He sets the shower to the coldest setting available, seeking reprieve for his aching muscles after a long day of training. Shutting his eyelids, he stands directly under the spray without so much as a flinch, allowing the cool water to patter against his bruised skin.
It was during moments like these he wished he was lightyears away from this planet.
Showers are not his personal preference. He favors fully submersing himself in a bathtub—the closest thing to a healing pod on Earth. While he never felt safe inside one, as it left one too vulnerable to unexpected attacks, it had always been the ideal place to meditate and reflect on his mishaps. Not that he wanted another rehash of his biggest screw-ups tonight, not when another training session failed to yield the results he wanted.
Something he hated about Earth: too much time to think and dwell without the benefit of healing chambers or artificial stasis. There seemed to be no end to the amount of free time on this rock or the leisure it afforded. He doesn't like the effect it's having on him, so he opts to fill his days with nonstop training in the hopes of shutting down the cacophony of thoughts rattling his brain.
That was all it was these days. Re-remembering pointless things of no significance.
His receptors are relentlessly conveying useless information for sensations long past, bringing attention to old wounds that scarred over while he was blissfully unconscious. It all wouldn't be a problem were it not for the many different emotions it stirred in his psyche.
Sometimes he wakes grasping at those scars in acute agony—scattered reminders all over his body to never let up his defenses. The worst of the bunch is the mark left by Frieza's killing blow.
He still feels the simmering pain lancing through his chest, the vivid sensation of his heart stuttering to a full halt in spite of his stubborn will to outlive his master. The humiliation of defeat and dismissal. The loss. The regret.
It was enough to fuel his rage for an eternity. For so long, he imagined this internalized rage would be enough to destroy his enemies, that the years of carefully tucking it away and enduring it all would lead to something substantial. If he had known better things would be different.
If only he had pushed himself more.
If only he had become immortal.
If. If. If.
Or perhaps nothing would be different, whether he was immortal or not.
He recalls Bulma laughing at the idea over beer one late night after much coaxing on her part to drag him out of the GR.
"Still can't believe you were going to wish for immortality. Thought you were smarter than that."
"Tch."
How quickly she went from cowering in Namek to growing overly comfortable with him. It's his fault, he supposes, for underestimating her tenacity and her persistent efforts to befriend him at every turn.
"Relax." She bumps his shoulder, beaming good-naturedly. "I'm not laughing at you. I just don't get your reasoning."
His shoulder tingles with her casual touch, the effect lingering as if his skin had a memory of its own. Suddenly, he recalls why he hates drinking.
"I wasn't certain what it would actually take to kill Frieza, much less if the legendary transformation was feasible. I needed time."
"I'm surprised you'd be willing to stick around for the heat death of the universe just to unalive someone else. Talk about driven." She quirks a brow at him. "I mean, what if you never killed the guy? What if you took him out sooner? You wouldn't have much left to do for all time."
Truthfully, he hadn't considered the particulars of obtaining immortality beyond defeating the tyrant. To him, any inconvenience that came with it was a small price to pay for pulverizing the blight that ruined his life. He had to become the indestructible monstrosity Frieza was or worse to stand a chance—and if he made up for lost time in the process, so be it. He was owed a million lifetimes even if the emperor never died by his hand.
Immortality had always been hypothetical until he learned of the dragon balls. Before, it was nothing but wishful thinking amongst Frieza's sycophantic ranks who hoped to be chosen to join an immortal legion alongside their lord—a cruel joke by the higher ups to boost morale and loyalty among the cannon fodder who were entertaining notions of desertion or rebellion. Some delusion was needed to accept that the average lifespan of a foot soldier in the PTO averaged that of a fruit fly. Even the rumored Super Saiyan transformation had been seen as a whimsical fantasy by his subordinates, only really taken seriously by Frieza and (secretly) himself—otherwise, why had his father sacrificed everything to ensure his survival if it didn't hold a modicum of truth?
Not that the coward's actions did any good. The tyrant was extinguished by a lavender-haired hybrid—not at the hands of royalty, nor even a full-blooded saiyan.
He shrugs, tipping back his head to sip from his third beer. After a time, he leans back against the tree. He trains his eyes on the night sky, his view of the stars encumbered by the light pollution in the city.
"It wouldn't matter if I eventually died," he finally says, drawing her gaze. "I'd simply do what saiyans were bred to do for centuries. Take over galaxies. Form an empire of my own. Uphold the saiyan legacy."
It was what had always been expected of him. Rule and conquer. Kill or be killed.
"Puh-leaze." She grins, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol. "You, an emperor? A literal carbon copy of Frieza? Sounds like a nightmare come to life. You're telling me you want to do boring, administrative work for all eternity? It's not like you."
Humans frame everything in terms of desire or some ill-conceived sense of free will. He didn't want to be a glorified slave. Didn't want to have the fate of his people thrust upon him. Didn't want to be dispossessed of everything he'd ever had or known. Who has time for desire when it hardly made a difference? There was only ambition, survival, and vengeance.
"Boring? That's hardly a metric to describe that level of achievement."
"Almost nothing's worse than being bored. You basically said as much when you were goading me to upgrade the GR."
"I wouldn't expect someone of your station to understand the drive for power."
"Well, if it's so great, why did Frieza and his daddy end up chopped up on my backwater planet, huh, tough guy?"
He snorted inexplicably at that. When she framed it that way he supposed it was pathetic and humorous in a way. None of them had expected Earth or its inhabitants to be such a formidable force against the most powerful beings in the universe.
She crumbled her empty can of beer, looking down at her hands contemplatively. "You know…respectfully, I'm glad your plan went to shit so you could find a purpose that has nothing to do with that awful Frieza. He already took enough of your time as it is. Plus…you met me and now we're out here sharing a drink. Might not seem like much, but that has to mean something."
His eyes flitted to her upturned lip, skeptical once more of her misplaced idealism.
"This is all purely coincidental. You know that," he says soberingly, more to himself than anything. "If you had any self preservation at all, you'd be drafting something in that lab to destroy me."
"Why would I do that?"
"You should." He crosses his arms, catching her crestfallen expression. "For your own good."
"Pfft," she scoffed, puffing her chest. "Give it up, will you? All this morose talk, but you still won't admit we're friends."
"Is that what we are, Earthling?"
"Yes," she replied with conviction. "It's not up for debate anymore. So suck it up."
"You know nothing about me or my purpose."
"Yes, I do Mr. Prince of All Saiyans." She jabs a finger on his chest and smirks. "You're a passionate, determined guy. You work hard and you like being challenged. You hate cutting corners or taking shortcuts. You would never want something that came easily to you. That's why you didn't just wish to be turned into a super saiyan. I respect that." She crosses her arms, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Though I don't fully get the whole power hungry bit. Being top dog is a serious pain in the ass. You're always too busy looking over your shoulder to actually enjoy any of it."
"It doesn't matter."
"What, is that like your personal mantra? Of course it matters. This is literally your life. You'd just throw it away to prove something?"
"My status as a prince marked me from the moment of conception. You're simply strong or you perish. There's no in between." Raditz and Nappa understood that and had served him to the bitter end. He did as well from the moment he lost everything to Frieza.
"Sounds exhausting and lonely," she comments, "having to be strong all the time. I don't think you've ever really done a single thing you truly wanted."
He turns to meet her cyanic gaze and it's a mistake. The warmth there. The unconditional regard. That kindness. Where he expects biting sarcasm or disdain, there is none. It's vexing, making him feel exposed.
"You don't think I'm boring," he pivots, saying the first thing that comes to mind—anything to get her to stop looking at him like that.
"Not at all." Her face is resplendent under the moon, heightened by her sincere smile.
Sometime during this reverie, his hand settled over his hardening cock. In spite of the freezing water, his body is blisteringly hot, his length already at full mast. When? How had that happened? Why again?
He doesn't dwell on that train of thought, fearing the answers. With a shaky breath, he leans his forehead against the tiled wall and sets to work on what was now a perfected technique and routine.
As he strokes himself, his mind wanders to a recurring memory of the Earth woman. It doesn't surprise him, that he'd be thinking about her at a time like this. After all, she is the source of this confusion, this shame, this disruption.
He has much material to work with. She's incredibly indecent—utterly immodest and salacious—displaying her alluring body without the knowledge of how it affected him. But more than that, it's her ferocity and grit. He gasps, tugging his cock tighter, one particular instance standing out in his mind.
3:45 AM
She's typing away furiously at her keyboard. Her office smells of stale coffee, three empty mugs sitting haphazardly on her desk, forgotten.
The room is lit up by her bright computer screen, which is filled with complex equations and algorithms. Her lab coat lays abandoned on the ground, probably thrown there in frustration at the heat. Her curly blue hair is pinned up, exposing her neck, the thin spaghetti straps of her black crop top sliding down her pale shoulders.
It shouldn't be this enthralling seeing her like this. After all, he was accustomed to lab techs meekly sitting at a monitor logging information. Yet, she's like none of them. With the way she approaches her work, one would think she were plotting to take over the universe.
He doesn't realize how fixated he is on her frame, watching her in her chaotic element, that he startles when she stands abruptly.
He stills when her eyes settle on him, spotting his intrusion.
"What do you want?"
There's a frenzied look on her face—voracious and hungry. The shock of it sends shivers down his spine, making him reconsider if she isn't dangerous after all.
"I almost had it."
"What?"
"Time travel."
She spins on her heel, marching right up to him. "How could someone else figure it out before me? ME? How do they even exist?" She clutches his shirt in her hand, pulling with surprising force for someone who wasn't a warrior. "I won't stand for it."
"What does it matter?" he manages, intrigued. "Why deprive yourself of sleep like this?"
"Because I'm the best at what I do." She releases her hold on his shirt, her stare dark and menacing. "I'm not about to be outdone by that asshole Gero. You and Goku have your fists, but THIS is MINE."
He holds her gaze, entranced.
"You can't tell me you haven't felt it." She leans close, whispering, "Ever been so close to victory you could taste it?"
Maybe it was the mad scientist talking or the odd hour, but something about how she stands there—hair disheveled, eyes wild and magnetic, breasts unbound underneath her thin shirt—makes him feel parched.
Gorgeous. It was his first thought when he saw her and it was an apt description. With hair and eyes the color of a nebula cluster, the birthplace of stars.
"I have." His throat feels tight.
"Then you understand why I can't stop—why I won't."
It always baffles him when he finds himself complying to her whims—this petite, mouthy, vulgar human. It defies all reason.
In an alternate scenario, one where he stood to lose nothing, he wouldn't have made some cowardly excuse about needing to train. Instead, he would have said, "more than you can imagine," before crushing his mouth to hers.
Or perhaps when she sat back in her chair, he would have traced those exposed shoulders and the whole column of her slender neck with his mouth until she sighed his name.
He lets out a strangled moan, pumping his dick with more gusto, mouth gaping in pleasure.
And it's all he needs to find sweet release, cracking one of the shower tiles with his hand, shouting her name to completion. Breathing raggedly, he stands straighter.
This is becoming a problem.
