Night
He walked alone like he always did, but in a sense he did have a companion. His hand occasionally came up, pressing the filter to his lips and he inhaled deeply, letting the toxins cover his lungs. It was only a couple hours since his first puff and already cigarettes were his best friend.
His only friend.
He gazed into a shop window to check the time. He turned away after reading that it was past one in the morning. His stomach rumbled reminding him that he needed food. With a sigh, he drug himself around town until he found a restaurant that was open. Wow, it was his first bit of luck in a exceedingly long period of time.
He thought about actually paying the check. The pain and anger within him sweltered, infesting him like a sickly virus. He didn't want this - any of this. ANY OF IT. Except his cigarette. He leaned back taking a slow drag, relishing in his own self-destruction. The chemicals calmed him, or did their best to try, and so he was actually nice to his waiter for once. "Here," she said, handing him a cup of coffee, "It's on me. You look like you need it...Mr. Vegeta." She whispered his name to keep it a secret from the few people who were occupying the cafe. It was the first decent amount of respect he'd seen since...he couldn't remember. He smirked and inhaled.
After polishing off six plates of food his waiter (waitress, the title never made a difference to him) took a seat across from him. "I'm on break," she explained, "and you're the nicest guy who's been in here today." He found this quite pathetic for some reason. He inhaled, looking out the window. "Anything on your mind?" she asked softly, nervously.
"Not really," he spoke a half truth. She nodded, sipping her own cup of coffee. Vegeta finished his and tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling.
"I'll get your check...?" she said slowly, allowing him plenty of time to protest, but he didn't. He sat, staring up.
He missed that woman.
He frowned.
He inhaled.
He sat.
On the check that Vegeta received, he noted the blue pen scrawling of "Thanks! I hope you return. It was nice to see such an intelligent man in here. Get well!", and he left a more than adequate tip. He also wrote back: "You don't shame the human race. -Vegeta" That little scrap of paper he wrote on; that flimsy little piece called a receipt; that one little sentence he wrote would be enough for her to buy a new car, a new house, a new life. The reason being? Vegeta didn't do autographs. That was part of his own personal contract.
As he walked outside, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. His gaze lowered to the ground and he savored the taste of smoke in his mouth. He knew at once that woman would ask him about it and he clenched his fists.
It was his life.
It was his life!
It was his life...
In roughly a day he'd have to go on stage and perform. Have thousands of screaming voices ring through his Saijin ears so that he wouldn't be able to hear properly for at least a few hours afterward. Perhaps if they were performing to no one on stage, like at rehersal, he wouldn't mind as much. As much...
He growled low in his throat. No, it would bother him. This would bother him until the day he died. The music industry took something he never payed attention to before, forced it upon him, and destroyed any remote chance on him liking the subject.
He's never admit it, but he did listen to music - some music. And yes, he'd never admit that he'd like it.
Warriors do not appreciate fine arts. Warriors are there to fight. He lived for the battle, not so that he could stand up in front of people and sing.
Though he would never admit, there was some finer things to music. It was mathematical, so technically it was intelligent. However, this pop shit he was forced to sing degraded almost every opinion down to, well..shit status. There were a few types of music, or songs, he did enjoy, some even moved him in a "spiritual" way. But never, ever, would he admit it.
Brahms, Dvorak, Drieg, Handel, Haydn, Liszt, Shubert, Shumann, Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky...maybe.
Beethoven..Bach..Mozart..Chopin..Vilvadi...definitely.
In his free time he'd secretly sing a song that catched his fancy, or more embarrassingly, practice. In his true "free time", however, he trained like he always did. It was there, in the gravity room, where he finally had time to think and be himself. Hesitantly, on an occasion or two, he'd lock the door, block off any incoming "calls", and turn up the speakers that Dr. Briefs had installed after his start in the music business. There was his sanctuary. Carpe diem. There he'd be able to relax. Perhaps he'd do that now...
With ease, he lifted himself into the air, inhaling the rest of his cigarette before picking up speed. It took only a few minutes to get to Capsule Corp, and even fewer for him to step inside his training grounds.
He locked the door and discarded his extra clothes - stripping down to his boxer shorts. He lit another cigarette and disabled incoming and outgoing calls before turning on the gravity. He then fiddled around some more with the console, breaking a small smile as the speakers came to life.
Chopin...
He leapt into the air, twisting and turning, fighting an imaginary foe. Kick, to punch, to kick, to punch. Everything around him had a beat, a rhythm...and oh, by god, how he needed that right now. He just wanted something steady and consistent rather than being thrown all across the stupid mud ball all the time.
Ah...Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise in E-Flat Major, Op. 22....
He stopped to finish the rest of his cigarette, and there after decided to stop altogether and take a small break. The heavens knew he rarely got one in these recent times..but the exercise was much needed, and he felt better now after doing a fraction of his "normal" amount.
Eventually he stopped the music and put everything back to the way it was. Collecting his clothes, he went straight to the master bedroom. Bulma was up, reading. "I was just curious," she said, "as to when you were getting home. I don't have to worry, you know, with you being a Super Saijin and all." She worried. He said nothing. "Usually it's customary to take off your clothes inside a private place like the bedroom or bathroom," the blue-haired woman said, but not in any type of snotty way. It was a simple remark.
He nodded, eyebrows furrowing into normal scowl stance, "I know. I was training." He dropped the clothes into a pile beside the bed and slipped under the covers. She turned out the light, not uttering another word.
He closed his eyes, sighing silently.
It was going to be a long night.
He walked alone like he always did, but in a sense he did have a companion. His hand occasionally came up, pressing the filter to his lips and he inhaled deeply, letting the toxins cover his lungs. It was only a couple hours since his first puff and already cigarettes were his best friend.
His only friend.
He gazed into a shop window to check the time. He turned away after reading that it was past one in the morning. His stomach rumbled reminding him that he needed food. With a sigh, he drug himself around town until he found a restaurant that was open. Wow, it was his first bit of luck in a exceedingly long period of time.
He thought about actually paying the check. The pain and anger within him sweltered, infesting him like a sickly virus. He didn't want this - any of this. ANY OF IT. Except his cigarette. He leaned back taking a slow drag, relishing in his own self-destruction. The chemicals calmed him, or did their best to try, and so he was actually nice to his waiter for once. "Here," she said, handing him a cup of coffee, "It's on me. You look like you need it...Mr. Vegeta." She whispered his name to keep it a secret from the few people who were occupying the cafe. It was the first decent amount of respect he'd seen since...he couldn't remember. He smirked and inhaled.
After polishing off six plates of food his waiter (waitress, the title never made a difference to him) took a seat across from him. "I'm on break," she explained, "and you're the nicest guy who's been in here today." He found this quite pathetic for some reason. He inhaled, looking out the window. "Anything on your mind?" she asked softly, nervously.
"Not really," he spoke a half truth. She nodded, sipping her own cup of coffee. Vegeta finished his and tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling.
"I'll get your check...?" she said slowly, allowing him plenty of time to protest, but he didn't. He sat, staring up.
He missed that woman.
He frowned.
He inhaled.
He sat.
On the check that Vegeta received, he noted the blue pen scrawling of "Thanks! I hope you return. It was nice to see such an intelligent man in here. Get well!", and he left a more than adequate tip. He also wrote back: "You don't shame the human race. -Vegeta" That little scrap of paper he wrote on; that flimsy little piece called a receipt; that one little sentence he wrote would be enough for her to buy a new car, a new house, a new life. The reason being? Vegeta didn't do autographs. That was part of his own personal contract.
As he walked outside, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. His gaze lowered to the ground and he savored the taste of smoke in his mouth. He knew at once that woman would ask him about it and he clenched his fists.
It was his life.
It was his life!
It was his life...
In roughly a day he'd have to go on stage and perform. Have thousands of screaming voices ring through his Saijin ears so that he wouldn't be able to hear properly for at least a few hours afterward. Perhaps if they were performing to no one on stage, like at rehersal, he wouldn't mind as much. As much...
He growled low in his throat. No, it would bother him. This would bother him until the day he died. The music industry took something he never payed attention to before, forced it upon him, and destroyed any remote chance on him liking the subject.
He's never admit it, but he did listen to music - some music. And yes, he'd never admit that he'd like it.
Warriors do not appreciate fine arts. Warriors are there to fight. He lived for the battle, not so that he could stand up in front of people and sing.
Though he would never admit, there was some finer things to music. It was mathematical, so technically it was intelligent. However, this pop shit he was forced to sing degraded almost every opinion down to, well..shit status. There were a few types of music, or songs, he did enjoy, some even moved him in a "spiritual" way. But never, ever, would he admit it.
Brahms, Dvorak, Drieg, Handel, Haydn, Liszt, Shubert, Shumann, Mendelssohn, Tchaikovsky...maybe.
Beethoven..Bach..Mozart..Chopin..Vilvadi...definitely.
In his free time he'd secretly sing a song that catched his fancy, or more embarrassingly, practice. In his true "free time", however, he trained like he always did. It was there, in the gravity room, where he finally had time to think and be himself. Hesitantly, on an occasion or two, he'd lock the door, block off any incoming "calls", and turn up the speakers that Dr. Briefs had installed after his start in the music business. There was his sanctuary. Carpe diem. There he'd be able to relax. Perhaps he'd do that now...
With ease, he lifted himself into the air, inhaling the rest of his cigarette before picking up speed. It took only a few minutes to get to Capsule Corp, and even fewer for him to step inside his training grounds.
He locked the door and discarded his extra clothes - stripping down to his boxer shorts. He lit another cigarette and disabled incoming and outgoing calls before turning on the gravity. He then fiddled around some more with the console, breaking a small smile as the speakers came to life.
Chopin...
He leapt into the air, twisting and turning, fighting an imaginary foe. Kick, to punch, to kick, to punch. Everything around him had a beat, a rhythm...and oh, by god, how he needed that right now. He just wanted something steady and consistent rather than being thrown all across the stupid mud ball all the time.
Ah...Andante Spianato and Grande Polonaise in E-Flat Major, Op. 22....
He stopped to finish the rest of his cigarette, and there after decided to stop altogether and take a small break. The heavens knew he rarely got one in these recent times..but the exercise was much needed, and he felt better now after doing a fraction of his "normal" amount.
Eventually he stopped the music and put everything back to the way it was. Collecting his clothes, he went straight to the master bedroom. Bulma was up, reading. "I was just curious," she said, "as to when you were getting home. I don't have to worry, you know, with you being a Super Saijin and all." She worried. He said nothing. "Usually it's customary to take off your clothes inside a private place like the bedroom or bathroom," the blue-haired woman said, but not in any type of snotty way. It was a simple remark.
He nodded, eyebrows furrowing into normal scowl stance, "I know. I was training." He dropped the clothes into a pile beside the bed and slipped under the covers. She turned out the light, not uttering another word.
He closed his eyes, sighing silently.
It was going to be a long night.