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Images punctured his brain and scattered, filling up every empty space they could find. A dimly lit room, a split lip, a man shaking before him, hands tied, eyes filled with fear.
"Kill him," someone said, an instructor he guessed. "He's nothing to you. End his life."
Vegeta looked into the man's terrified eyes. They told him that the people brought in for him to kill were prisoners, men whose deaths had already been set.in stone. Vegeta didn't know if that was true or not; his memory of these training exercises were hazy at best. He couldn't have been more than six at the time.
"Why are you hesitating?" his instructor asked, cuffing him on the side of the head. A cut opened on his temple, and a thin line of blood ran down his face.
Vegeta felt his heart speed up. He'd seen his father kill plenty of times. It was what Saiyins did. What they used to do. Not anymore. Which was exactly what made this so difficult. The man kneeling before him wasn't just some no-name alien. He was a Saiyin, one of the last. He'd more than likely been rotting in some intergalactic prison when Planet Vegeta had been destroyed, and now here he was, face to face with the last of his kind. Frieza wanted him to play an active role in wiping out every last remnant of Saiyin culture that was left. And even at his young age, Vegeta's pride was compelling him to rebel.
He received another blow to the head for refusing to answer, and this time the force was enough to make him stumble.
"Are you afraid?"
"No," Vegeta replied without hesitation. He wasn't afraid. But the destruction of his planet was still fresh, the betrayal of his father's death was still new, and whether he cared to admit it or not, this low-class thug was just another cog in Frieza's plan to break him, to turn him into a pet. His father had bent his knee to Frieza, and now everything Vegeta had ever known was gone. He didn't care who this man was, but he did care about what his death would represent.
"Then kill him," his instructor commanded.
Vegeta stood his ground. He held no power here, even he realized that. He was little more than a prisoner, a trophy Frieza could wave around when he bragged about his defeat of the mighty Saiyin race. All Vegeta could do was resist in any way he could, for as long as he could.
A rough hand yanked him back by his hair, and before Vegeta could react his instructor's other hand gripped his tail with enough force to make him cry out. Saiyin tails were notoriously sensitive, and it took years of training for a Saiyin warrior to learn how to block out the pain of an injured tail. Vegeta would have learned to do so in a few short years had he been back home with his father. But that was never going to happen, and Vegeta felt angry and shameful tears burn at his eyes. His instructor scoffed at the show of weakness, and shoved the young prince forward until he fell to his knees, his tail curling protectively around his waist. A ball of ki suddenly appeared near his face, hissing and crackling with energy.
"You, or him," the instructor said. "Choose."
Vegeta scowled. "Frieza would kill you."
He received a swift kick in the stomach for not referring to Frieza by his proper title.
"Lord Frieza has no time for uppity, snot-nosed brats who refuse to follow orders," the instructor sneered. "You prove your worth today, here and now. Kill him."
Vegeta got to his feet, raising an arm towards the man in front of him. He could die with honor now. He could die knowing that he hadn't caved, hadn't given in. He could die knowing he hadn't surrendered like a coward the way his father had. Frieza's word was worthless, the destruction of Planet Vegeta was proof enough of that. Still, something in Vegeta yearned for revenge. He wanted to see Frieza burn. He wanted to make him pay for what he'd done. He wanted to be the one to destroy him, to topple the empire that had taken his home. And he couldn't do that if he was dead.
Vegeta's arm started to shake, the ball of ki in his instructor's palm still dangerously close to his head. He channeled his energy into his small hand, watched as his ki cast shadows over the prisoner's terrified face, and taking a deep breath, he fired it at him, ears ringing with the dying screams of the man before him.
***
Vegeta woke with a start, sitting up so fast that he didn't notice Bulma's worried face hovering above them. Their heads collided, and Bulma fell backwards with a start, clutching at her forehead.
"Ah, Jesus, what the hell is your head made of?!" Bulma asked. The spot on her forehead was already bruising, and she grimaced as she rubbed her hand over it.
Vegeta watched her, struggling to ground himself in reality. The dreams became more real every night, more vivid, dredging up memories that he'd spent years trying to forget. He could still feel the heat of the ki blast in his hand, the blood trickling down his face.
"Hey, are you even listening to...Vegeta?"
Vegeta looked up to find Bulma watching him, her eyes both curious and concerned. He remembered seeing her face when he first woke up, leaning over him, so close their noses had practically touched.
"What were you doing?" he asked urgently. Bulma looked confused.
"What are you talking about?" she asked. "Is everything okay? You look...well, you look really freaked out."
"When I woke up. What the hell were you doing?" he asked her again as he sat up straighter. His ki was rising defensively, and it rolled off him in waves, so much so that even an untrained human like Bulma could feel it.
"You woke me up," she explained. "And you looked like you might be sick or something. I was worried, you ass!"
Vegeta fought to control his energy. She'd been so close to him, too close. If he'd sensed any sort of threat from her, or if the nightmare had been just slightly worse...shit, he could've easily taken her head off before he'd even realized he'd done it.
He got up from the bed without explanation, throwing the covers to the side and heading for the door.
"Vegeta!" Bulma called after him. He heard her get out of bed as well, felt her presence behind him.
"Stay away from me!" he shouted, swinging around to face her.
"But-"
"Woman, listen to me for once-"
She scowled. "Don't call me that, I have a name! Now please, tell me what's going on."
She grabbed for his arm, and although Vegeta could tell the act was meant to be comforting, her touch was the last thing he needed. He couldn't be close to her, not now, not after seeing that man's charred flesh again, his melted skin.
"Bulma!" he roared, jerking away from her and backing up against the door. A flash of fear crossed her face, and Vegeta's heart sank into his stomach.
"Please," he said, his hand grasping for the doorknob. "I need to be alone."
When he left this time, she didn't try to stop him.
***
He barely made it out of the room when Trunks reached out to him mentally, pulling on the telepathic thread that tied them together. No doubt he'd been awoken by his father's sudden flare up of energy; it was Saiyin instinct to associate a rise in ki with a warning that danger was nearby. Vegeta knew he had only a few seconds before the brat started wailing, and he considered leaving Bulma to deal with it on her own. A year ago, he would have done exactly that. But his time spent with the boy since the end of the Cell Games had created an unbreakable link between the two of them, one that compelled Vegeta on an almost primal level to go to his son when he was in distress. No matter how much he wanted to be alone at the moment, he couldn't ignore Trunks if he tried.
He made it to the boy's room just as he began to cry, a shrill sound that tore through Vegeta's ears like shards of glass. Trunks hiccuped and reached for his father when he saw him enter, a silent plea for comfort. Vegeta frowned at the child. Trunks was over two years old, old enough to be out of a crib, old enough to toddle around the house and climb up the stairs and even do light training with him in the gravity chamber. But he was still quieter than Vegeta would’ve liked. Bulma assured him that some children were just more verbal than others, and that developmentally nothing appeared to be wrong. Still, it worried him. Whenever Kakarot’s infernal woman would bring her brat over to visit, the kid would babble like a fountain, spitting out words for anyone who cared to listen. It was true that half of what the brat said made no blighted sense whatsoever, but it was something. Kakarot’s child was developing faster than his own, even without the added benefit of two parents. What did that say about him, Vegeta wondered. Maybe having a bad father was worse than not having one at all.
Trunks started to whimper when Vegeta hesitated to pick him up, although is crying had mostly ceased. Sighing, Vegeta lifted the boy out of bed, and Trunks immediately clung to him, resting his small head on Vegeta’s broad shoulder. His tears stopped, and he gripped Vegeta’s shirt like a lifeline as he slowly drifted off to sleep once more.
The trust his son showed him never ceased to both confuse and amaze Vegeta. He supposed it was instinctual, to an extent; Trunks knew on some level that he was his protector, his father, even if he couldn’t possibly know just how miserable of a father he was. It didn’t matter to him, as long as he was there. Even Vegeta felt his own anger start to ebb away in the presence of his son, his tense muscles relaxing as he listened to the even sound of Trunks’ breathing.
He thought back to his dream from earlier, the memory of it still fresh. How could anyone who’d led the life he had expect to be able to raise someone else? He barely remembered his father, and what he did remember involved his father teaching him how to fight, scolding him, instructing him on the proper edicate of Saiyin royalty, and finally, handing him over to a genocidal dictator. Vegeta had no memories of feeling comforted around him, or safe, or at peace. He respected his father greatly, but it would be a stretch to say that Vegeta felt any sort of love from the man. He was little more than a child when Planet Vegeta had been destroyed, and it was difficult for him to tell if such things were just a normal part of Saiyin culture, or if his father had been a unique case. Trunks was only half Saiyin, and his mother’s influence on him was more than apparent, but there was obviously something instinctual and involuntary about their connection. Although it was possible that all of these damn humans were just starting to rub off on them.
Vegeta caught the sunrise as it began to peak over the edge of the horizon from outside of Trunks’ window, and with a deep sigh, he placed Trunks back in bed, who didn’t so much as stir, and left the room. Maybe at the end of the day, it was better to leave the past where it belonged.