Thank you: Klepto, for helping me figure out what to do. Skip, for harassing me.
Disclaimers: If I owned it, why would I be writing fanfiction? DUUUUR.
Papercut
Why does it feel like night today?
Something in here's not right today...
Why am I so uptight today?
Paranoia's all I got left
I don't know what stressed me first
Or how the pressure was fed
but I know just what it feels like
To have a voice in the back of my head
It's like a face that I hold inside
A face that awakes when I close my eyes
A face watches every time I lie
A face that laughs every time I fall
(And watches everything)
So I know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the face inside is hearing me, right beneath my skin
It didn't matter how long he'd been living on Earth - the fact of the matter was that he could never find a regular sleep schedule. No matter what he did it was never the right time to wake up. Too early. Too late. Rarely just right. And even when he awoke to see the peppy sun shining into the room, his body, his mind, was telling him that it wasn't right. It should still be night, with the moon up, and the sun down. It wasn't the first time it had happened, so he ignored it. Besides, he told himself, there was no moon to rise anyway. He got up quickly, his head spinning in a nauseating fashion. He ignored that as well. Pausing only briefly, he shed his sleepwear, which consisted of a pair of training shorts. He approached the dresser to dig out an outfit. He paused though, feeling that feeling of someone watching him. He hunched over, letting his elbows lock and his hands support his upper body.
The faint buzzing filled him again. That overwhelming feeling of wrongness. Like a dirty gaze was laying its forbidden eyes upon him. It wouldn't be the first time. Nor the last, he was certain. He slowly raised his eyes to challenge that unwanted spectator. Would he verbally argue with his constant taunter and torturer? His fingers increased pressure against the polished hard wood surface. Finger nail scratchings etched themselves onto the fine surface. Eight more. Eight more, from eight more, from eight to eight to eight more. They overlapped one another. The dark charcoal was waiting to be kindled into life, just waiting for lighter fluid to soak it, and a spark to ignite.
"What are you laughing at?" demanded the Prince of Saijins. His reflection only showed a curt frown. "It's not polite to laugh," Vegeta stated, narrowing his eyes, watching eyes narrow back at him. He grit his teeth and dealt with it. He always dealt with it. "Fuckin'..grow up. You're so childish," he told the reflection with disgust, ignoring the face that undoubtingly was making crude gestures at him.
It's like I'm paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin
As he knelt to examine the contents of his drawers he felt the numbness sweep over his brain like an intoxicating drug. Like a praying mantis (or perhaps spider would be a more suiting analogy), he could literally not move a muscle for hours on end. He didn't even blink. He was too accustomed to the strange release. Never escape. Just gently his mind would lapse, time would halt, then cease to exist. There was only the faint buzzing. The odd sensation in his lower spine - his phantom tail.
He blinked, snapping out of it as he felt an annoying pulse in his arm. He looked down at it, watching an enlarged vein move with the beating of his heart. He tried to ignore it. It wasn't the first time it had happened. He squinted, his eyes burning from their overexposure to the air. He held his hand against the vein, attempting to will it to stop its motions. That face, that voice, taunted him again. "Oh shut up," Vegeta muttered, turning his attention immediately to putting on his clothes. He'd go downstairs and train, and there wouldn't be any of this sidelines bullshit.
He slipped on his clothes quickly and padded his way to the gravity chamber. His conscious, willing, release. He stepped inside and automatically punched in the commands. It was second nature to him by this point in time. Odd how he could learn certain functions by rote, but not sleeping habits. Come to think of it, Vegeta realized, he hadn't had a good night's rest as far as he could remember. He should be used to it by now. But he wasn't. Lack of REM makes one act a bit off. The only time he'd ever been able to think clearly was in the regeneration tank. What he'd give for one right now... Not for the ability to give him nearly instantaneous recovery, but for that feeling of being suspended effortlessly. To be surrounded by water, and not to be drowning. Drowning, drowning, drowning...
The intense gravity strained him, but he barely even felt it as he moved about in his ritualistic routine. The pressure on him was outstanding. There was always pressure on him. From Bulma, from Trunks, from Kakkarot, from..everyone. Especially from him.
I know I've got a face in me
points out all the mistakes to me
You've got a face on the inside too and
Your paranoia's probably worse
I don't know what set me off first but I know what I can't stand
Everybody acts like the fact of the matter is
I can't add up to what you can but
Everybody has a face that they hold inside
A face that awakes when they close their eyes
A face watches every time they lie
A face that laughs every time they fall
(And watches everything)
So you know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the face inside is watching you too, right inside your skin
Every grueling day was preparation for the upcoming battle. Whether it was inner or outer turmoil made no difference. He'd try and tell himself it was for his own good. That he'd never get anywhere if he slacked off. Hard work and dedication was all it took to achieve your dreams. His life was wasted in an obsession of lies. And he told himself it'd all be worth it, someday. Someday tomorrow or ten years down the road. His life was slipping by, and there was nothing that was going to bring him back - bring it back - eventually. He was only ready when he said he was ready. His mind set near impossible goals. But he was supposed to be Super Saijin, and he was.
'Anything that you can do, I can do better,' the sing-song voice lilted in the back of his mind, 'I can do anything better than you.' He snarled savagely, his arms snapping out to punch the air, his muscles stretching, his joints aching from the abuse. He stopped. Breathing sounded like a perfectly good and rational thing to do at the moment.
Vegeta had a problem with his ego, and with his pride. He deserved to be taken down a peg or two. If he just minded his own damn business and left the others alone, he'd be almost okay. If he didn't open his stupid mouth and piss everyone off with his general idiocy, the world just might've been a bit better. He was left voiceless, however. A grave injustice that needed to be rectified. One that he constantly tried to fix. He never got his point across. His incessant annoyances were mistaken for immaturity. He thought quite the opposite. It was never his fault.
No matter how often Vegeta miscalculated, it was somehow fixable. Nothing was an unobtainable point. It took time, that was all. Precious time. How many years had he trained to face his greatest foe, only to fail? Three more years was all he needed. That accompanied with the ferocious need and bitter facts. He would've never made it alone. He hadn't made it alone.
The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me
He sighed and let himself give a side-ways glance towards the window. He did a double take. It was dusk, already. Twilight. Why did his life revolve around twilight? Why did the sun have to set, the blasted thing? That god-forsaken ball of gas burning away to its death just had to slip beneath the horizon....to betray him like so many other things. He growled and punched in a few buttons, deactivating the gravity. It wasn't fair. He'd just gotten up a few minutes before.
Disclaimers: If I owned it, why would I be writing fanfiction? DUUUUR.
Papercut
Why does it feel like night today?
Something in here's not right today...
Why am I so uptight today?
Paranoia's all I got left
I don't know what stressed me first
Or how the pressure was fed
but I know just what it feels like
To have a voice in the back of my head
It's like a face that I hold inside
A face that awakes when I close my eyes
A face watches every time I lie
A face that laughs every time I fall
(And watches everything)
So I know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the face inside is hearing me, right beneath my skin
It didn't matter how long he'd been living on Earth - the fact of the matter was that he could never find a regular sleep schedule. No matter what he did it was never the right time to wake up. Too early. Too late. Rarely just right. And even when he awoke to see the peppy sun shining into the room, his body, his mind, was telling him that it wasn't right. It should still be night, with the moon up, and the sun down. It wasn't the first time it had happened, so he ignored it. Besides, he told himself, there was no moon to rise anyway. He got up quickly, his head spinning in a nauseating fashion. He ignored that as well. Pausing only briefly, he shed his sleepwear, which consisted of a pair of training shorts. He approached the dresser to dig out an outfit. He paused though, feeling that feeling of someone watching him. He hunched over, letting his elbows lock and his hands support his upper body.
The faint buzzing filled him again. That overwhelming feeling of wrongness. Like a dirty gaze was laying its forbidden eyes upon him. It wouldn't be the first time. Nor the last, he was certain. He slowly raised his eyes to challenge that unwanted spectator. Would he verbally argue with his constant taunter and torturer? His fingers increased pressure against the polished hard wood surface. Finger nail scratchings etched themselves onto the fine surface. Eight more. Eight more, from eight more, from eight to eight to eight more. They overlapped one another. The dark charcoal was waiting to be kindled into life, just waiting for lighter fluid to soak it, and a spark to ignite.
"What are you laughing at?" demanded the Prince of Saijins. His reflection only showed a curt frown. "It's not polite to laugh," Vegeta stated, narrowing his eyes, watching eyes narrow back at him. He grit his teeth and dealt with it. He always dealt with it. "Fuckin'..grow up. You're so childish," he told the reflection with disgust, ignoring the face that undoubtingly was making crude gestures at him.
It's like I'm paranoid lookin' over my back
It's like a whirlwind inside of my head
It's like I can't stop what I'm hearing within
It's like the face inside is right beneath my skin
As he knelt to examine the contents of his drawers he felt the numbness sweep over his brain like an intoxicating drug. Like a praying mantis (or perhaps spider would be a more suiting analogy), he could literally not move a muscle for hours on end. He didn't even blink. He was too accustomed to the strange release. Never escape. Just gently his mind would lapse, time would halt, then cease to exist. There was only the faint buzzing. The odd sensation in his lower spine - his phantom tail.
He blinked, snapping out of it as he felt an annoying pulse in his arm. He looked down at it, watching an enlarged vein move with the beating of his heart. He tried to ignore it. It wasn't the first time it had happened. He squinted, his eyes burning from their overexposure to the air. He held his hand against the vein, attempting to will it to stop its motions. That face, that voice, taunted him again. "Oh shut up," Vegeta muttered, turning his attention immediately to putting on his clothes. He'd go downstairs and train, and there wouldn't be any of this sidelines bullshit.
He slipped on his clothes quickly and padded his way to the gravity chamber. His conscious, willing, release. He stepped inside and automatically punched in the commands. It was second nature to him by this point in time. Odd how he could learn certain functions by rote, but not sleeping habits. Come to think of it, Vegeta realized, he hadn't had a good night's rest as far as he could remember. He should be used to it by now. But he wasn't. Lack of REM makes one act a bit off. The only time he'd ever been able to think clearly was in the regeneration tank. What he'd give for one right now... Not for the ability to give him nearly instantaneous recovery, but for that feeling of being suspended effortlessly. To be surrounded by water, and not to be drowning. Drowning, drowning, drowning...
The intense gravity strained him, but he barely even felt it as he moved about in his ritualistic routine. The pressure on him was outstanding. There was always pressure on him. From Bulma, from Trunks, from Kakkarot, from..everyone. Especially from him.
I know I've got a face in me
points out all the mistakes to me
You've got a face on the inside too and
Your paranoia's probably worse
I don't know what set me off first but I know what I can't stand
Everybody acts like the fact of the matter is
I can't add up to what you can but
Everybody has a face that they hold inside
A face that awakes when they close their eyes
A face watches every time they lie
A face that laughs every time they fall
(And watches everything)
So you know that when it's time to sink or swim
That the face inside is watching you too, right inside your skin
Every grueling day was preparation for the upcoming battle. Whether it was inner or outer turmoil made no difference. He'd try and tell himself it was for his own good. That he'd never get anywhere if he slacked off. Hard work and dedication was all it took to achieve your dreams. His life was wasted in an obsession of lies. And he told himself it'd all be worth it, someday. Someday tomorrow or ten years down the road. His life was slipping by, and there was nothing that was going to bring him back - bring it back - eventually. He was only ready when he said he was ready. His mind set near impossible goals. But he was supposed to be Super Saijin, and he was.
'Anything that you can do, I can do better,' the sing-song voice lilted in the back of his mind, 'I can do anything better than you.' He snarled savagely, his arms snapping out to punch the air, his muscles stretching, his joints aching from the abuse. He stopped. Breathing sounded like a perfectly good and rational thing to do at the moment.
Vegeta had a problem with his ego, and with his pride. He deserved to be taken down a peg or two. If he just minded his own damn business and left the others alone, he'd be almost okay. If he didn't open his stupid mouth and piss everyone off with his general idiocy, the world just might've been a bit better. He was left voiceless, however. A grave injustice that needed to be rectified. One that he constantly tried to fix. He never got his point across. His incessant annoyances were mistaken for immaturity. He thought quite the opposite. It was never his fault.
No matter how often Vegeta miscalculated, it was somehow fixable. Nothing was an unobtainable point. It took time, that was all. Precious time. How many years had he trained to face his greatest foe, only to fail? Three more years was all he needed. That accompanied with the ferocious need and bitter facts. He would've never made it alone. He hadn't made it alone.
The sun goes down
I feel the light betray me
He sighed and let himself give a side-ways glance towards the window. He did a double take. It was dusk, already. Twilight. Why did his life revolve around twilight? Why did the sun have to set, the blasted thing? That god-forsaken ball of gas burning away to its death just had to slip beneath the horizon....to betray him like so many other things. He growled and punched in a few buttons, deactivating the gravity. It wasn't fair. He'd just gotten up a few minutes before.