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.

Every Eye Will See

Chapter Nine: The Forgotten

The Past:

Zarbon would like to think that as the emperor of the northern galaxy's right-hand man, he deserved far better than to be delivering news like some lowly messenger boy.

He knew better than to question Lord Frieza—when Frieza commanded something of you, you did it. He just did not see why he had to be the one to deliver this particular piece of news. Did his Lord expect the saiyans to become hostile? Zarbon supposed that would make sense; after all, he had seen on numerous occasion a parent's strength increase to alarmingly extreme heights when in defense of their children. Combine that with someone as prideful as Vegeta, and his bodyguard who would lick the very ground he walked on if he asked? Zarbon could see this going ugly very fast.

Zarbon's face was twisted, but he was not nervous as he stalked down the vacant hallway. He was not scared of Vegeta or his over-sized pet oaf. Still, he would rather not have to deal with the effort it would take to put down rabid monkeys today.

After a few more minutes of striding down hallways, he reached the medical ward. He waited as the medic outside typed in the passcode, and when the door slid open, he crossed the threshold with no hesitation in his step. The room smelled of antiseptic and was eerily clean, as he supposed all examination rooms were. He thought he saw a dark red speck on the tile out the corner of his eye, but his sight was focused on the figure standing short in front of him.

Vegeta must have noticed him enter, but he made no indication that he had. He continued with tugging a gold-tipped boot on to his right foot with no care at all for the superior officer standing behind him, though Vegeta never had been one to show proper respect to his betters.

Despite the way he was facing, Zarbon could see that his stomach was still swollen underneath the tight spandex.

The sight brings him back to the task at hand. "I am here to inform you that the thing is dead," he said evenly, though his muscles still tense without his consent. He was irritated at himself for reacting in such a way, though he supposed it was better to be cautious. One could never be too careful around savages, even royal ones.

Moments went by in silence. Zarbon's spine prickled with unwelcome nerves but whether it was Vegeta's intent to lull him into a false sense of security remained to be seen. The saiyan carried on as if he had not even heard him, tugging on his other boot, then each of his gloves.

It was as Vegeta was lifting his armor over his head that Zarbon felt anger bloom alongside the tension. He opened his lips, ready to snap and snarl but Vegeta abruptly cut him off.

"Was that all?" he asked, his voice bland. The tone caught Zarbon off-guard. He has heard Vegeta pretend to kiss ass with more sentiment than that.

"I—yes," he answered, and cursed himself twice over for his spluttering.

Vegeta said nothing else so Zarbon swiftly turned on his heel and marched from the room. He left so fast that he did not see the way his hands shake, did not see the way his nails dug deep into the skin of his palms, did not see the tears that beaded in his black eyes.

The Present:

When Vegeta woke from the sleep he did not remember falling into, he did not know where he was. He grasped at his memories, but they failed him as well. His head felt heavy as did his eyelids as he struggled to lift both. His ears were ringing, and his—

A UFO descending from the sky.

A distantly familiar man—Ziloh, warden of Division III.

Kakarot's anger, burning hot like the sun in his eyes.

The boy.

Vegeta's eyes flew open.

His chest suddenly clenched tightly, and his hand immediately flew to grasp at the spot. He gasped out raggedly, and it was only then that he realized he had not been breathing.

No.

Dirty, dark hair, swallowing a tiny head in a forest of spikes.

No.

Twin lines cutting down his cheeks like scars.

No.

Eyes redder than blood, piercing through him like his body was paper and the gaze a scorching knife.

No—

There was a hand on his chest, tightening around the fabric of his spandex. The hand was small, soft, and undeniably Bulma's.

Her touch was abruptly gone however, and replaced by larger, rougher hands on his shoulders, jostling him back and forth, practically knocking him off of whatever surface he was on—Kakarot.

He batted roughly at the hands on his shoulder and winced at the loud cry of 'ouch!' that shot through his ears like a bullet. He groaned as he focused his vision and found himself peering up at both Bulma and Kakarot's pale faces shadowed by the light shining from the ceiling. Then, another face appeared, little and tan and unashamedly worried.

"Dad!" Trunks cried, lunging forward. Tiny hands fisted on his abdomen, two wide, blue eyes pushing so far into his face that they nearly melded into one.

"Give him some space, kiddo," Yamcha said (and oh how wonderful was it that he was here too. Were the Namekian and short, bald one here as well? Certainly, no party could be complete without them) and Trunks obeyed. The boy sat back on his heels, though the child-like anxiousness did not leave his face.

"Here, sweetie," Bulma said, lifting Vegeta's head with one hand and offering a clear glass with the other. He nudged her touch away and sat himself up, snatching the offering from her. He downed the water in one gulp, and it sat like a log in his throat.

"I fainted," he said, and whether that was to them or to himself he was unsure.

Kakarot nodded. "Yeah, you blacked out after all that smoke hit you. I Instant Transmissioned us back here. You've only been out for a few minutes, though."

He groaned and slumped his body against the cushions. He rolled his head back until he faced the ceiling and closed his eyes tightly.

"Vegeta..." Bulma trailed off, her curiosity and concern dripping from her tone. He ignored her.

"Vegeta," this time it was Kakarot, "did it... did it have something to do with that little boy?"

Vegeta shot up, rounding on him so suddenly that the fool actually flinched. "What?"

"Well, I mean, you saw his eyes, didn't you? I thought you passed out because he had some weird powers or something. It would make sense why he was blindfolded. That's why you passed out, right?" Kakarot suddenly leaned in a calculating look in his eyes. "Or... did you know him, maybe?"

Did he know him? No, Vegeta did not. He did not know a single thing about that boy. He did not know that boy who was tiny like his half-human son. He did not know that boy with the underfed and uncared for body. He did not know that boy who was horrified of touch like a beaten dog, who did not even bother to wipe the dirt from his face after he was thrown into it. He did not know that boy who already had one foot in the grave and was just waiting for an invitation to jump in altogether.

He may have known that hair, though, it tickled at his memory. Those thick spikes the color of ink just as his were, that held strong despite never knowing the expensive shampoo that Bulma insisted he used or even so much as a hairbrush, patterned intricately in a way that reminded him vaguely of the already vague memory of his mother, if it had been just a tad longer in length. He might know those lines on his face and that bare, broken tail that hung limp behind his feet. He may have even known that scent too: dull and muted, barely grazing the edge of his senses, but familiar.

Those eyes. He knew those eyes.

He is dead, he thought desperately. They told me he was dead.

And you believed them.

Out the corner of his vision, he saw Bulma and Yamcha share a glance. Then, minute nodding.

"Hey, kiddo," Yamcha said, smiling down at Vegeta's son. "The parts for the drone came in the mail this morning. We should probably start building it now if we want to get it done by this evening."

Trunks whipped over to him, uncertainty in his eyes. "But..."

Yamcha laid a hand on the top of his head. "Look, kiddo, there's no need to worry about your dad. He's A-okay, see?" He theatrically jerked Trunks' head around to face Vegeta, eliciting a small giggle.

"There, now why don't we hurry on out and get to building? I hope you're ready to explain it all to me—I don't know my ass from my elbow when it comes to all this technical stuff."

That earned another laugh. Trunks stood at Yamcha's prompt, falling in step beside him. He paused at the archway though, peering back at them with that same concern again. His eyes met Vegeta's.

"Feel better, Dad."

Vegeta furrowed his brow and felt very annoyed but nodded all the same. Trunks dashed off then, Yamcha shooting them his own look before following after him.

Vegeta turned his eyes back up to the ceiling, refusing to shy away from the bright glow of the light ahead. It couldn't be, he thought. It just couldn't be. That thing had died. That was the most logical conclusion. Why would they have kept him alive? Why would they have bothered to lie about it?

Perhaps they did not want to incur the wrath of a saiyan whose child could still be saved, a voice that sounded disgustingly hopeful whispered to him. If it were any other time, that thought would have filled him with smug pride over the kind of fear he could inspire. Now, all it made him feel was... really, he could not say what he felt. In any case, it still did not answer why they would have left him alive at all.

Vegeta did not know what to think, to feel, to believe. His thoughts were so jumbled, like gnats stuck in a jar. He needed more time. He needed time to think, to properly determine just what exactly was going on.

He glanced at Bulma and Kakarot, averting his gaze once he registered their open expressions of concern and curiosity, and he realized he had no such luxury.

"He might be my son," he said finally, straight to the point with a voice carefully blank. Despite his tone, his heart pounded the moment the words left his lips. A bolt of electricity soared through his veins, and he had to clench his hands to keep them from shaking.

He could deny it in his thoughts, but the moment the words came out, he knew it was true.

A beat of silence. Then:

"What?!" the two shouted as one, both jumping well within his personal space, as if the extra inches would improve their hearing.

He sneered at them before turning his face disdainfully to the side. "It is a possibility."

"B-But..." Kakarot stuttered, "but how?"

Vegeta clenched his jaw and wondered how he should answer such a question.

Before he could decide, he heard the loud whoosh of air banging and compressing around charged energy. Hardly a moment later, he heard the crash of the front door being forced open, then the desperate pounding of feet against the hard, tile floors. Finally, the intruders rounded the archway of the sitting room, gasping frantically down at them.

"Piccolo and Dende?" Kakarot exclaimed. Vegeta trailed his eyes over to his wife, expecting an agitated cry of something along the lines of 'did you just break into my house?' or 'you could have knocked!' but he found her eyes were just watching them with a very vague expression, almost as if her mind was trying to split between two places at once.

He has never seen a look like that on her face before.

"Goku," Piccolo said, gruffly. "Good, you're here too."

"Er, what's up?"

Dende, stumbling out from behind Piccolo's cloak, shouted: "The dragon balls are gone!"

A beat of silence.

"Kakarot," Vegeta said slowly. The man in question cowered under his piercing glare. "You let them get away?"

"I was worried about you!" he defended. "You just fainted out of nowhere. I thought something was wrong with you! After I caught you and made sure you were still breathing the ship was already gone, and I didn't want to leave you!"

Vegeta held back a growl, irritation spiking through his veins. He basked in the familiarity of it. "The balls are on their way to Tene'mareen, I presume?"

"They are!" came a shrill voice, echoing about the room as if it were coming from every direction.

Kakarot tipped his head up to the ceiling. "King Kai?"

Vegeta did growl then, still annoyed by the ringing in his ears. "You're tracking them, then?"

"I am, and you need to go get those balls back right away!" he shouted again, though quietly mumbling apologies as the Namekians groaned from the volume.

"I take it you already know the thieves then?" Piccolo questioned once he stopped rubbing his ears.

He allowed Kakarot to explain the events of the last few hours. Once the man was finished, he admitted, "I don't understand. Why did they steal them? If they needed them so badly why didn't they just ask?"

Vegeta was instantly reminded of how much of an idiot the other man was, and yet somehow felt an odd sense of comfort at the familiar behavior.

"Because they intend to keep them, Kakarot," Vegeta told him. "Despite your fanciful delusions, in the real world no one would assume they have any sort of right to use any object that does not belong to them or their people—especially something as powerful as the dragon balls—just because they asked nicely. Surely you're not that naive."

Kakarot pouted at him, confirming that he was in fact, that naive.

To King Kai, Kakarot said, "In any case, I'll get them back." He clenched his fists. "I knew there was something wrong with them from the start. I can't believe I let this happen right under my nose!"

Vegeta wondered if he meant that to be accusatory. He would not delude himself into thinking that Kakarot did not blame him for this mess. Perhaps not so much for fainting (he was too soft for that) but Kakarot had made his displeasure at Vegeta's method of dealing with the Tenas quite clear.

Vegeta was not sure if he regretted his choices then or not. He wanted those people away from his home and antagonizing them over their cultural differences was not the way to do that. Still though, he would have to agree with Kakarot—it was ridiculous how flawlessly they had stolen their most prized possessions.

And they paraded another one right under your nose, didn't they? Had him dancing right in your face and you didn't even know it.

He shook his head hard to chase the voice away, to chase the image of the boy away.

Bulma caught his eye as he did so, her blank, pensive look both odd and eerie. If she had something to say, though, her chance was stolen by a deep groan. Dende's teeth grit around the noise he made, his sharp claws digging fruitlessly into his temples.

"What's wrong with you, Dende?" Kakarot asked.

"Th-the dragon balls," he replied, his eyes shutting against his pain. "Their energy reacts violently the farther they get from the planet. That is how I knew they were gone in the first place."

"Reacting?" Vegeta perked up in question. "What are you talking about?"

"I—when dragon balls are created, their spiritual energies are tied to two things: me, and the planet they reside in," he began raggedly, as if every word was forcibly dragged from his core. "That is why once they are used, they spread out across the far corners of the Earth, and not the entire universe. If the balls leave this atmosphere, their energy becomes unbalanced, uncontrolled."

He slumped back against the chair cushions. It was unbefitting of a Guardian, and Vegeta remembered idly that he was Gohan's age—very much still a boy.

Vegeta was in the middle of a spontaneous and unwelcome fantasy of Gohan as a guardian (a thought he shuddered at) when Dende finished with, "Only one ball gone would perhaps not cause me so much worry, but all of them? The possibilities are endless and all of them are catastrophic."

Vegeta's frown deepened. He thought back on a memory then, when Kakarot had transmitted them to the world of the Kai back during the mess with Buu, and the old Kai had initially ixnayed their plan to resurrect the earthlings with the Namekian dragon balls.

"Those balls are strictly for the edification of a very advanced and peaceful race! They aren't meant to be used anywhere except on their own planet. Using those balls elsewhere could upset the natural evolutionary process of the universe!"

He had thought it had simply been the stubbornness of a paranoid, old pervert—especially with how easily the Kai had given in after Kakarot made promises he had no business making—though perhaps there had been some credibility to his words after all.

"Catastrophic how?"

Dende met Vegeta's eyes. "Catastrophic as in—if they manage to activate the balls on their planet, the spiritual tension could destroy both of our worlds."

"What!" Bulma shrieked, seeming all the more like herself for it. "You can't be serious!"

"Dende, are you absolutely sure about this?" Kakarot asked, leaning forward so much he was practically in the Guardian's lap.

"Y-Yes," he answered leaning away, flustered.

Piccolo dropped his hand to Kakarot's shoulder, forcing him back. "How long do we have, King Kai?"

"Well," he began, and oh how Vegeta hated his voice, "at this pace I'd say roughly a year. If they manage to activate them, however, the amount of time either planet has is indefinite. It could be hours. It could be minutes. It could be instantaneous."

"Oh man..." Kakarot trailed off.

"Well, the good news is that I think Earth would last a bit longer, should the situation ever arise."

"Oh, so we'll have an extra thirty seconds to contemplate our demise," Bulma cheered sarcastically. "That's so helpful."

The Kai was effectively cowed.

"Well, what if we get them back?" Kakarot spoke up. "That would make everything go back to normal, right?"

Dende peered up at him and gave an exhausted nod.

Kakarot stood. "Well, let's do it then."

Once properly on his feet, he pointed two of his fingers and brought them to his forehead. Piccolo stepped closer with his hand raised to grab onto him, until he peered back at the Dende. The little guardian moaned with his head buried in his knees, and Piccolo, it seemed, decided to stay.

Vegeta thought for a second, a long second, before standing and dropping his hand to Kakarot's shoulder. His heart began to pound in his chest, the thump of it resounding in his ears. He could feel the thrum all the way down to his fingertips, and he wondered if Kakarot could feel the burn of them through his Gi.

Several moments passed, yet they still stood in the living room.

"Kakarot," Vegeta said, trying to catch his eyes. Kakarot, to his credit, hardly seemed to notice that he was there, his brows furrowed in intense concentration.

Then, finally—"Dammit!"

Everyone jumped. Vegeta did not even have a chance to berate himself for the reaction, still to shocked to hear the curse spat from Kakarot's lips with such vehemence.

Kakarot was seething, his wide, black eyes shining with loathing down at the carpet as if the bundles of faux fur had killed his mother. The muscles in his arms bulged as his free fist clenched, the effort so immense that one of his knuckles were bone white. The fingers on his forehead were pressed so hard Vegeta would not be surprised if two little bruises were not already forming. His jaw was also clenched, and Vegeta wondered idly how much longer he could keep the force up before he shattered all of his teeth.

"What the hell, Kakarot?" Vegeta snarled.

"I don't know their Ki signatures. I can't—dammit." His hands moved to fist at his hair. "I can't find them!"

It was quiet. For long, long moments, it was quiet.

Vegeta took in every face, and all of them were the same. Even Dende, worn-down as he was, stared at Kakarot with wide eyes, his jaw dropped as close to the floor as it could get. Kakarot's anger flowed from his body in waves as every second passed, burning through the room like an enclosed furnace, and still no one said a thing; their shock a vice around their throats.

Vegeta had had enough.

"Sit down, clown," he said with a rough push to his chest. Despite his fury, Kakarot went without a fight, his body toppling like a house of cards against the couch cushions. His eyes were still burning holes into the carpet.

Vegeta crossed his arms. "Now calm down. You're no use to anyone like this."

And just like that he deflated, a cool river of calmness washing away the fury from his body. He unclenched his hair—several strands caught between his fingers—and dropped his arms down between his knees like a chastised child. Traces of guilt swam through his eyes.

"You—you're right I... I'm sorry."

If possible, the other's jaws dropped even further. Vegeta bared his teeth at the apology. "Save it. Now, explain."

Kakarot released a rough breath. "I can't find them. I don't... I don't remember their Ki signatures."

"What do you mean you don't remember? How can you just forget?" Piccolo growled, though his words were etched in hesitance.

"I worded that wrong." He tipped his head back, staring blank-faced up at the ceiling. "I never really knew them—especially not individually. I don't bother memorizing the Ki of every person I meet—that would be way too many. I just wanted them to leave; I didn't think about whether or not I'd have to track them down."

"Oh this... this is bad..." King Kai said from the heavens. Just as before, the temperature of the room fluctuated, though now it was under the crushing weight of disappointment and dwindling hope.

Vegeta was quite thoroughly done with these people.

"Just how many pity parties can you people stand to throw in one day? In case you've all forgotten, there is a perfectly functional ship sitting right in the fucking yard. Honestly, your dependency on that damned technique is sickening." He turned his nose up at them as if to prove just that.

Dende blinked at him before breaking out into a wide smile. "You're right! We won't be getting the dragon balls back as soon as I would like, but we still have a chance nonetheless!"

Vegeta huffed. Piccolo narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, great plan, Vegeta." His voice was gruff with suspicion. "Though I can't imagine why you want to go. From what I've heard, the most these guys have to offer are guns and whips. Not exactly what you would consider a challenge."

Vegeta froze, if only for a moment (long enough for his heart to begin it's pounding once more), before snarling up at him. He turned his gaze away sharply and was nearly shocked when it was Kakarot's eyes that met his own.

Kakarot's mouth stayed close, his voice betraying nothing, but Vegeta could hear his question loud and clear, shining through his eyes as if the very words were printed across his irises.

Can I tell them for you? What can I tell them?

Vegeta huffed through his nose and turned away from him as well, his eyes trailing towards the windows. Outside, he could see Yamcha and Trunks digging their hands around inside a large cardboard box.

Whatever, he thought, despite the blood that roared through his veins.

Kakarot nodded seemingly to himself before looking up at Piccolo. "Vegeta wants to go because there is a little boy there that he thinks might be his son."

And just like that it was out, annoyingly blunt, and yet natural, as if Kakarot made discoveries like this every day. Still though, his words did nothing to remedy the pounding in Vegeta's chest—in fact, they only made it worse, the thump growing so vast it actually brought him pain. But why? Why was his body trembling with every beat? Was it fear? But what did he possibly have to be afraid of? Why was this effecting him this way?

Why did he wish he could be anywhere but here?

That thought brought him to a pause, and it was now outrage that coursed through him.

Why am I acting like this? This is not me. Stop acting like this!

He turned back to them, challenge burning in his eyes. He took in their wide eyes and dropped jaws and set them aflame with his gaze. He dared them to speak. He dared them to bring light to the questions and accusations resting on their tongues, but his stony visage held no cracks—whether any words would manage to break through remained a mystery.

This situation was not optimal, he acknowledged. He wanted to leave, to collect his thoughts in the comfort of solitude. He wanted to run through everything that happened to him that day, from start to present, to properly understand just where everything went wrong, and what he needed to do to fix it all. He could not do it here, and he hated to wait.

"O-oh," Dende began awkwardly, blushing and looking away when Vegeta's gaze landed on him. "That is... unexpected..."

"And you did not know this, King Kai?" Piccolo asked judgmentally, any shock erased from his face as if had never been there.

"I... It's impossible for me to keep track of every being in the North quadrant, you know..." he said, though his words are hesitant, as if he were unsure himself.

He knew, Vegeta realized. Perhaps not the entire story, but any holes in the plot had undoubtedly just been filled. Vegeta wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Dende opened his mouth—what he possibly had to say Vegeta was unsure—but his voice was cut off by a louder, feminine, "Who?"

Vegeta whipped around towards his wife. He took in the clasped hands in her lap and the downward tilt of her head, and he was struck with the sudden thought that in all of the time that he has known her, this was the longest he has ever witnessed her quiet.

"Who what?"

It seemed that she was done with her silence. The bright tresses of her hair bobbed as she snapped her head up, determined ire captivating her face. Her unsaid words practically fell from her lips before she even had a chance to open them, and he already knew that whatever her question would be, he would not want to answer it.

"Who is his mother?"

TBC

I may have simply taken the quote from the Elder Kai out of context and thus may have possibly made up the stuff about the dragon balls. The concept didn't seem too farfetched to me, though.