feel the ball ahead of him. There was an odd energy about it, like something that was alive and not alive at the same time. Chill has never felt anything like it before. He wanted it.
Closer. Closer.
He stretched out a hand and, with the Mind Power, willed it nearer to him. He felt it wobble in its place. He felt it tip forward...
Almost there...
Chill heard his failure before it happened. He heard the crack of the large, rotting branch beneath his feet, breaking, and then separating from the body of the tree. He scrambled desperately despite the futility of it. He had fallen back too far, and even if he managed to grab hold again, one arm would not be strong enough to hold up his weight.
He fell.
Dammit, he thought, his stomach lurching as his body plummeted. This was such an odd experience—the wind rushing past his face and through his hair, and his stomach feeling like it had dropped to his toes. He has had some close calls, but he has never really fallen when climbing before. He felt like he was falling forever and wondered idly just how high up he had managed to climb.
He wondered if this fall would break something.
He wondered if this fall would kill him.
He was unpleasantly surprised when he reached the ground. A loud huff was forced from his chest as his body bounced against the grass with a sick thud. He registered a sharp sting on his tongue, and he gasped desperately around the warm fluid filling his mouth from the wound. His face was a mess of tears and blood—he had also hit his nose, it seemed—and he could hear nothing but ringing and his own gasps for air.
He felt a tightness in his hair, and his face was lifted from the grass and dirt.
"Well, sir," a guard said, his voice gravely serious. "I would say he somehow managed to hit every single branch on his way down from the ugly tree."
Chill was confused for a moment—he was positive that he had not hit any branches during his fall—until he registered the barks of laughter and realized that it was a joke.
He was released and could not find the strength to hold himself up. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, numb pain ailing just about every muscle in his body. He focused on refilling his empty lungs and staving off the sudden migraine that was turning his stomach.
"I got it! I got the ball, sir!" Rungo's shout was nearly a distant echo. Chill imagined him triumphantly holding out the asset, pride shining on his face for all to see, while Chill was a sniveling, bloody mess in the dirt.
He tried not to be bitter about it.
"Drop it!" the Warden shouted up at him.
Rungo did as told. Chill curled his body protectively, mortified at the thought of being struck by the very prize he had sought out, until he heard the smack of the ball landing in the Warden's palm. Chill heard his contemplative hum as he inspected the ball. He imagined the pleased grin that no doubt sprouted on the Warden's face.
"It seems our radar was accurate, after all." He tossed the ball to one of the guards, who packed it away. "One down. Three to go."
Chill heard the shift in the grass as the Warden faced the tree once more. He tilted his head up, and regarded Rungo, who was in the middle of his cautious descent.
"You," the Warden said to the guard next to him, "help him down, would you?"
The guard unholstered his gun.
Chill heard a lot of things within the next few seconds. First, he heard the wild, desperate scrambling of claws fighting for survival against tree bark. Then, a single bullet firing from a gun. After that, he heard the bang of the bullet cutting through an already brittle branch. Then he heard a wretched sob, followed by the whoosh of a body that was not his own falling through the air. Then he heard the impact, and the sound of it was massively different than his was. This impact was not a thud, but a resounding crack. Then he heard a gurgle and the twitch of a paralyzed body desperately trying to make any motion at all.
All those sounds ended with a final gunshot, and aside from the disturbed birds flying from their once peaceful perches, it was silent.
Or perhaps not completely silent. Chill thought he could hear the very oozing of Rungo's blood seeping from the bullet wound on his forehead, but he suspected that might just be all in his imagination.
"Chill."
He snapped his face up. He felt the weight of the Warden's stare on him. He was not smiling.
"Would you like one as well?"
Chill stood so fast that his head spun anew, but he dutifully fought against it as he dashed back to where he presumed his place in line had been. The chains were cold and heavy around his ankles once more.
"Well," the Warden said with a clap of his hands, his voice light, "shall we proceed to the next location?"
A chorus of 'yes sirs' rang out in near unison from the guards. They moved as a unit once more, the empty ankle-cuffs dragging heavily across the grass. Chill wondered how he should feel. Should he hold onto his disappointment that he had not reached the ball first, or should he be grateful? Had he reached it first, would the Warden have really shot him out of the tree? Was Rungo just particularly fragile, or would Chill have met the same fate if he had landed even slightly different than the way he had?
His persistent headache was not appreciating any of these questions that he had no ways of answering.
Chill swiped at the mess of his face with his shirt. His nose continued to drip, and it seemed that his headache was unlikely to fade any time soon, as well. He focused on the sounds again. The rustling of leaves was still there, as was the pattering water, and the croaking, and the birds, and the growling. That sound was still there too, not as persistent in its call, but calling to him all the same.
He thought Rungo was rather fortunate, all things considered, to be laid to rest in place with such pretty noises.
TBC
I know from canon that Frieza's mind powers do not allow him to sense energy. However, as Chill is blind, I imagine he would need to develop all the skills he could to survive. Thus, he can sense energy.