Lead us to ruin

by L0v3B1t3

Summary:

A younger Vegeta has been sent on a mission that goes horribly wrong and ends up being captured. But the moment he thinks it's over for him, he somehow ends up on Earth, where he sees his future self being killed by the hands of a Z fighter. How did he end up here? And why?

Notes:

Bloodeagle;
Method of ritual execution employed by Viking cultures. Executioners separate the victim’s ribs from his spine before cutting flaps of skin and muscle off the back to be splayed out on the victim’s sides. The lungs are then cut out of the chest cavity to form a pair of external “wings.”

Chapter 1: 3 Minutes

How the hell did I end up here?

How many days has it been since I arrived in this shitty hellhole?

He had lost count. Time blurred between torture sessions and blood-soaked stone. But the Saiyajin knew exactly how he got here — and the memory frustrated him to no end.

He’d been sent on a mission without Nappa or Raditz — his usual crew pulled for other assignments, and was saddled with a squad of inexperienced weaklings. Predictably, those fools were the first to fall. So much for adequate fighters.

He was the last one standing…until he wasn’t. And now they were on day…how many?... questioning him, trying to extract compromising information from their defiant captive. 

A voice made its way through his pounding headache and the rush of blood in his ears. He groaned and opened his eyes, blinking up at the blurred ceiling.

The inquisitor — one of the more brutal ones — was panting from effort, after giving the Saiyajin a stern beating. This brute had also visited him a few days ago and had not been gentle in grilling the uncooperative man.

This wasn’t the first time they’d tried to beat compliance into him. His defiance — and that venomous tongue of his — always brought punishment, and this time was no different.

He’d been stripped of his damaged chest armor, scouter, torn gloves and boots, and was thrown into a prison cell which reminded him of a dungeon. He only wore his sleeveless black bodysuit, shredded and soaked in sweat and blood.

Various soldiers had attempted to make him talk. But he denied his captors answers they were looking for: Who are you? Who sent you here? What are your orders? — were the frequently asked questions. He answered with silence, or worse; scornful mockery. 

He patronized them, goading them with insults, until they snapped, and punishment followed. Their rage only fed his spite. Even bruised and bloodied, he laughed — because they still had nothing.

He was fairly certain that he had fractured ribs by now, and very certain he had a broken left arm, and a few of his fingers...they didn’t move quite right. Despite this, he remained infuriatingly defiant — smirking through busted lips. This exasperated them to the point they lost their patience and composure.

Antagonizing his captors gave Vegeta great pleasure even if it came with severe punishment. He would pass out from the severity of their beatings, which would make them temporarily cease their interrogation. This gave the proud man a moment of reprieve. But these moments were becoming less and less frequent.

“Ready to start talking, you insolent monkey?”

The Saiyajin coughed dryly. His throat ached from dehydration, but he still managed a painful chuckle.

Great. It didn’t matter how far he was from one of the bases that belonged to Frieza, someone still managed to use the emperor’s insults. How original.

“You’re getting creative,” he rasped. “Almost impressed.”

The interrogator rubbed his bruised knuckles, finally catching his breath, raising an eyebrow at the Saiyajin’s remark.

“I heard that you were hard to break,” the man said, “but I’m starting to admire your tenacity to endure this for so long. Anyone else would have cracked by now.”

The interrogation had been far from fair; a metal collar adorned Vegeta’s neck. Suppression tech — a device designed to shut down a warrior’s strength, cut off their ki, and leave them utterly powerless. Consequently, the fighter’s ability to defend himself against the brutal questioning was removed. It had been put on him when he had been captured. But he could still feel his suppressed rage fueled energy blazing deep within him, with no way to unleash it.

Of course, he hadn’t let himself been taken easily. He had managed to get a decent amount of kicks and punches in before he was eventually overpowered. Blood and skin stuck under his fingernails could also attest to that. 

They had taken advantage of his weakened state, torturing him, depleting the unyielding warrior more and more of his remaining strength.

At this moment, his wrists were bound above his head, preventing the warrior from using his hands. Not that he could fight back at this point. Besides being thoroughly roughed up the last few days, he was also malnourished and dehydrated from the lack of food and water. It caused a searing headache behind his eyes that didn’t go away, adding to the pain inflicted upon him.

His black bodysuit was torn in several places, exposing skin covered with cuts and bruises. The cell floor he was lying on felt rough and cold against the exposed skin on his back.

The heavy weight of his interrogator straddling him prevented him from moving or getting up. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t have the strength to get the man off of him.

Vegeta was called back to attention when the blade, already digging into his throat, made its way upwards, and his body tensed.

Not again.

It slid across his jaw, tracing the line of his cheek, along his ear, moving at a slow but steady pace up his muscular left arm until it reached stitches. A large gash had been roughly sewn shut, starting from the palm of his hand all the way down to the inside of his elbow, caused by the knife carving into him several days ago. And the sutured wound was now inflamed; infected. 

“Shall we try again?” the man taunted, smiling, moving the knife to the Saiyajins other arm which was bruised and scraped in several places.

The past few days soldiers had tortured the stubborn fighter in various ways. They sliced into his skin, pushed his head under water until he almost drowned, burned his skin with hot objects, used electric shock torture on him and punched and beat him until they broke his bones. It did not break his resolve, angering his tormentors.

But this interrogator… this interrogator seemed to enjoy what he was doing.

This interrogator was starting to get under his skin.

Vegeta swallowed, but then choked out a hoarse laugh, refusing to show his discomfort. “Talk? Now? After all your effort? You must be dumber than you look. You’re going to have to do a lot worse than your little knife tricks, you deranged amateur,” he spat.

That hit the mark. The smile vanished, and Vegeta smirked at the insulted look on the man’s face. But he could not enjoy his small victory for long. The knife was pressed into the Saiyajins palm and was drawn slowly towards his wrist.

Fuckin sick bastard! “Nnnghh!”

Vegeta gritted his teeth, refusing to scream from the painful, burning sensation.

The tormentor took his time cutting into the skin, his breathing quickening in excitement and relishing the blood that flowed from the fresh wound. Cutting through the binds, he held down the beaten warrior by the wrists and continued his gruesome chore. When he reached the crook of the Saiyajins elbow, blood was steadily pooling around them.

Vegeta’s arm throbbed, cold from blood loss as the open wound bled freely. He had undergone this same torturous treatment a few days ago — beaten to a bloody pulp, and then cut into his left arm — and was left to bleed out until he nearly lost consciousness. Then he was interrogated in his weakened state, the barbaric man trying to pry useful information out of him to no avail.

He would probably do it again.

“I’m sorry, I lost my composure,” the man said, taking in a deep breath and then releasing it.

He straightened up slightly, collecting himself. There was a moment of silence that followed; heavy, deliberate and calculated.

The brute licked his lips, slowly.

“Well now, we both know how this is going to go,” he murmured, smile returning, curling with predatory certainty.

Vegeta did not like that smile. 

“But this time…” the man leaned in, voice dropping to a hush. “Let’s make it a little interesting shall we?”

What?

The man let go of the Saiyajin’s wrists and stood up, boots grinding against blood and grit. Without warning, his hands clamped down on Vegeta’s hips, shoving his smaller, broken frame onto his stomach with jarring force.

Let go off me!

Vegeta snarled, refusing to cooperate. He weakly kicked his legs and thrashed his arms, trying to fight back — but his strength was almost gone. He had nothing left to fight with.

Each day in captivity had stripped him down. His strength was barely embers now; glowing, but unreachable beneath the cursed collar choking his power. If he could just rip the damned collar off... If only they’d make the mistake of leaving him even a spark... Then the tables would turn in his favor. Then the blood would flow in reverse. And his captors would regret not killing him the moment they had the chance.

Once flipped, the man's fist tangled in the Saiyajin’s thick black hair. Without pause, he slammed Vegeta’s face into the floor with cruel force; stone meeting bone with a sickening crack.

“Ghahh!” Vegeta grunted, gasping for air as the world spun out of control. Red and black fireworks exploded behind closed lids, as blood gushed from his now broken nose and a fresh gash on his forehead, adding to the already running blood from his arm.

Damnit my head…

His limbs slackened. His brain screaming through the chaos. Lights flared behind his eyelids as his skull thundered — his headache increasing by tenfold.

“Lie still, you piece of trash.” 

The man straddled Vegeta’s hips once again, tearing away the already ruined fabric of his spandex top, exposing the taut, bruised muscles of his back.

Breathe, just breathe…

Eyes clenched shut; Vegeta pressed his face against the cold, blood-slicked floor, forcing himself to breathe evenly, struggling to remain conscious as the spinning finally slowed. Every inhale scraped his lungs raw, every breath causing a sharp pain and burning sensation in his chest, fractured ribs grinding with cruel precision. His arms lay limp at his sides. Pain flaring through them receded into the background — drowned beneath by the pounding agony inside his skull.

Vaguely, through the haze, he could feel the cold press of metal between his shoulder blades. The blade drifted downward in a slow, deliberate path, not breaking skin, until it reached the base of his tail.

"Have you ever imagined yourself with wings?" the man above him mused, voice eerily gentle, as if he were offering a gift instead of madness. 

Vegeta’s eyes cracked open, heavy and blurred, now that the vertigo had faded. His brow furrowed, not from fear, but in faint confusion from the bizarre shift in the man’s tone.

Wings?

“Wh... What the hell are you blabbering about?” Vegeta growled hoarsely, masking his disorientation, trying — and failing — to keep his voice steady. “You always talk this much, or is the sadism starting to rot your brain?”

The man chuckled. “Tsk tsk tsk… so rude.”

He reached down and took hold of the Saiyajin’s tail. He wrapped it around his hand like a leash; tightening...tugging...testing...

Vegeta’s throat tightened.

He swallowed. Hard.

Let go of my tail!

He did not like where this was going.

A slight twinge of dread set in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t you long to fly again?” the man purred, squeezing the Saiyajin's furry appendage with deliberate cruelty, just enough to make the nerves flare, agonizing sparks shooting through his spine.

“I could give you that gift… a gift that I haven’t had the pleasure of giving many..."

Vegeta didn’t answer. His breathing, labored and rasping, was the only sound in the otherwise silent and empty room.

The knife plunged between his shoulder blades, breaking skin, startling the Saiyajin. Vegeta’s body jerked and he almost yelped, but he choked the pain down, burying a scream behind clenched teeth.

“What now?” he spat, blood slicking his teeth, his face turning to the side to look at his tormentor. “Going to skin me like one of your science experiments? Is that your grand strategy? Carve the answers out of me and hope I start singing? You’re not a torturer; you’re a lunatic with a knife and delusions of brilliance.”

His words were a weapon — blunt, reckless — but they were all he had.

He was starting to feel lightheaded. His arm still bled freely, leaving a crimson trail he could no longer feel.  

The knife withdrew, slow and wet, leaving a thin trail of heat down his back. Vegeta’s fingers twitched uselessly against the stone floor, muscles refusing to obey. Everything inside him screamed, his instincts urging him to fight.

The man leaned forward, tail still wrapped around his hand like a leash.

“You’re bleeding a lot,” he observed, voice almost... clinical. “Might want to start talking before your brain gets fuzzy.”

Too late for that.

If he could roll his eyes without his skull splitting in two, he would've.

Vegeta let out a low, hoarse laugh, bitter to the bone. “I’ll die before I give you a damn word you unhinged bipolar freak,” he rasped.

His interrogator leaned closer, warm breath ghosting against the side of his face.

“Oh, I know. That’s what makes this so fun.”

Sitting back up, he dragged the tip of the blade along Vegeta’s tail now... slowly, like a warning... but didn’t press. Just a whisper of what could come next.

Vegeta’s breath caught again, his body tensing involuntarily. The nerve endings in his tail flared, sending violent shudders up his spine.

“If I slice this little thing off,” the man said, tugging sharply, “will it grow back? Or will you lose it for good?”

Vegeta’s lip curled. “Do it. And you’ll die screaming the moment this collar comes off.”

There was a beat of silence. Then laughter; soft, disbelieving, and dark.

“You really are suicidal. I admire that.”

The man above him leaned in once more, knife gleaming faintly in the low light.

“Ready to give me what I want?”

Vegeta’s reply was immediate.

“Go to hell.”

The tormentor snickered as he sheathed the blade, clearly entertained by the Saiyajin’s refusal to break. Bending down, he leisurely dragged his tongue across the open wound on the grounded man's back, lapping up the blood that pooled crimson.

“G-gghh!” Vegeta recoiled instinctively, revulsion crawling through every frayed nerve. 

“Hmmmmm,” the man sighed, savoring the taste, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. “You taste devine,” he slurred. Leaning forward he pressed his blood-slick lips against the Saiyajins ear, making the smaller man flinch.

“Would you like a taste?”

“Fuck you, you sick fuck!” 

His head was wrenched back by his hair, neck straining painfully as the man slowly licked his left cheek, smearing blood across his face.

“Gggah!” Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut.

Once released, he recoiled. “You’re disgusting!” he snarled — not with defiance, but sheer, bone-deep loathing. 

The man's face remained close, his breath ghosting across the Saiyajin’s cheek, their eyes locking.

His hand reached towards the Saiyajins face, startling the warrior, brushing a blood-crusted strand of hair from Vegeta’s temple.

“So much resistance,” he mused. “So stubborn, so proud... You're a defiant little god, thinking you cannot be touched even when you are caged and dragged through the dirt.”

His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement as he studied him like a predator savoring its prey, a sinister grin twisting his lips.

“See, the others? They scream. They beg. They give up their secrets like wilted flowers when you cut just right. But you...” His voice lowered, leaning closer, their noses almost touching. “You fight it. And that’s why you fascinate me. You still believe there's something left of yourself that can’t be taken.”

The man’s lips ghosted across the Saiyajin’s face. “But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Everyone breaks. Perhaps not from the pain. Perhaps not even from the shame. They break when they realize... that pain isn’t a means to an end. It is the end. There is no rescue. No escape. Only me. And you.”

He lips brushed the shell of Vegeta’s ear once more, his voice dropping to a mere whisper: “And I have all the time in the universe.”

Vegeta said nothing, his jaw clenched, his glare burned with undiluted hatred.

With a sudden motion, the man sat up, a dark chuckle followed as he deliberately slid down to straddle Vegeta’s thighs.

The man’s eyes gleamed with cruel delight as he eyed the bleeding man beneath him like a prized possession. “You’re delicious,” he murmured, voice dripping with malice. “I might just take more from you…” 

Vegeta’s breath hitched. The way the man slid down his body, the sinister tone in his voice… something in it made doubt creep in, the feeling of dread growing — a whisper from the shadows of his mind, warning him the worst was yet to come.

Vegeta felt the man tear away the fabric covering his rear, exposing trembling skin to the cold air. His eyes widened in alarm, his body overcome with fear, not expecting this nightmare to twist into something worse as the man’s fingers roamed over his exposed flesh before he felt the disgusting press of a bulge against his backside.

NO.

“Wh…What are you doing?” Vegeta's voice grated, a slight tremble could be heard in his voice as he spoke. “Stop it!” he began struggling again.

No! Get off! GET OFF ME!!

Every nerve in his body screamed to recoil, but the weight pressing down on him was a suffocating reminder of his helplessness.

Let me go! GODDAMNIT LET ME GO!!

The man’s hands were cold and deliberate as they explored the vulnerable skin now laid bare. His touch wasn’t hurried; it was a slow, calculated violation meant to break the last vestiges of Vegeta’s will. A predator savoring the fear it bred.

“So delicious…” his voice was a low, venomous hiss. “And all mine. I will break you and I will enjoy watching you shatter.”

Vegeta’s mind spiraled; the pain in his body paled compared to the growing storm of dread and humiliation twisting within. His pride, once a fortress, was crumbling — brick by brick — under the relentless assault of this sick game.

Profanity tore from his lips as he tried to wrench himself free. His bleeding arm flailed backwards, trembling from the tortured motion, clawing uselessly at the man, attempting to push him off. It was only by sheer will he managed to ignore the shooting pain the movement caused his injured arm.

"Get off me, you freak! Get your FILTHY hands of me!!”

He heard the man laughing… before his tail was grabbed at its base and yanked brutally.

He had trained his tail to handle pain when squeezed. But the force the man used to pull it caused a nauseating pop as it dislocated from his spine.

Vegeta couldn’t stop himself from screaming — an animalistic, raw and gutheral sound — as searing agony washed over him, and his remaining strength left him. Collapsing back down, he convulsed violently, his nerve endings ablaze throughout his entire body.

“Talk!” the man barked, yanking again at the already injured tail with merciless cruelty, forcing the Saiyajin to scream once more.

DON’T!

“Who are you?!” the man demanded, ruthlessly pulling the painful appendage again.

STOP IT!

Vegeta choked in pain — pupils shrinking to pinpricks, his fingers twitching with uncontrolled spasms — agony tearing through his body from the tormentor’s cruelty.

“Who sent you here?!”

The man took hold of the tail, twisting it into unnatural angles, bones snapping beneath his grip.

Another agonizing howl ripped from Vegeta’s throat.

Please just kill me…

If his tormentor kept this up, he would surely rip the tail from his back.

In the depths of his screaming mind, Vegeta wanted this to happen; anything to be released from this relentless agony.

Deprived of even a moment’s respite, his body convulsed violently in unending torment. He gasped — a ragged, desperate sound — eyes widening raw in terror as he suddenly felt the man’s ruthless hands claw over him, positioning the Saiyajin on his knees, ass up. Then roughly spreading his cheeks, exposing his vulnerability.

NO — STOP! His mind cried out, catching up through the horrific pain.

Before he could prepare himself for what came next — PLEASE STOP! — the brutal intrusion came without mercy or warning — NOT THIS! — his assailant drove forward — NOOO!!! — thrusting through his last defense —STOP!!! — plunging into the Saiyajin’s trembling body.

 “AAAHNGG!” Vegeta's anguished cry ripped from his throat.

The man drove in without mercy until he was fully enveloped to the hilt, not waiting for his victim’s body to accommodate him, a brutal assertion of control, crushing any semblance of resistance.

“Ah yesss,” the man’s voice thick with cruel pleasure, as he began to grind his hips in a relentless, methodical rhythm, savoring every moment of his domination.       

Vegeta's breath hitched.

This couldn’t be happening to him. It couldn’t be.

His mind clawed for escape, desperate to believe this nightmare couldn’t be real. 

It had to be some twisted hallucination — a twisted trick of the mind.

Yet every cruel sensation screamed otherwise, every harsh touch, every searing burn, betrayed that lie.

It hurt like hell.

Pain searing through him like molten fire, relentless and unforgiving.

He could feel the hard sex of the man penetrating him — invading him — claiming and spreading him more and more. He could hear the man’s heavy breathing, grunting in pleasure as he forced himself continuously into his body.

Vegeta clenched his eyes shut, tears stinging as his body trembled beneath the relentless assault. Jagged screams ripped from his throat, raw and desperate. There was no shred of pleasure in this torment. With each merciless plunge, he could feel himself tearing, blood and pain slicking the unforgiving breach, making the cruel intrusion a little bearable.

His violator’s grip was like iron; one hand dug into his hip, the other clamped cruelly on the back of his neck, forcing him down into submission.

Leaning close, pressing in deeper, and his breath hot and tainted with menace, the man groaned into Vegeta’s ear, “I should have done this sooner. Tell me… how does it make you feel?”

A shudder of revulsion wracked Vegeta’s body as the man’s tongue cruelly traced the jagged wound on his back once more. Vegeta felt sickened, nausea twisting in his gut, bile rising with the realization that this torment was far from over.

“Tell me,” the man’s voice low and cruel, “Tell me what it’s like to be so utterly broken.”

Vegeta’s mind screamed; a primal urge to lash out, to rip apart this monster that so thoroughly shattered him. But his body betrayed him; broken and battered, weighed down by pain and the cruel device choking his strength. He was a prisoner not just of iron and flesh, but deep down... of his own crumbling will.

The man’s lips curled into a cruel smile, sensing the fracture beneath the surface. He pressed closer, the heat of his breath burning against Vegeta’s skin, his words a sinister caress meant to erode what little resistance remained.

“Beg me for release,” he whispered, voice low and mocking, his thrusts becoming harder. “Beg me…You need me to end this nightmare.”

Tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, Vegeta clenched his jaw tight, refusing to yield. But inside, a war raged, humiliation tightening around his pride like a noose being slowly pulled taut. Despair seeping into his resolve, battling the slow, cruel reality of his helplessness.

“Tell me what you feel,” the man whispered again, pressing harder. “Every shred of pain, every flicker of fear. Let it drown you. And then — beg me...”

Another jagged scream ripped from Vegeta’s throat.

His pride was bleeding, his body screamed. But worse was the slow erosion of hope… 

Please make this end... please...

The nightmare stretched on — endless, suffocating — filled with the cruel symphony of the man’s ragged breaths and wicked satisfaction.

The man’s rhythm quickened — each brutal thrust ravaging deeper, ruthlessly claiming every inch of Vegeta’s broken body — before burying himself fully, emptying himself inside his captive — wrenching a raw, broken cry from the crushed Saiyajin.  

Pulling out slowly, the man exhaled, a cruel grin spreading across his lips.

Letting go, the Saiyajin collapsed back down, trembling.

“Ready to talk now?” the man asked, breath ragged with dark satisfaction.

Vegeta tightened his lips; his eyes clenched shut, swallowing the bitter bile rising in his throat.

He didn’t answer the man. He refused to answer this man. He would not give this monster the satisfaction. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

I am a warrior, he told himself, clinging to the last fragments of his shattered dignity.

He was trained to endure torture, trained to withstand pain.

He would not speak.

He would not break.

Not even if it cost him his life.

Not even if it cost him his soul.

I will kill him... Whatever it takes, I will kill him... I will make him suffer.

This was a promise he made to himself.

A promise he was going to keep.

The man bent low, looming over the smaller man’s figure, licking the wound on his back that had finally stopped bleeding.

“Last chance, Prince Vegeta.”

Vegeta’s eyes snapped open — What?? — wide with horror and disbelief.

How did he know??

He did not get the chance to question his violator.

The man drew the bloodied knife from its sheath, turning it slowly in his hand. “Let’s see if we can carve a path into your memories, hmm? Maybe find where your pride sleeps.”

The blade sank mercilessly into the Saiyajin’s back once more, carving with cruel precision.

And this time, the man did not stop cutting.

***

So how many days has it been?

He did not know.

He had lost track of time.            

He was falling in and out of consciousness every few hours, maybe every few minutes.

He was freezing. The cold had settled deep into his bones, making him shiver uncontrollably. His breathing was labored, coming in shallow, wheezing puffs...

Every breath was a betrayal. Every heartbeat a cruel reminder that he was still alive.

He was tired. 

So tired.

His skin burned violently from the brutal cutting inflicted on him. Every inch of him felt bruised, raw, aching. Every muscle, every joint and every bone screamed. He felt weak, weaker than he had ever been. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

He opened his eyes, blearily staring into the darkness. He refused to believe this was how he would die; a prisoner, a soldier of a ruthless tyrant, tortured to death.

A sigh left his cracked lips.

If he could just get the chance to heal, he would be able to kill his tormentor and escape. But they kept him drained. The blood loss alone was enough to leave him half-dead. He could feel the rough sutures on his forearms, his back and other places on his body. The stitches were crude, just enough to keep him from bleeding out. Just enough to keep him alive for more torment. 

His interrogator knew who he was.

But how?

He had been wracking his brain since this revelation.

And every time he came to the same conclusion: Frieza.

Vegeta had been such a model soldier lately; always respectful, always obedient.

Or not.

In reality, he was a constant pain in his superiors’ collective asses. He picked fights with officers well above his rank, took the beatings like a badge of honor, and got dumped into a healing tank for his trouble. And the best part? Every time they patched him up, he didn’t just recover; he got stronger. But of course, that part always seemed to fly right over their heads.

He was completely unmanageable; especially when it came to Zarbon and Dodoria, who got the full force of his charming personality. Not that they ever dared to lay a hand on him. Not openly. He was Frieza’s “beloved pet” after all. Wouldn’t want to scuff the merchandise. 

It was on Zarbon’s and Dodoria’s orders that Vegeta was sent on a mission to conquer this planet. It was on their orders that he was sent with soldiers who were not ready for battle and conquest. And when he voiced his concerns, they dismissed him outright.

He had done his research; he had mapped out a strategy based on available intel. Victory had seemed certain, even with the soldiers under his command.

He hadn’t expected the locals to fight back so fiercely. He hadn’t expected to encounter warriors with power levels rivaling his own. He hadn’t expected to be captured.

He had nearly won, almost singlehandedly, until someone struck him from behind. He hadn’t even seen who it was.

Frieza didn’t have get his own hands dirty. He knew how to break his subjugates without ever lifting a finger.

Maybe this mission had always been a trap, and Vegeta had walked straight into it.

He had been confident. His strategy was sound. His strength was enough. He would have succeeded… if they hadn’t put this blasted choker around his neck.

The prison door suddenly opened; harsh light spilling into his cell.

Vegeta closed his eyes, too weak to turn his face away. The light was unbearably bright for his sensitive eyes. He could hear the door close and heavy footsteps approaching him.

He couldn’t move, not with his injuries. He lay curled up on the cold freezing floor, limp and helpless. He wasn’t even restrained this time. They knew he couldn’t fight back.

A figure crouched beside him and fingers clamped around his jaw. Something wet touched his lips, and he jerked away instinctively, opening his eyes ever so slightly. He licked his lips tentatively, tasting it and slowly looked up.

Water.

The man held a bottle, filled with the clear liquid, and smiled down at the Saiyajin with mock warmth.

“Today’s the day,” the man announced. “Today you talk — or I’ll kill you.”

Vegeta said nothing. He glared up at the man, defiant.

“Still not much of a conversationalist, huh?” He shook the bottle a little. “Let’s see if we can fix that.” Another deliberate shake. “Talk, and maybe I’ll give you water. What do you say?”

Silence.

“Ah, Vegeta, aren’t you tired of giving me the silent treatment?” the man cooed. “I thought we were friends by now. So, what do you say?”

Fuck you.

A wad of bloody spit hit the man in the face. 

Vegeta heard the bottle land in the corner of his prison.

Rough hands seized him, dragged him upright, and threw him face-down. Pain flared in every nerve ending, his body screamed in protest.

He whimpered despite himself.

The man straddled his hips, unsheathing his knife once more.

“You think your strength means anything here?” the man hissed as his fingers traced the mangled sutures on Vegeta’s back. “This… this is where your pride dies. This is where your mind fractures. And when that happens, I will enjoy hearing you beg.”

A twisted grin spread across his face, and he leaned close, breath hot against Vegeta’s ear.

“The real question is… how long before you break? How deep does your resolve go before you scream for mercy?”

Vegeta’s stomach turned, the man’s closeness made him nauseous. He squeezed his eyes shut, but couldn’t move away.

His body was ruined. Not broken — ruined.

“Time for you to fly, my Prince.”

Vegeta’s body tensed despite itself — he knew what was coming.

The knife sliced into his back once more, ripping through the stitches that had been done the last time the man maimed his body. But it didn’t end there.

The blade sank deeper, much deeper, tearing flesh with a cruel deliberation, cutting through the muscles lining his spine, slicing into his ribs along his vertebrae.

Do not scream!

Withstand this!

Whatever you do, do not scream!

Do not scream!!

Do not… not…

Do… not…

…N-not…

 

He hadn’t screamed at first.

He had endured with gritted teeth.

But that was before the knife kissed bone.

Before his nerves became exposed wires, raw and twitching.

Before his own body betrayed him with involuntary shudders and pathetic gasps.

 

His eyes went impossibly wide.

Horrified.

His mind trying to comprehend what was happening to him.

His mouth opened in a silent scream.

Not a scream.

Not yet.

But close.

 

The knife twisted.

He felt everything.

Every. Single. Thing.

 

He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t breathe.

 

He wanted to move — but he couldn’t.

He wanted to fight back — but he couldn’t.

He wanted to defend himself — but he couldn’t.

 

His mind screamed for escape, but all he could do was lie there — broken, trapped inside a fortress of pain.

 

Blood roared in his ears. His vision blurred at the edges, burning white.

 

The knife plunged again.

He could smell blood all around him.

There was so much blood.

                                                                                                                

His nerves burned mercilessly.

The chill in his bones gave way to searing heat.

 

The world shrank to the edge of the blade and the blinding pain that exploded behind his eyes. 

Something cracked — not just bone.

Something within him.

His mind buckled.

 

He didn’t know when his voice had returned to him.

He didn’t know when he had started screaming. 

He didn’t know when he had started begging for it to stop. 

He didn’t know when he had started begging for mercy. 

He didn’t know when he had started pleading for death.

He didn’t know when he had started choking on his own blood.

 

 All he could feel was pain.

  

Unbearable pain.

  

His existence was pain.

 

The pain was a relentless whisper and scream, crawling into every fiber of his being. 

 

He could feel his ribs break.

He could hear the sickening snap of each rib as it was torn from his spine.

 

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

 

Time for you to fly, my Prince. The words echoed through the screaming in his mind.

 

He could feel the man’s hands probing deep into his open back, clawing toward the bone meant to shield his most vulnerable organs.

He could feel the man’s hands gripping severed ribs and pulling — again and again.

His world only consisted of horrific, raging, excruciating pain. 

There was only a perpetual state of agony.

There was only suffering without end.

 

Until the black void of unconsciousness mercifully consumed him.

**

Inhaling harshly he jolted upright up, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. His heart thundered in his chest, mind reeling, eyes wide and unfocused with panic.

His bruised ribs protested the sudden motion, making him wince in pain and cough violently.

Thick clots of blood filled his mouth, and a slimy mixture of mucus, blood, and — possibly — lung tissue coated his throat. Struggling for breath, he tried to regain control of his breathing, when the ground under him shook violently.  

What happened? Where was his tormentor? What was going on?

He scanned his surroundings in a panic, paranoid his tormentor would suddenly appear to continue his macabre abuse. Wrapping his arm around himself protectively, he tried to locate the brute, wanting to defend himself if needed. But his tormentor was nowhere to be seen. Nor did he see the enclosure that was his prison. In fact, he did not recognize his surroundings.

Finally having collected himself, he blinked, feeling heavily disorientated.

Wh…where am I?

He wasn’t on the cold prison floor anymore. It had been replaced with yellow stone ground, covered in sand and small rocks.

His prison walls were replaced with towering jagged cliffs, hanging partially over him, casting him in shadow. The enclosure reminded him of a cave, partially covered, but open enough for him to still see the sky. Massive boulders surrounded him, a particular large rock right in front of him.

Wherever he was, he was not in his prison anymore.

But where was he then? And how had he gotten here?

Clenching his teeth, he swallowed a whimper that desperately wanted to escape his lips, as a sharp, stabbing ache pulsed through his body.

Damnit, ouch!

Looking down at himself he saw he was still bloody and battered, his torn black bodysuit clinging to his bloodied frame. He could feel the lacerations all over his body; the cuts on his arms and back stung intensely. He didn’t have to check to know that the stitches were there. He could feel them.

His tail throbbed, and pain assaulted his lower back when he instinctively tried to wrap it around his waist. It hurt too much so he let it be, the hurt appendage lying limp on the ground besides him.

But wait... wasn't he injured to the point that he couldn't move? It seemed that he had healed a little...

I don’t understand…

Tentatively, he reached for his neck, finding that the collar was still there.

Damnit!!

He hissed and tried to growl in frustration, but a stabbing pain in his throat stopped him short. He winced as tears sprung in his eyes. He swallowed, trying to ease his sore throat.

It felt raw, like he had screamed himself hoarse.

A memory flashed across his mind and he shuddered violently at the last thing he remembered. 

Pain. 

But before he could furthermore dwell on the horrific ordeal he had gone through, he heard a familiar buzzing in the distance.

What the…?

The object making the sound was closing in, and he looked up just in time to see a familiar round machine fly overhead.

A spacepod.

He gasped.

Wait!

Where was it going?

It vanished behind the large boulder in front of him, cutting off his view. 

Grimacing, he tried to get to his feet. Bones ground against each other, muscles screamed, making him hiss in pain. His shaky legs buckled a few times, his injured tail threw off his balance, making him collapse back onto the ground.

Still, he didn’t give up. He stood up again, panting, needing to get a better view of his surroundings, and see where the pod had gone.

Panting, he finally managed to stand.

Cradling his broken arm, he stumbled forward, slowly emerging from behind the rock.

The sky was clear and the sun was shining high in the sky.

He squinted at first, his brow furrowing, his eyes not used to the bright sunlight.

Around him stretched a barren wasteland; rocky desert, jagged plateaus, little vegetation. Signs of a recent battle were everywhere: shattered boulders, scorched stone and dust lingering in the air.

And then he heard it. 

Voices.

Where were the voices coming from?!

His vision adjusted a little and he could finally make out the spacepod in the distance: roughly half a mile away.

Two figures stood near it: one of them on the ground, crawling towards the pod, seeming to be moving forward with obvious difficulty. From this angle, the pod partially blocked his face. The second figure slowly approached the crawling one, dragging an unknown object with him. Their movements were sluggish, jerkily, as though injured or exhausted. 

Vegeta blinked, shaking his head a little, trying to make out who the two were. Normally he would have no problem seeing things clearly at this distance. Saiyajins had perfect vision and could see miles away without a problem. But his senses were dulled and not functioning optimally. Everything was slightly blurry. He rubbed his eyes.

Were they friend or foe?

Watching the scene unfold, his sight and hearing slowly sharpening, recognition slowly dawned.

He could make out the clothing of the crawling figure. It was a blue bodysuit and battle armor, very similar to his own armor he normally wore. However it was definitely a more modern model and clearly damaged. White gloves, torn and stained, clung to bloodied fingers. Boots that once were white, now covered in dirt and blood, were also part of the uniform. This was a soldier. A warrior. And one who’d just been in a brutal fight.

The other figure finally reached the fallen one who had managed to crawl to the pod.

They were both panting heavily, clearly exhausted. The standing one was bald, probably shorter than he was, dressed in a sleeveless orange gi. A white circular patch marked the left side of his chest.

Finally, the bald man spoke.

“Hey Saiyajin!”

Saiyajin?

The man on the ground flinched and looked up, grimacing at seeing the other man.

Still panting the bald warrior continued. “You think you can just slither out of here after what you’ve done? Well think again!”

He raised his arm and Vegeta could finally make out the object the man was holding.

It was a sword.

“No — no! You can’t do this to me!” the fallen soldier cried.

What the… that voice…

The sword gleamed in the sunlight as the orange clad warrior closed his eyes and screamed, bringing the weapon down with fury.

“Wait — WAIT!” the man on the ground shouted.

But the blade was mercilessly stabbed into his back.

“ARGHH!!” he screamed in pain, spitting up blood as he lost his grip on the pod.

The orange clad warrior withdrew the sword, only to plunge it into the fallen man’s back a second time.

Raising the blood covered sword to the sky, it made its way again and again into the defeated man’s body, slicing repeatedly through the armor.

The attacker was clearly blinded by rage, but the tears streaming down his face told a different story: pain.

Grief.

With great effort the dying man rolled onto his back, looking at his assailant, and raised a trembling hand as if to beg for mercy.

“Enough...” He croaked weakly.

The sword plunged again, puncturing a lung, making the man gasp in pain once more.

“Please… stop…” He begged in vain.

That VOICE!

The orange clad man plunged the sword down one final time into the defeated man’s heart.

Vegeta gasped, eyes widening in shock.

Disbelieve turned to horror as realization crashed on him.

The soldier’s body slumped completely limp onto the ground. His head lolled to the side and a familiar face finally came into view.

The armor the killed soldier wore, the torn white gloves on his hands, the white damaged boots, the dark spiky hair…

Vegeta was looking at himself.

He was looking at himself being slaughtered, killed by the hands of a stranger. 

His gasp must’ve been loud enough, because the orange-clad man snapped his head up, looking straight at him.

Their eyes locked.

SHIT.

Vegeta’s blood turned to ice; his breath turned to stone in his chest. Panic surged through him, white-hot and primal, flushing through his limbs like fire.

He had to move — NOW. Get out of sight and hide!

But his legs betrayed him as he stumble backwards, buckling under him as they gave way. Before he could brace himself, he was falling… His back struck the uneven ground, and then —

CRACK.

Pain lanced through his skull as it smacked hard against the jagged stone.

“Ghahh!” he cried out in pain.

The sky tilted. His vision faded in and out. Colors bled into each other, and shapes warped.

He blinked rapidly, but the world refused to settle.

It pulsed.

Shifted.

Breathed.

He clenched his eyes shut; the impact and his unsteady vision making him feel nauseous. The pain in his head throbbed in time with his pulse, each beat a hammer against his skull.

He had to get up. He had to get out of there.

He choked out a cough, sharp and dry.

He shook his head, groggily.  

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Still, he forced his body to obey.

His arm trembled violently under his weight as he pushed himself upright as fast as he could, fighting against gravity, against the weakness that threatened to pull him down again.

The moment he sat up, the pain in his skull intensified. His vision went white for a second, then black. He swayed, nearly pitching sideways.

“Come on,” he growled through clenched teeth, his voice barely audible.

Sweat beaded along his brow.

His fingers clawed at the dirt for balance. For anchor. Anything to remind him where the ground was.

He dragged in a shaky breath.

Focus. You have to focus.

Time stretched around him, thick and sluggish. How much time had passed? Seconds? Minutes?

He couldn’t tell.

His senses were scrambled. He could hear nothing but the blood roaring in his ears and the uneven rasp of his own breath.

Every second he stayed on the ground felt like an eternity dragging by; loud, exposed, and vulnerable. He couldn't tell if he was truly upright or just thought he was.

Get up! You have to get up before…!

The air shifted… Thickened… The way animals go silent before a predator moves in…

He forced his eyes open, the edges of his vision still swimming. Shapes began to form; the world slowly reassembling itself — rock, dust, sky, and something else… Something that stopped his heart mid-beat.

No.

He looked up — and froze.

His stomach dropped.

The bald man was standing in front of him.

Silent.

Unmoving.

The bald man's head and face were covered in scrapes and other injuries, blood oozing out of them. But the six dots on his forehead were unmistakable. His left shoulder was bleeding heavily, his orange gi burnt and torn in several places, revealing more injuries.

He no longer held the sword; his hands were curled into tight fists at his side.

And the man’s dark eyes… his eyes stared at the Saiyajin in horror.

The silence between them was deafening.

Vegeta made the first move; he raised his arm instinctively, preparing to fire a blast —

But the man struck fast.

The man slammed his fist against the Saiyajins jaw, knocking him out cold.

Notes:

Thank you for reading my very first piece of fiction – smol bow 🙇‍♀️ -
Sorry for the cliffhanger! I hope you enjoyed it! English isn’t my first language, and it took me a while to be satisfied with my story. I also wanted to cut the chapter in two at first, but it didn't seem fitting for the flow of the story. I hope you didn't mind the length. Constructive feedback is appreciated!

I was inspired to start writing after reading Mind Rape by JessieMay (please check out her work!)

Chapter 2: Echo of a Warrior

Notes:

I decided to experiment with pov's

So who is this guy?

I couldn’t stop staring at him.

He looked just like that Saiyajin who came here to destroy the Earth and take the Dragon Balls. There's no doubt about it; the face, the hair, it’s all the same.

But… is he really the same guy?

He has to be.

He has the very same features... same spiky hair shooting up like it’s fighting gravity itself, though, maybe with a more red-brownish tint this time.

There’s no way it’s not him.

Right?

The thing is… he looks…

Younger.

 *~*~

I remember begging Krillin to let Vegeta live.

Even after all the pain he caused... all the people he hurt... something deep down told me not to let him die. Even though I knew how dangerous he was, I just couldn't do it. He still deserved another shot because...

Because I’d never met anyone like him before.

He was strong. And not just strong; he was scary strong. Like, the kind of strong that makes your whole body go, “Whoa!”

He was dangerous. I mean, really dangerous; a threat to all of us. He could’ve wiped us out. And honestly, I don’t think he would’ve lost sleep over it.

But even in all that danger, underneath all that power and rage… I saw something else...

He wasn’t just tough; he was a real warrior. He was stubborn, fierce and proud. He was ruthless, yeah, no doubt about it. But man, when he fought… it was like he came alive out there. He was like a wild animal with no quit in him. It was like his soul caught fire.

Winning the fight was the only thing that mattered to him.

And it was definitely the same for me.

Every time we clashed, it felt like a storm, a test of my spirit. I had to give it everything just to keep up. He pushed me, really pushed me, and I loved it. He challenged me in every way in the fight. He made every second of the battle feel like it was the only second that existed.

What really got me wasn’t just how strong he was; it was the fire inside him. The need to fight, that drive, that burn to go all out and never stop.

Even when everything was against him, when he had to take on Krillin, Gohan and me, he wouldn’t quit. He just kept getting back up, again and again. He didn’t care what it cost. He would push past his own limits to win.

His pride as an elite warrior, it wasn’t just ego; it was who he was. It was his reason for everything. It was everything that made him who he was. It was the force that drove him forward. And somehow it excited me in a way I never felt before. He made me feel something... something wild.

He made me feel alive.

I wanted to see what he could really do. What I could do when he was coming at me with everything he had.

Every time we clashed, I felt it; like I was on the edge of something huge; something real.

And yeah… I liked it.

I liked it a lot.

I want to feel that fire again, to get pulled into it, to fight inside it.

Because no one’s ever pushed me the way he did. No one’s ever made me dig that deep. He awakened something inside me.

A hunger.

A need.

I wanna fight him again. I wanna see how far I can go. I wanna burn with that same fire; not just to match it… but to understand it.

I want more.

Because it wasn’t just about fighting him; it was about what that fight meant.

 *~*~

So yeah…

I called out to Krillin, but my voice was super weak, and I don’t think he heard me. I could feel his anger towards Vegeta, but more than anything, I could feel his grief.

It hurt.

I hated feeling my friend like that.

I kept calling his name, but Krillin didn’t hear me. I didn’t blame him though. He was going through a lot. We all were.

And honestly… maybe I was being selfish. I mean, maybe it wasn’t fair of me to ask him to let Vegeta live.

Asking Krillin to spare the same guy who nearly killed all of us? Yamcha, Tien, Chiaotzu and Piccolo were dead. It didn’t make sense.

Krillin wouldn’t understand. No one would. And I don’t blame anyone.

But deep down, I knew what I was doing. I knew it was the right thing to do. Even if it didn’t make sense at the time, even if I couldn’t explain it; It just felt right.

It was like instinct driving me.

Vegeta had done horrible things; he was a killer, he was a threat. And maybe he should never be given another chance…

But I just couldn’t let it end like that.

 

 

And then I could feel his energy fading fast until it was just… gone.

Something twisted in my chest when it happened.

And I don’t know why… but it hurt.

I felt sad.

Later, Master Roshi, Bulma, Chi-Chi and Korin arrived at the battlefield. I pushed the strange feeling away and focused on what mattered; we’d won. The Earth was safe and Gohan and Krillin were alive. Somehow we’d made it.

Chi-Chi was mad at me and I didn't get why. I mean, Gohan was okay, right? And he had become a strong fighter. I was so proud of my son!

After the initial tears had fallen and the bodies of our fallen friends were boarded on the airplane in preservation pods, Krillin pulled Bulma aside. They talked in hushed voices.

And the next thing I know, Bulma’s running to me.

She looked freaked out. She said they’d found someone near the battlefield, barely alive, beat up real bad. Krillin admitted to finding him at the end of the battle and knocking him out cold.

But when they looked at the guy, they were scared, like really scared. And they wanted him dead.

I asked why and they told me who he looked like and... my heart stopped.

It was him.

Or someone who looked just like him.

And this time I begged them — to let him live. I didn’t even hesitate. It took a lot of convincing from my side, but eventually, they agreed.

Kinda.

Sorta.

Reluctantly.

He was strapped to a stretcher and put on the airplane, next to our fallen friends.

He never woke up. Not once, all the way back to the city.

At the hospital, we were all treated. And thanks to Bulma, we ended up in the same room. I was wrapped in bandages from head to toe. I couldn’t even move! I couldn’t even scratch my nose when it itched! But it did not kill my good mood, I was still smiling. I mean, we’d won and saved the Earth! That’s what counts, right?

Krillin, Gohan and I talked about our victory, all excited, until Bulma and the doctor walked in, faces real serious.

After checking in on us, they told us that the stranger had been examined and his injuries treated…and that he’d be moved into our room.

Krillin freaked out. Gohan got a little nervous at his outburst and looked to me like, “Dad???”

Bulma said it was safer this way. If the stranger was here they could keep an eye on him. Besides, he was super sedated and too injured to be a threat.

I was curious. I wondered why he was hurt, because he wasn’t in our fight. And I had not sensed any other life-signals during our battle. I always pick up on power levels. I had even felt Yajirobis small ki signature when he had arrived during my fight with the Saiyajin, but not this guy.

So how’d I miss him?

I shrugged and said it was okay, as long as they were sure he couldn’t hurt anyone. Then they wheeled him in, and I just... stared.

So now there he was, lying in a bed just a few feet away from me. He was wrapped up in a lot of bandages, but not as much as me though; he had a cast on his left arm and was hooked up to machines.

He was asleep, his heart monitor beeping away slowly and steadily.

I watched him, looking at the details of his face; the sharp line of his jaw, bruised and stiff. A weird little frown he had even while asleep, his hands resting at his side above the sheets.

I stared at him for what felt like hours. I just couldn’t stop.

He looked just like Vegeta. It had to be him. But he looked...younger.

Smaller.

Paler.

And tired.

Not the kind of tired you get from training or fighting. The kind that sinks deep into your bones. Like life had beaten him down. Even in his sleep, his face looked... sad. Like he'd seen too much. Like he’d lived too much.

He looked lost.

What happened to this guy?

I figured I’d ask Bulma later.

I blinked a few times, watching the faint, barely noticeable, rise and fall of his chest. Something about him felt off. Like there were pieces that didn’t quite fit. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sense anything from him. No ki, no energy, nothing.

Was he evil like the other Vegeta, or not?

His energy was quiet at the moment. Like it was asleep, like he was.

I looked at the boring white ceiling and wondered who he really was. Where did he come from? Was his name also Vegeta? Was he the same person I had known on the battlefield? Or someone else entirely? I just wanted to understand…

Hopefully he would wake up soon... I really wanted to talk to him! I had so many questions!

I hoped he wasn't evil. But man, I really hoped he was strong! Like strong strong.  As strong as the Vegeta we fought! ‘Cause a guy like that? He’d be awesome to train with!

I smiled just thinking about it and closed my eyes. I looked forward to the day we possibly would fight again. But then… I opened them again. Something bugged me.

I turned my head again towards him, staring at his face. He looked too still. Too quiet. Like… like he was dead.

I frowned.

Days had passed, and he hadn’t moved once. He hadn’t stirred since he was brought in. Not a twitch, not a sound. His energy remained buried, silent and hidden.

Was he okay? Was he in pain? Was he dreaming?

And then it happened; something changed.

At first, I thought I imagined it. Just the tiniest flicker. The heart monitor beeped, just a little faster…

I sat up straighter (well, kinda). My eyes widened when the heart monitor started beeping a little faster now and saw his eyes move under closed lids just a little.

His brow tensed ever so slightly. His chest rose again; deeper this time, like he was trying to push through some kind of fog.

Then his fingers twitched, just a little, barely anything.

But enough.

His breathing deepened.

A shudder rolled through his body; barely visible, but enough to make the blanket move over him. The heart monitor beeped faster, and then his energy…

I felt it.

His ki. It wasn’t sleeping anymore. It was waking up.

It stirred, slowly rising to the surface. It was strong. It was dense. It was heavy and cold. It crept up slowly, like a storm rolling in from far away.

It began to shift.

I held my breath.

It felt familiar.

Yeah…

He was waking up!

*-*

Beep…beep…beep… beep…

Space is silent… completely and utterly silent.

They say it’s peaceful even.

But that’s a lie.

There’s nothing peaceful about it. It’s not quiet; it’s empty, a vast, endless void that reflects everything you’d rather not think about when you’re awake.

I used to love it when I traveled to far off planets. Those were the few times, solitude was my companion. The rare peace I found when I was out of reach.

No orders from Frieza, no barking superiors, no taunting from higher ranking soldiers.

Beep…Beep…Beep… beep…

It used to be a blessing. And yet, somehow, even my own company turned sour a long time ago.

Most of the time, we slept.

But sometimes Nappa or Raditz would call in to ask for a break, hoping to land on some uninhabited rock that we would come across on our journey. Or they would complain about trivial things. Or cracking ridiculous jokes.

Idiots, the both of them. But at least their noise filled the space.

They’d been unusually quiet for a while now.

Too quiet.

That should’ve been my first warning.

But no, I didn’t notice; I was too injured to notice. How pathetic. But wait… Why was I injured anyway?

Beep…Beep…Beep… beep…

And what was that insistent, rhythmic beeping sound I kept hearing in the background?

It reminded me of the healing pods that monitors your vitals. I’ve heard it more times than I’d like to admit.

But was it a healingpod? And why the hell was I hearing a healingpod?

I coughed. A dull feeling of pain started to wrack my body.

Beep…Beep…Beep… beep…

“Huh?” I said. Or at least, I tried to say. Nothing came out.

My voice was gone.

I frowned, wondering where my voice had gone, when I started coughing again.

I covered my mouth as my coughing became more and more severe. Looking into my gloved, trembling, hands I frowned in confusion; blood.

What?

Why?

And then I noticed it.

The water.

Pooling at the bottom of the pod. Steadily rising at my feet.

Brilliant. Just what I needed. A leaky pod.

I froze.

Water? In my pod? What the fuck was water doing in my spacepod? There’s no water in space.

Where did it come from? Had I crash-landed in an ocean without noticing? Was there a breach in the pods exterior that let water in? My eyes darted to the window, but all I could see was the empty void of space.

Still.

Empty.

Wrong.

Utterly wrong. No — no, no — this wasn’t right. None of this made sense.

It was at my ankles now.

I didn’t understand.

What the hell was going on?

As the water rose at an alarming rate, my coughs became more violent, hurting my ribs. The blood coming from my lungs were also increasing and I started to choke; choking on blood, on fear, on whatever the hell was happening. My vision blurred.

The water surged, creeping up my calves, my thighs, faster now.

Too fast.

The water was climbing, and with it, panic. Real, choking panic.

There wasn’t enough space in here. The walls of the pod were pressing in. No room to move. No room to breathe.

I could hardly breathe…

This isn’t real.

Beep…Beep…Beep… beep…

Panic rose in my chest when I knew that I would either drown in the rising water or drown in my own blood-filled lungs.

My hand clawed at my throat and the other slammed the emergency button in the pod that would release an oxygen mask.

Nothing happened.

No hiss. No click. No salvation. Just silence.

And that damned beeping.

My eyes widened. My ears rang. I erratically smashed other buttons in a desperate attempt to override the system.

Frantic.

Blind.

Hammering the console like it might suddenly respond to terror.

Useless garbage!

Still nothing happened.

Beep…Beep…Beep… beep…

The water had reached my chin now and I was still coughing. It wracked my body, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Gasping, I slammed the communication buttons to the other pods.

A faint crackle.

Someone accepted my call, but only static could be heard from the other side of the line.

I screamed, but it didn’t sound like a scream. It was more like a wet gurgle, swallowed by water, eaten by silence.

I trashed violently, gasping and choking. I was shaking. Not from cold. Not entirely.

From rage.

From fear.

I was scared.

I was drowning.

One hand hit the overhead controls, the other gripped the side of the pod in blind terror; searching for seams to pry open.

But there was no escape.

Only walls.

Only water.

Only blood.

Beep…Beep…Beep… beep…

I slammed my palm into the console again and again, body convulsing, lungs filling. Still nothing but static in my ears.

No voices.

No rescue.

No one.

Why was no one answering? Where the hell were they? Where the hell was anyone?

The pod was full now.

Completely submerged, and I was still coughing, inhaling water. My chest convulsed, my body spasmed. I choked on water that filled my lungs, mingling with blood. The cold flooded my lungs.

Beep…Beep…Beep… beep…

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The silence screamed back.

I was suffocating.

The walls were too close. The darkness pressed in until all I could feel was pain.

The static became louder and louder in my ears.

I am going to die!

I am going to die!

I am going to die!

I—

*-*

Vegeta awoke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the persistent rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor. His eyes cracked open.

Slowly.

Struggling.

As if it hurt.

At first, everything was a blur. His vision was unfocused, half-lidded and hazy, clouded by lingering sedation and the raw edge of pain.

He blinked once.

Twice.

His breath hitched. His eyes darted upward, confusion flickered across his face. A white ceiling loomed above him, sterile and unfamiliar. His vision trembled at the edges, darkness still trying to drag him under.

He gagged suddenly.

Something was in his mouth. Thick and foreign, obstructing his breathing as it ran down his throat, deep and invasive.

He moved his head slightly. The movement felt heavy, like his skull was made of led.

“Hhhnnnn…” a small, almost inaudible groan slipped from the back of his throat, raw and weak.

He tried to lift his arms, but only his right one moved, slow and shaking. The left remained immobile and felt al stiff and heavy.

He didn’t know why.

His trembling right hand moved towards his mouth, fingers reaching clumsily for the foreign object. Gripping it weakly, he pulled.

The intubation tube slid from his throat like a live snake, thick and wet, making him gag as it came free. He convulsed as a violent jolt ripped through his body, back arching off the bed.

Tears sprang to his eyes and he squeezed them shut.

His jaw clenched hard, but he forced it open, willing himself not to bite down from the awful sensation.

He retched; tears rolling down his face as the tube slowly emerged from his throat, inch by inch.

Spit and blood trailed from his lips as the last of the tube slipped free with a wet pop.

Panting, he dropped the tube limply beside him, and he coughed violently. Gasping for air, he noticed his throat felt raw. But even through the pain, he welcomed the sensation of air filling his lungs.

His chest heaved, each breath pulling against aching ribs. The pounding of his heartbeat roared in his ears, drowning out the monitor's beeping — until the soft hum of the machine finally registered beside him.

He felt groggy though and tried to make sense of it all.

What happened?

He blinked, trying to clear his vision through the tears his coughing had brought on. His body felt impossibly heavy, and his fingers clenched at the sheets. Everything ached. His arms trembled and his head throbbed.

Warily he looked down.

White bandages wrapped his right forearm that reached down to his knuckles. Thin tubes ran from the crook of his elbow, snaking into an IV stand beside the bed. Wires pressed against his skin, attached to small electrodes on his chest. One of the monitors gave a soft beep in time with his heartbeat. The machines humming and beeping gently around him.

His left arm was immobilized in a cast, slung tight across his torso. That explained the dead weight.

He was wearing a hospital gown instead of his armor, or his battle gear.

What the hell...? How...?

He was lying in a hospital bed.

It was daytime, maybe morning. Birds were chirping faintly outside the window.

He tried to remember what had happened but his memory refused to surface, nothing but a black hole.

And then, he heard it. A soft rustle nearby.

Something — someone — moved beside him.

And then his name was said.

“Hi… Vegeta?”

It was a soft and gentle voice.

A voice he did not recognize.

His head whipped violently toward the sound, and he instantly regretted it.

His vision spun and nausea rose. A sharp hoarse groan tore from his throat as he slammed his eyes shut. He waited, breathing slowly and shallow, until the dizziness passed.

It took a while before he opened his eyes and he could focus again.

And he found himself staring into a pair of wide, onyx-black eyes, soft and curious, blinking at him with a quiet kind of wonder.

*-*

Goku’s eyes went wide.

There it was; that energy. It wasn’t just a flicker anymore, it was moving… growing.

He could feel it in the air; cold and sharp like a blade, and kinda heavy too. But it didn’t feel evil… not really. Just strong and intense, like it was dragging something deep behind it.

His heart started pounding, but not from fear; it pounded from excitement.

Was he really waking up? Goku leaned forward as much as his bandaged-up body would allow him, his eyes locked on the figure in the bed. Just watching and waiting.

Then…Vegeta’s fingers twitched.

And again.

Then his whole hand moved, all stiff and slow, like it hadn’t done anything in forever.

The heart monitor responded.

Beep… Beep… Beepbeepbeep.

Goku held his breath.

Vegeta’s chest lifted; a sharp and ragged breath this time. His brow scrunched up, like he was hurting. Like his body remembered pain before his brain even got a chance to catch up. And then…finally…

He opened his eyes. Just a little.

Goku’s own eyes got big again. Whoa… Those were his eyes alright; Vegeta’s. Same dark brown color, same fire, same pride, but also… something else...

Something broken.

Or maybe just something clinging on by a thread.

Vegeta wasn’t looking at anything, just kind of staring through the room like he wasn’t really there.

Goku didn’t say anything at first; he didn’t want to freak him out.

Vegeta blinked slowly. His breathing was rough; like everything hurt.

Still, Goku couldn’t help himself and he smiled. You’re awake…he thought. Took you long enough.

Then Vegeta let out a groan that made Goku’s smile drop.

That didn’t sound good.

Before Goku could say anything, Vegeta’s hand moved again, grabbing the tube in his mouth.

Goku blinked. Wait — what?!

He watched, equal parts fascinated and horrified, as the smaller man grabbed the intubation tube and yanked it free. The sound alone made Goku wince.

That couldn’t be right… could it?

Vegeta’s violent coughs followed; hard, and over and over, like it was tearing his throat apart. When the coughs subsided, Vegeta lay back against the bed, his breathing shallow and strained.

Goku saw his eyes drift to the machines, the wires, the bandages wrapped tight around his arms. Like he wasn’t sure where he was. Or when.

Goku spoke up carefully, voice soft.

“Hi… Vegeta?”

That got a reaction.

Vegeta turned his head fast — too fast — because he groaned in agony, and squeezed his eyes shut, before he could see the other man.

He stayed like that for a moment, breathing through clenched teeth. But then he managed to open them, and looked straight at Goku.

Their eyes met.

Vegeta’s gaze was sharp, piercing and guarded.

But underneath all that, Goku saw it. The same light in this man’s eyes as the Saiyajin he had fought.

That same fire.

That burning need to rise. The need to fight. To exist on his own terms.

Vegeta tried to move, like he was trying to sit up, but his body gave out and he gritted his teeth, muscles trembling.

Goku felt his energy pulse again, way stronger this time. Like it was pushing against everything trying to hold it down; the pain, the fear, the weakness.

Goku tilted his head, his smile returning. “Hey… I’m not sure who ya are yet,” he said, as friendly as he could, “but you’ve got some crazy strong energy in there. I can feel it.”

Vegeta didn’t answer, he didn’t even blink; he just stared. The kind of stare that wasn’t just looking at you, but through you.

“Ya don’t have to say anything,” Goku added gently. “I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re alive.”

That got a twitch from the smaller man’s brow. Almost invisible. But Goku caught it. Like he didn’t expect that. Like no one had ever said that to him before.

“So just… rest up, okay?” Goku smiled.

Vegeta blinked, his eyes still locked onto Goku’s.

“Besides,” Goku grinned wider, “when you’re better, I really wanna spar with ya.”

For just a second, something shifted in Vegeta’s expression. Not much, but there was just the faintest change... Maybe confusion, maybe… something like curiosity.

His breathing slowed, his eyelids fluttered. And just like that, he passed out again.

Goku leaned back, still grinning to himself.

“Yep,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, his voice light, full of quiet excitement.

“You’re definitely gonna be fun.”

 

 

 

Notes:

Hello again :) - smol bow -

Thank you to everyone who decided to give my story a go. It means a lot! I hope you liked the first meeting between Vegeta and Goku.

I decided to split this chapter into two, as it was originally longer than Chapter One. Chapter Three will be up soon!

Chapter 3: The spider ran out of silk

Notes:

Hi👋 I'm back -smol bow🙇‍♀️- Bulma has entered the chat ;) Enjoy!

Vegeta hadn’t woken again.

Not since that first, fleeting moment of consciousness. It was like he’d slipped back into that deep, unnerving silence; his body alive, but his presence far away. The doctor checked him often, but couldn’t figure out why the Saiyajin had slipped back into a coma. No signs of brain damage, no internal collapse, just... unconscious.

Goku remained optimistic that the smaller man would wake again. He was sure of it.

And it wasn’t until a few days later when Goku felt it again.

It was early morning and the room was quiet. Gohan was sound asleep in the other bed and the machines were humming softly in the background. Goku was also asleep, curled loosely on his side, bandaged but peaceful, snoring softly in his hospital bed dreaming about food, when…

That ki.

It was surfacing again. Still faint, but more focused this time, like it was shedding the darkness it was crawling out from.

Goku’s eyes fluttered open and jawned. He didn’t move at first, he blinked and just listened, his heart beginning to race. He was absolutely positive this had to be the same Saiyajin he had fought, because of the same energy he felt.

But he could also sense something different about it.

It was clearer this time; something defiant pulsed in it, something more unforgiving and rebellious, something wild and more… free? He couldn’t put his finger on it. He turned his head, careful not to pull at the tubes and bandages still stuck to him. Pain pinched across his body, but he ignored it.

Vegeta stirred again.

His fingers moved first, a lot smoother now, like his muscles were starting to wake up too. Then he shifted his arm, the one not in a cast and the heart monitor beeped a little faster.

Goku rolled onto his back, his eyes getting bigger with anticipation, watching closely, holding his breath without meaning to.

A groan was heard, voice hoarse and scratchy. The Saiyajins eyes cracked open, dark and unreadable.

Goku couldn’t help it; he smiled, eyes sparkling with joy. “Hey! You’re up again!”

Vegeta blinked, slowly. His eyes opened wider this time, still bleary and unfocussed, still fighting through the haze. His gaze drifted first to Goku, then away, scanning the unfamiliar room with heavy, hazy confusion that quickly gave way to tension.

He frowned, jaw tightening.

“You’re in a hospital,” Goku told him gently, “in West City.”

Vegeta blinked up at the ceiling, frowning like he was trying to remember something. He winced, as pain slowly bled back into awareness, joining him in the land of the conscious.

“You looked really bad when Krillin found ya,” Goku continued.

That caught his attention.

Vegeta’s eyes flicked back toward him; dark eyes deep as space, full of exhaustion, suspicion and pain. And something else Goku couldn’t name; maybe something older, something primal.

For a second, neither of them moved, and neither of them spoke.

The world was just… quiet.

Vegeta’s brows knit together, breathing uneven. He didn’t speak. But the way he looked at Goku... it wasn’t hatred, it wasn’t fear… it was like he wanted to understand; like he wanted to remember something that was just out of reach.

Vegeta squinted at the man beside him, breath ragged. His ribs flared with each inhale, his throat burned; every swallow felt like fire. His mouth tasted like metal and bile.

He hated it.

Goku hadn’t moved much. Just lying there, wrapped in bandages, still managing to look stupidly cheerful. Only his face was visible, and that looked ridiculous to Vegeta; like someone had tried to bandage a smile.

Who the hell is he?

He felt uneasy.

Why was this guy smiling like an idiot when he looked like he had broken every bone in his body?

Unknown, and thus can’t be trusted, Vegeta reminded himself.

Even if the fool looks like a clown.

“You were hurt,” Goku said, voice calm, his usual smile slipping away. “They found ya after a battle. You weren’t part of it, but you were nearby. And man, you were in bad shape; really injured bad. Like real real bad. Someone really did a number on you!”

Vegeta looked away, his jaw tightening even more.

Shame, maybe, or confusion, Goku wasn’t sure. “They say you’re lucky to be alive. Whoever hurt ya… they weren’t holdin’ back.”

Goku tried to keep his voice light, but there was a trace of concern beneath it. His eyes also betrayed his worry for the other man. “But you hung in there. That says somethin’.”

Goku kept on talking but Vegeta tuned him out.

Why can’t I remember, damnit?!

Vegeta snarled inwardly, raking through his mind, demanding it yield answers, but he found nothing but blankness.

A mission? No.

Battle? Most likely.

Training? Never hard enough to do this.

Then what the hell had happened to him? Why the hell did he feel like his body had been dragged through Hell and back? And his tail —

Wait.

His eyes widened.

His tail! He didn’t feel it.

Shit.

His fingers twitched against the bedsheets as a flicker of memory danced across the back of his mind.

Pain.

Blood.

A scream… his or someone else’s, he couldn’t tell.

He shoved it back down.

No. Not now.

The man beside him was still chatting away amicably, eyes still locked onto the smaller man.

Vegeta turned his head slightly toward him, eyes distrustful, and scrunched his nose a little. He was careful not to move too fast this time. His vision wobbled but steadied.

That face...

It wasn’t a stranger, not quite. He stared harder; a vague memory of a soldier on planet Vegeta plagued the back of his mind. The memory just out of reach...

The heart monitor ticked beside him like a slow, smug metronome. He glanced at the wires, the bandages, and the cast on his arm. He’d been patched up, which meant he’d been out. How long had he been out? The thought sent a spike of irritation down his spine.

He hated the sound of the damned machine. He hated the soft bed. He hated the sterile stink of the place, like death trying to smell clean. He hated being weak.

He despised it.

And that clown — that idiot, chatting cheerfully like this was just another day — he hated most of all.

No… not most of all.

What he really hated, what burned hottest, was not knowing why.

Enough.

His staring contest with the other man was over. He was done lying here like some helpless child.

He pushed himself up; forcing his trembling hand against the soft mattress.

He would escape this cursed bed. Weak or not, he would stand. He was Vegeta, Prince of Saiyajins. Not some pathetic thing to be pitied.

But it was anything but easy.

His body felt stiff and weak, and his arms hurt so damn bad. His muscles were screaming, and using them to push himself up made pain ripple through every tendon, each fiber resisting like rusted steel trying to move. It almost made him yelp. And then more of his body started to protest and hurt. His eyes widened and his teeth ground together. A strangled sound escaped him before he could smother it.

“Hrgh — Nnng…”

He grit his teeth harder, forcing the tears threatening his eyes to stay put. His arm shook violently before collapsing back against the pillows with a ragged exhale; jaw grinding so hard his teeth ached.

Fucking— Dammit—!

He laid still for a moment, trembling from exertion, chest rising and falling like he’d just fought a battle.

Then got back to it.

“Uhm... what are ya doin’?” Goku asked, alarmed, watching the smaller man struggling in his actions. “I don’t think that’s a smart thing to do. You’re still really banged up and I don’t think the doc will like ya movin’ around too much.”

Vegeta didn’t give a damn. Weakness was not an option.

He forced himself to sit upright. It took everything he had, but he wasn’t going to lie there any longer. He refused to stay down. And nothing or no one was going to stop him.

“You’re not seriously trying to get up, are you??” Goku asked. “Or…”

His eyes widened.

Oooh, wait a second...

 “…Wait. Are ya scared of needles? Is that it?? Cause same! I also hate needles and would also run if I could!” His face contorted in fear and tears sprung in his eyes at the thought of needles. A weak laugh left his lips, but sounded more like a whimper.

Vegeta looked at Goku with an unreadable look on his face, his frown knitting together more. Needles? Why would he be afraid of needles?

Tch, weakling, he thought, then ignored the other man entirely. He decided to focus on his task at hand and shoved the sheets off him as best as he could. It bunched at his feet.

A mistake he was going to regret.

With everything he had, he swung his legs off the side of the bed, away from Goku. He did not wait and tried to stand.

Not only were his legs numb from days of immobility, but in his haste to get out of bed his legs got tangled in the sheets and he crashed to the floor with a sharp yelp, graceless and shocked.

“Ohh shi… Are you ok?!” Goku asked panicking, trying to see the other man. His neck strained and his head wobbled from side to side.

Is he ok? Did he hurt himself??

Lying sprawled on the floor, his left arm free now the sling had torn loose in the fall, Vegeta blinked in disbelief.

Sheets were bunched around his feet, wires tangled around him, and a sudden rush of pins and needles surged through his legs as they jolted back to life. He wanted to get to his feet, he really did... but couldn’t. His body felt heavy like lead and — damn it all — refused to move.

That infuriated him to the core.

Why am I so weak? This is ridiculous! Pathetic!

He clenched his fists, trembling with fury. Exasperated and with a frustrated grunt, he glanced down at himself, scanning his own body with a glare full of contempt.

His hospital gown had ridden up from the fall, leaving much of his battered body exposed. He saw bandages wrapped around his chest, thighs, arms, legs and feet. Some angry wounds and bruises were uncovered and in various stages of healing, some ugly and purplish-red, some turning green.

It was a map of failure, and he hated every inch of it.

He could feel the bandages along his back, the way they tugged at his skin, making it feel tight and constricted. Even his head was wrapped, layers wound around his skull like he was some fragile thing.

Tch.

His tail lay limp beside him feeling heavy and dull. He turned his gaze toward the appendage, a flicker of relief and dread passing through him, and noticed a few bandages wrapped around it. In the center a patch of fur was missing, exposing raw irritated skin beneath.

His frustration made way for curiosity and unease.

He reached out, grasping his tail, and lifted it to his face to inspect the exposed spot more closely. The second his fingers brushed the bare patch of fur his memories came flooding back with unforgiving violence.

No! Get off! GET OFF ME!!

“Talk!” the man barked, yanking again at the already injured tail with merciless cruelty, forcing the Saiyajin to scream once more.

DON’T!

“Who are you?!” the man demanded, ruthlessly pulling the painful appendage again.

STOP IT!

“Time for you to fly, my Prince…”

Vegeta inhaled sharply. His eyes went wide, uncontrollable terror flooding him at the memory and his body went cold.

That HAD happened to him.

He had been brutally tortured. He had been maimed. He had been…

His body jolted and he started shaking uncontrollably. His chest seized up, his throat closing, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get a single breath in. The air felt thin. Too thin.

He clawed at his chest. His heart started thrashing so violently that he could hear it thundering in his ears. His mouth went dry. He felt like he was suffocating.

His eyes darted around, wide and frenzied.

What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he breathe damnit??

He erratically gasped for breath and felt himself getting lightheaded. Ice cold sweat broke across his skin, and he was shivering violently at this point.

Every sound in the room twisted into echoes, every shadow lengthened and warped. The corners of the room closed in, the walls were moving, the light was wrong and stabbing at him; it was too sharp.

What’s happening to me?! No — no, get a hold of yourself! He scolded himself, but his thoughts were slipping, scattering, spinning out of reach.

Breathe! Just — just breathe!

His chest heaved, but the air wasn’t coming in. His pulse roared in his ears.

You’re stronger than this. Control it!

But the more he tried, the worse it got.

“H-Hey?! Are you ok? What’s going on??” Goku called out worriedly. He couldn’t see the other Saiyajin sprawled on the floor, but he could hear him breathing erratically and feel his ki spike uncontrollably.

The monitor beeped faster and louder, almost shrieking along with the rising panic.

Vegeta let out strangled pants. “Gah — hah hah — uuunngggh.”

Vegeta curled into himself, trembling, chest heaving, face drenched in cold sweat. His eyes were wild and unfocused, his teeth clenched so hard they hurt.

His skin felt too tight, too hot, too wrong.

Every sound warped, the room tilted, lights flickered, edges blurred — his senses distorting into chaos.

Stop — STOP!

His fingers dug into the floor, his tail flicked frantically behind him.

His breath hitched again; sharp, shallow and useless.

Get it together! Stop this! Breathe!

He clutched at his ribs, muscles trembling under the strain. His chest shuddered with the effort to breathe. Cold sweat dripped from his brow, soaking into the bandages.

He couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t move.

His body was locked in a tremor, seized by panic and chaos, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but it was no use.

Hot, silent tears slipped down his cheeks, unbidden and uncontrollable.

No, no, no… he gasped in his mind.

Make it stop. Please, just make it stop.

He despised this.

He told himself it was just the physical pain. Not emotion. Never emotion.

Please, just breathe!

He had never experienced something like this before. This was new; terrifyingly new.

And he didn’t know how to stop it.

His mind splintered, thoughts flying in every direction, and his body spiraled with it, lost in chaos.

It felt like dying; slow and suffocating. And no matter how hard he fought, he couldn’t claw his way out.

And for a heartbeat — just one — he feared it would never end.

It took several agonizing minutes before he could finally wrestle back some control. It didn’t end all at once, no.

The panic didn’t vanish. It receded, inch by inch, like a storm reluctant to leave.

At first his chest was still tight, but his breath returned in broken, shallow pants. Like dragging air through a straw, each inhale still tight, but no longer suffocating. The terror that had him in a stranglehold minutes ago began to ease; not gone, no, but retreating. His heartbeat, still hammering in his ears, began to slow. Not much, but enough that he could feel the rhythm instead of just being deafened by it. The roar in his ears faded a little and he could hear past it now.

He could hear the machines; hear the low hum of the room.

His muscles, locked and trembling, began to let go, twitching with leftover adrenaline as if they too were confused by the sudden shift. His hands were still shaking and his skin still buzzed with cold sweat. But the edge had dulled. The air didn’t burn in his lungs anymore.

He drew in a breath.

Then another.

It was still uneven and ragged, but no longer like he was choking on fire. His jaw loosened just enough to stop grinding his teeth into dust. The room, once warped and spinning, was still again. It was just a room. The corners weren't so dark, the light not so sharp.

He could think again. Not clearly, not yet, but enough to be aware of his surroundings. And though his body still trembled remembering the terror more than he did, he was no longer drowning in it. His chest heaved, waiting for his damn body to obey again. The panic was fading. Not gone, not forgiven, but fading.

Then he remembered the collar and his arm flew up to his neck in lightning speed. Callus fingers touched tender skin where the collar had been.

It was gone.

He blinked again; sweat rolling down his temple, his breath coming in little puffs. The collar was gone! His relief was short lived.

Why couldn’t he feel his energy??

A cold and hollow feeling flooded him. He detected nothing within himself; no fire, no power, no strength. He felt stripped bare, weak and vulnerable… just like when that damned collar was around his neck.

Powerless.

Helpless.

Disgraced.

What the hell had they done to him?! He was nothing without his strength! His strength was all that mattered!

His fists clenched, trembling with rage. He felt like a shell of his former self. A prince reduced to a broken thing. And that was unacceptable.

“Uhm…are you ok?” Goku asked again, still worried, wondering why the other man had not gotten up yet. He strained his neck, trying to see the other man.

Vegeta’s eyes snapped toward the sound and he frowned. For a moment he had forgotten about the other man. He tried to stand, to move, to do something, but his body refused to obey. His muscles trembled beneath the skin when he shifted, his balance felt off and he couldn’t get his legs to work like he wanted. He clenched his jaw, an annoyed scowl on his face.

This-This is ridiculous!

He wiped his tears away, bit back the growl rising in his throat and settled for sitting up instead. Every movement was stiff with pain. He pulled down his gown down, and peeked over the edge of his bed to the other one.

Two large dark eyes were fixed on him, wide and unblinking, filled with concern.

“Vegeta, are you ok??” Goku asked again, voice low but laced with urgency.

Vegeta blinked, his breath still unsteady. At some point (he hadn’t even noticed when) his hand had reached down and curled around the end of his tail, holding it tight, grounding himself.

Why does he care? And how the hell does he know my name?

His grip on his tail tightened as suspicion coiled tight in his chest.

I don’t trust this. I must find a way to escape!

His gaze darted around the room, twitchy and calculating, searching for exits, potential threats, or anything he could use.

He saw shadowed corners, curtains drawn in front of windows and on the other side of the room was a door. And beside it, on the other side of the stranger, was another bed.

A young boy was sound asleep, strips of gauze covered his face and arms, his breathing shallow and even.

Who are these people?

His eyes darted further around the room, then back to the man who was looking at him curiously, and with a… smile? What was that clown smiling at?!

“You look like a raccoon,” Goku said with a chuckle, nodding at the black bruises around Vegeta’s eyes; the result of his broken nose.

Vegeta stiffened. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He wanted to say something — anything — but the words got caught in his throat. He blinked again, slower this time. The corners of his mouth twitched; somewhere between a grimace and confusion.

“By the way, I’m Son Goku,” the other man said smiling brightly. “You probably don’t know me. But I think I know who you are...”

Vegeta’s eyes narrowed, just that steady, unreadable gaze. His eyes studying the mummified man; searching but certainly doubting.

You... know me? He wanted to ask. His lips parted slightly, but nothing came out, and then closed again, his mouth a small thin line.

Goku nodded slowly, as if he knew what the other man wanted to say. “You’re Vegeta, an elite Saiyajin warrior. And you called me Kakarot. Well, not you you, but you. It’s complicated,” Goku chuckled awkwardly.

Vegeta’s eyes widened slightly. A Saiyajin! He thought.

The sound of Goku’s growling stomach suddenly echoed through the room, interrupting the moment, followed by a growl of his own stomach; loud and embarrassingly so. Vegeta glanced down at his belly, startled.

Goku’s smile widened.  “You’re hungry, huh?”

Vegeta’s head snapped toward Goku, glare sharp.

“You’ve been unconscious for days,” Goku explained, unfazed by the man’s glare. “They’ve only given you fluids and vitamins. Don’t tell me a Saiyajin doesn’t want real food.”

Vegeta’s expression faltered, just slightly, when his stomach gurgled again. Goku tilted his head and grinned. “Thought so.”

Vegeta noticed how empty his stomach felt indeed. It was a little painful even. He was starving.

He needed food, but most importantly he needed answers.

Where’s food? No focus damnit! Where am I for heaven’s sake??!

He finally found his voice. It sounded strange and foreign in his ears. But he wanted answers.

He asked the mummy clown Saiyajin where the fuck he was, his voice demanding, cold and flat. And he didn’t ask in Earthling tongue, he asked it in their native language; Saiyajin-go. Surely this fool could explain what the fuck was going on?

Goku only blinked. “Ehh?”

Vegeta was met not with an answer, but with a confused look on the other man’s face. He waited for a response. Surely he’d spoken clearly?

“Where the hell am I?” - Saiyajin-go.

But the other man just blinked, head tilted, smile flickering with confusion. Vegeta’s eyes narrowed. He repeated it again; slower this time and sharper. His voice low and threatening:

“I said; Where. The fuck. Am I?” - Still in their native tongue.

Still nothing. Just that same baffled look.

Vegeta’s stomach dropped and his blood ran cold. Not from fear, but from fury.

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t speak it.

How could a Saiyajin not understand his own language? Unless...

He isn’t one. Not a real one.

Was this a trap? Some twisted new game to break him all over again? A softer cage, a softer knife? Placing another injured man in the same room as him with a Saiyajin name to win his trust? To bait him? To make him talk? To make him lower his guard?

Is he even really injured?

Was any of this real? Was he still a prisoner, under false pretenses that he was somewhere safe?

Maybe he was drugged and deceived, caged under the illusion of safety. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust anything. It reeked of setup.

His instincts screamed it — every part of him coiled tight with suspicion. The walls, the lights, the stillness; it was wrong. Too calm, too staged, too soft.

He wasn’t free. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t that stupid. He needed to escape now the darn collar was off and the bastard who broke him was nowhere in sight.

That meant one thing: now was the time to move. He had to act before everything changed back. He had to get out. Now.

He couldn’t let them lay hands on him again. He refused be restrained a second time.

He couldn’t survive another round of it; to be chained, to be broken, to be torn apart piece by piece while they watched him scream.

His pride — his self — wouldn’t come back from it.

He wouldn’t give them the chance. His breath hitched, his muscles twitched, his thoughts spiraled.

He needed a way out. Any way out.

Now.

Goku saw different emotions on Vegeta’s face and tried to explain.

“I’m not messing with you,” he said sheepishly. “I just... I just don’t understand what you said. Can you repeat that so I can understand? In Earth language?”

Vegeta’s jaw clenched. He was done with this nonsense. His hand gripped the edge of the bed, preparing to pull himself back to his…

SLAM!

The door burst open and in walked a woman like a whirlwind; long blue hair swaying from side to side with each step, a white tee clinging to her body and red jeans showing off her curves.

Both men looked up; one more startled than the other.

“Rise and shine sleepy head!” she sang cheerfully, breezing over to the window.

With a dramatic flourish, she yanked the curtains wide, flooding the room with bright morning light. She spoke casually over her shoulder to Goku, opening the window to let fresh air into the room, not yet noticing the other Saiyajin missing from his bed. Traffic and the sounds of the city drifted in from outside.

“Oh hey, Bulma,” Goku grinned sheepishly, happy to see his longtime friend.

Vegeta froze, eyes widening, pupils dilating and every muscle in his battered body locking. His tail puffed violently like a spooked animal, flaring out behind him in alarm, an animal panic surging through his body.

One person he could handle, maybe the brat too. Maybe. But more? How strong was she? Who was she? He’d never seen her before either. Unknown strength, unknown individuals. Too many unknowns.

He felt surrounded and cornered in the room, with no clear way out. A wild and choking turmoil erupted inside him, sharp and uncontrollable.

A jolt of pure adrenaline shot through him, electric and blinding, and before he even understood what he was doing, his body launched into motion, instinct taking over. He was on his feet, more reflex than willpower, stumbling toward the far corner of the room, where his legs gave out immediately.

He crashed hard, hitting the ground with a loud thud.

Something tore; his IV line snapped with a sharp sting, the heart monitors flatlined behind him and pain exploded through his limbs, but he didn’t care. Pain was familiar. Pain meant he was still here, still fighting. And pain was better than fear.

Goku looked back at where the man had fallen and sat up straighter (as much as he could), eyes widening in surprise. “Whoa, hey — don’t push it!” he called out.

“Don’t push what?” Bulma asked tilting her head with a curious arch of her brow, placing her hands on her hips. Hearing the crash behind her, she didn’t even glance back from looking out the window at the busy world underneath — she just sighed and rolled her eyes. Typical Goku, she thought. He was always knocking something over with those oversized, uncoordinated movements of his. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You’re the one who looks like a walking accident,” she chuckled. “And you should be resting.” She walked over to her friend, away from the open window. “By the way you’re up early for someone who sleeps likes a boulder,” she added playfully, nodding at Gohan who was still sound asleep. Goku gave her a sheepish smile, warmed by her bright, easy energy.

Bulma then turned on her heels, walking towards the other bed. “And how’s your other-worldly murder buddy doing?” she asked, expecting to see Vegeta still knocked out on his bed.

She froze mid-step and blinked.

She noticed the screaming monitor, the dangling wires, and the bed… Her eyes finally landed on the figure in the corner.

Vegeta was hunched against the wall, clutching it for support, panting, eyes narrowed like a trapped animal. His whole body was trembling with pain and fury. He glared at her, eyes lethal, teeth bared, tail lashing in tight agitated jerks.

Bulma’s smile faded, her eyes widened in shock, terror washed over her and her mouth dropped open.

She screamed.

LOUD.

Vegeta flinched at the sound, his eyes narrowing, her shriek slashing through his nerves like broken glass, her voice grating against his skull like sandpaper on bone.

“...H-H-He’s aw-awake?” she stammered in fear, stepping backwards, voice trembling, her whole body visibly shaking.

Vegeta blinked, and then glared at her. His eyes locked on her, wild and burning, his expression darkening, his breathing growing heavier.

Murder buddy?

Her scream had set off every instinct he had.

Bulma’s blue eyes went impossibly wide and she visibly flinched when their eyes met. He was so scary!

Goku shifted uneasily. “Bulma, wait —”

Vegeta pushed himself to stand with a guttural breath, his trembling arms straining under the weight of his own battered body. Every movement sent fresh bolts of pain slicing through his nerves and he staggered, but caught himself, one shoulder crashing into the wall for support. He clung to it, chest heaving, his legs unsteady, and his vision swimming.

Panting heavily he glared at the blue haired woman named Bulma. His voice came out low and venomous, a hiss of words in raw Saiyajin-go, barely more than a growl.

Goku moved, kinda, wanting to help, but stopped himself, sensing the tension in the air.

Bulma shrieked again, sharp and desperate. “GOKU DO SOMETHING!!”

She bolted to Goku’s bedside, panic driving her forward, forgetting that Goku was absolutely immobile and helpless. Without thinking, she dove behind him, seeking refuge. Her breath hitched as her eyes locked on Vegeta and a cold wave crashed through her chest. She did not expect Vegeta to be awake, let alone out of bed.

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, fear consuming her. Her hands trembled as she stared, heart pounding like a frantic drum.

Vegeta was still clutching the wall for balance, lips drawn back to reveal jagged, razor-sharp canines and his eyes flicking around the room. For a tense heartbeat, the room seemed to shrink and the air thickened. Behind him his puffy tail flicked sharply behind him, betraying how shaken he really was. He looked like he’d just come back from the dead. And maybe, he had.

His gaze snapped rapidly between Bulma and Goku, sharp and uncertain, a flicker of raw confusion flashing beneath the surface of his fierce exterior.           

Then, breaking the tense silence, his stomach growled again, loud and unmistakable.

Bulma's breath caught. She stared, shaking in fear. But then her eyes narrowed slightly, catching something hidden in the turmoil behind Vegeta’s fierce glare; a flicker of panic and a haze of confusion.

 “...H-He d-doesn’t remember?” she stammered, voice trembling but growing steadier. She was still afraid, but her curiosity grew and she grew a little bolder. Goku shook his head, his expression worried.

“Honestly I don’t know...” He glanced from Bulma to Vegeta, concern etched in his eyes.

Bulma’s fear subsided a little and her expression changed. Not pity... Just... calculation. Curiosity. And maybe even sympathy.

Vegeta noticed — the look in Bulma’s eyes. He knew that look all too well. He hated that look. He hated that look more than anything.

Don’t look at me like that, he thought.

Don’t you dare look at me like that!

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms, grounding him to the cold floor.

“You don’t remember, huh?” Bulma’s voice softer now. “What happened to you?” she asked carefully, genuinely curious. She had read the medical reports concerning the man’s injuries. She knew more than she should.

Vegeta didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at them.

He hated this. Hated his weakness clawing at him. His vulnerability exposing cracks beneath his armor.

He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in desperate gasps. His tail thicker with stress, his eyes darting wildly and panicked, desperate for escape. Frustration hissed between his clenched teeth, his entire body screamed with primal instinct; fight or flee. The look in the Saiyajin's eyes was feral, naked and wild, stripped of all pretenses.

A sudden spike of rage seized Vegeta like a vice, and this time it wasn’t clean or focused — it was frantic. A tremor started in his fists, then spread through his body like fire. Muscles locked and twitched, no longer under full control. He snarled; sharp and jagged, a warning echoing in the cramped room.

The air around him rippled and turned heavy. His ki flared to life; very small but razor-edged and unstable, faint crackles of electricity appearing around him in small bursts. It wasn't just power that grew — it was also raw panic, jagged and unhinged.

He slammed his fist into the wall with a deafening crack, sending a spiderweb of fractures racing across the surface. Dust and drywall exploded outward. The force shredded the bandages around his knuckles, splitting skin beneath. Fresh blood trickled from the wound down his fingers in dark streaks, but he didn’t seem to notice — or care.

A pulse of violent energy burst from him, pushing everything backward and rattling the light fixtures.

Goku winced, his eyes widening, realizing that the other man was losing control. “Hey — hey, easy! You’re safe, okay? We’re not gonna to hurt ya!” he said, voice steady but urgent. Bulma let out a loud whimper, scared by the outburst of energy.

Vegeta eyes snapped towards Goku, cold, sharp and laced with a dangerous edge.

“I don’t believe in safe,” he muttered, voice low and rough, now speaking in Earth language.

Goku breath hitched, and he fell silent.

The air thickened, the tension in the room coiled. Even the steady beep of the machines seemed to hush, and the walls held their breath.

Vegeta caught a flicker of hesitation in their eyes, a hint of fear beneath the surface. They kept their distance, skittish and uncertain.

Good. They should be.

Goku’s gaze never left him. There was something fierce in the way Vegeta held himself; shoulders tight, gaze sharp, jaw tense. Despite everything — his injuries, his exhaustion — he carried himself like a loaded weapon, pried and dangerous. His eyes narrow, his body trembling but held taut like a bowstring. One wrong word and he’d snap.

A quiet sound, a soft shifting, barely audible, made the Saiyajin twitch involuntarily. Vegeta noticed the child on the other bed had woken up, eyes blinking sleepily into the heavy atmosphere. His sleepy eyes locked onto Vegeta.

“Dad???” the boy asked confused, looking from Vegeta to his father.

“Gohan!” Bulma gasped, startled, her voice sharp with alarm. She looked over her shoulder, then quickly rushed to the boy’s side and wrapped her arms protectively around him. “It’s alright,” she said, voice trembling but trying hard to hold it steady.

Vegeta’s ears twitched at the word ‘dad.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied the boy, a flicker of curiosity behind his gaze. There was something wrong here. This child… he wasn’t rattled. His face was calm. Too calm.

It made something tighten in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was irritation or… discomfort.

Why isn’t he afraid?

What was it about this child? Something felt off in a way he couldn’t explain. Why did he have the feeling that there was more to him that the eye could see? And why did it unsettle him? The thought alone was absurd. Outrageous even. He, an elite Saiyajin warior should not be shaken by the presence of a damn infant! And yet, something made his skin crawl.

His jaw locked. The discomfort under his skin adding turmoil to his already growing panic. He forced his focus inward and clenched his fists, nails biting into flesh.

He needed to get out of here.

His thoughts spiraled, buzzing, chaotic and impossible to hold. Panic screamed through his brain, louder than reason, louder than anything. The walls were closing in again. The air becoming thin again. The cold slipping in again.

Get out. Get out. GET OUT.

He reached for his energy, gritting his teeth and concentrated hard despite the buzzing panic still screeching through his brain, pulling everything he had to the surface, forcing everything up from the depths. It was like hailing power through quicksand, every movement dragging and resisting. His entire body trembled; sweat clung to his skin, glistening under the light, muscles taut with strain.

Come on… he thought. Come ON!!

Vegeta was clenching his jaw so hard, it felt like his skull would crack. A grinding ache settled in his teeth, but he barely noticed. His mind was a storm; white-hot panic wrapped in fury, and somewhere beneath it, shame. He strained. His energy sputtered to life at his fingertips, wild and unstable. His hand shook violently, but he didn’t stop. A flicker of light began to glow in his palm; small and dangerous.

“Vegeta were not going to hurt’ya! You have to believe me! Please!” Goku called out again, pleading, hoping to calm the other Saiyajin.

But Vegeta didn’t hear him. Pouring every ounce of strength into it, his hand now shaking uncontrollably, Vegeta’s energy erupted in a fierce surge. Against the chaos within him, a jagged ball of crackling power took shape in his palm, wild, erratic and humming with raw unpredictable force.

Unpredictable as the man who wielded it.

Goku’s eyes widened in alarm. “Wait — Vegeta —!”

Bulma’s face drained of color. “Goku —!”

Even Gohan stared, eyes wide.

Bulma let out a scream, shielding the boy; “Please don’t kill us!” she cried, clutching Gohan tightly, desperation raw in her voice.

Vegeta snarled, eyes blown wide and wild, burning with rage and blind terror that drowned out reason.

He stumbled forward, every step shaking with raw power and anguish, but he pushed through the pain. He ran across the room, driven by sheer instinct, by panic, by the unbearable pressure building inside him. He roared, and with a final, shuddering breath, hurled the blast.

BOOM.

The blast tore through the wall with a deafening roar. The explosion shattered the plaster, sending debris flying. The room trembled with the impact as a massive hole ripped open in the hospital’s side, exposing the sterile room to the unforgiving sky. Cold wind surged in like a scream, tearing through the room, sharp and biting, sweeping up papers, tugging at curtains and rattling metal.

Through the falling debris, Bulma’s frightened scream could be heard and Goku called out in a panic; “Vegeta!”

But Vegeta was already moving. With a surge of his ki, Vegeta launched off the ground with a desperate snarl, wild and unstable. And before anyone could react, he hurled himself through the opening, his ki flaring wildly around him. The force of his departure cracking the floor beneath him, sending papers flying, monitors shrieking, and curtains snapping in the wind. The room was chaos, but his mind was louder.

GET OUT.

The air outside swallowed him whole, and for a moment his control slipped. His body, still weak, dipped mid-flight, and he plummeted, gravity grabbing him like a vice. Wind screamed past his ears, shrill and merciless, hospital gown flapping violently around his trembling frame. His limbs heavy and uncoordinated, still crippled by trauma and fatigue. The ground rushed up to meet him, ruthless and unyielding.

A guttural growl tore from his throat and with one last convulsion of instinct, — not strategy, not power, just refusal — his ki flared again, violent and jagged. He wrenched himself back into the air just before impact, blasting upward in a shockwave, scorching the earth below.

Dust exploded beneath him as he barely cleared the ground. People walking on the pavement screamed in shock at the unexpected man and scattered below. Heads turned skyward, pointing. To them, he was a blur of power and pain; ragged, half-dressed, and feral. But he didn’t see them or hear them. Nor did he care.

He rose, climbing higher, desperate and unhinged.

Wind whipped across his face, stinging his eyes as he soared. His hospital gown flapping violently around him as he shot through the sky as fast as he could, leaving chaos behind. Below him, the hospital shrank and the city blurred — just another speck in a world he didn’t trust. Pain blazed through every inch of his body, his nerves screaming in protest. His skin burned and his bones groaned.

But he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t stop.

If he stopped, if he let himself feel, the walls would come back. The beeping. The wires. The faces. The questions and the look in their eyes.

He couldn’t face it.

The only sound louder than the wind tearing at him was the hammering of his own heart.

He had to move.

He had to get away.

He had to get away before the walls came crashing in again.

Imprisoning him again in pain and never ending agony.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Hello again. It was my intention to post this chapter sooner, but sadly a friend of mine recently passed away. I was down the past few weeks and not in the mood to write. This chapter is longer than I intended it to be. But, I hope you still like it.

Notes:

Thank you for reading my very first piece of fiction – smol bow 🙇‍♀️ -
Sorry for the cliffhanger! I hope you enjoyed it! English isn’t my first language, and it took me a while to be satisfied with my story. I also wanted to cut the chapter in two at first, but it didn't seem fitting for the flow of the story. I hope you didn't mind the length. Constructive feedback is appreciated!

I was inspired to start writing after reading Mind Rape by JessieMay (please check out her work!)