The Window

He was five years old. It was late; the lights along the corridor were dimmed and cast his face in a soft, golden glow. He held back a yawn. He couldn't wait to get back to his room. He didn't know what time it was because Nappa had landed a well-placed blow to his scouter during one of their training sessions. The red glass had shattered across his eye, spearing the skin a mere inch away, and he'd had to go see a medic. Nappa had apologized profusely in an attempt to get back in his good graces. Truthfully, he didn't mind the wound. It made him stronger. Besides, he'd had much worse. But he had decided to let Nappa continue apologizing because it secretly amused him.

Things rarely amused him anymore.

He was five years old, but he felt like he'd already lived an eternity. Days on the ship seemed to crawl by. Nappa said that his sixth birthday was coming in a few months, that maybe they could request leave to visit their home planet—but Vegeta had just snorted. A ridiculous idea. Didn't Nappa know Frieza better than that? The last time he'd seen his father was a few months ago, when he'd been transferred into Frieza's care. He still remembered the words his father spoke, still remembered how his father's gloved hand gripped his shoulder painfully, desperately, as he knelt and looked his son in the eye.

"You're a strong boy, Vegeta. I have faith in you. This—your time here is going to be difficult. But you cannot forget who you are. You are my son. You are the Prince of All Saiyans. Remember that."

His father had given his shoulder one last squeeze. He'd cast a pained glance in his direction. And then his father had straightened his own shoulders and strode into Frieza's throne room, features stoic and disciplined, with the little Prince trailing behind him and trying to match his stride. Father and son had stood proudly in front of the lizard-like space tyrant in a silent rebellion . . . and then the father was bowing on one knee, his nobility gone like vapor, his son's confidence in pieces.

The little Prince did not contemplate the occurrence in this magnitude. All he saw was an image of his father, felled by a dangerous flash in those blood-red eyes that wordlessly commanded his humiliation.

Vegeta remembered his simple, childlike mind crying out that this went against everything his father stood for, everything his race stood for, and that he was the Saiyan Prince. Princes don't bow to ugly lizards. So he stood with reckless abandon.

That was the most painful lesson he'd learned so far.

What got him thinking about that? The Prince cursed beneath his breath and sped up his pace. It was dangerous for a young boy to wander the halls at night. Winding his tail tighter around his waist, he shot a wary look at his surroundings. Metal walls. Yellow floor. A row of doors and touchpads. The little buttons on the pads twinkled like stars in the poorly-lit corridor. His quarters were still a long way off.

That was when he saw the window.

He had always loved windows. The inky expanse of space looked so regal from the other side of the glass. Those swirls of stars, each shining like a beacon on a foggy night, were so artful even in the midst of their chaos. Vegeta suddenly thought that they reminded him of himself. The real significance of this simple impression was lost on him, but he still felt the gravity of it—this stray thought that he, too, was like a star in the darkness.

It was a childish fantasy, of course. He had too much blood on his hands. He felt the weight of that, too. It seemed to stain his gloves with an irredeemable blot of red that was growing with each passing second he spent in Frieza's employ. It choked out the light of that star and turned it to blood. Light, to him, was a manifestation of innocence. He was not innocent. He would never be innocent again. Sometimes he wished he was. But it was a foolish wish. Or so he was told.

He pressed a hand to the glass, feeling bitter. The tapestry of stars continued to glitter beyond his reach. Their light reflected in his eyes, little stars dancing in the depths of onyx, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to be a star. Free and floating in a sea of peaceful blackness. Burning bright and pure. He knew it was a vain hope. A memory hit him: his father with a stern look, chastising him for daydreaming instead of focusing on his fighting technique. That was when he was four. He liked asking questions. His father said he asked too many questions.

It scared him how distant that memory felt. His father, too. His home planet was light years away, and his father with it. Here, on this ship—this was the reality. Gone were the ruby skies and the palace. Here, he had to keep his wits about him. There was nobody but Nappa and Raditz to look after him, and they didn't do a good job as it was. How could they? The three of them were mere pawns in Frieza's deadly game. His father was not here to guide him. He wanted to believe that his father was lying in wait to spring a trap for Frieza and win back his son, but that hope was dying—much like his silly thoughts about the stars. Stars died eventually. They weren't invincible. When he was younger, he thought they were. He once thought that about his father, too.

When he was younger? He was only five now. It felt like an eternity, though, since he was first brought here. His thoughts were coming full cycle; he must be tired. He rubbed at his eyes, blinked rapidly, and took another glance out the window.

The stars were beautiful. There were so many! The little specks of light were scattered across space like droplets of paint on a canvas. They were free, free to arrange themselves in whatever patterns they chose, free to wink at him in their own way, and he wasn't. He was a five-year-old boy, far away from home, living on a ship full of warriors who hated him. You are my son. You are the Prince of All Saiyans. Remember that.

He lifted his chin, gazing boldly at the stars. "I am the Prince of All Saiyans." His voice was soft with fatigue. His title felt good as it rolled off his tongue. He swiped his tongue over his lips and repeated to his celestial audience, "I'm a Prince."

His hand found the window again. The glass was cool beneath the fabric of his gloves. Suddenly, the window and the stars beyond were his allies. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. Taking in the stars once more, he turned away.