Human Hospitality
by scoutergreen
Denial
Small travel pack slung over her shoulder, Malar unlocked her personal transit spacecraft and threw the pack onto the back row of wide seats. The vehicle was just large enough for Malar and one other passenger, with a small washroom in the very back and a sizable store of ready-to-eat food and a microwave on-board. The pilot's seat was designed to recline into a long if not slightly narrow bed, and there was a large entertainment console built into the small ship's control panel.
Vegeta had left the day prior, leaving her with a firm nod and all of his money, which had reduced Malar to tears once he had taken off and was out of sight mere seconds later. Her chest ached and she wasn't sure if it was a result of her weak heart working hard or if her sadness had taken on new physical aspect.
Now, with her station essentially shut down and all of her personal affects shoved into a travel pack and small soft-sided suitcase, Malar had no reason to remain at White Star. She had left a small amount of preserved food and bedding for any traveller seeking refuge, but almost all of the lighting and electrical systems had been turned off. The small station was now a shadow of the once-vibrant and busy hub it had been just a few years prior.
Once she had taken off and her course had been programmed into the vehicle so she could go on autopilot, Malar slumped back in her seat and heaved another heavy sigh. I've been sighing and crying a lot lately, she thought, what is wrong with me? I used to be the life of the party!
Her panel lit up and an incoming call signal chirped through her speakers. Caller unknown, her screen displayed, and Malar was very reluctant to accept the call. After twenty seconds of deliberation, she accepted the call.
"Malar here," she said in her raspy voice before her breath caught in her throat, horrified to recognize the man she was looking at, "Sikari, what can I do for you?"
Sikari was a well-known bounty hunter who operated within PTO boundaries. An independent man, he lived by his own rules and was notorious for stalking his targets for years at a stretch, waiting for the right moment to catch a target off guard. The man was rumoured to have stalked one target for close to a decade before finally capturing him. Sikari was about six feet tall, with skin the colour of onyx and round eyes resembling jade buttons, thick tendrils of oily hair the colour of rust cascading down his broad shoulders, and a mouth like a wide red slash that hinted at rows of razor-sharp teeth and toxic saliva when he smiled into the camera. He wore billowing robes the colour of sand with a purple sash, and a jewel-studded black fez sat atop his head.
"I'm wondering if you might have some helpful information for me, Malar. Have you heard or seen anything from Vegeta? I was just at a station where a very lovely young attendant told me she had sold the Saiyan a medical kit and blanket."
"Oh yeah? I haven't seen him in years," Malar kept a straight face and internally wished for the conversation to end, "you lookin' for him?"
"Yes..." Sikari did not look amused and ran his large tongue over his teeth, "the young attendant told me she recommended your station. Did he arrive at your station?"
"Nah," the mechanic shook her head, "I've been shuttin' the place down over the last few days. Nobody's at White Star now. Things been slowing down for many months aboard that station... well, come to think of it... this transmission came through, but there was never any strong connection established and so the call was dropped. Didn't think anything of it. Maybe it was him? Maybe he's stranded or somethin'? No ship came 'round my place for a while now... it's been very quiet."
"Mm," the bounty hunter narrowed his eyes and considered this tidbit of information, "I thank you for that information. May I ask why you have left your station, dear Malar?"
The mechanic stifled a shiver. "Taking a well-deserved break. Gonna see the doctor, make sure my health's still good as ever! Anything else you need, Sikari?"
"No, no, my dear. May you experience good health for centuries to come. I must be on my way, there is a large bounty I am determined to collect. Until next time..."
Sikari disconnected first, and Malar felt his chilling smile lingering well after his image had faded away from the screen. The mechanic laced her fingers together and silently prayed for Vegeta to safety return to the planet that had given him refuge and to never venture back into space.
It took close to seven weeks to make it back into Earth's solar system. The ship held up remarkably well, although Vegeta was reluctant to turn the gravity simulator up very high lest he experience yet another problem. He kept busy by engaging in hours of gentle exercise, watching films, and napping. He made a point of eating only what he needed and not a morsel more, concerned he would run out of rations before returning to Earth. With no money left, Vegeta was in a precarious situation.
The computer notified Vegeta when he had all of twenty four hours to go before he arrived back to Earth, rousing him out of sleep and making his stomach twist as he was filled with anxiety. After pacing the kitchenette floor for close to half an hour, Vegeta returned to bed.
He really didn't want to think about what was about to happen to him. He was going to have to face that woman, and her family and friends... and that baby.
The Saiyan wanted to be sick, but his aching stomach was empty.
In stark contrast to the first time Vegeta returned to Earth, the Capsule ship came in for a slow and gentle landing in the Capsule compound's back yard just after eleven thirty in the morning. Vegeta shut down the entire ship in the interest of allowing its fuel cells to recharge. He'd stacked his bags in one of the narrow closets within his living area and retrieved them, head flooding with paranoid thoughts about actually returning to Earth. The stakes were higher and riskier now: he had a child, even if he didn't want to admit it, he was mere weeks away from what was sure to be the battle of his lifetime, and he no longer had any money or anywhere else to go. In some ways, he was completely at the mercy of the humans who had initially taken him in one more time, and being at the mercy of anybody else was the last thing the Saiyan wanted.
Gym bag slung over his shoulder and canvas pack carried against his waist, Vegeta walked up to the sliding glass door, rapped on it with his knuckles, and waited for an answer.
Twenty seconds passed before the Briefs matriarch came to the door, gasped, and opened the door. She sensed his energy was different. He appeared calmer on the surface, but the turmoil underneath had only intensified.
"Hello," Vegeta looked her up and down and found she hadn't changed at all, "I've returned."
"Oh! Oh! Vegeta! Come in! Come in," she stepped aside to let him pass through, "Bulma's gone out with the baby. She'll be back in a few hours."
"Fine," Vegeta eyed the living room and immediately noticed rainbow-coloured toys on a low coffee table, its corners now padded, "I'm hungry. I trust my room was left alone."
Mrs. Briefs nodded. She could scarcely catch her breath, so surprised by her strange guest's sudden return. "I'm preparing lunch right now. How about you come down in twenty minutes? Give you a chance to unpack..."
The Saiyan took a deep sniff of the air, catching the scent of the oven warming up and the smell of what had to be the baby. Even though the woman and the infant were out, Vegeta knew there was another resident of the compound. "Very well," he said, "in twenty minutes."
He went upstairs to his bedroom and found it largely untouched, save for clean bedding and a small stack of clean laundry that had been left atop his dresser. Somebody had cleaned his bathroom at some point, but he didn't mind that. Heaving a sigh, Vegeta unpacked his bags and threw all of his clothing into a laundry basket. He put away his first aid and medicine kits before venturing out into the hallway to check Bulma's room.
Never did he expect her room to look so organized; her closets were in order and her shoes stored away in their boxes or on a rack, the bed made and the bedside table's surface actually visible. The ashtrays were no longer overflowing, and her desk was no longer a scene of chaos.
Next, he went to the room he presumed to be for the baby and his breathing hitched when he took in the sight of a bright, clean room, filled with colourful and soft toys, books, clothing and accessories. Vegeta's eye was drawn to a collection of photographs set high up on a tall and narrow set of drawers, and he approached to inspect the photographs.
There was a shot of Bulma, loosely covered with a robe and laying in what was obviously a hospital bed, clearly exhausted but beaming down at a bundle of white cloth and a tiny head covered with black hair. Another shot of the child's maternal grandparents holding the tiny bundle and grinning for the camera.
Finally, Vegeta spotted picture frame turned face-down, and he turned it up to realize it was a picture Mrs. Briefs (of all the people) had taken of him after several days of very gentle coaxing that was always accompanied by fresh fruit and tea. Although quite embarrassed at the realization the older woman had shared the photograph when he'd warned her not to, any anger he had faded the longer he studied the portrait: it had been shot in black and white sometime in the autumn, probably close to his birthday. He wore the black cable-knit sweater Bulma had given him as a Christmas present and dark denim jeans, but he was barefoot. Vegeta had curled up on the rocking chair on the patio and had drawn his left knee close to his chest, right leg bent and tucked in tight to his body. His gaze was fixed on the camera, his face neutral but his eyes warning the world to keep its distance.
It's actually a very good picture, he thought, I've never had my photograph taken for anything other than identification purposes.
He heard the Briefs matriarch calling and went downstairs for something to eat.
The Saiyan was quite pleased when he discovered the woman had prepared baked fish, salad, and fresh, hot bread. It was light food, but he was still content to eat it anyway.
It was several minutes before the spoke. Mrs. Briefs gave her guest several cheerful smiles but was reluctant to initiate conversation.
"So the baby's here, then," Vegeta finished his fish and moved on to the salad, secretly thrilled at the presence of fresh tomatoes in his bowl, "what's it do all day?"
Mrs. Briefs cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. "His name is Trunks, and he's a very sweet little baby boy. Trunks is just an infant, Vegeta... babies need lots of love and attention and care, especially during the first few years."
"Alright," Vegeta took a bite of tomato and savoured it, "whatever. It's not my territory or anything."
Frustration flashed across the older woman's face momentarily before she regained her composure. She knew the alien tended to poke away at somebody until they reacted. "I remember our conversation when Bulma announced she was pregnant, and respect your wishes."
Vegeta seethed in silence and popped a piece of bread into his mouth. "You look about the same since I last saw you," he looked the woman up and down again, noting her outfit signified they were heading into the warmest part of the year.
The woman smiled and added a little more salad on her guest's plate, "you weren't gone for too long... but Bulma has missed you terribly."
"Whatever," he shrugged and rose from his seat, and went outside to sunbathe. For the first time ever, Vegeta had left food behind on his plate.
Sighing with frustration, Mrs. Briefs rose from her seat and began clearing the table.
At three in the afternoon, skin slightly pink from the early afternoon sun, Vegeta returned inside and headed into the kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Bulma's shoes beside the dining table chair she had always occupied and her briefcase left at her place beside a half-drunk cup of coffee, print of red lipstick marking it as her own.
Emerging from the washroom with the baby cradled in her arms, his diaper fresh and dirty outfit exchanged for a new one, Bulma did not look up from her content son until she was but five feet from the Saiyan, gasping with surprise when she realized he had returned.
He looked exactly the same; perhaps a bit leaner, his eyes weary and dark with turmoil. Vegeta looked Bulma up and down, realizing she looked exactly the same, save for her slightly fuller breasts, and suspiciously eyed the infant in her arms.
It was the baby he hadn't wanted to meet, with fat cheeks, fine violet hair, chubby little fingers and a mouth like a tiny pink bow. Vegeta couldn't help but stare at it, as much as he didn't want to, and searched for any features that may have resembled his own.
When Vegeta saw a pair of bright blue eyes gaze into his own and recognized both the shape of the eyes and the strong eyebrows already growing thick reflected on the baby boy's face, he felt a sick hot surge of some awful emotion he didn't even wish to begin identifying wash over him, and as the baby started to gurgle and cry, Vegeta snarled at Trunks.
He caught the baby's scent and smelled elements of himself in its unique body chemistry. It really was his son.
"No," he backed away and shook his head, "no!"
The Saiyan disappeared in a flash, leaving a devastated Bulma alone in the kitchen with a wailing Trunks, who did not know what to make of the vanishing stranger with the frightening eyes.