Human Hospitality
by scoutergreen
Chapter 42
Deep In The Grey
Bruised and battered, Vegeta lay on Bulma's bed at her insistence; he was so exhausted that he didn't have the energy to argue with her beyond snapping at her once when she pressed around the edge of an oozing wound with a great deal of pressure. She dabbed at some of his fresh scrapes and cuts with an astringent before applying antibiotic cream to promote healing. He had bruises up and down his legs, some deep blue and purple and others sickly yellow and brown, cuts on his arms and even some on his back and stomach, deep scrapes to his chest, and what looked like an untreated sprain to his left ankle.
"Why the hell did you lock yourself in there for ten days?" Bulma brought some fresh clothes from his bedroom and watched him slowly dress himself in a fresh pair of drawstring shorts and a long-sleeved thermal top. He said nothing until he was fully dressed, ignoring her presence the entire time.
"Training," his face was hard to read, voice distant and raspy, "it's not so unusual."
"To go that hard, for that long?"
The Saiyan merely shrugged, to which the engineer shook her head with disapproval.
"Can you walk? I would guess you're very hungry."
"Well aren't you clever," he rolled his eyes and eased himself onto his feet, wincing as he stood upright, "supposing I might be hungry..."
"Yeah, you're starving," Bulma chose to ignore the Saiyan's needling and headed for the kitchen.
During Vegeta's ten day absence from the dining table, Mrs. Briefs had taken the time to prepare numerous large meals for the Saiyan and then froze them inside large aluminium containers, allowing them to be easily reheated in the quick-cooking convection oven. Bulma decided that Vegeta would just have to be content with a reheated container of chicken stuffed with ham and cheese, pasta in a simple tomato sauce, and green beans.
Still, she made a point of fixing a couple sandwiches for herself, and a few to tide Vegeta over before his main meal was ready.
"This is it?" He looked at the small stack of sandwiches at his place and was on the verge of seething. His eyes had gone from being sparkling and bright to glassy and almost dull.
"Well, no," Bulma spoke through a mouthful of turkey and Swiss cheese on rye, "it's the first course. Your main is being cooked as we speak."
He accepted this without a word and started eating. After two of the four sandwiches Bulma had prepared for him, Vegeta finally spoke: "winter fucking sucks."
"It's just starting. We've got it better here than a lot of places, though, and the snow will be gone soon. Our winters are pretty mild, actually, they're just awfully dull and grey for a while. You must really dislike the cold, huh?"
"Snow I can actually tolerate..." he sighed and moved on to his next sandwich.
Vegeta registered that he liked turkey, cheddar, and mango chutney on white bread, yet at the same time he realized that he wasn't actively enjoying his food, and Vegeta was a man with an adventurous palate, somebody who ate with gusto, so even he could recognize that suddenly enjoying something he'd liked before wasn't a particularly good sign.
He had spent an extended amount of time on several dozen different planets over the course of his lifetime, tried the foods and drink from different cultures by the hundreds, and only while when something wasn't enjoyable did he force himself to eat mechanically. If there was something Vegeta truly loved, it was food: around the age of nine he started to frequent food stalls, tasting and subsequently spending a fair portion of his money on fruits, sweets, preserves, meats, shellfish boiled in salty or slightly acidic broths (only from very reputable sellers), meats (especially marinaded and grilled meat), teas and tisanes, exotic alcohols, endless bottles of wine, and even different types of milk and cheese. A few times, he'd even tried concoctions remarkably similar to what the humans called "ice cream" during his travels. He lived for noodles, the universal foodstuff of any minimally civilized species, and sometimes figured he could survive on a steady diet of meat soups with noodles and not complain for a while. There were so few foods Vegeta actively disliked, and even then he could sometimes be persuaded into trying it if the presentation appealed to his sensibilities.
The chicken and pasta went down a bit easier, although Vegeta noticed he wasn't fully tasting his food again. He was slipping into that dreadful state when hopelessness reigned supreme; too tired to live, and yet somehow also too exhausted to die. He'd just have to ride it out and wait for his mood to pick up again. If he was lucky, his good mood would last for several weeks.
With food in his belly, Vegeta became more aware of the amount of physical pain he was in, and when he stood up from his seat at the table he grimaced and growled, shuffling into the living room. Bulma followed him from a considerable distance, now fully aware that something was off with Vegeta on that day (which was saying something) and hopeful she could at least try to help him.
She hadn't expected him to snap, ordering her to leave the living room so he could sleep in peace. Recalling the time he'd thrown the vase at the refrigerator, Bulma conceded and left the room, heading for the lab.
Vegeta woke in time for dinner, remaining silent through the meal and going to bed not long afterwards.
When he awoke the next morning, still in too much pain to entertain the thought of training seriously, he took many minutes to get up before reluctantly taking a shower. He stayed underneath the spray of the water long enough to rinse his hair out and lazily cleanse his skin.
Finally, Bulma decided it was time to confront Vegeta after she spotted him hovering to avoid putting any pressure on his legs and feet.
"You should come to the clinic for some x-rays, unless you wish to remain in pain," Bulma puffed on her third cigarette of the day as she lingered over her fourth cup of coffee, watching the Saiyan's body language and waiting for even a split second of emotion to register across his face. He was wearing the stern face again, likely wallowing in a sea of negative and circular thoughts.
"Fine," he didn't look up from his bowl of oatmeal, "whenever."
"After that, I would appreciate it if you would be willing to participate in a little test at the lab. Ten minutes long, non-invasive, and no documented negative side effects."
Vegeta looked up from his breakfast. He tilted his head up and sniffed loudly, and Bulma immediately caught on to his suspicions and demand for more information. She had seconds to convince him before he would dismiss her idea completely.
"It's a light experiment. I just want you to literally sit down near a special kind of lamp. I promise you that nothing bad will happen."
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and lowered his head again. "Fine."
The light was bright enough that Vegeta could perceive it through his shut eyes, even with the provided eye protection, but he didn't mind that on account that the light somehow made him feel just a little more at peace. The light came from a set of six large flat-panel lamps, each designed to simulate the light, colour, and warmth of a warm summer's day at high noon. He lay fully reclined in a white, ergonomic chair that had seemed to cradle his body.
He'd been provided with a pair of remarkably effective compression garments designed to be worn on his lower legs, spanning from the ankle to just below the knee, and the pain in his legs subsided enough that he was comfortable walking. Apparently he had sustained an injury the humans called "shin splints" as a result of his intense training, something he'd experienced before, but the news of this really didn't bother him at the moment; all in all, actually he felt quite good.
The loud click of the lights automatically shutting off after ten minutes left startled him enough that he blinked his eyes open, slowly sat up, and pulled the glasses off. He hummed, low in his throat, and gently dipped his head in recognition to Bulma's presence.
"How was that?" Bulma smiled and wrote something down on a notepad.
"Alright. Is that it? Your experiment?"
"That was it. How are you feeling right now, Vegeta?"
"I feel fine. Good bye," the Saiyan slid out of the chair and vanished out of the lab.
Vegeta suddenly awoke from deep sleep at three fifteen in the morning, his innards twisting together and the hairs on his arms rising. Something was off, and he was going to find out what. When he passed by each of the bedrooms and realized each occupant was still fast asleep, he tried to assure himself that nothing was wrong, but the terrible feeling of mounting anxiety grew out of the pit of his stomach and branched right up through his esophagus, and he wanted to retch.
He went downstairs to the kitchen, found a large prepared meal consisting of lamb curry over basmati rice, and reheated it in the microwave. With his hot meal transferred to a large plate and a carton of fruit juice, Vegeta went to the living room and turned on the television. As he ate, he surfed through the channels and eventually settled on a forgettable black and white film, desperate for something to fill the silence.
Outside, snow floated down from the heavens and settled on the ground.
At around four forty five, Vegeta was comfortable with the idea of returning to bed. He lay curled on his side in his large bed with the covers drawn up to his chin and sunk into a state of full-body relaxation, slipping into a deep slumber.
Vegeta found himself standing in the middle of a run-down tavern. He could make out everything in the room, but everything seemed to have an odd haze around its perimeter, from the chairs and tables to the poorly-stocked bar.
He approached the bar and reviewed the menu, its glowing green words pulsing against a black light board, and shrugged.
The bartender materialized from thin air. Almost instantly, Vegeta recognized the bartender as Jabuka, many months dead and now dressed in a black sleeveless shirt and fitted black bottoms. His once-dewy, flawless skin was ashen, circles the colour of bruise rimmed his dull, sunken eyes, and his classically handsome face had become hollow and gaunt. Jabuka nodded at him, selected a glass for the Saiyan, dipped his head down, and held the cup underneath his slack mouth to collect the blood that poured out of him in a steady trickle. When the glass was three-quarters of the way full, Jabuka raised his head and slid the glass across the bar to Vegeta before sinking down into the floor and vanishing.
Disgusted, Vegeta began to push the glass away, but as his gloved fingertips made contact with the glass, the blood miraculously transferred from the inside of the vessel to the fabric of the white gloves, soaking his hands, and when he tore the gloves off, Vegeta found his hands covered with rapidly-cooling blood.
He backed away from the bar, spotted a lone chair at a round table, and took a seat. He tried to calm himself, explaining away the terrible sight of Jabuka as a hallucination, and struggled to still himself. As the blood on his hands started to dry into his skin, it itched and he tried to scratch it, only pushing the blood underneath his nails at best.
Desperate to find a lavatory so he could wash his hands clean, he went to push the chair back when he felt two cold bodies brush against him before they suddenly appeared at the table, seated in their own chairs, and suddenly the table held a huge pitcher of beer and two empty glasses.
"Heeeeeyyyyyyyy, Vegeeter," Raditz snarled at Vegeta, his dark eyes filled with fire and sharp teeth bared in an angry sneer, "it's been too long! How considerate of you to finally get around to properly dispatching my gorgeous body after you'd fucked around on Earth for a good while!"
Nappa's thick palm slammed on the top of the table."And how could you do that to me, Vegeta? After all my years of service, you give me such an undignified death!" Nappa's face was fixed in a deep scowl, and when Vegeta noticed that both deceased Saiyans had small, pointed black horns emerging from their temples, he actually recoiled. Their bodies looked strong and well-nourished, only adding to Vegeta's growing horror. Were they alive? What were they?
"At least your body was incinerated in the process, Nappa..." Raditz sniffed, taking the pitcher and pouring a glass of beer for himself and another for his partner.
"What the fuck is going on here?" Vegeta realized he was frozen in his chair, forced to confront his two departed comrades. "You two are dead! Fucking dead! You should be in the exact same place I was!"
The two demonic-looking Saiyans cackled and clinked their glasses together, clearly enjoying Vegeta's deep confusion.
"You wish you'd wind up in Hell!" Raditz continued laughing and managed to take a sip of his beer, "you're not even good enough for that. Castaway soul, that's what you are. Truly forgotten. I was only temporarily forgotten, but now I am amongst my Saiyan sisters and brothers. Nobody will notice when you're dead and gone. We've done very well for ourselves, however..."
Nappa nodded. "That's right. We Saiyans maintain order in the upper valleys of Hell and in return we get plenty of opportunities to fight, fuck, feast, and generally make the most of being dead and being in Hell. It's a pretty good deal..."
"This isn't real..." Vegeta's voice was caught in his throat, and when his left hand moved for the pitcher of beer, Raditz reached over and smacked his wrist.
"THIS IS REAL!" A collection of familiar voices boomed around him.
"You had a drink from the bar, bitch! Why didn't ya drink that? Jabuka wouldn't even make me a drink! Eh, Jabuka! C'mon, sugar dick, make me one of your drinks!"
Vegeta looked back at the bar and saw nobody. He was certain his expression completely gave away his terror when the two dead Saiyans laughed and went as far as playfully punching each other in the arm, obviously enjoying the surreal meeting.
Vegeta stared at his bloodied hands, held them up for the two to see, and sneered back at Raditz. "Seem to have been given a cracked glass..."
"Lick it off... you always did like that sort of thing..." Raditz' eyes were locked on Vegeta's.
Refusing to break his gaze, Vegeta ran the side of his right hand down the tip of his tongue. Raditz ran his tongue over his top teeth in silent reply.
And that's when Vegeta noticed his father standing in the corner of the strange tavern, observing the conversation with no sign of amusement or approval, and just like the two deceased lower class Saiyans, King Vegeta also sported sharp back horns. As Vegeta took in the sight of his father, still unable to leave his chair, the King sunk down into the floor just as Jabuka had, leaving behind a huge burst of sulphuric flame and a puff of black smoke.
Scream ripping from his throat, Vegeta's eyes snapped open and he sat up in his bed, gasping for air and face dripping with sweat. Heart pounding and eyes darting around the dark bedroom, the Saiyan recognized his surroundings and waited several seconds in terrified silence for the visions of the dead Saiyans to reappear in his room.
Silence. Darkness. Warmth coming from the radiator.
He sensed everybody else was still asleep. Unsure of what time it was, he lay back down and wondered if it was a such a good idea to close his eyes again.