A stabbing pain in his chest stirred Vegeta from unconsciousness. With every breath, he felt agony's grip and release, and he soon understood that he had broken at least several ribs. Although no longer under intensified gravity, pressure weighed down on him from above. The weight came from a layer of rubble spread out on top of him, he realized. His mouth tasted of blood and dust, and he could not open his eyes without them burning.
A distressed voice called out to him. "Vegeta! What did you do to yourself? Please don't be—" a sob replaced the last word.
Vegeta heard the shifting of rubble above him. Fighting against his nearly debilitating pain, he began to force himself out from under the debris. He felt as if someone had wrestled him back into the grave on Namek, yet when he arose this time, he sensed his life vanishing away rather than returning to him. The whole ordeal seemed a backwards repetition of his resurrection.
Bulma gasped. "Oh my God! You're hurt! Are you okay?"
It was that woman again. She had taken hold of his arm in attempt to help him rise. "Of course I am! I'm a Saiyan. Pain is—nothing to me. Let go!" The moment he tried to straighten his posture, he flinched, and he folded in on himself, gripping his side with a tormented whimper. Hot blood poured over his hand, flowing rhythmically in tandem with his labored heartbeat. His aching legs could not balance his hunched frame, and he collapsed. Still clutching his side, he had not broken his fall with his arms. He cried out pitifully when his back collided with the cluttered ground, bits of rubble jabbing into his fractured ribs.
Climbing over the ruins, Bulma rushed to Vegeta's aid. "Are you crazy? You could've destroyed my house!" Her tone wavered between fury and despair. "What did you think you were doing? Why, Vegeta?" She wedged one hand behind his neck, and she propped him up in her arms. Lifting her free hand to his face, she began lightly wiping away the blood from his left eye.
"I don't need your help!" he rasped wrathfully. A violent wheeze followed his words, and dark blood sprayed from his mouth. "I am not broken. This will not break me. I will surpass Kakarot! Let go of me!" He jerked his face away from her hand, and again he tried to rise.
"Vegeta, stop! Please!"
Although the injured Saiyan managed to stand, he tripped over himself once he put weight on his mangled knee. He winced, and he panted heavily as lightheadedness washed over him. His vision blurred, and he did not know if he could remain conscious. He had lost the will to pick himself up off the ground once more.
"Yamcha!" he heard Bulma cry. "Don't just stand there—help me!"
"Is he out?" Yamcha asked.
"I don't know." She turned the Saiyan over onto his back. When she saw the large, bloody shard of glass protruding from his abdomen, she shrieked involuntarily. "We need to get him out of here—now!"
"What do you expect me to do about it?" Yamcha cried, exasperated.
"I can't carry him by myself, you idiot!"
"Goddammit, Bulma! Just move." Vegeta felt someone reach under his arms, preparing to hoist him up. His limp neck fell backwards, and his head rested on Yamcha's chest. "Stop crying, Bulma. You're going to need to hold onto his legs unless you want me to drag them. We headed to the infirmary?"
"Yeah," Bulma whimpered as she wrapped her arms around Vegeta's knees. When her forearm rubbed against the raw, exposed flesh of his injured leg, the Saiyan moaned miserably.
Yamcha sighed. "If he wanted to kill himself anyway, why couldn't he have just stayed dead?"
"Yamcha! That is not funny!" Bulma snapped indignantly. "I think he's still conscious."
"I'm sorry," he replied sincerely. "I don't know if you can hear me, Vegeta, but—sorry. You're still crazy, but, man, that looks like it hurts." A moment passed. "In all seriousness, though, do you think he did this on purpose?"
"I don't know."
Yamcha brightened his tone and said, "Come on, Bulma. He'll get through this. I've seen Goku worse off, and he pulled through just fine. It looks bad, but I don't think there's anything a doctor can't fix. You're the scientist—can't you tell?"
"Except for maybe his brain," Bulma added bittersweetly. "Hear that, Vegeta? You're crazy. If you make it, I swear I'm going to kill you."
"You got the door?" Yamcha asked.
"I think so."
"It's down the hall and to the right, right?"
"Yeah." A few more moments passed.
"Your mom is going to flip if she sees the blood on the floor—seriously."
"She doesn't hang around here, usually. It'll be okay. Hold on—I've got the door."
"Okay," Yamcha said, "Let's just set him down gently on the floor, and I'll go get the nurse. You stay here and watch him, all right? Once I'm sure the nurse is on her way, I'm gonna go tell your dad what all the noise was."
"Yeah," Bulma replied weakly. Vegeta felt the chill of a tiled floor against his bare skin. Before Yamcha released his hold on his shoulders, Vegeta felt Bulma's small hands cradle his head, and she lent her lap as a support.
"Don't you ever say I never loved you, Bulma!" Yamcha said.
Bulma sniffed. Apparently, her tears had returned. "Thanks for everything, Yamcha—really. You didn't have to do this. I don't even what to think what would've happened without you."
"Sometimes, you just gotta do things. This was one of those times. I'll tell you what, though—you definitely owe me some new weighted clothes. These are totally ruined. I'll hold you to it."
"You bet. Technically, Vegeta owes you, but who are we kidding?" Vegeta felt the woman stroke his cheek. "Don't be a stranger, okay, Yamcha? You're always welcome here for dinner and stuff. Thanks again."
"No problem." His footsteps echoed from the adjacent hallway.
Bulma's soft fingertips resumed their repetitive course across across Vegeta's face. "Your skin is really... cold," she said quietly. "I know you can hear me, Vegeta. Don't worry. The doctor's coming. You're going to be okay. You'd better be okay, anyway."
The Saiyan coughed weakly, and a tiny trail of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He kept his eyes tightly sealed, but he could feel the woman's gaze fixed upon him.
"You're such an asshole. You read my note, didn't you? And then you went and blew the ship up. You didn't listen to a word I said. Why did I even bother? I don't know what you're going through, what you went through, or what you've done, but this was not the answer. I think you're alive for a reason, and I think your life matters. Would you throw it away like this? I don't think Goku spared you for nothing. I don't think your coming back was just a mistake. There's got to be more to it than coincidence. Call it providence, faith, or something. It's not just about you, Vegeta. There are other people in this world. You might not believe it, but there are people that care about you, too. You're not the only person in the universe. You're not alone, and you don't have to be. I wonder if you're even listening. Vegeta?"
"Sh—shut up, woman," he whispered between shallow breaths.
"Prick. I'd slap your sorry face if you weren't bleeding to death. I'm drenched in your blood and all you can say to me is 'shut up.' You have no idea how much this outfit cost. Fucking selfish-ass Saiyan. Hey! Don't you black out on me!" She tapped his cheek lightly.
Vegeta's face twitched in response.
"Okay, good." Her touch felt warm against the cold sweat collecting on his skin. "Just a minute or two more. Just be glad that we've got the 'Super Secret Saiyan Hospital' on our campus. It's not like we could just take you or Goku to a 'normal' hospital. One look at the base of your spine and they'd go nuts." She rested her hand on his forehead. "It's going to be okay," she repeated.
The phrase sounded so idiotic to him; he didn't know why she thought it so important to say over and over again. At least the sound of her whiny, emotion-besotted voice distracted him from the chill settling in his bones and the crushing pain in his chest. Perhaps distraction was the point; that made sense, at least. The woman's tones infiltrated his conscious mind, forcing pain away from its focus. Instead of his own broken body, his mind occupied Bulma's tranquilizing words. He had left himself and become something wholly different, and he was at peace.
This fact did not surprise him. It did not affect him at all, for he faded between consciousness and unconsciousness, waking and sleeping, and he had lost all power to process the phenomenon. Empty of himself, he slipped into oblivion.