Summary: Before Earth, before his change of heart and before his family, there had been a son he'd never wanted, made from Frieza's seed and born from his body. Then he was dead, and Vegeta made sure to forget he had ever been there at all. Only, he isn't dead. He is alive. Tormented and abused, but alive, and now Vegeta will do what he couldn't have done the first time. He will save him.

Warnings: Rated M for language, abuse, sexual violence, depictions of rape, mpreg, etc.

Every Eye Will See

Chapter Fifteen: The Damned

"Do you want something specific, or just anything?" Goku asked Vegeta with his head buried thoughtfully in the refrigerator.

Vegeta made grunting sound, similar to the one from before as a reply from his place at the table, which Goku figured roughly translated to: 'Just anything is fine.'

Goku's stomach was very close to audibly growling, but they barely had enough food for the round-trip, so he reluctantly kept it simple. He pulled out several squares of cheese and packaged meat, topping off the meal with some loaves of bread, fruit cups, and a few cans of soda.

He managed not to drop anything on his journey back towards the table, doing his best not to shake the sodas as he struggled to set them down one by one. When his arms were empty, he quickly plopped down into a chair. He eagerly grabbed the closest packet and tore it open, more than ready to bury his face in a meal long overdue.

He was so lost in his black forest ham sandwich that he almost forgot Vegeta was there. The other man was just as quiet as always, slowly funneling food into his rather reluctant-looking mouth. Vegeta's thoughts probably couldn't get any farther away from his food than they were right now.

At least he did not seem as far gone as he was earlier. His eyes were still unnervingly blank, but there was a tension about him now. He was very tense in fact, now that Goku noticed. He could see the muscles in Vegeta's jaw clench hard around each bite, and his dark brows narrow deeply. Whatever Vegeta was thinking, it must be very unpleasant, as Goku could distantly hear the creak of the metal fork bending under the weight of his grip.

He was about to intervene—no utensil deserved that kind of treatment—but Vegeta beats him to it. "How have you been since your return to Earth?"

He blinked a few times, mulling over the words in his head, trying to reimagine them coming from Vegeta's mouth again. That was definitely his voice, and Goku literally just watched his mouth move so he had undoubtedly said it...

"What?" was Goku's response.

Vegeta looked annoyed, like Goku was the one acting strangely right now. "It has been almost five months since your return. How have you been?"

The question made even less sense the second time around. After all, there was no way Vegeta actually cared, so why would he ask?

Perhaps Goku was thinking too deeply about it. In all likelihood, Vegeta had asked because he was not immune to awkward silences, either. Well, Goku supposed he could talk then. It beat watching Vegeta stress himself out and assault dishware, he supposed.

"I've been alright since I came home, I guess." The response sounded unsatisfactory even to his own ears. Goku figured by the way Vegeta quirked his brow, he agreed.

He paused to chew on a hunk of cheddar cheese, before going on, "Things are pretty different now, obviously. It especially amazes me to see how Gohan turned out. The last time I saw him he didn't even reach my chest and now he's taller than me!" That had been a rather difficult thing to get used too. "He slacked off but he's still an amazing fighter, and a great older brother. I've never been prouder of him."

Goku was just about positive that Vegeta did not care even a little bit about the state of his household, yet the other saiyan continued to sit in silence, clearly waiting for more. Regardless, Goku said nothing. He... was not quite sure what to say about the other two members of his family.

Vegeta would not be deterred, it seemed, and asked, "What of your younger brat?"

"Ah, well..." Goku rubbed the back of his head, looking around at the metal walls and floor, anywhere aside from the eyes right in front of his. "He's... okay."

Goku groaned loudly inside his own head, not even bothering to look at the unimpressed look Vegeta was undoubtedly giving him. Perhaps one day he'll be able to lie convincingly. Or least fib. That day was not today.

"Goten's just not really..." he thought on the right word to use and settled with: "comfortable."

"Comfortable," Vegeta repeated.

Goku nodded. "Around me. Not yet. I don't expect him to be, obviously. He doesn't really know me."

Vegeta furrowed his brows. "Five months is not enough time for him to get to know you?"

"Well, I mean, when compared to seven years, five months isn't that long, you know?"

Vegeta just looked at him.

Goku heaved a sigh. "It's not like he dislikes me. Or at least I don't think he does. It's just kind of... awkward being around him. He's different from Gohan. When Gohan was his age he always wanted to spend time with me. Goten doesn't seem to like being around me at all, anymore."

Goku's eyes widened just as he finished the sentence. He had not quite meant to say those exact words out loud.

His face abruptly grew hot with something that was probably self-consciousness. He focused back on his meal, stuffing the rest of his flavorful ham and cheddar cheese sandwich into his face, regretting ever even opening his mouth.

If Vegeta cared at all about his discomfort, he did not show it. Instead, he bluntly asked, "What of your woman?"

Just go straight for the kill, why don't ya?

"She's okay," Goku said, far too quickly. As he shoveled more food in his mouth, he made the mistake of peering up, and catching two raised eyebrows.

Goku was really starting to not like those eyebrows.

Goku slowly swallowed his mouthful. Then he cracked open the closest can of soda. He sipped it and tasted a tingly orange flavor.

He was stalling.

Goku coughed a bit, set down his can, and said, "She's just a bit more... agrumental?"

"Argumentative," Vegeta corrected, the usual annoyance he would express toward Goku's intellectual shortcomings surprisingly absent.

"Yes. That."

Vegeta leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do you not always argue? That's all I've ever seen, anyway."

Yeah, like you're one to talk about arguing couples, Goku thought, but he knew Vegeta did not mean it that way, so he kept it to himself.

"Well, we do, I mean did. I just mean that it's... different now. She's different."

Vegeta said nothing. Goku continued, "She's just more... upset these days. In the beginning, when I first came back, she was hardly ever angry. Now though, she just isn't... she just isn't happy."

It shocked Goku how much that hurt to say out loud.

"I understand, or at least, I think I understand," he went on. "I know that the past seven years were a lot longer for her than they were for me, and that it must not have been easy for her. I get that I really do, I just... I just wish she understood how hard I'm trying."

Later, Goku will marvel at how surreal it was to be telling Vegeta any of this. At the moment, he simply carried on, saying any word that wished to be made known, uncaring of whether or not they should stay inside his head.

"I mean, when I say that the past seven years weren't long for me, I mean it wasn't long at all. Time works differently when you're dead. Maybe you already know what I mean—or maybe not since you were never dead as long as I was—but in Otherworld, time... doesn't exist at all really. King Kai told me it's different in Hell, but in Heaven, it's a part of paradise. You can't miss the people you care about if you don't even realize how long it's been since you've last seen them. Then, before you know it, they're dead and in heaven with you. So, I knew it had been seven years, but I didn't really know, you know?"

Goku thought that probably nothing he said made much sense, but Vegeta hummed and nodded his head anyway.

"When I came back to life, I didn't—I guess I wasn't really prepared for what seven years would mean." Goku admitted. "Goten was the biggest surprise, obviously, but it's not even just him. Everything is different, even the littlest of things. Like, how now every Sunday night Chi-Chi and the boys watch a movie together and she got mad because I wasn't there. Or like the other day I stepped on a Lego toy and broke it and it didn't even dawn on me that one would be there because Gohan never played with toys like that but apparently my other son does. Chi-Chi was even mad at me for leaving my towel on the bathroom floor. How was I supposed to know I'm not allowed to do that anymore? I was dead for seven years!"

Goku knew he must sound so ridiculous ranting over pointless things like this. He kept going though, because he was upset, and someone, anyone else had to know.

"I'm trying! I really, really am! I just don't know what else to do! She used to always be angry at me, but in a—in a nice way. I liked it sometimes, the way she would get angry sometimes. This isn't like how she used to be at all. Everything is different and it's been months and I'm still trying to get used to it, but it's like she doesn't want me to get used to it," Goku trailed off a bit as he looked down at his lap, like a sail slowly losing its wind.

"You know, when I told her I was going into space with you, she didn't even yell," Goku said, laughing half-heartedly. "She was angry, though. She asked why I would put Gohan and Goten through 'that' again. She never did tell me how she felt about me leaving. I didn't even get a chance to tell her it would only be for a few days, but I don't even think it would have mattered. She probably thinks I'm leaving and never coming back, and it doesn't make a difference to her—"

He cut himself off, biting his tongue so hard he nearly tasted blood. He dropped his head down into his hands, his fingers threading through the spikes of his hair with no amount of gentleness or finesse, and took a deep, long breath.

The air coming in had to fight for space inside a chest that was filled tight, stuffed to the brim with a feeling he could only describe as ugly. That was what it was—ugly and unnatural and unwanted. Goku didn't want to feel this way, didn't like it at all because it was so very much not him. He did not feel emotions like these, did not think the kind of thoughts that made his head buzz like a hornet's nest. It was not right, and he had to make it stop.

It took another deep breath for the feeling to lessen back into something more manageable. He did not look up from his hands though, because in place of the ugly feeling was the inklings of embarrassment.

It was almost just a foreign as the ugly feeling in all honesty; Goku couldn't remember the last time he had ever felt embarrassment. He knew some things should make him feel embarrassed, like being naked around others or belching in public, because other people tend to feel uncomfortable in those situations. He didn't though, couldn't even really understand why other people were bothered by those things. He was embarrassed now, though; even he was aware that it was rather ridiculous to have a breakdown over something so trivial.

Time passed by in complete silence, with not even the sound of the other man's chewing to lessen the awkwardness of the atmosphere. Each second felt longer than the last, and now something like anxiousness was overtaking Goku, and the only thing he could do was let his mouth fly with the question he had been dying to ask.

He looked up but didn't register whatever look was on Vegeta's face, only let his mouth say, "Why are you acting that way?"

Vegeta's eyes widen just slightly, undoubtedly caught off guard. Then, they narrow almost dangerously. "Acting how?"

"Like you don't care about your son."

Goku was not a complete idiot. He could gauge another person's mood, could even read the atmosphere of a room sometimes. He knew that that was the kind of question that one shouldn't ask in this kind of situation. He knew that that was the kind of question that could start a fight. The part of him that wanted to be Vegeta's friend thought it was probably necessary, though. An uglier part of him thought it was better to get Vegeta angry than to have him harassing him about his home life.

Never mind the gravity of the question, never mind the obvious jab, none of it had an effect. Vegeta's face betrayed nothing, wearing the same eerie expression it had all day and night.

"I don't need the emotions I'm feeling right now," Vegeta said. "I'm containing them until the time has come for me to use them."

Goku was taken a bit aback by the honesty of his answer. He quickly gathered himself and said, "That doesn't really sound good." He thought back on a mental health expert talk show Chi-Chi used to make him watch with her. Most times he fell asleep, but sometimes the words managed to stick. "'Emotions shouldn't be pushed down. It's better to allow yourself to feel what you're feeling. Otherwise, they will boil over and show themselves later, with worse consequences.'"

Goku knew better than to finish with, 'if you hide your emotions, it makes you afraid of facing them.'

Vegeta said, "'In reality, emotions are useful for working out what we need to change.'"

Goku barely had time to process the fact that Bulma made Vegeta watch daytime television with her too when he continued with, "If I show how angry I am now, I'll end up killing us both."

At first, Goku was confused and a bit exasperated by the melodramatics. Then he remembered the small, tortured, broken boy that was waiting for them. He also remembered the metal, but still very fragile walls around them. Suddenly the tiny kitchenette felt like a coffin.

"Oh."

"Emotions only cloud judgment. You know that, just like any other warrior. My rage will have its time." Vegeta took a long sip of his otherwise untouched soda. "You, on the other hand, don't seem all that interested in taking your own advice."

Goku's response was to blink several shocked blinks. Vegeta was throwing his own advice back at him, which was almost like Vegeta himself giving him advice? This truly was a bizarre day.

"We should get some sleep," Goku said abruptly, if only because he can't think of anything else to say. "It kind of defeats the purpose of this trip if we fall asleep as soon as we get there."

The minute the words leave his mouth, he felt how true they were. Fatigue set in like it was simply waiting to be invited in, taking over his body so quickly his vision actually blurred for a moment. He noticed for the first time too just how dark the bags underneath Vegeta's eyes were, twin smudges so obvious he had no idea how he hadn't noticed before.

In fact, everything about Vegeta just screamed exhausted. Goku meant it with the utmost care of a concerned friend when he decided that Vegeta looked a real mess. Goku slept under a tree last night and yet he was positive he had had a better sleep than Vegeta did.

Vegeta frowned at him and glares rather darkly. Vegeta did not disagree but had just as equally not agreed. Even so, if his expression was anything to go by, he was probably leaning more towards the former.

Goku did not think any deeper about it. He was far too tired to try a task as insurmountable as figuring out what was going through Vegeta's head. In fact, he had nearly made it out of the kitchenette and towards the twin futons when he realized Vegeta was still sitting at the table.

"Are you coming?" Goku asked.

"I've no interest in sleeping," Vegeta said, spitting out the word like it was a particularly foul-tasting morsel.

"Why?" Goku asked. He was genuinely curious, but he knew that the odds of him actually getting a straight answer were just about slim to none. If anything, he would probably receive a remark so scathing he will be left wondering for the rest of the night whether Vegeta ever liked him even a little.

Vegeta glowered at him, then looked sharply away, his entire face turned towards the far wall. Goku did not know about the nightmares Vegeta saw every time he closed his eyes. He did not know about the decade old mantra Vegeta heard in his ears when there was no other sound to fill them.

Goku did, however, know a surefire way to put even the most stubborn of people (namely little boys) to sleep.

"Did Bulma ever tell you how we met?"

Vegeta blinked at him, and said in a voice that did not sound particularly impressed, "No."

"Really?" Goku said, moving towards the futons once more. "She was my first friend, you know."

"I can't imagine why you think I care."

"You're not even a little bit curious?" Goku said as he pulled off his shirt and kicked off his boots. "Bulma and I used to be so close! She even gave me a bath once."

Silence. Then, "What."

Goku settled onto the futon. "Yup."

When his eyes opened, he saw the gold tips of Vegeta's boots very close to his face. He tilted up his head and saw Vegeta giving him a somewhat concerning kind of look. "Why did she give you a bath?"

Goku yawned loudly, and it was only a little bit fake. "I'll have to start from the beginning, otherwise you won't believe me if I say it isn't as bad as it sounds. In fact, the tale is quite nice. I'll try not to get too emotional as I tell it," Goku joked.

Vegeta's brow twitched irritably. He still gave Goku an expectant look.

"Alright, well, it starts when Bulma tried to kill me with her car."

Vegeta plopped down on his own futon, arms and legs both crossed, and listened.

Neeila somehow managed to make it up the cliff. Chill thought that maybe if he were not still riding the waves of terror, he would be impressed with her feat.

(Distantly, in the recesses of his mind that he did not have the energy to allow his thoughts to touch, he was impressed with his own body. So ready to die, and yet somehow still managing to fear death, it seemed.)

"See," she said when her feet were firmly on the ledge. "I told you I'd make it up, didn't I?"

He conceded defeat, and as an act of goodwill, did not mention the fact that her words were barely comprehensible from how hard she was panting, and that her body was sweaty enough that they could probably refill their empty water container to the brim with it.

He did not really have a chance to mention much of anything, really. After all, the cliff was only ten or so yards long; it did not take long for whomever else was occupying it to notice their arrival. The minute Neeila's mouth closed he could hear the sound of one of his not favorite voices.

"Neeila!"

Chill had, of course, never actually seen Neeila's brother. He had, however, heard others call Herio a "pretty boy"—a rather odd insult in Chill's opinion—on more than one occasion, so he figured it must be true. With that in mind, he naturally decided that Herio must look a lot like Neeila (who, in fact, had also been referred to with similar terms, though usually in a more endearing fashion) which Chill supposed was likely with blood siblings. In his mind he imagined piercing green eyes, with sclera that was properly white because he would not be shedding tears. He pictured pale skin and glitter birth marks on a face that might be more angular. Blond hair as well, not long like Neeila's but cut short, as was customary among most males in most species. And taller, too—that was also customary among males.

Of course, all of that was speculation. He knew for certain the sound of Herio's voice, though. Herio had become something of a frequent presence over the years. Neeila never actively tried to force them together, but it was a simple fact that wherever Neeila went, Herio was usually not far behind, and vice versa. They had become so used to each other that they had fallen into something of an unspoken truce. Most days.

Now, Herio's voice sounded delighted, and Chill could tell the tone came from the smile that was no doubt on his face at the sight of his beloved little sister.

Then, Herio's feet skid to a crunchy halt. Chill imagined his whole body freezing, taking in just who exactly was draping over his sister's shoulders. He imagined Herio's face darkening and figured that today must not be a "truce day".

"Stop!" Neeila exclaimed, despite her chest still heaving for air. She shifted underneath him as she took a clumsy step back. She also stuck her hand out for good measure, because surely her five bony fingers were all the defense needed against the entirety of Herio's body. "Just—just don't start."

"Don't start?" Herio parroted back, incredulous and enraged. "No, you put him down now."

She was already sliding Chill off her back, so of course she felt the need to add, "I was doing that anyway because I'm tired. It'll be a cold day in III before I let you order me around."

When Chill's knees are on the ground, she helped him to move closer to the wall, maneuvering him so he could relax propped on his shoulder. All the while, Herio raved in the background. "Yeah, I bet you're tired, after risking your death carrying him of all people up here! What were you thinking?"

She huffed. "And yet I didn't die, and I was thinking that I'm nearly an adult who knows her own limits and can make decisions for herself."

"Hmph, adult my ass," he scoffed. He continued with a sneer, "What did you even bring him here for?" There was an emphasis on the 'him', as if Herio were being particularly generous with that pronoun.

"I brought him because he is my friend," Neeila said, and Chill already knew that she felt that way, so there was absolutely no reason why hearing her say the word should have made his heart squeeze pleasantly in his chest, but it did. "You already know that. Stop asking ridiculous questions, especially when you already know you won't like the answers."

Herio bristled, probably gearing up to, once again, voice his opinion on that.

Before he had the chance, Neeila forged on, the pride from earlier seeping shamelessly back into her tone, "And I am almost an adult. I found out today that I am sixteen years of age."

Herio was... quiet. He seemed not to know what to say to that.

"That means you must be eighteen or nineteen," she added, helpfully.

"Only you would care about something stupid like that," he said, but the awkward tone of his voice rather nullified the heat his words.

Chill could feel Neeila open her mouth to make an indignant retort anyway, so he quickly shifted his hand over to squeeze her wrist before she could speak. Just let it go.

Miraculously, she did, though making sure to huff loudly, as if to reiterate that she had won the argument.

Chill did not like when Neeila fought with her brother. They bickered a lot, which he had learned was typical between siblings, and was often actually done out of love for one another, oddly enough. Whenever their disagreements were serious, however, it was usually because of him.

Chill did not have a family. He did not know what it was like to love someone simply because they happened to share his blood, a bond forged together by forces they did not control but valued above all else. He had always been intrigued by the "family dynamic", but he had never craved it, not as fiercely as he craved other things his life left him without. "Families" just seemed like the kind of bonds that were too complex for him to understand. All he had was Neeila, and that was enough for him.

Neeila had more though. She no longer had a mother, but she did still have a brother who loved her more than the breath in his own lungs, and Chill did not like being the thing that came between that.

Despite his thoughts, it was Chill who had Neeila's attention in the very next moment. Her eyes watched as he swayed unsteadily against his precarious perch against the wall. Chill was just a bit out of it, and so did not entirely notice Neeila scooting back next to him and pulling his head down onto her shoulder, though once it was there, he did not move it away. He curled into her—so far gone he couldn't even remember why he shouldn't—soaking in the welcoming softness of her hair and the warmth of her skin.

Herio seemed to remember. His voice sounding both exasperated and weary, he said, "Neeila."

"What?"

"Do you have to do that?"

"What's it to you if I do?"

Of course, at that exact moment, Chill's body chose to start coughing, the force of it impressively violent, not unlike an elderly man who had indulged in a few too many smokes in his youth.

"You see! There's a reason people don't sleep with their mongrels." Herio sneered. "They make you sick."

"Yes, well, when I start projectile vomiting, I'll be sure to aim for your face," she said absently, the reply seemingly preprogrammed in her head (which, given how much the siblings argued, it might actually have been). Her attention, however, seems to be preoccupied with pounding her fist firmly against Chill's chest. A shame, really, because Chill knows she would have greatly enjoyed the scandalized look that was no doubt on her brother's face.

"Better?" she asked him. "Is this helping or just making it worse? I can't hit your back, but maybe you could lift your arms? Hey, Herio, do you know if that actually makes a difference? I remember Mom always told us to do it, but I could never tell if it actually—oh."

Chill wondered what could have possibly brought an end to what was only just the beginning of her usual vomit of words, until he felt the wetness of blood trailing from his lips and down onto his hands in warm droplets.

That was probably not good.

Neeila said nothing else about it, instead finishing her ramble about whatever the hell she had been talking about before, her words washing over his head as it nearly spun on its axis, and righted itself again before she even stopped to take a breath. Even so, despite the rapidness of her spiel, even she did not seem to be focused on what she was saying. No, she seemed more focused on the droplets of blood still dotting across his mouth.

She probably thought he was going to die.

Chill was still more or less indifferent, but regardless, he straightened up as much as he could manage, and fought against the second spin that would surely send him spiraling into unconsciousness if he let it. He did it, because even though Chill was still not entirely against the possibility, he would rather not die before Neeila's eyes, right in her arms no less.

Even he could see how that would be a very unfortunate thing to put her through.

"Hey, boy," was what finally cut off Neeila's gaggle of words. The siblings, in unison, turn towards the voice. Chill was none the wiser, but to seeing eyes was a man—short and old, with a conventionally sunken frame, and white strands of straggled hair poking from an otherwise bald head. His eyes, already dwarfed by his wrinkles, nearly disappeared as he glared at Herio. "Were you coming back any time soon, or would you like to sit and chat for a bit more?"

It was only then that Chill realized they were not alone on this cliffside. There were, in fact, several others a few yards to the left—presumably where the old man had come from—watching the exchange expectedly.

He wondered if Neeila had noticed them, until he realized how stupid that was. Of course Neeila had, she could literally use her eyes to that affect. It just so happened that she was not the type to censor her speech for anything, not even an audience of strangers.

There were times when Chill was envious of her sight. Not often—he made do well enough without most of the time, and one could not theoretically miss what they had never truly known—but at times like this, such an ability would be useful, especially since all his other senses seemed to be shutting down one by one, like the functions on a ramshackle mill machine far past its disposal date.

"Aye, I'm coming, I'm coming," Herio answered with a dismissive wave as he dragged his body to its feet.

"Who are you?" Neeila asked the man, not bothering to hide her distaste at the attitude given towards her brother.

"An acquaintance," Herio answered when he was finally upright again. To the man he said, "I'm sorry, I know time is of the essence."

"Why? Is he who you are planning the escape with?" Neeila asked, perking up like the mongrels Herio compared Chill too.

"Even better," Herio said, the smugness of his smile apparent in his voice. "We are planning a revolt."

Neeila's jaw dropped. She was utterly speechless, but Chill could feel the way the excitement the two men brought about begin to take hold of her.

Chill hated it. He hated the way they livened her, the way they filled her with hope again and again. Because that was what prisoners do: plan and fight and fail, again and again. It happened the same way every time and every time Neeila was so sad, and Chill hated it when Neeila was sad. He really, really hated it, because Neeila was what Chill imagined what the sun would be like without the clouds that block it and the atmosphere that made it too hot. She was what the sun on Earth was, whole and warm and shining so bright that—

He did not realize he was falling forward until Neeila's hand on his chest was stopping him. She pushed him back onto her shoulder without preamble.

"What can I do?" he heard her ask. "I want to help."

Before Herio could speak, probably to deny her offer equally on the grounds of brotherly rudeness and brotherly concern, the old man said, "Spread the word. Once we've got a definitive plan together, which we would love to get back too. Herio, if you would—"

A light flashed so brightly even Chill could see it behind his blindfolded eyelids.

Then a deafening boom—like a bomb, or an eruption, or thunder from lightning strong enough to split land—shatters their eardrums.

Chill could not hear anything, only the strain in his throat told him that he was screaming. The world truly spun then. Beneath his body, the ledge beneath them shook and shook until it was not a ledge at all anymore. Neeila was lost to him then, as was everything else.

There was nothing left but Chill, the air sweeping icy kisses on his skin, and the long, long fall.

For many hours, before it finally clicked, they were hopelessly stuck.

They had tried so many ways to make the dragon balls operate. They had tried rearranging them, cleaning them, chanting to them, stacking them, even begging them. All of it was for naught—nothing made the dragon appear. No, all the balls did was continue to glow rapidly below as the wooden table beneath them groaned and cracked as if it could not handle the weight.

Stay calm, Reiko reminded himself. There was no use raging like his father. That had not made the balls work anymore than the other attempts had.

He paced back and forth in the protective box, running his hard fingers through his brown hair. His thoughts were whirling but he was still mindful enough not to kick the body of the girl lying there, wheezing raggedly in her sleep. He doubted she would have noticed if he had—the girl had had yet to regain consciousness as far as he knew. His father had kept her with the intentions of flogging her to death in the courtyard for her attempted escape. Of course, Reiko knew the value of punishment, but putting a child the same size his Hilla had been through that kind of agony seemed more than a little excessive. Not that he would argue that point. Reiko knew both when to keep his mouth shut and when to back down.

"Lord Reiko?" He turned to regard the guard addressing him. "What do you purpose that we do now, sir?"

If impatience and anxiousness were not already warring inside of him, he would have been amused that once again, despite his father holding the title of 'Warden', the guards almost always came to him in times of crisis.

Unfortunately, all he could reply with was, "I'm not sure what else we can do."

He had tried to say it quietly, so as not to alert his temperamental father, but Ziloh still seemed to have heard him loud and clear.

"That's bullshit!" He shouted so loudly that Herio could smell the lingering tobacco on his breath. "I did not come so close to finally achieving true power just so we could get stuck here!"

Reiko turned away from him, trying not to show the embarrassment he felt towards his father's umpteenth outburst, particularly since the man had not offered even one solution to their problem. Even worse, he thought, was that Ziloh was the one most responsible for the predicament they were in. No one would say it, but Reiko knew everyone was thinking just how idiotic Ziloh was for not bothering to learn all he needed to know about the dragon balls before they were glowing on their grand table. How could his father have been so foolish as to steal objects of such power without a proper plan?

Really though, Reiko was not in the least bit surprised. He knew exactly the type of man his father was: a flighty, twisted, impulsive one, with a weakness for boys with small bodies and soft faces. Reiko almost wished his father had insisted on his little 'pet Frieza' accompanying him here. Perhaps he would not be so useless if he had a chance to blow off steam.

Frieza's son had been a gift sent straight from the late King Hikso, it seemed. Admittedly, it turned Reiko's stomach when he thought about it too much. Not that his father was the only one to take liberties with prisoners—many guards did. From the way they would talk about it afterward, he figured they got off on some type of power play. Reiko, personally, felt he himself had more than enough power—he did not need to play at anything.

Even so, the guards who engaged in that usually chose women. And even if they wanted a boy, they would normally at least pick one who was past the first stages of puberty. As far as Reiko could tell, the brat of Frieza had yet to reach that point, and he had been warming his father's bed for many years now.

Reiko loved his father, but he could not deny that he was just a bit disgusting.

Zikoh shouted again and kicked the wall in frustration. Reiko was going to retort something—perhaps suggest that he go and seek out his pet and leave the rest of them in peace—when a crash suddenly sliced through the room. All eyes turned towards the grand table, which now laid in a broken heap on the floor. The balls continued to glow.

When the shock diminished, anger took its place inside of him. The power was right there glowing like beacons, just waiting to be harnessed. Yet, it chose to taunt him. It taunted the home they were trying to protect from the pest who sought to subjugate it. It taunted the pain of a father without his daughter.

Why? He wanted to scream, to demand, to understand. Why are you denying me the only things I've ever wanted? Why have you come to raise the hopes I've long since given up?

"Sir," a guard next to him said, her voice sounding almost gentle. "Perhaps the Earth dragon balls have no true powers at all."

"No. They do," He told her almost desperately, "They must. You see the power inside of them just as well as I do. There must be a way to reach it."

He dropped abruptly into a chair and buried his face deep into his hands. "But how? We have stacked them in the order of their stars, we have cleaned them until we could see our faces in them, we have spoken to them—"

Then it clicked.

The balls were from Earth.

They would only answer to an earthling language.

Translators were interesting devices. They changed the sound wavelengths of speech, so any language that came to their ears was automatically translated into Tenego. Likewise, the words they spoke would be changed to match the ears they were speaking directly too. If they spoke to an earthling, they would hear whatever earthling language they knew best, and vice versa.

However, the dragon balls were not living entities. Their Tenego speech would not change when they spoke to them. The words would need to come from an earthling's mouth.

And they had three of them in their custody.

Reiko did not bother to explain his revelation. He stormed from the room, only distantly aware of the loyal guards that tail him without question. He marched down hall after hall, down staircase after staircase, until he reached the Sector of the Cells—the place they left all new prisoners pending proper induction.

The three earthlings cowered in fear as the bars to their cell were slid to the side. Two of them were dark skinned, a male and a female with similarly frightened faces and pleas for mercy coming through their whimpers. The pale one with the gunshot wound barely seemed to notice them, hardly any lucidity left in his clouded grey eyes.

The pale one was too far gone, and the girl was starting to hyperventilate from her hysteria. Useless.

They choose the second male. He fought and the girl did too, trying to pull the boy back into the cell. She fought until a guard smashed the handle of his whip against her temple.

"Koa!" the girl slurred desperately around her sobs. "Koa! Koa!"

They were heart-wrenching cries, but the only tears he sees were the ones streaked on the face of his daughter's mutilated corpse. Nothing would stop him from seeing her whole again.

The earthling called Koa fights for longer after that. He kept fighting until Reiko dug the barrel of his gun into his face. Reiko kept it there all the way up the stairs and back down the hallways until they have returned to the grand room. Several eyes turned towards them, probably filled with looks of awe or relief or hope. Reiko regarded at none of them. There was no time for looking when the key to his daughter's soul was seconds away from opening the lock.

Reiko dragged the earthling forward with a fist clenched in the curls of his hair. He pushed the boy down onto his knees, right before the glowing orbs. "Demand the dragon to appear!"

The human said nothing. He was crying fat tears and choking on his sobs.

Reiko wondered why his father seemed to believe that just because he did not say it, Reiko did not know exactly what he thought of him. Reiko knew his father thought he was too soft-hearted, a naive child in the body of a man. Reiko would not deny that he had been that man for almost every day of his life.

He was not that man now. Today he was a prince, a protector of his home, a man who loved his child, and he would not stop at anything to see it all come to fruition.

Reiko kicked the boy hard in his spine, sending him onto his hands with a helpless cry. He whipped out his gun again and pressed it so deep into his temple the skin depressed around it. "Tell the dragon to come forth or I'll kill you now!"

"P-Please, c-come," the boy cried, presumably in his earthling tongue. "Please help me! Please, please, help me!"

And just like that, the lock unlatched.

The entire room watched with bated breaths as the balls gleamed even more rapidly, the tempo growing faster as each second passed. The looks of awe quickly became looks of fear when suddenly, the balls shined out a blinding light, and an invisible force threw Reiko and all the rest back several feet.

Much happened in the next moments. His body was stunned still, but he felt hands gripping his skin. He felt himself being dragged through the room, the energy in the air so heavy it nearly sent them all back to the floor and growing worse by the second. He was taken from the room, and then he was taken upwards. Then he was back in the safety of the skybox and his father's concerned eyes were little more than twin, navy blurs.

He thought he heard his father call his name before everything exploded in a burst of white.

TBC