Profile of a Saiyan Prince

03. Close chapters

drabble by Bulmapsut

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Lately, he would wake up suddenly, a layer of sticky sweat clinging to his body. His shirt near the neck soaked in liquid. A constant nightmare. The room was dimly lit by the streetlamp outside, its light filtering through the curtain. He was barely covered by a thin sheet. His heart racing, breathing uneven. He woke up with tense muscles and a curious sensation of suffocation. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, automatically sitting up on the side of the bed.

He was simply pushing his body to the limit with that damned gravity room, and it seemed his mind was following suit. He got up and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, waiting for the slight tremor in his hands to fade. An object caught his attention on the nearby shelf. A small dark bottle with a dropper. The Earthling doctor had given it to him during his last visit, after the room had exploded. According to that vulgar woman, ever since the incident, he had been waking up screaming, threatening to rip out the catheter that supplied him with suero. Worried, she had a brief exchange of words with the doctor, who had scribbled some strange words on a piece of paper: "post-traumatic stress disorder."

He didn't fully understand what that meant, but when the woman had handed him the bottle, with visible apprehension in her captivating blue eyes, the emptiness in his stomach had instantly intensified. He had thought about throwing it away at that very moment, a slight murmur escaping his lips: "nonsense." Sensing his intentions, the woman had calmly said that it helped her relax, especially after the trip to Namek.

"I don't need your stupid Earthling remedies, woman."

Yet there it was, sitting on the bathroom shelf. Vegeta was sure he hadn't placed it there. He didn't need any drugs. Did he? He examined his face, the dark circles visibly marking the bags under his eyes. It had been several weeks since he had rested properly. However, this wasn't the first time in his life that a streak of nightmares had kept him from getting a good night's sleep. He was used to sleep deprivation. What disturbed him were the images parading in his nightmares. A shadow clouded his onyx eyes, making them even darker. Maybe he would give the drug a try—if he was being honest with himself, things had been different lately. He knew it because now he was a mortal who had experienced death firsthand.

His nightmares were a mixture of blurry, overlapping visions, magnified of the crimson eyes of Frieza, spheres filled with coldness and disdain as he fired a single shot towards his heart. That damned lizard. Memories of tears shed before a low-class Saiyan, before the impossibility of finishing off the twisted emperor with his own hands. His vengeance dissolving like dust. The helplessness, the terrible helplessness. Suddenly, everything turned black, and he would wake up on the ground of Namek, but it wasn't Frieza he saw—it was himself, with the same look of disdain and coldness on his own face, finishing off someone begging for mercy. The raspy voice echoing in his dreams. Vegeta… help me, please… Vegeta… forgive me. Strangely, the nightmares always ended the same way, with his sensei's eyes filled with panic and the disappointment of betrayal.

Curiously, this last vision was the one that disturbed him the most. After his own death, something had changed in him. The emotion he felt upon waking was new to him. His sensei's eyes…

When he had killed him, he hadn't felt a thing. Nappa had meant nothing to him, really—he was just a means to an end, a subordinate like any other. Now, however, every time he thought of him, he felt something strange inside. Something he had never experienced before. The hulking, big, brutish Saiyan had been his personal guard since childhood. His constant shadow, his perennial companion. Not even the decision to abandon Raditz to his death caused him so much turmoil. Why now did he feel something for that old Saiyan?

Rage. Rage began to surge. That emotion was the one he knew best, the one that made him feel most comfortable. It was an emotion that gave him energy and a sense of purpose. But what he felt when he saw Nappa in his nightmares was distressing. It ate away at him from the inside. He couldn't even name it; he didn't know what it was. But it certainly burned, burned like a constant flame in his consciousness. Damn Nappa. Even after being dead for so long, he still haunted him.

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He landed on the barren plateau where he had last seen him. A little cautious questioning of the woman had led him to the coordinates of the place where the battle with the Earthlings and Kakarot had occurred. The location took him by surprise with the memories and a shiver. The dry, arid wind tousled his hair. He took a few steps, inspecting the area, and inhaled the scent of the semi-desert. He searched for rocks large enough that no one would move them and piled them in order, taking a handful of dirt and letting it fall over them. There was no corpse to pay tribute to, but this would suffice.

He stared at the makeshift grave for a long time, in complete silence. Suddenly, an idea tempted him… the Dragon Balls… with the woman's radar, it would be so easy… nah… he remembered a phrase: Let the dead rest. And that's what they were—dead. Neither his race, nor his planet, nor his father, nor any former acquaintance. None of that really mattered to him anymore. How much his life and priorities had changed in such a short time.

He turned his eyes to the horizon, then back to the pile of rocks. In his culture, there were several rituals for certain events, rituals Nappa himself had taught him. With a small ki ray, he cut the palm of his hand and, squeezing it tightly, let a couple of drops fall onto the grave. The blood debt had to be paid somehow. His royal blood would suffice. Wherever you are, Nappa, rest in peace. He owed him at least this, marking the spot where he had died. That would be all he would get from him. Let's see if now you'll leave me alone. He didn't consider himself superstitious, but he really needed to sleep.

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At that precise time, at Capsule Corp, the blue-haired woman hung up the phone. Fourteen years it had taken her to realize that this call should have been made long ago. She didn't even wait to do it in person. In fact, she was tempted to send a simple message and block Yamcha's contact. But her mother had wisely told her that if she didn't want to see him, at least she should do it over the phone, for herself, to close the chapter. Well, chapter closed. Now she wondered, what was next? With everything that had happened in the last couple of years, getting back into therapy definitely wouldn't be a bad idea.