Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Distorted ❯ Distorted ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: I don't own Dragonball Z. Depressing, that. I don't own Vegeta, or anyone else, and while I don't own them as a whole, I do own the single rejuvenation tank in this fic. At least I hope I do, or I'm in serious trouble for damage to property.

 

A/N: Right, so this idea just popped into my head randomly in an art lesson, so I wrote the first few paragraphs, only I kept on getting distracted by my friend who was writing really depressing poetry, and I wanted to read it. Anyway. I got home and randomly typed up what I'd already written, but by then, the inspiration had gone. So it sat on my computer for a few days until this morning when, voila! The inspiration returned in spades (I've never actually really got that saying, but there you are). Thus, Distorted was born! And you've just read something that is really not important and was a total waste of your time. Sorry. I do try, but I just seem to ramble on. The words just sort of flow. You notice it in my fics. I keep going off topic. Like now. Sorry again. The song at the beginning is taken from Field of Innocence by Evanescence. Go listen to it. It's a brilliant song.

 

 

 

 

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

 

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.