A/N : ….so I totally wasn't kidding about that 'slow updates' thing… :/ Also, ahem, WARNING! Bad stuff at the end of this chapter, which is why I stopped where I did so long ago. (this is (one of) the obligatory 'oh shit we have made a terrible mistake' chapter) I legitimately had to force myself to write it, and I don't recommend reading the last bit of this if you're sensitive, or…actually, I don't recommend reading it all. Seriously. I regret ever writing it. Really. Skip it. (It's nothing even remotely graphic or anything like that, it's just…no. No.)

Chapter 8

The bruises were fading.

Only the lightest of blue smudges against pale skin.

So many problems, his entire world crumbling beneath him, his entire life grinding to a halt, the entire universe against him, absolutely and utterly alone, and yet for those first few days, Vejita's main concern were the marks around his neck.

They were already fading.

He didn't want them to.

Those fingerprints painted on his skin were the last reminders he would ever have of his mother.

When he sat on the hard, uncomfortable bed, staring at his reflection in the mirror, and realized that the marks were fading, he lifted up his little fingers and dug them into his neck, trying to keep them dark. He didn't want his mother's hands to fade. Trying desperately to cling to that very last remnant of the one who had born him.

He did his best.

But eventually, over the coming days, he realized that the bruises were only his own—the original ones had gone. Only his own fingerprints remained.

It hurt, to finally admit defeat.

When he woke up one morning and saw clear skin around his throat, Vejita felt something in himself depart. Something snapped, and flew away. Something was missing. Something that would never come back, that could never be replaced.

His mother was gone.

And goddammit all if that didn't hurt Yamcha more than it did Vejita. To lose his mother, for the second time in his life. To have something he had always wanted suddenly ripped away from him right as he had become to rely on it.

To have a mother once again taken unfairly from him.

Yamcha had striven so hard in life to be on top. Had done anything and everything to make people respect him, to make people fear him, to make people envy him.

Had had to work twice as hard, had needed so badly to hear it from others, because in his own mind he had never even truly believed in himself. Had never been able to be confident in himself, not really. Could play the part, sure, but it was superficial at best. Inside, nothing he ever did seemed good enough, because he had always been bested, in the end.

Always came in last, it seemed, and that hurt more than it should have, because he could look at himself in those moments, when he felt like he was little more than a novelty, and he could see, then, why his mother and father had abandoned him.

His parents had never wanted him, had dumped him off in an orphanage when he had been a few days old. Had never even given him a chance. He'd never had a chance, never even had the opportunity to meet them, to look at them, to ask them 'why?'

'Why didn't you want me?'

'What did I do wrong?'

'Why couldn't you love me?'

His entire life had been spent impressing others because, in some sense, he wanted to impress his parents. Wanted them to know, somehow, that they had been wrong about him. That they had made a mistake, letting him go like that, because he was somebody. Because he was worth it.

But he had never felt that.

Had never felt worth it, no matter how hard he had tried all those years, and so to have a mother, to have someone looking at him and loving him no matter what, to have someone that adored him in absolutely every way, to be held in strong arms and to be coddled and hugged and encouraged and praised and believed in, to have someone be proud of him, to have someone love him so much that the thought of losing him had been a cause for insanity, there were no words that Yamcha could have ever found to describe how incredible that sensation had been.

How astounding, to be completely and utterly loved for no reason.

The loss was unbearable.

Felt like a knife, constantly twisting in Yamcha's stomach.

Vejita mourned his mother, absolutely, was devastated, but Vejita was still a little kid, and even though he understood that his mother wasn't coming back, even though on some level he understood that his mother was 'dead', it just didn't hit him as hard as it would have an adult, because Vejita had yet to truly develop a consciousness of what death actually was.

Yamcha understood, comprehended, and he had spent these lonely days in the room sitting on the floor, head ducked down into his arms and alternating between screaming in frustration and bawling.

Vejita's mother.

Had been his own, for five years, and Yamcha hadn't even really understood how much he had always wanted a mother, how much he had always needed a mother, until he had had Vejita's. How much having parents had truly been lacking in his life.

How much parents could mean.

To have someone there to guide you, to teach you, to instill within you strength and wisdom and confidence.

It didn't even matter one fuckin' bit that Vejita's mother was a Saiyan, didn't matter that he was a male, didn't matter, had never mattered even once to Yamcha that Vejita's mother was nothing like a conventional Earthling mother, not for a second.

All that had mattered was that Vejita's mother had loved him.

Yamcha grieved Vejita's mother more than the child did, more than he had ever grieved anyone. Hell, he'd been so flippant his entire life, had been so carefree, that he had never really felt this kind of devastation. Everything had been a joke, always had been, everything had been easy, because Goku had always been there, and even when he hadn't been, then so what? The dragonballs were constant; death had never meant too much to him.

Did it ever now.

Had never known how hopeless, how miserable, how crushing this feeling was, to lose someone that you knew could never be brought back, that you loved so much but just couldn't ever see again.

His mother.

That family that he had mercifully been a part of, that family that had been his, that family that he had belonged to, that family that he had loved, had been destroyed.

All that was left was the king, whom both Vejita and Yamcha worshipped from afar.

The first week, Vejita was withdrawn and completely silent, and refused to eat even though the pangs of hunger hit him so hard that sometimes he got dizzy and tottered. Didn't once leave his room, didn't once try to open the door and see what was outside.

It was on the ninth day, when the hunger became just too painful that Vejita finally admitted defeat and started wandering over to the door. Didn't want to go out, but couldn't stay in here anymore.

His father was waiting.

He wanted to go home; could never work his way back to his planet if he just sat here. Could never see his father again if he didn't find the strength to get to work.

Yamcha disagreed with Vejita—he could have sat in here forever.

Didn't want to get to work, didn't want to go outside.

Just wanted to sit here and continue his mournful vigil of Vejita's mother.

No choice.

Yamcha found himself being drawn to the door as Vejita opened it up, daring himself to explore his new surroundings for the first time. A poke of his head out of the door, a bright hallway, and around the corner, the sound of bustling soldiers. A short minute of Vejita gathering his courage, and then he stepped out, taking a deep breath and heading towards the sound of the ruckus.

Around the bend, the main corridor was crowded and rowdy, soldiers of all sizes and races coming and going, loud voices and shouts, laughter, and Yamcha just stood there, staring down at Vejita as he tried to figure out where he needed to go.

Wasn't a good idea, Yamcha knew it wasn't, but he also knew that there wasn't really a choice. No one was coming to save Vejita, so he just had to try and figure out this new life on his own.

A sharp look around, Vejita's mind whirring, and then Vejita realized that he was just going to have to merge into that crowd of soldiers and figure out where he needed to go to get some food before he passed out.

Yamcha was the one who was scared, not Vejita, when the child finally pushed his way into the corridor, trying in vain to see doors or signs. Couldn't. Couldn't see a damn thing past everyone else, he was too short, and didn't want to speak to anyone, didn't want to look vulnerable, didn't want to stand out, didn't want to call attention to himself.

Hardly—in that ship, in that corridor, in the middle of those warriors, Vejita stood out like a fuckin' star in the black of space.

A little kid, tiny as he was, in the middle of those huge soldiers.

There had never been any hope of Vejita not drawing attention to himself.

Everywhere the little feet pattered, there were men who stopped still and gawked down at the child, clearly in disbelief, and Yamcha couldn't help but feel, underneath Vejita's agitation, a great concern. To see such a tiny child, Gohan's size back then, wandering amongst these killers, barely coming up to their knees...

It was frightening.

Made him shudder.

And yet Vejita kept on, trying to be brave, and pushed his way through the crowd, most of whom knocked him aside and carried on. Felt like hours that he wandered, trying to get through the crowd, and with every minute of it he was growing more exhausted. Tired and dizzy.

He didn't know where he was going.

An awful pang of hunger jolted him then, he stumbled a bit, tottering to the side, and when he caught his balance and bowed his head to squint his eyes against the lightheadedness, Yamcha stood up straight and tried to keep guard, even if his own balance was skewed.

It was only a second, just one second that Vejita had stopped there, just one second that he had fallen still in vulnerability.

One second too long, amongst these warriors.

Some of the men stopped in their tracks and stared down at him, clearly amazed at the sight of a kid amongst them, and a few of the looks he received made Yamcha's skin crawl. Someone laughed, then, and reached out in that moment of dizzy weakness to touch Vejita's hair as he passed, crooning, "Oh, what a pretty little monkey."

The anger that hit him then, strong as it was, left him wondering if it was Vejita's or his own.

Probably both.

Could feel his face burning, as he clenched his fists and braced his feet and took on a stance that was clearly ready to go to war, even if it would have been only in his head.

As Yamcha bristled out, furiously, Vejita narrowed his eyes and slapped away the intrusive hand and walked on, face stoic and stance firm, but Yamcha could feel his heart hammering away in panic. That burst of fear. It was the anxiety and adrenaline that perked Vejita up then, that fought off that dizziness, that made him alert again, and he found the strength to start walking.

He walked and walked, and it came to a point where Yamcha was actually sure that they had already looped around the entire ship and that now Vejita was just going in circles. But still he kept on going, because he didn't know what else to do, and he stopped only when a man came to a halt in front of him and didn't yield to him.

Vejita looked up, and the name came into Yamcha's head.

Zarbon.

A stare, a silence, and then Zarbon gave a sneer.

"Ah, there you are. I was wondering when you were going to show yourself around here. I thought you'd've starved to death by now."

A burn of hate in his veins.

At the child's silent look, Zarbon heaved a sigh, and turned around.

"Come with me. He wants to see you, anyway."

He.

Vejita knew who he was, and it was only the desire to protect his father that made Vejita follow silently instead of grabbing Zarbon's leg and demanding food.

Yamcha could only glare holes into Zarbon's back, wanting nothing more than to deck him one right in his smug face, but the child just braced his shoulders and went where Zarbon led, tying to appear tough even though he didn't really feel that way.

People made way for Zarbon, and some bowed.

Vejita found that almost hurtfully unfair.

He was the prince. His father was the king.

They were royalty, and yet no one seemed to care.

None of this was right.

Outside of the portholes, Vejita glanced out into the darkness of space, and wondered where his planet was. Wondered where his father was at, in that tapestry of stars.

Before he knew it, Zarbon had led him into a quiet room, and when Vejita looked up, he had to suppress a shudder.

Frieza.

Yamcha had always considered himself exceptionally lucky in some way that he had never had to go hand to hand with Frieza, that he had never had to feel that fear, that horror, that terror.

His luck had ended, by his own doing.

Those piercing red eyes locked onto Vejita, and Yamcha's shudder then was firmly his own—Vejita wasn't scared.

Vejita just felt so angry, so angry, and so frustrated because he couldn't act upon it. Had to do whatever this strange creature wanted, anything at all, because his father was expecting him to do a good job, and the sooner he completed his tasks the sooner he could go home.

Oh—that notion made Yamcha's chest hurt.

Vejita didn't understand yet that he was never going home again.

There was a long silence, in which Frieza was clearly expecting the child to bow, but Vejita didn't really know what to do or say and so just stood there instead.

Zarbon's eyes were focused. Intense.

Finally, Frieza realized he wasn't getting anywhere, and spoke up.

"Ah, there you are. Good evening, Vejita."

It was the sound of that voice, the tones and the grating way it hurt his ears, that finally started to bring up fear, bubbling to the surface underneath the frustration.

It wasn't the same kind of fear that Yamcha was feeling. It wasn't that Vejita was scared, exactly, for himself. It wasn't that Vejita was scared directly of Frieza. Scared, suddenly, because Frieza was, at the end of the day, the one who had destroyed his mother, and he was terrified of his father meeting the same fate.

Frieza stared expectantly at Vejita, but he offered up no response, tail coiled up so tightly that it was nearly cutting off his circulation. The child stood stark still, and visually gave away nothing. Yamcha would have thought that he felt nothing if his own stomach hadn't been churning with terror.

He missed his mother.

Felt so isolated, so lonely, and his mother was dead because of this creature in front of him.

Took everything he had, every last bit of him, to keep his mouth shut.

Frieza watched him for a moment, and then heaved a sigh that was somehow exasperated, and when he spoke again, he had heightened the pitch of his voice and slowed his words, as if he wasn't entirely sure that the child could perfectly understand him.

Vejita could, mostly, but in reality wished he couldn't.

"Vejita, around here we bow when speaking to the master. Surely someone has gone over the rules with you."

Frieza glanced almost testily in Zarbon's direction, and Zarbon averted his eyes to the floor.

"Well," Frieza continued, irritably, "We'll fix that for you, won't we, Zarbon? Vejita, I want you to spend some time with Zarbon so that you'll know how to properly conduct yourself aboard my ship. The next time I see you, I expect you to have better manners. For your father's sake."

A horrible jolt of fear, panic, and even though he didn't understand some of the words that Frieza had uttered, he had certainly understand and comprehended the subtle threat at the end.

A twitch on Vejita's face and a bristle of his tail, and even though Yamcha could feel a hatred unlike any he had ever known, Vejita finally lowered himself down onto one knee.

A low, choked, "Yes, sir."

Oh, how that hurt to say. He was the prince here. People had always bowed to him.

For the king.

"Good boy. How have you enjoyed my ship so far?"

A tense shrug.

"Vejita, that's not a proper answer. Please, use your words. You don't need to be more animal than absolutely necessary."

Zarbon's smirk, now that he was no longer on the hot spot, was grating Yamcha's nerves.

Vejita stared at the floor, bangs covering his eyes, and he wished, more than anything, that his mother was there, because he would never have let anyone talk to him like that. Never.

He was alone.

One disjointed thought flew through Yamcha's mind as he watched.

—for father, for father, for father—

Yamcha dropped his head, eyes squinted and teeth clenched, and it was his own terror that he felt then, as he feared for the king from afar.

Their father.

Woulda done anything to keep him safe.

Frieza eyed little Vejita up and down as he knelt there, contemplating his words, and merely quirked up a brow when Vejita finally muttered, quietly, "It's...alright."

The best Vejita could muster, and from what Vejita would have truly liked to say, that was practically a gushing compliment.

Zarbon and Frieza shared a quick look, and Frieza smiled, saying, cheerfully, "Well! I'm just going to assume that you don't yet speak enough universal for you to be able to properly give me appreciation, so we'll have Zarbon work on that with you, as well."

Behind Frieza's back, Yamcha could see the pursed lips and narrowed eyes of Zarbon, clearly a look of distaste, and oh, if only he knew how mutual that feeling was.

"You're dismissed, Vejita. You'll be in Zarbon's care for now, until I say otherwise."

Vejita stayed silent, still kneeling there on the floor, and didn't move again until Frieza had left and Zarbon had come up before him. Glowered at Zarbon's boots, and was content to sit there until Zarbon finally reached down, grabbed him not so roughly by the upper arm, and hauled him to his feet.

Vejita looked up, black eyes meeting golden, and they stared at each other for a moment.

Zarbon didn't look very happy, and Vejita less so.

Finally, Zarbon gave a scoff and released Vejita's arm, stepping back and straightening up

"Well, then. Here we are. Don't expect me to coddle you. I'm not a babysitter, and if you didn't show such potential as a soldier Lord Frieza would have drowned you himself."

An awful clench in his chest.

The feel of water in his throat. No air.

The way the world above looked from beneath the ripples of water.

"Sad to say I'm stuck with you, so let's get this over as quickly as possible so I can get back to more interesting ventures. Alright?"

Vejita, still staring up at Zarbon, didn't twitch, and didn't speak.

Yamcha found himself circling Zarbon then, restlessly, sizing him up, even though no one could see him. Couldn't sit still like Vejita did, couldn't plant his feet to the floor.

Just wanted to take Zarbon out back.

Zarbon turned his back then, began his march to the door, and under his breath he muttered, bitterly, "The nerve, reducing me to little more than a schoolteacher!"

Vejita followed, quietly, and tried damn well to play the part of submissive student, because he couldn't have really fathomed the thought of the king being hurt because of him. Because he had messed up something as simple as a bow or a compliment.

Yamcha's chest was burning from the hate he felt then, piled on top of Vejita's, and he counted the days until Vejita was old enough to hold his own against these men. Until the day when this army would stand against Saiyans and realize what a damn mistake they had made.

For now, though, there was no choice but to abase himself, to humiliate himself, to degrade himself, and all because he loved the king.

Just like that, they were once again out in that corridor. Another trek down the bustling hall, and more leers and jeers.

This time, though, Zarbon's presence kept Vejita safe. For the most part.

When some other fool reached out yet again absently to brush his palm against the top of Vejita's hair in passing, Vejita didn't have a chance to slap him away; Zarbon was the one to whirl around, grab the offending wrist in an exceedingly painful grip, and mutter, "This one is under Lord Frieza's protection for now. I don't recommend touching unless you want to lose something."

A pained whisper.

"Yes, sir."

Vejita stared straight ahead, appearing unfazed, and hoped that Zarbon couldn't hear his hammering heart.

Yamcha wondered exactly what 'for now' meant. Didn't care much for the sound of it.

Vejita tried not to worry about it too much, because that fear that had woken him up was fading, and with it his energy.

Dizzy.

He stumbled yet again, pale and forehead damp with cold-sweat, and when Zarbon glanced back, Yamcha couldn't really pinpoint that expression on his face.

A slower walk, a change of direction, and Zarbon said aloud to him, "I don't recommend hanging on to that stubbornness for long, Vejita. What's cute in a child is often extremely annoying in a man."

Vejita ignored him, quite easily, because he didn't understand half of what the bastard had said anyway and his only concern now was finding something to eat.

Luckily, Zarbon had led him straight to it, and although it wasn't anything at all like the banquets he had grown accustomed to at the palace, Vejita accepted anything he could get his hands on.

Zarbon just crossed his arms and waited impatiently as Vejita eagerly ate as much as he could, and Yamcha hung near Zarbon, keeping a hard eye on him and remembering every inch of him, because he didn't trust Zarbon. Couldn't put his finger on it; wasn't right there in front of him like Frieza was. Wasn't that instantaneous sense of fear. Something else, something slower, something less visible. A darkness, lurking beneath calm water. Something underneath the ice.

That alarm in his head had gone off the second he had ever laid eyes on Zarbon, even if it hadn't in Vejita's mind.

Rightfully so, no doubt, but all Vejita felt was a strange sense of resignation when Zarbon said, "Are you ready?"

Ready for lessons.

All Vejita could do was nod his head, and let Zarbon lead him off to a quieter section of the ship, and before long they were in a room by themselves. A table, chairs. A screen and an intercom.

Zarbon looked around for a bit, mapping out his plan of war in his head, and it didn't take him long to tell the child to sit while he rummaged around.

Just like that, Vejita was officially part of Frieza's army.

The rules of the ship were the first things to be beaten into Vejita's head, and Zarbon wasted no opportunity to torment the child, although not so roughly.

Zarbon just seemed to enjoy correcting Vejita when he made a mistake.

Enjoyed pressing his boot into Vejita's back when the child didn't bow low enough. Enjoyed twisting Vejita's wrist when the child didn't salute correctly. Enjoyed yanking the child's hair when his stance of attention wasn't straight enough. Enjoyed slapping the child's cheek when he didn't remember to say 'Lord Frieza'.

Yamcha wished, more than anything, that he could have had a room alone with Zarbon.

Woulda taught him a few lessons.

Vejita was smart, though, quick on his toes and clever, and it had only taken three days before the bows and salutes satisfied Zarbon.

When the proper etiquette, if it could be called that, had been pounded (quite literally) into Vejita, Zarbon found it time to go ahead and start lessons on the universal language, if only to get it over with as quickly as he could.

Zarbon's training was harsh, relentless, but not so ruthless. For all of it, Zarbon was a bit careful with the child, somewhat gentle, whether he realized he was being so or not, and didn't ever really strike out to truly hurt Vejita. Who could have ever said why. Perhaps Zarbon just didn't see the fun in beating up a little kid. Perhaps Zarbon, with his prim and proper attitude, had some sort of respect for Vejita's title of prince. Or perhaps Zarbon was just scared that Frieza wouldn't have been happy with Vejita being tossed around like a doll yet, before he had made himself useful.

Perhaps it would have made them look like bad hosts, or some such, and that might have ruffled their feathers.

Didn't matter.

Vejita hated Zarbon all the same.

And so did Yamcha.

It was strange, and alarming, in a way, to see someone like Zarbon hovering over tiny Vejita, eyes sharp and pointed and focused, trying to beat a language into him that Vejita was steadily starting to despise. Yamcha felt helpless somehow, as Zarbon conversed with Vejita in universal, and Vejita struggled to form words and sentences in his head. It was a little frightening, to feel the way Vejita's heart thudded away as he stood there, waiting to see if what he had said was correct or not. If it wasn't, if something had been wrong with his grammar or pronunciation, Zarbon was quick to let the child know with a sharp smack to the back of his head.

Vejita seethed, every time he had to write, every time he had to speak.

Hated the universal language, hated the sound of it, hated the feel of it on his tongue. Hated that there was no one here to speak his mother tongue to. Missed hearing his language, spoken gently from his father. Missed his mother's crooning and whispering.

Missed his home.

It didn't take long for Yamcha to hear, in Zarbon's voice, traces of Vejita. He had always thought that the way Vejita spoke was strange. They way he pronounced some words, the way he elongated certain vowels and the stress he put on certain syllables. Yamcha had always assumed that it was just because Vejita was a prince, that he spoke that way because the court or something had instilled it in him. And certainly, in his own language, Vejita had learned to speak eloquently from his father, had a far greater vocabulary than the great majority of children, but when Zarbon spoke in universal, primly and somewhat snobbily, it was easy to hear some of the same tones.

Vejita had learned to speak the way he did from Zarbon, at least in part. When Vejita was older, he had no doubt formed his own manner of speech, but Zarbon's hand would always be there upon it.

When lessons were over and Vejita lied in bed, though, he stared up at the ceiling and had begun speaking to himself, because he missed his language so much he would have gone crazy if he hadn't been able to hear it at all.

No one was here to talk to, so he held conversations with himself.

Where was Nappa?

Nappa had said that wherever Vejita went he would go, too.

Yet, Vejita found himself alone and in the dark. Didn't even know where he was now, where this ship was off to, didn't know where his planet was, didn't know where his father was. Didn't know what was going on at home; had no contact with anyone.

Complete isolation.

Yamcha sat on the edge of the bed, staring out of the window and at the distant stars as Vejita murmured himself to sleep.

Loneliness.

Speaking of Nappa, though...

It was three weeks on that horrid ship before Nappa finally returned to Vejita's side.

Who knew where he had been or what he had been doing; all Yamcha knew is that Vejita heard a knock on his door one day, and when he went to hit the button to open it, great Nappa stood there in the corridor, beaten and bloodied and barely standing upright.

A long stare, and then Vejita stood aside, and let Nappa in.

Nappa didn't hesitate, stumbling inside and leaning against the wall, sliding down to the floor and panting for air through his mouth.

It was hard to pinpoint exactly what Vejita felt then, because it was a little bit of everything.

Relief. Anger. Happiness. Sadness. Frustration.

Was happy to see Nappa, was relieved to no longer be alone, was glad that he would have a companion, but angry because it wasn't fair that Nappa was here with him and his father was not. Disappointed that Nappa was to be the only link to his kind that he would be allowed to have.

Nappa looked up at Vejita then, smiling despite his pain, and said, a bit commandingly, "Prince! You look too skinny. You need to eat more."

Silence.

It was taking Vejita a long time to figure out exactly how he was feeling, exactly what he wanted to do. Exactly what he wanted to say.

In the end, though, Vejita just took a bold step forward and cried, a bit loudly, "Are you alright?"

It wasn't because Vejita was particularly interested in whether Nappa was alright or not, wasn't because he exactly cared all that much, although on some level he did. A little.

No.

Vejita called out to him then, with that somewhat desperate tone, because Vejita was just so grateful, so grateful, to be able to open his mouth and speak in his native language with someone who understood after weeks of having Zarbon beat universal into his head.

Nappa, for his part, obviously couldn't have cared less about why Vejita called out; it was painfully apparent there on his face that absolute adoration he had for the child. How happy he was then, despite his awful condition, to think that Vejita cared about him.

For it, Yamcha felt rather uncomfortable.

Remembered seeing Nappa at his worst, at his most ruthless, remembered how terrifying Nappa was, how merciless, and so it was always strange to see him looking like that, always surreal to see him smiling in a manner that wasn't callous, always curious to see, under it all, how much Nappa loved Vejita. It was kind of alarming, to try and put together the evil side of Nappa with the side of him that could be so gentle and caring to a child.

Maybe evil was a strong word. What was 'evil' for an Earthling, after all, could just be a normal day for another race. There was only grey, he supposed. Not everything was always so black and white.

At any rate, evil or no, Yamcha still couldn't put it together.

Could never really understand Nappa, no matter how hard he tried, and so Yamcha was always just forced to use Vejita's opinion of him instead, because thinking too much about it was hurting his head.

Nappa sat there, leaning against the wall and breathing heavily against apparent dizziness, and then he finally said, weakly, "Ah, I'm alright. Don't worry about me. I'm just— I'm so glad...that you're alright. I was so worried about you."

Immediately, Vejita asked, "How's father?"

A flash of hurt on Nappa's face, and a low, "I don't know. I haven't seen him since the day you left home. I was...detained. I haven't been able to speak to anyone."

Vejita's heart sank, and his face fell right along with it.

Had never been so disappointed.

Just wanted to know if his father was alright.

Nappa saw, as he always did.

They were alone in that moment, and Vejita had been isolated for just long enough to the point of vulnerability. That was the only reason, the only one, that, when Nappa held out his bloody arms, Vejita ran forward and leapt into them. Had there been anyone else around, Vejita would have dropped dead. Had Nappa done such a thing on a normal day, Vejita would have turned his back on him.

Not now.

So lonely, so disheartened, so lost.

Wanted his father, and all he had gotten was dumb Nappa instead, but when everything was said and done, Nappa was still a Saiyan, Nappa was still his guardian, Nappa was still his companion, and, in some way, Nappa was still his friend.

So Vejita swallowed his pride and buried his face in Nappa's shoulder, arms clenching Nappa's neck for all he was worth, as Nappa's huge arms pulled him into a tight embrace, and Vejita had nearly cried, for a second there. Pushed it away quite effectively, though, and instead let his tail curl up around Nappa's arm.

Just wanted to go home.

He hadn't ever thought that Nappa's scent could ever be comforting, but oh, was it ever in that awful, vulnerable moment.

A low, deep whisper.

"I promise, I won't ever leave again. I'll protect you, as best I can."

Didn't want Nappa's protection.

Wanted his father.

Vejita just exhaled a sigh and swallowed, and it didn't take long for beaten Nappa to pass out, arms still around the child, and Vejita just stared off into nothing and tried damn hard to pretend that it was his father's arms around him instead.

Didn't work.

Vejita couldn't really help but blame Nappa for it.

Had never wanted Nappa.

Eventually, when the child realized he just couldn't turn Nappa into his father, he squirmed out of unconscious Nappa's arms and trudged back over to the bed, throwing himself on it and burying his face in the scratchy blanket instead.

Hated it here.

Yamcha just stared down at bruised Nappa and couldn't really help but feel a little sorry for the big oaf. Nappa had always tried his best to be there for Vejita, had tried so hard to earn Vejita's respect and affections, but it had never really worked. Wasn't meant to be.

All the same, Nappa was here now, the only one here, and Vejita certainly didn't spurn him, didn't send him off.

That was the longest he had ever gone in his short life without Nappa, and now that Nappa was here at last, Vejita had no intention of repeating that. From then on, one was never seen without the other. Wherever he went, Nappa went as well.

As he had promised.

Nappa accompanied Vejita on his lessons with Zarbon now, and Yamcha wasn't really sure whether that was a good thing or not. Liked that Nappa's presence seemed to give Vejita a boost of confidence, but didn't like that Zarbon saw that and was now much stricter and harsher with the child than he had been before.

Zarbon seemed to enjoy hitting the child when Nappa was there, because it riled Nappa up like nothing else and Zarbon knew that neither one of them could do a damn thing about. Zarbon liked to torment the both of them and get them angry just so that he could put them in place.

Zarbon liked to mistreat the crown prince in front of his royal guard, because it must have been satisfying to him when the royal guard could only bow his head and grit his teeth. A power-trip for Zarbon, no doubt, yet he still kept his hands from harming Vejita past the point of mild discomfort, surely for his own strange reasons.

Weeks of this never-ending irritation.

After five weeks, though, Zarbon's lessons had rooted themselves quite well there in Vejita's head, and when the child stood before Zarbon, who bent down at the waist to converse in rapid, proper universal, Vejita was actually able to keep up, for the first time, was able to understand and respond.

Behind, Nappa was bristling with pride, arms crossed and smirk firm on his face.

And, well, guess Zarbon considered that well and good enough, because that time he didn't reach out and strike Vejita, even though the child had messed up a few pronunciations here and there.

Vejita had puffed out as much as Nappa, and knew that he had done a good job.

Eventually, Zarbon just straightened back up and was silent for a moment, before muttering, "That's fine. Good enough, at any rate. I'm tired of teaching."

That must have been true, because the next evening Frieza summoned Vejita again, apparently deeming a month more than long enough for Zarbon to have trained the child in the manner he saw fit and surely because Zarbon had gone whining to him that Vejita had had more than ample instruction.

This time, Vejita knew the 'rules', knew what everyone wanted from him, and when Zarbon led him and Nappa into the sort of throne room Frieza resided in, Vejita was the first to drop himself down on one knee, hand over his chest and head bowed.

Nappa's expression was strange then, hostile, and Yamcha knew that it was because it offended Nappa as much as it ever had Vejita that his prince was forced to bow to someone rather than the other way around.

No choice. Not now.

Frieza smiled then, apparently content that Vejita was giving him the respect he deserved, and was quick to say, "That's much better, Vejita."

At Frieza's side stood Zarbon, as always, and on his other side was a large, pink warrior that Vejita didn't recognize.

A low, deep-chested growl that was far too deep of a frequency for Frieza or Zarbon to hear, and Vejita finally choked it down and responded, "Thank you, Lord Frieza."

And Yamcha was fuckin' terrified, absolutely terrified, to stand in front of Frieza again. Could never have explained that fear, that horror, knowing that this being, this creature, was standing between him and his father. That this thing was using the king as a way to force Vejita's hand.

It wasn't Vejita's fear. It was his own, potent and powerful and overwhelming.

Trying to cling to the last remnants of his family.

Frieza smiled at him, coolly and calmly, and tried once again to engage the child in conversation, perhaps to gather a sense of exactly how much he understood.

"So, Vejita! How have your lessons been coming along?"

Vejita, more in tune with what Frieza wanted now, gathered up his thoughts and said, in accented universal that was actually still quite impressive for such a young child, "Very well so far, Lord Frieza."

"Yes, yes," Frieza said quickly, sitting up a bit almost with interest, "I can hear it already. Zarbon must be quite the skilled instructor."

A curl of Zarbon's lip, although he still uttered, "Thank you, Lord Frieza."

"Quick learner, I see, Vejita. Good. I like that. Saves me a lot of time. I dare say you could even be sent out on missions already, could you not?"

Vejita bowed his head, and just said, thinly, "Yes, Lord Frieza."

Lord, lord, lord.

Sick of saying it already. Felt so dirty in his mouth. So sickening.

This creature was no king.

Yamcha shuddered then, when Frieza looked up at Nappa and said, dismissively, "You there. Go back to your quarters. I need to speak to Vejita in private."

A jolt of panic, both Yamcha's and Vejita's, and hell, probably from Nappa too, because he looked up, eyes wide and jaw clenched, and it was obvious that he wanted to protest, that he didn't want to leave the child alone.

A minute of silence that felt like eternity, and then Vejita uncoiled the tip of his tail, just a bit, and let it jerk in the air. Nappa took the hint, reluctantly, and finally pulled himself to his feet and bowed his head before turning on his heel and walking out.

Anxiety.

Vejita's pounding pulse, and underneath, the throbbing fear.

Hadn't done anything wrong yet, not yet, hadn't been here long enough to screw anything up. Not yet. Oh, his father was counting on him—

But Frieza didn't berate him, didn't punish him for anything, made-up or not.

Rather, Frieza looked Vejita up and down, and then said, "You know, Vejita, I regret a bit letting him aboard my ship. He's very weak, isn't he? I think sometimes about getting rid of him."

A snort from Zarbon.

What did that bode for him, then? Nappa was stronger than he was, if only by a hair.

Apparently, it boded quite well, for Frieza carried on, "I have a very demanding training program set up for you, Vejita, one that I expect you to excel at in between your assignments. I think in just a few weeks you'll be far stronger than he is. So. Why do you need him around? I can find you a much stronger companion. One more suited to your level. Of course, I don't ever expect you to reach the level of, say, Zarbon or Dodoria, but I believe I can make much better use of you. So. Shall I find you someone else?"

A long, awful minute of silence, as Vejita's mind whirred away.

Hadn't ever really wanted Nappa, but he was here now, and Vejita was pretty sure that he would have rather died than trade a Saiyan for one of Frieza's lackeys. Would never have made that trade, even if he had hated Nappa.

What to do.

So Vejita, pressing his luck perhaps but so desperate to preserve some sense of structure in this frightening new life, said, carefully, "Lord Frieza, I think— I would rather have Nappa."

Frieza lifted up his brow, not looking all that impressed.

In an effort to bolster himself and not disappoint Frieza at the same time, Vejita added, "I... I can control Nappa. I can become stronger by myself. I want to be with someone weaker than I am."

Yamcha waited, breath held.

A crinkle of Frieza's brow, but perhaps Vejita had bullshitted just the right reason, because Frieza finally gave a laugh and said, "Ah, yes. I see. You like to be in control. Well, no shame in that I suppose. Oh, alright, I'll let you keep him for now. But I expect you to work doubly hard to make up for it."

Immediately, Vejita grumbled, "Yes, Lord Frieza."

Oh, Nappa. Was already more trouble than he was worth.

Frieza carried on, still appearing to be in such a good mood, and quipped, "You see, Vejita? I always look out for those who give their best for me. I expect you to be exceptional. I have very high expectations for you."

Yamcha clenched his fists.

Yeah, he knew what Frieza's idea of 'looking out' for someone entailed.

Couldn't wait for the day when Frieza's name would be spoken only in past tense.

For now, all Vejita could do was keep his head bowed and keep repeating, over and over again, "Yes, Lord Frieza."

"Good that we see eye to eye. Dismissed."

"Thank you, Lord Frieza."

Vejita stood up, veins flushed with adrenaline at that ridiculously close call, and when he turned to go back to the door, he realized that Zarbon wasn't going with him.

Not this time.

He stepped into the corridor alone.

Frieza professed to be impressed with Vejita, professed to be a merciful master, professed to be a part of Vejita's new 'family', professed to be 'looking out' for Vejita.

But Frieza sent Vejita back out alone. Nappa was on the other side of the ship, Zarbon wasn't here to use his status to protect him, and it was just the child by himself, once again forced to push and shove his way down that crowded hallway.

The scariest moment of Yamcha's life.

Trying to keep an eye on Vejita, knowing it was pointless, and cringing every time some war-hardened soldier sent tiny Vejita an inappropriate stare.

Disgusting.

Frieza had always had a reputation for having the most ruthless army in the universe, had been known for his cruelty, for his mercilessness, and so Yamcha didn't know why it still surprised him, the way some of these thugs were. Frieza had only ever attracted the worst kind of scum, hadn't he, and these men were prime examples of that.

To have a child on board, a little kid that most of them could only assume couldn't defend himself, a kid that perhaps some of them knew was royalty, was really just asking for trouble, and surely Frieza had known it all along when he had sent Vejita out alone amidst the wolves. Vejita was more aware than most kids, yeah, was far stronger than some of these warriors, was certainly able to protect himself in reasonable environments, but nothing here was reasonable. These men weren't Earthlings; looking on it from where they were now, after all these years, these guys were laughable, sure, but they weren't in that time now, weren't in their time. They were in a time when everything had been up for grabs in the depths of space. This was the height of Frieza's reign of terror, the best years for him, when his army had been the most feared entity in the universe.

Vejita would one day be the slightly less powerful half of an indestructible duo that could stop anything, but right now he was a little kid.

Terror.

Yamcha's own, yet again. Couldn't seem to shake that fear.

Vejita wasn't scared then because he didn't have a reason to be.

Vejita was five fuckin' years old, didn't understand those looks, didn't understand those lewd comments. Didn't understand why some of them kept reaching out, as they had several times before, to brush his hair in passing. Didn't understand that, maybe, sometimes people saw tiny, helpless-looking things and liked to hurt them. Didn't understand that some people saw innocent things and wanted nothing more than to sully that. Didn't understand that some people saw pretty things and liked to crush them.

Vejita had killed, sure, but that was done out of instinct, and it was his job, as of now. Vejita didn't really have a moral compass, didn't really have anyone there to tell him what was wrong or right, but Yamcha still knew an older Vejita just well enough to know that Vejita still had a sense of what crossed the bounds, if only to himself, and what didn't.

But this...

This was different. These men, these warriors, they were different. These weren't the kind of men that had pledged allegiance to Frieza because they were trying to protect their planet, their people, their fathers. These were men that had signed up with Frieza's army because they had wanted a free pass to cause as much hurt and destruction as possible. Because they liked to hurt things.

Vejita didn't understand.

But Yamcha was grown, Yamcha had seen godawful things, was street-smart, was wise to the evil of the universe, and every time someone's eyes followed Vejita down the hall, he wanted to scream and strike every single one of them dead right then and there, because he knew what they were thinking.

The most vile he had ever felt in his life.

Frieza didn't need to lift a finger to do harm to Vejita; he knew well enough that Vejita would attract trouble all on his own. Someone like that, someone like Frieza, someone who could cause so much destruction with only intuition, someone who could ruin a life without ever actually raising his hand...

Frieza should never have been allowed to exist.

Where had the Kais been when Frieza had been creating monsters?

The ship had never seemed bigger than it did then, the corridor had never seemed so long, as Yamcha tried to hover over Vejita as he attempted to make it back to his room.

Yet again, someone came to a halt before the child, and refused to make way for him.

Again, Vejita looked up in irritation.

And Yamcha had never once in his life thought that he would hope to see Zarbon. Never thought that he would want to see Zarbon's face, but oh, did he ever then.

But it wasn't Zarbon.

When Vejita lifted his eyes, it was to see an unfamiliar man, huge and broad, armor-clad and scarred.

Vejita, undaunted, just curled his lip and side-stepped.

It was both of their hearts that started pounding when the man followed suit, blocking the child before he could get away.

Yamcha could already feel that awful dread, swimming up in his veins and making him lightheaded.

The man bent over a little, eyeing Vejita with a smile, and then he said, in a low, husky voice, "Well! Haven't seen you around here before! I'd remember those pretty eyes. You new? Hey, you look lost. Need help getting around? I can help you out."

Yamcha shuddered, and Vejita narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, bracing his shoulders and trying to make it very clear that he wasn't interested in conversation. A glare, and Vejita lowered his eyes and was intent on getting away, no matter what measures he had to take to do so. Vejita tried to side-step once more, his tail bristling up as anger started taking hold of his chest, and when he found himself blocked yet again, the anger had started taking hold of everything.

Riled up.

Vejita looked up at the man then and shouted, "Get out of my way!"

Other soldiers glanced over at the commotion, some of them laughed, but all of them carried on, and no one stopped to help, as Yamcha had never expected them to.

Hands in the air, a playful smile, and the soldier said, in a suddenly smooth voice that Yamcha found unbearably grating, "Calm down, kiddo! I just wanna talk to you, is all. What's your name? Awfully little to be a soldier, aren't you? "

The anger Vejita felt then was not combining well with his nervousness—made Yamcha feel dizzy somehow, a bit jittery, a little uncoordinated.

But then, Yamcha knew well, always had, that Vejita had always fought his worst when he was angry.

Couldn't seem to think straight.

The smart thing would have been to turn around, to go straight back to Zarbon. He could have even thrown out Zarbon's name, Frieza's even, could have told this man that Frieza was looking out for him, could have told him that he was under Zarbon's care. But Vejita didn't, didn't think to do any of that, because he was too proud and so mad that all he could do was try to forcibly shove his way by, he was so mad that when he wasn't let by again all he could do was snarl and pull his fist back and pop up to punch the man in the face.

Was just so mad that he couldn't see the situation he was quickly finding himself in.

Was so mad that he didn't realize he making his hole deeper.

When Vejita was angry, when he was nervous, when he was insecure, when he was uncertain, that was when he was his most vulnerable.

Some people thrived under pressure; Goku always had. Gohan always had. There was something they had, something within them that had made them their best when everything was on the line. When Goku was angry, that was when he was his strongest.

Not Vejita.

Vejita was weakest when he was angry. Not physically, but mentally.

Sure enough, the child hadn't thought clearly enough to really analyze, to think of a smoother way out, and when the man turned his eyes back to Vejita, the anger there was obvious. Before Vejita could even really think, the man had lashed out in return.

A fist to his abdomen.

The taste of blood, rushing up from his throat. A burn, a pang, an exhale.

Pain.

Too hard for the small child to withstand, too furious; the soldier had punched the child as hard as he would have a man his size, as hard as he could, no doubt, and it proved too much.

Once again, and yet in this life for the first time, insecurity and fear had made Vejita sloppy, and for it he fell.

A hand wrenched itself in his hair and yanked him to his feet.

A harsh whisper.

"What's the matter with ya, huh? Was I hurtin' ya? Was I? I was just talkin' to you, you little brat! You've done it now! You're gonna get it!"

Another punch to his abdomen, another burn of agony, and it was only those fingers in his hair then that kept him upright.

Dazed.

Before he really knew what was happening, Yamcha felt himself being dragged out of the crowded corridor and into a side hall. He tried to grip the walls, doors, windows, anything, anything at all, but it was no use because Vejita was too short to reach out and grab a hold of anything.

Not strong enough to break free of the iron grip in his hair.

Dim light.

Quiet, suddenly. No people around.

Yamcha realized he had been dragged off into an isolated corner, far out of sight and ear-shot of the crowded corridor.

Could feel blood dripping from his mouth down onto his neck.

The hand in his hair moved down to snatch him by the neck and shove him up against the wall, and the other reached up to grab his chin.

Another whisper.

"Coulda made this easy, you know. I wasn't gonna hurt ya."

A painful grip on his chin, and a thumb came up and lifted Vejita's top lip, exposing his sharp canines.

A laugh.

"Yikes! That wouldn't be a good idea, would it?"

To lend credence to that statement, Vejita tried damn hard to bite down on the intrusive hand, which was snatched quickly away.

Vejita struggled then, trying to squirm free, trying to get leverage somehow, and for a second there, Yamcha had felt hope, because Vejita's tail lashed out, striking the man in the knee, and for a moment, just a moment, the grip had slacked and Vejita had bolted.

Not fast enough; a lightning hand and a snatch of his hair and in a second he was up against the wall again.

No getting away, not now. The sense and strength had been knocked out of him with the assault in the hall.

Trapped.

Yamcha couldn't breathe suddenly, felt so fuckin' stifled suddenly, felt so cold, felt like someone had dunked him in ice, felt so nauseas—

Pinned and still coughing up blood, Vejita reached up and tried to pry the hand away. No go; the soldier just grabbed his wrist, and eyed his hands. His gloves were pulled off then, tossed down to the floor, and huge hands took up the child's small ones, inspecting and caressing.

Yamcha could feel that awful shudder, that revulsion, and underneath it Vejita's anger.

A low, content whisper. "I knew it. Soft as I imagined. You haven't ruined 'em yet."

Oh, god.

Yamcha squinted his eyes shut, clenched his fists, and tried hard not to scream, pacing back and forth furiously at Vejita's side, so aghast that he didn't even know what to do, didn't know what to do, what to do, what to do—

Didn't scream, in the end, but when the soldier gripped the child's wrists in one hand and began fumbling with the clasp of his belt, Yamcha whirled around and took a swing at him.

Ineffective.

As always.

He was gonna go crazy, he knew it, was gonna blow a fuckin' gasket if he couldn't reach through time itself and get his hands around the son of a bitch's throat.

Could taste blood in his mouth and hanging low in his throat.

Metallic.

Yamcha had been down and out in just about every way possible. He'd been abandoned, he'd spent half of his life struggling for survival in the desert, he'd been left by friends over and over, he'd been beaten, he'd been defeated, he'd been betrayed, he'd been killed, he'd been left by those he thought cared for him, he'd been broke, he'd been out in the streets, he'd been so low in the gutter he didn't think he could ever come back out again, and yet, for it all, through it all, despite it all, he had never felt so helpless, had never felt so vulnerable, had never felt so powerless as he did then, when his wrists were suddenly gripped in hands so much bigger than his own and were then forced upward and into that soldier's pants.

Had never been so scared, because it was really him, then, that was a little kid again, left out alone in the dangers of the world.

Red.

Hands, forcing his own into unfamiliar motions.

Yamcha did scream then, shrieked out the foulest obscenities he knew, and when that wasn't enough for him, he whirled around, kicked the wall, punched it, over and over again, even though he couldn't feel it, couldn't truly hit it, and then he stalked back over to the soldier, and punched him.

As many times as he could.

Punched him again and again and again, until he was exhausted, until he was sore, even though he knew that no one could see or hear or feel him.

Couldn't stop.

Knew that he was crying then, out of a frustration that was about to give him a fuckin' heart-attack, knew that he was shrieking and screaming so fiercely that his voice was a breath away from giving out altogether, knew that he was tottering on the edge of being so absolutely furious that he was about to pass out from exertion, but he couldn't stop.

Had never felt so helpless in his entire life, had never felt so vulnerable, had never felt so humiliated, so exposed, so weak, so pathetic. Had never been so ashamed at not being able to help, had never been so utterly disappointed in himself, had never hated himself more than he did in that moment, when there was a little fuckin' kid in front of him that needed help like no one ever had.

Couldn't do a damn thing, couldn't, could only fuckin' watch—

Useless.

His entire life, he had killed himself to be anything but, and yet here he was again, falling behind and unable to help himself, let alone others.

Oh, he should never have come, never, he had never been as brave as the others, had never been cut out for this sort of thing, had never been able to help anyone, he had only been fooling himself, thinking that he could have ever made a difference. Couldn't even get his own damn self settled, how the hell had he ever thought that he could help a guy like Vejita? Vejita had always been stronger than him.

Stupid.

He should never have come.

Vejita just buried his face in his own shoulder, nose pressed into the groove of his armpit, eyes squinted and pulse pounding, as Yamcha burnt up with wrath right beside of him.

And, truthfully, it was far more traumatic for Yamcha than it was for Vejita, a thousand times more devastating, because the child didn't really even understand what was happening.

All Vejita knew was that he had been beaten and was in pain, and that was humiliating enough already.

Dazed minutes that felt like eternity.

And then, suddenly, in the middle of that overwhelming helplessness, there was stillness.

Silence.

The child only let his eyes creak open when there was a soft grunt of pain, and the next thing Yamcha knew the man had fallen over to the side and someone else was standing there.

Vejita fell back against the wall, heart still hammering away, and looked up.

Zarbon.

It was Zarbon who saved him, who had either found him by accident or who had come out looking for him, perhaps at Frieza's behest or perhaps because this vile act offended the more proper side of Zarbon. Or hell, maybe it had all just been some sick fuckin' game and Zarbon was just coming out to see if Vejita had broken yet. Coming to see if the little prince had found enough trouble. If he had cracked.

Well, if that was what he had hoped for, then he and Frieza both were going to have to keep on hoping, were gonna haveta try harder than that, because Yamcha knew Vejita, maybe not as well as the others had, but knew him damn well enough to know that only death would have ever broken Vejita for good.

And Yamcha could feel, when Zarbon's hand gripped the child's shirt and hauled him forward and upright, that Vejita would have rather died than have Zarbon save him. Felt so stupid, felt so weak, felt so useless then, to have to be saved by this man that he hated second only to Frieza.

Hated Zarbon, hated him so much, and didn't want to have to owe him anything.

Seconds of awful, blazing anger, wrath, but it was quickly extinguished under that numbing wave of shame that washed over him, and Vejita went from fury to a daze in just a few seconds. Shame that he had been weak, that he had lost so quickly, that he had instigated a fight that he had not been able to come out on top of.

The last aware act that Vejita performed was to reach down and gather up his gloves, because his mother had given him those.

After that, he just didn't feel like doing anything. Didn't feel like thinking.

So he fell still, instead of struggling as he had wanted to, and just let Zarbon do whatever the hell he wanted.

Silence.

Yamcha thought that Zarbon's expression was strange, contemplative, and maybe he would have cared a little more if he still hadn't been caught up in that red cloud of fury.

Couldn't think straight.

Zarbon started to move then, without putting the soldier down for good, and Yamcha braced his feet on the floor, squared his shoulders, crinkled his brow, and shrieked hoarsely after Zarbon, 'Why aren't you gonna kill him? Huh? Why aren't ya gonna kill the son of a bitch? Kill him!'

As always, his efforts fell on deaf ears, and they walked off without a glance back. Yamcha had no choice but to follow, as Vejita's mind dragged him forcibly along.

So frustrated, he was so frustrated he was about to have a coronary, he knew it, he was about to drop dead from this rage, couldn't even focus, couldn't even breathe he was so fuckin' mad—

Didn't even put the scumbag down, just fuckin' left him there in the hall. Shoulda killed him.

As Zarbon dragged Vejita along down the hall by his arm, there was only silence.

Vejita stared at the floor, still in a daze, and Zarbon, glancing down from time to time, didn't offer up a word. At least, that was, until they came to Vejita's quarters. When they fell still there, Zarbon lifted up his hand to the entrance button, and hesitated.

A short moment of awkward silence.

And then Zarbon straightened up, jerking Vejita up straight along with him, and reached down with his other hand to grip Vejita's chin and force his gaze.

What Zarbon said then...

"You see what happens when you're weak? Unless you're the strongest, no one will ever give a damn about you. You're nothing when you're weak. Nothing. This sort of thing will happen over and over again, because you can't beat anyone. You're nothing around here. You're a monkey. That's all anyone will ever see you as. Strength is the only thing that matters. You think anyone will give a damn about you unless they're scared of you? If you're not the best, then you're just there for someone else to use. Only the strongest have a chance of surviving. You're weak, and so is your father, and that's why you'll never be a king."

What Zarbon said then, Vejita never forgot.

The daze vanished in the blaze of anger.

Yamcha could feel the hate there in Vejita's chest, pulsing through his veins, pounding in his ears, as strong as Yamcha's rage had been and then some, and there was an almost surprising amount of venom in Vejita's low voice when he whispered, eyes still locked onto Zarbon's, "Soon, I'll be stronger than all of you."

A promise.

Vejita meant it, could feel it, believed it so badly that it hurt, and he could only stare at Zarbon and hope that Zarbon could sense then how much he meant it. Maybe Zarbon did, although surely he thought that Vejita, who was only a monkey after all, was just dreaming.

A desperate child's fantasy.

With a smirk, Zarbon lifted his head, gave a snort, and let Vejita go.

And it was only what Yamcha already knew, it was only the knowledge that one day, far from now, Vejita would get one over on Zarbon, only that too far off revenge, that kept Yamcha from having another psychotic episode.

One day, Zarbon would see how much Vejita had meant those words.

He'd feel it.

For now, Yamcha had to suffer him.

The door to his room opened, Zarbon sent him one last sneer before turning around and walking off, and Vejita finally ambled inside.

Nappa was on him in an instant.

He had seen the blood on the child right off and had come running, and it startled Yamcha, honestly, the ferocity with which Nappa responded to the sight of an injured Vejita.

His hair stood on end, tail puffed out and bristled as far as it could go, shoulders squared and lips pursed, and when he lunged forward and skidded down onto his knees, reaching out and snatching Vejita by the arms and yanking him in to inspect him, Yamcha could see how furious he already was.

That someone had dared to lay a hand upon the prince.

Oh—if only he knew.

Huge hands, lifting up Vejita's chin and palm running down his bloody neck, lifting up the collar of his armor to thrust fingers beneath, searching and probing for wounds that could be dangerous.

Vejita stood passively still, silent and somber, and didn't move a muscle.

When Nappa couldn't find any obvious wounds, when he realized that Vejita was in no immediate danger, his ferocity subsided a bit, dulling into something that looked pretty damn close to exhaustion.

Those huge hands fell heavily onto Vejita's shoulders, and he asked, sternly, "What happened? Who did this to you?"

Yamcha stood behind Vejita, feeling exhausted himself, and he let his head hang down as that throbbing rage faded into utter fatigue. Had no energy left, none whatsoever, and all Vejita wanted then was to be left alone and to go to sleep.

Nappa wouldn't let him off the hook that easily, though.

Nappa's pride and honor had been assaulted, perhaps, the second that someone had had the nerve to bloody up the crown prince. Nappa had been appointed to this job, Nappa had been entrusted to give his life up to protect Vejita, and surely it felt to him then as if he had failed in his duties.

Nappa's hands kept on running down Vejita's neck, trying now to wipe the blood off, and with every second that passed, Vejita's ire was rising.

Couldn't stand the feel of those rough hands, not like that, not now, not after that.

Nappa's huge hands.

A shudder, a rise of anger, a rise of fear, and Vejita suddenly ripped himself away from Nappa, falling back as he cried, a bit shrilly, "Don't touch me!"

A look of confusion.

"Prince, what—? Hold still, I need to make sure you're alright."

Nappa reached out again, in determination, not understanding why Vejita was reacting the way he did, and this time when he grabbed Vejita by the arms to pull him in, Vejita lashed out.

Hard.

Squirming around in Nappa's arms, Vejita managed to get enough leverage to lift his legs up and kick Nappa as hard as he could in the face.

A loud grunt of pain, a cry, and Nappa fell back, hands flying up to his nose as his eyes widened in shock. A growl, a look of anger, and for a second, as blood dripped through Nappa's fingers, he had opened his mouth and was about to start screaming at the child.

Something stopped him short, though, and he fell silent.

His brows had lowered over his wide eyes.

Yamcha looked back then, and could see that Nappa was realizing that Vejita had fallen back against the bed frame, knees pulled up and arms wrapped protectively around them.

Vejita didn't realize it, and Yamcha hadn't either, but Nappa had seen that Vejita's shoulders were shaking.

The gears in Nappa's head began grinding away.

Nappa wasn't a genius, wasn't the smartest guy Yamcha had ever met, but just like Yamcha, Nappa had been around the block enough to know that some people were dirt, and no doubt he was putting something together in his mind.

And that look on Nappa's face, when he began to realize that something wrong had happened...

No words.

Yamcha had never seen a look like that on someone's face.

A quick glimpse of something like absolute and utter devastation.

Just a flash, though, just a split second. Faded into wrath quickly enough, and Nappa's fists fell from his nose and clenched up so tightly that the blood leaking through his fingers then was surely coming from his palms.

Fury incarnate.

Hauling himself over to Vejita, Nappa reached out yet again, stopped himself before he actually touched Vejita, and just asked, too loudly and too furiously, "Who did this? Huh? Who was it?"

How the hell was he supposed to know?

Hadn't exactly asked the guy's name when he had been punching him in the stomach.

Yamcha was gonna find out, though, that was for sure, would never forget that guy's fuckin' face as long as he lived, was never gonna forget that, and by god, before Yamcha was gone that guy was gonna get his, he swore it.

And, in some part of his mind, Vejita was just as intent on that.

His problem, not Nappa's.

Didn't want Nappa taking anything away from him, not anything, because soon he would be stronger, and everyone that crossed him would pay the price.

So Vejita just shrugged a shoulder, averting his eyes to the wall, and didn't speak more to Nappa for the rest of the night.

Yamcha was, beyond his rage, impressed by the child then, because he was holding himself together remarkably well. Yamcha knew, though, that it was because Vejita was so young, too young. He knew something bad had happened, but didn't understand, not really. Didn't really comprehend exactly what had happened aside from that it shouldn't have.

Vejita wouldn't really understand until he was older.

It was Nappa, in the end, who bowed his head and looked as if he were going to cry. It was Nappa who sat there, arms on his knees and head hanging so low that he could have very well made himself pass out. It was Nappa who looked defeated, who looked shamed, who looked hurt.

Vejita just sat there on the edge of the bed, tail coiled so tightly around his waist that it was uncomfortable, and stared off blankly into the distance.

Just felt numb.

When Nappa was able to speak again, hours later, his voice was so deep and thick and strangled that Yamcha almost couldn't hear it at all.

A miserable rumble.

"I'm sorry that I—I couldn't protect you, prince."

Prince.

That was right.

He was a prince, in line for the throne. One day, he would be king, no matter what Zarbon said. One day, he would be expected to lead his people, to rule his kingdom. One day, he was supposed to be a leader, a beacon, a source of hope, a protector, a savior.

One day, he was supposed to be a super Saiyan.

It was suddenly Vejita's face that crumpled, it was Vejita who bowed his head and sucked in air through his mouth, it was Vejita who felt defeated and shamed and hurt.

Because he had been weak.

He had been defeated, he had been helpless.

He had lost.

How could he be expected to lead? How could ever be expected to free his people when he couldn't even keep himself safe? How could he ever be expected to defeat Frieza when he couldn't even defeat one of his soldiers?

He didn't feel like a prince.

His father was a king, a god, strong and confident and smart and always in control.

How could he ever live up to that?

It took so much effort, took everything he had, to bite back on those tears, to push away that misery, to force his face back into complete stoicism.

To not cry.

Wouldn't cry. He wouldn't. Couldn't. They already knew how weak he was, already expected him to fold, expected him to break, expected him to become a joke, expected him to be a monkey, around only for their entertainment. They expected him to fail, expected him to be the cause for the king's demise.

Wouldn't cry.

Couldn't cry, because, on the other side of these windows, on the other side of this clear glass, on the other side of those stars, on the other side of the door, on the other side of eternity, his father waited.

For the king.

For his father, he wouldn't cry.

In the end, really, Vejita didn't even need to cry.

Yamcha was doing more than enough for the both of them.