Vegeta should have worn his armor. Experimenting with a higher level of gravity than he ever had before, he had lowered his defenses in order to cope with the pressure. He could not deflect the laser before it grazed his side. His armor would have likely protected him from the injury; he should have worn it.

As he exited the ship, stepping out onto the snow-dusted earth, blood streamed down his body and over his left leg. Vegeta stripped himself of his now torn and soiled shirt, folded it, then pressed it to the wound. The bleeding would slow soon enough, but Vegeta, in wiping his boot clean in the snow, had already left behind a few telltale traces of red in the white ice. The sooner he went inside, the sooner he could rinse away the evidence. It was Saturday; he had a little over an hour before five o'clock. He would have enough time to wait for the bleeding to taper off and then take a preliminary shower to cleanse his skin of any stains.

Stealthily, he made his way through the halls, up the stairs, and into his room, taking special care not to touch anything for fear of bloodying it. If he sat or lay down on his bed, he would dirty it, so he remained standing.

Flurrying snowflakes drew his attention to the bedroom window. The glass felt cold against his forehead when he leaned against it. He shivered, but did not move and kept staring out onto the frosted lawn. His breath fogged the glass in front of his mouth when he sighed, and the cut in his side stung with his expanding ribs.

Silently floating to the ground, the snow hypnotized him. This was not the first time snow had affected him in this way. Something about it, it seemed, emptied and numbed him. Watching it felt like revisiting a memory that his mind refused to process, piercing deeply, yet failing to break the surface. The feeling passively disturbed Vegeta, but he couldn't turn away from the window; the wintered sky kept him stoic and solid, unmoved and paralyzed. Just a little while longer, he thought, and the cut would clot, and he could wash away the chill with a hot shower.

It had snowed often on Frieza's home planet. Vegeta had spent more time there than on any other world. Except for a brief thaw once every few years, the winters were perpetual. However much Vegeta hated the place, he knew it well; that was its consolation, its constant luxury. Perhaps this explained, at least in part, why a few flurries mesmerized him. He would never call it nostalgia, but it all brought in a storm of remembrance, assuredly. With that storm came a blast of sensations too chaotic and vast to make sense of, derive understanding from, or categorize. Coherent thought came only in flashes.

"Vegeta!" Raditz's voice—Vegeta recognized it through the blizzard wind, the sound of it obnoxious and infuriating. He wanted to be alone.

"How did you find me?" Vegeta growled. "I have your scouter."

The older Saiyan caught up to him and struck his shoulder. The gesture provoked a threatening recoil from Vegeta. "You're tracking blood everywhere," Raditz answered, defensively holding his hands out in front of him, "you weren't hard to find."

"If you have nothing to report, leave me at once." Vegeta had just left the training grounds located not far from the campus of Frieza's palace. He now headed toward the barracks, and he wanted nothing more than to go inside, lie down, and sleep with no disturbances—especially from Raditz.

"I do, actually. You can give me my damn scouter back. I've got your new one." He raced up in front of Vegeta and opened the door for both of them. Once inside, he held out a black case for the Prince's taking.

Vegeta snatched it away. Then, he detached Raditz's scouter from his ear and dropped it to the ground irreverently. "A pity it didn't break," he spat. "It's an outdated model—useless. I would tell you to invest in another, but I know you can't afford it with all the time you waste gambling."

Raditz picked up the discarded scouter, then followed Vegeta down the corridor. "Healing chambers are the other way, Prince."

"Do I look lost? It's not your place to question me." He leaned against the entrance to their quarters, catching his breath. He must have lost more blood than he had thought.

"You're going to make a mess if you don't get that taken care of."

Vegeta stumbled over to his assigned bed, then collapsed on top of it. "Don't speak to me of mess, you disorderly scum." Curling up on his side, he buried his face in the crook of his elbow.

"Was it bad this time?" Raditz asked after a few moments of, if not for the young Saiyan's heaving, silence.

After snarling angrily into his arm, he looked up to glare at his comrade. "Frieza has been off-world for some time, idiot."

"So you're saying you did this to yourself?"

"I ordered you to leave me!" Vegeta had begun with a vicious shout, but ended with a whimper. The sleeve of his battle suit caught a handful of stray tears. Curling tighter into himself, the Prince ground his molars together and cursed inwardly. The tears had come out of nowhere, and he couldn't stop them; this would have enraged him, but he had not the will to stir up his anger. He did not have the will to do anything.

"I'll leave you alone, sure. I don't really want to deal with whatever it is you're upset about. I just want to sleep before we leave. And this is where my damn bed is. Don't mind me. I'll be out pretty quick."

At least Vegeta's will kept hold of his body, preventing his shoulders from shaking with weeping. The tears dried as suddenly as they had come. The Prince focused instead on the stickiness of his blood-soiled clothes. He had not noticed it before, as the cold had numbed his skin; now, though, his wounds smarted, and the fabric of his suit clung to them uncomfortably. "Raditz," he called.

The older Saiyan sighed loudly. "Yeah—what?"

"Fetch me new clothes."

Vegeta heard Raditz get up. "You'll just ruin them."

"Do as I say. What did I tell you about questioning me?"

"Right," the older Saiyan assented, resigned. From across the room, the Prince heard the snap of an opening compartment and the rustling of Raditz's hands through their shared essentials. A pat on the shoulder prompted Vegeta to sit up. "Here you go," Raditz said as he dropped a clean battle suit as well some basic medical dressings beside Vegeta.

Once Vegeta got up, he leaned over and rested his elbows on his knees, pressing his forehead between his palms as if trying to dam something threatening to break out. He remained this way for a couple moments, then glanced toward the clothes and bandages Raditz had left for him. "I did not ask for these," he muttered gravely, referring to the bandages.

"I get it, Vegeta. You want to get off on your own pain for a while. You're seventeen, and the universe is shitty—I get it. But you can bleed on those instead of your clothes." Raditz lay back down, throwing his arms behind his head and crossing his ankles.

"How dare you," the Prince hissed icily. The instant he undressed, he balled up his bloodied garments and hurled them in Raditz's face.

"The fuck!"

"Get up!" Vegeta stormed, jerking Raditz up by the collar. His nose nearly touched the other Saiyan's as he shouted. "Get up off your useless, lazy third-class ass and wash those—immediately! Do something worthwhile with your time. What a pointless existence of vacuous self-indulgence you lead—always sleeping, whoring, eating, whining, backtalking. Get up!" He let go of Raditz's collar forcefully, thrusting him back against the wall, which gave way and dented.

"Fucking—fuck—damn little shit!" Raditz yelped, his hands flying to nurse the lump on his head that was surely forming. "Sorry, sorry! I'll do it." He watched Vegeta cautiously as he got to his feet, flinching preemptively in response to any additional strike.

The Prince returned to his bed, not once taking his eyes off Raditz. Although he did not dress his wounds, Vegeta dabbed as much blood away from them as he could before donning the unsoiled suit. Thereafter, he crumpled back into his sitting position with his face buried in his hands. As he passively registered the white noise Raditz made from across the room, he let his mind wander. "Raditz," he called after a few moments.

"Yes, Prince?" Vegeta could tell that the other Saiyan spoke with purposeful pleasantness. It was better than outright disrespect, at least.

"Tell me what gives you meaning in this life of yours."

Raditz spun around, his expression quizzical.

"Answer me."

He returned to Vegeta's side of the room, then sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know, Vegeta. That's really random." He shrugged. "I don't think about philosophical questions. I just go with the flow."

Vegeta grimaced, then snorted condescendingly. "Of course you have no answer."

Raditz sighed. "What I live for... damn, what a random-ass question. You know—a good fight, a good fuck. Shit like that. No point in complicating things with weird questions. The universe is crazy enough as it is. It doesn't make sense, so I just get as much as I can out of it."

"And this is why you are so stupidly happy all of the time?"

Raditz laughed. "I don't know about that! It's not like our lives are that great. I just think it's better to let loose than weigh myself down. Mind games have never been my thing. Sounds like torture." He laughed again. "Like kissing—that's a better game. Remember that, Vegeta? There are better games, too. I'm still willing to suck your cock, by the way. I'll teach you. It's easy. It's not like I could get away with any funny stuff. You'd kick my ass to the next dimension and back. It's a serious offer. Might help take the edge off, soften the frown."

Vegeta's nails scraped his scalp. He would claw out the memories flashing before his mind's eye if he could. "No—no. Silence. I'll—I'll murder you should you mention that again."

"You were the one who asked before... oh, well." He smirked, then lay back, pillowing his head with his arms again. "Goddamn, you were in a weird mood. You've been weird ever since that one purge. Kind of edgy. And holy shit, Vegeta—you're into weirder stuff than me. You can't deny it. Totally predicted that one, though. The quiet ones are the kinkiest. Probably why Frieza sort of likes you. You are just so fucked up, like, holy shit. I've never actually—"

"Shut up, Raditz. Just fucking shut up. Now."

Raditz did not require a second warning. Vegeta's tone carried more than a threat's shadow, and Vegeta knew that Raditz understood how sincerely he meant his malice. The older Saiyan retreated to the other side of the room, again picking up the Prince's bloodied clothes which he had started to clean.

Vegeta's eyes began to water, and he pressed his temples further into each other in response. Now that his injuries had clotted, whatever toxin struggling to seep out of his body had no outlet apart from his tears. Part of Vegeta wished he had not tended to his wounds; they let distress flow out freely, flow out freely in a way that did not require reflection, emotion, or speech. "Raditz," he called once again. Just a moment ago, he had pushed his comrade away, and now he called him back again. He couldn't rationalize it.

Raditz stalked hesitantly to Vegeta's side. "Yeah, Vegeta?" His voice betrayed fear, concern, and confusion.

"Frieza... Frieza... he wants to make me like him," the Prince nearly whispered, his pitch cracked and wavering. It seemed his distress would expel itself in whatever form it possibly could, whether of Vegeta's accord or against it. It did not matter who heard him, it only mattered that someone heard him. "Remember that reward, those riches? We got them because of what I'd done, because I'd disgraced myself, just as Frieza had wanted. So don't dare speak to me of it. A passion took me, and I wasn't myself. That is not who I am, Raditz. I have my dignity, and my desires are right and pure."

"Well, shit." Raditz ran his fingers through his long hair nervously. "Come on, though. I mean, what else are we supposed to do? Planet Vegeta is gone. All we have is each other. Don't let that honor shit bother you. Nobody's around to care what you do. Let loose. Do whatever you want. You're the only one who gives a fuck."

"Shut up. I'm not like you. You have no regard for yourself or your purpose or our legacy. You're throwing your life away. And you're mistaken. Frieza gives a—"

"Our lives were fucked over a long time ago. Just get over it and enjoy yourself while you can."

"Quiet! You don't understand," Vegeta fumed. He bit down on his tongue before continuing. "Frieza cares what I do. He watches me. You know that. He wants to make me like him. You think our assignments are random? That the rewards are random? It's all intentional. It's not a matter of simply accepting my lot in life, enjoying what I've been given, Raditz. Frieza has given me what I have, and I won't take it!"

Raditz shrunk away when Vegeta struck the bed with a tense fist.

"He'll—he'll offer me everything, the whole galaxy even—tempt me with it. And you've heard the stories—they're true. He takes his favorites, and he... changes them. Once they've surrendered the mind, and he's changed it, he changes the body too—surgeries, modifications, replacements, genetic sorcery. What do you think happened to Ginyu?"

"Ha!" Raditz snorted. "You don't seriously believe those stories, do you? Explains why you're pissy, though. Conspiracy theories and playing stupid-ass mind games with yourself do that to you. Maybe that's what Frieza wants, not—"

"Just shut your fucking mouth, Raditz."

"You're the one who wanted to fucking talk."

"Raditz. Silence."

Vegeta wished he himself had remained silent. He wished that he hadn't tended to his injuries, that he hadn't exchanged his chilled, blood-crusted garments for warm, clean ones.

The bleeding had stopped, and Vegeta turned away from the frosted window.

Once under the shower's spray, he conscientiously scanned every inch of skin, assuring himself that a hot water's dousing had cleansed him thoroughly enough. The woman would notice anything out of the ordinary. Half an hour did not leave enough time for his hair to dry before seeing her, so he kept from wetting it at all. He could have avoided this whole ordeal if he had worn his armor. He should have worn it.

He wondered why he hadn't worn it as he plundered a cabinet beneath the sink, seeking out a dressing of any sort. And why had he chosen to train at such a high level of gravity despite his lack of armor? Perhaps he had merely miscalculated—an easy explanation. He discovered a box of small adhesive bandages, and he aligned a row of them along the length of the gash in his side. Accidents happened from time to time; naturally, the woman would think nothing of it.

Vegeta had certainly not wanted to jeopardize his scheduled time with her. Last week had unquestionably proven to him why he had scheduled time with her at all. He enjoyed her, he enjoyed her immensely, and he would enjoy her again. When she had turned to face him, her sweater on the floor and her flushed, naked breast before his heavy eyes, he had not wanted to leave her. Delaying his shower, he had drawn her up close beside him, and they had shared their heat as well as a couple of lazy kisses. He'd kept his eyes sealed shut, for he'd considered it better to risk falling asleep than to risk reading her face and melting in her arms. Eventually, she had had to remind him to follow through his evening shower routine.

Vegeta stepped into the kitchen and found Bulma waiting for him. He definitely preferred her to blood and ice.

"How's it going, Vegeta?" she greeted affectionately.

With a nod, he acknowledged her, then took his seat. She must have explained whatever it was he had begun to scarf down without tasting, but he couldn't remember it. She must have brought up some topic for discussion, but he couldn't remember that either. He might not have known whether or not he had provided any response or input if she hadn't interrupted his absence of mind from their exchange with a near-shout of his name.

"Vegeta! You haven't said a word since you got here. Is something wrong?"

He almost started. "It's nothing." He folded his arms over his chest.

The motion drew Bulma's eyes to his side. "Oh my God," she exclaimed, "you're bleeding through your shirt!"

"Training as usual," he said. "It comes with risk."

"Why didn't you say something?" She stood up, and urged him up with a pat to his shoulder. "Come on—let's get that cleaned up before we do anything else. No worries."

Vegeta didn't budge.

Bulma frowned. "Okay. I'll be right back with a bandage. Just stay there."

He did stay.

She had returned within a matter of minutes. "Why don't you take your shirt off?" Once she examined the gash, she sighed. "It's not bad at all." After wiping the flesh clean with a disinfectant cloth, she taped a piece of gauze over it.

Vegeta had let her work unhindered, and he did not mind when she gave him a peck on the cheek as she got up from her formerly crouched stance. When he glanced at her, he saw that she was smiling brightly. At least her mouth smiled brightly; her brow, by contrast, had knitted ever so slightly.

"What's on your mind?" she asked. She spoke cheerfully, but she could not disguise her concern from the Saiyan. No doubt testing him, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

"What gives you meaning in life?" His cold gaze pierced hers directly.

Bulma hesitated, then returned to her chair. "Oh, so you've been brooding over the meaning of life, huh?"

"Answer me."

"I haven't lived my whole life yet. I wouldn't know."

"Explain."

"If I've learned anything, I've learned that there's always something new to learn. It's what I do. I take old things apart, see if I can improve them, then do the whole thing over again. Sometimes I come up with new things altogether. It wouldn't do much good to assume I knew everything or that everything had an answer. Then I couldn't go anywhere. I'd just be frozen, if you know what I mean. Progress is good. Innovation is good. And my success proves it."

"Get to the point."

She thought for a good long while. "Sometimes it's better not to answer questions like, 'What is the meaning of life?' Maybe it's better just to ask and learn as we go—keep things open for improvement. Who ever said you needed answers to live anyway? Sure, it can be scary not knowing all the answers. Sticking to the answers is comfortable, and asking questions throws everything in flux and out of control. But isn't that how things are, like, in real life? It's kind of exciting, I think—always innovating." A pause, then a laugh. "Wow, you really got me going on that one! But why ask me something like that all of a sudden?"

"I wanted to know."

"Sounds like a cop out to me, but I'll let it slide." She shrugged. "Listen—why don't you go to bed early tonight? You seem kind of down, honestly. Not really in the mood, if you know what I mean. That's okay."

Bulma was right, and it annoyed him. He got up to leave. Perhaps he did not prefer her, after all; perhaps he had injured himself on purpose.

"Find me if you need me. Have a good night, Vegeta."