Flames

The young man stood, head held high, gazing uninterestedly at the white flakes floating from the sky.

To anyone that happened to glance at the sight from a distance may have thought it was a rather picturesque scene. The flame haired boy stood alone in the whiteness, snowflakes dancing around him, several skeletons of trees, bare of leaves, snow settling on their branches framed the scene. It was like something out of a fairy tale.

If they moved a little closer, they would perhaps be able to make out the faint aura surrounding the teenager, a light blue glow that radiated outwards, lighting up the snowflakes as they swirled lazily down from the sky to come to rest on the dark ground. It was beautiful.

It was also the only place with anything living left on the planet.

Glaring at the landscape, the teenager took to the air and hovered a dozen feet or so from the ground. Allowing himself one last sneer at the scene, he shot off in the direction of the city he had first arrived at. There was no one left alive now, of course there wasn’t; that had been his job, and he was good at it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a bit more fun before he had to return to the ship.

The smouldering remains of the city soon rose on the horizon; smoke trailing its way up to the miserable sky, twisting around the snowflakes still determinedly meandering their way downwards.

The fires had gone out by now; this had been his first target. He had worked his way systematically around the planet, killing and burning everything in his path.

There were a few structures still recognisable as buildings. He scowled fiercely at them, as though they had done him some great personal wrong, ignoring the fact that he was the one to have exterminated their inhabitants. They dared remain standing, dared question his power and efficiency. They were an insult to his pride, and therefore could not remain.

A look of savage determination twisting his perfect features, the glow around him intensified to an almost painful glare. He raised one hand and concentrated the aura into a glowing sphere in the palm of his hand. His lips falling into an evil smirk, he aimed and threw the ball at the last vestiges of the buildings.

The fires started up again almost instantly. One would catch light from the energy he had tossed at it and the fire would spread to another, and another, until the entire broken city was once again up in flames, another horrible reminder of why it was never a good idea to question this young man’s power.

The flames shot up into the air, the snow sizzling up in milliseconds, not even droplets of water remaining. The heat spread out, causing the boy’s cheeks to flush.

Ignoring this, he crossed his arms arrogantly over his chest, and watched as the fire slowly passed over a little, leaving a small portion of the city no longer alight, while the rest continued to blaze. The teenager stared at this portion now and frowned.

Purge the planet. That had been his orders, to purge the planet and cleanse it of all life. Cleanse. He glanced at the burnt up remains of the city, then to the fire twisting up into the sky, then back t the charred fractures of the city that had once stood proud. A small, rueful smirk graced his features.

Fire doesn’t cleanse, it blackens.

 

 

 

Distorted

Where has my heart gone,

An uneven trade for the real world

And I, I want to go back to

Believing in everything and knowing nothing at all

- Evanescence, Even In Death 

He was floating, dreaming in liquid. It was nice. It was peaceful, a brief reprieve from the violent, deafening chaos that was his world.

There were noises coming from outside his bubble of tranquillity, faint murmurings he couldn’t quite make out. He groaned, ever so softly. He didn’t want to hear anything, just wanted to sink deeper into his silent world.

Silence is golden.

Golden. He remembered golden orbs looking down at him, mocking and superior.

“Come on, monkey boy, you can do better than that!”

The eyes had a voice attached to them now, he remembered, taunting and sneering. And arms. And legs. And feet. And fists. Fists that buried themselves in his stomach and knocked the air from him, feet that pressed down on his chest until his ribs snapped, puncturing empty lungs.

“And here I thought you were the great prince of the monkeys,” the voice had taunted, “guess you’re not as tough as you thought.”

He twitched as the voice finally morphed into a person; he didn’t want to hear the next bit again. He didn’t want to, but the man was unstoppable, he was stronger, he was always stronger, and the words burst through in spite of his struggling.

“Your father would be so disappointed in you.”

He froze at those words, blood dripping into wide, obsidian eyes. Zarbon smirked. He knew exactly what got to this boy.

“Yes,” he continued, towering over the broken child. “Imagine what he’d say if he could see you now. Such a pathetic child for him to admit to being his heir, don’t you think? He’d never want anything to do with you again. Good thing he died, then, isn’t it? Good thing your whole race died. At least they’ll never know what a weakling their prince is.”

Something inside Vegeta snapped at these words. Ignoring his injuries, ignoring that he could barely stand, that his arms had been lying dead at his side, he threw himself at the self-satisfied green alien. He didn’t care that Zarbon was older and bigger and stronger than he was, he just wanted to smash that handsome face in, destroy forever that look of smugness, the same way his race had been blasted, wiped out of existence in a second. It hadn’t been a meteor. It hadn’t been an accident. Nothing accidental ever happened to him. He knew the truth, he knew that Frieza had been the one, the cause of that destruction, and he knew that the supercilious bastard standing in front of him had stood there and watched.

Zarbon batted him away like you might an irritating fly. Vegeta went crashing into the wall, grunting in pain on impact. He tried to get up. He couldn’t. His legs had finally given in. His arms would not obey him. He could do nothing except lie there as Zarbon approached him and spat on his mangled form. Fists and feet slammed into him repeatedly, over and over, until eventually, he gave in and screamed, squeezing his eyes shut in shame even as he did so. Zarbon smirked, and took pity on the screaming child, shot one last ki blast at him, which finally brought him to the height of his pain, and he fell over the edge into the welcoming darkness.

Vegeta didn’t want to think of it, but now he had remembered, he couldn’t stop. It wouldn’t go away.

“Your father would be so disappointed in you.”

He didn’t want hear it because…because it was true. God, it was so true. His father would be disappointed in him. The thought of pleasing his father, of living up to his expectations, was all that kept him going, and he knew if King Vegeta could see the way he’d shamefully surrendered to them, he’d no longer want anything to do with his son.

Father…

His closed eyes twitched, a few small bubbles rising to the surface of the liquid. Then a thought hit him.

Oh, he thought, a painful twinge in his chest, he died three years ago today.

His race was dead. They were all dead. Just him left. He didn’t count the other two. They would both die soon anyway, probably by his own hands. They were stupid, clumsy, and got him into more trouble than he would have liked. They were a liability, one that he couldn’t afford. It was a shame, but there you go. The fact that killing them would mean the Saiyans would die out even faster didn’t matter. They were nothing. What did they do? What purpose did they serve? Possibly, when he first came aboard Frieza’s ship, Nappa was to protect him, but he had far outstripped the ex-commander after only a few months.

They tried to talk to him. Tried to get him to make some kind of communication that he still was a child, and not a cold, ruthless killing machine. They worried about him. Someone else might have thought it was because they cared. But he knew. He knew all they cared about was their prince, not the person behind the title. The person. He refused to think of himself as a child any longer. Children were innocent, they were fresh and pure and good. They didn’t understand the way things worked. He longed for that again, that purity and ignorance he’d been stripped of. He’d been torn from that peace and thrown headlong into real life. He hated it. He hated the real world.

His features twitched, mouth and eyebrows turning down into their usual scowl. He could make out the voice now; catch snippets of their conversation. They were discussing him. He blanked them out.

He didn’t care. The universe could go to hell. It was nothing to him. It was all…nothing.

With that last, defiant thought, he was pulled back into reality. A great stream of bubbles escaped his lips and his eyes snapped open. Through the watery green haze, he could make out doctors, medics, unimportant people. He hated them all.

The liquid warped their figures. Distorted. Like him. Like his thoughts. Like his soul. A child with such murderous thoughts. A child with so many lives on his conscience, the blood of billions spilled by him. Twisted. Distorted. Maybe that was why he could only find a brief, momentary peace in the rejuvenation tanks. He was like them.

“He’s awake!”

There was a hubbub, pointless noise and bustle, as they opened the tank, allowing him to step out. Zarbon was there. He glared at him.

“Get dressed and go to the hanger,” the green monster of his nightmares ordered him, tossing him a jumpsuit and some armour. “You’re being sent to Segress 5.”

“Very well.”

Vegeta pulled the clothes on and followed the man out of the med labs. When he reached the door, he sent a small ki blast at the rejuvenation tank he had just come from. He ignored the indignant cries of outrage from the doctors at the destroyed tank, and the look of amused bewilderment coming from Zarbon, even as they continued to walk.

When it came down to it, he didn’t deserve peace.

 

 

 

Repeat

It was strange really, that he could let abuse rain down on him and still think of other things. Kind of ironic really. He knew he was being punished for something, but he couldn’t remember what. Maybe he was being trained, not punished. He often got the two mixed up. It was hard to tell them apart. But it didn’t really matter; either one ended the same. He would finally drop into unconsciousness and wake up an undetermined time later in a rejuvenation tank, fully healed, so they could do it all over again.

Oh, wait, someone was yelling something. Something about a planet…the last planet he was sent to purge…oh yes, now he remembered. Planet Kamasei. He was supposed to leave some of them alive…thirty percent, he thought. They would have made good slaves apparently; they were resilient and didn’t wear out quickly.

He remembered their planet, burning, the smell of charred flesh and molten metal permeating the air, the flame rising in a roaring tribute to his power. He enjoyed the killing. It made him feel powerful. It made him feel in control.

Sometimes though, it was hard to stop.

So that was probably why he was being beaten now. For killing all the inhabitants, instead of merely seventy percent. He was being punished for being too ruthless on a ship full of men who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if they could.

The irony made him smile.

Though, in retrospect, he contemplated, as a gloved fist slammed repeatedly into his abdomen and he felt bone crunching and snapping, perhaps smiling wasn’t the best thing to do. No doubt his abuser thought it was aimed at him.

Oh. He didn’t think that was supposed to bend that way. And judging by the way his mangled arm was now hanging from his shoulder at an odd angle, he was probably right.

He wondered vaguely if he’d be allowed to crawl into a rejuvenation tank soon. He hoped so. He was pretty sure that much more of this and his brain was going to give in. And he needed his sanity. Knowing that he was the only sane person surrounded by maniacs was what kept him going.

Although you could never assume that just be someone was completely crazy that they weren’t smart. Frieza was the most insane of them all, and he was a genius. The boy hated to admit it, but it was true. You had to be careful around Frieza, because any tiny thing could set him off. You couldn’t even assume you were safe when he was in a good mood. A lot of the time he was in a good mood when he was hurting people. Vegeta was fairly certain hurting people was what put him in a good mood.

Sadistic bastard.

Ah, and there went his left leg. Well, fighting back was completely useless now, when you couldn’t kick and you couldn’t punch. Best just to lie here and hope he passed out soon.

Come on, get it over with soon.

Sometimes, when he was in bed, in that moment just between sleep and awaking, when he was still not quite aware of what he was thinking, he wanted to die. But that would always wake him up fully, and he’d be furious at himself for having such weak thoughts. He was the prince of all Saiyans. He would not die. He would live on in memory of all the Saiyans that were now dead. He would survive so that one day he would beat Frieza. And he would not give them the pleasure of knowing they had broken him.

His vision faded, and he knew no more until he woke again in the tank. Every beating made him stronger. If he kept up like this, then he would be stronger than Frieza, even if he was nowhere near it now. He smirked at this thought. Frieza was creating his own demise.

But still, it didn’t make the pain any more enjoyable. It still hurt. It still made him want to scream and cry and beg. But he didn’t because he was the prince of all Saiyans, and refused to lower himself like that.

Eyes open slowly, return to the waking world.

Three days later he was back in the same position. Well almost, different attacker this time. It hardly mattered. It was all the same. It went round in a circle; so predictable and obvious he wanted to scream at the monotony of it all.

It was Frieza himself this time. And, despite all his arrogant thoughts in that tank, this attack brought him painfully to his senses. He wasn’t strong enough. He would never be strong enough. One day, he may be able to beat Frieza’s henchmen, but the lizard would always be so much more powerful. And he would remain here forever. There was no freedom from him. He would be in this position, lying broken and bloody at the tyrant’s feet, to be healed, to be beaten, to be healed, to be beaten. Over and over and over and over. There was no escape.

He was stuck in repeat.