Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Sing No Songs ❯ Feeding the beast ( Chapter 10 )
[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]
By: Kimmy Jarl 
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Suspense / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 07.04.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.4K | Visits: 1.0K | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Suspense / Drama | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 07.04.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 3.4K | Visits: 1.0K | Status: Work In Progress
Chapter ten
Vegeta groggily raised his head. He opened his eyes, and then closed them tightly as if they pained him, before opening them again. He was half lying, half sitting against a cold wall. With a sour twist of his mouth he looked down at himself.
There was blood on his hands. He turned them around and observed that they were practically covered with the sticky thick bronze. He touched the front of his shirt, which was stiff with the same substance. Trailing his fingers further, he lifted his hands to his neck to almost delicately touch the silver collar.
The thing was definitely working. He did not try to focus his ki, he knew that it would not be possible. He could feel the fragmented remains of his energy whirling in a lurching imbalance. He felt unfocused, like there was some edge or sharpness that was missing.
He felt sick.
When he thought about what had happened since he had put the collar on, his mind recoiled from the memories with a vague sense of strangeness. The images were mute and expressionless, like they belonged to someone else.
Vegeta got to his feet, staggering slightly. His body was not quick to obey, he noticed without surprise. Already... already the drug, whatever was in it, had reduced him to this. He barely had strength enough to stay upright.
The feeling should have been rage. He thought distantly that he should be fighting and protesting. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to go? But when the metal band had been presented to him, he had seen an answer, an opportunity, and he had taken it. It was not giving up - it was giving in. It was an acknowledgement to the fact that the road had at last come to a full circle.
He was standing in small bare room. It was dimly lit, but without any visible source of light. Three of the walls were of a black uneven material that resembled stone, while the fourth appeared to be made of glass. The shadowed space on the other side of the transparent wall mirrored his room almost exactly, except the other room had a door. There were no doors in Vegeta's room. He was a prisoner.
Again, he thought, the feelings should have been bitterness and anger. There should have been a dejecting sense of defeat. A smile that had nothing to do with mirth tugged at his lips when the thought came to him, that in a sense the collar was a symbol of victory. He had won. Bulma, I have kept my promise to you.
Thinking about her was like tapping into a bottomless well of loss. Yet he did not want to avoid her, he wanted to hold on to her, wanted it so badly, even if it meant that he risked diving headlong into the loss.
He had not really thought that her death would affect him this much. Not so absolutely, so thoroughly. He had told himself it was nothing he could change. She had gotten old and then she had died. But perhaps such rationality did not matter in this. Perhaps all that mattered was that she had been alive, so gloriously alive, and now she was gone. Why should it be less devastating for the inevitability of it all?
She had been so clear as she went. At the end he had felt her closer than ever; her goodness, her strength. It was amazing.
Vegeta groggily raised his head. He opened his eyes, and then closed them tightly as if they pained him, before opening them again. He was half lying, half sitting against a cold wall. With a sour twist of his mouth he looked down at himself.
There was blood on his hands. He turned them around and observed that they were practically covered with the sticky thick bronze. He touched the front of his shirt, which was stiff with the same substance. Trailing his fingers further, he lifted his hands to his neck to almost delicately touch the silver collar.
The thing was definitely working. He did not try to focus his ki, he knew that it would not be possible. He could feel the fragmented remains of his energy whirling in a lurching imbalance. He felt unfocused, like there was some edge or sharpness that was missing.
He felt sick.
When he thought about what had happened since he had put the collar on, his mind recoiled from the memories with a vague sense of strangeness. The images were mute and expressionless, like they belonged to someone else.
Vegeta got to his feet, staggering slightly. His body was not quick to obey, he noticed without surprise. Already... already the drug, whatever was in it, had reduced him to this. He barely had strength enough to stay upright.
The feeling should have been rage. He thought distantly that he should be fighting and protesting. Wasn't that the way it was supposed to go? But when the metal band had been presented to him, he had seen an answer, an opportunity, and he had taken it. It was not giving up - it was giving in. It was an acknowledgement to the fact that the road had at last come to a full circle.
He was standing in small bare room. It was dimly lit, but without any visible source of light. Three of the walls were of a black uneven material that resembled stone, while the fourth appeared to be made of glass. The shadowed space on the other side of the transparent wall mirrored his room almost exactly, except the other room had a door. There were no doors in Vegeta's room. He was a prisoner.
Again, he thought, the feelings should have been bitterness and anger. There should have been a dejecting sense of defeat. A smile that had nothing to do with mirth tugged at his lips when the thought came to him, that in a sense the collar was a symbol of victory. He had won. Bulma, I have kept my promise to you.
Thinking about her was like tapping into a bottomless well of loss. Yet he did not want to avoid her, he wanted to hold on to her, wanted it so badly, even if it meant that he risked diving headlong into the loss.
He had not really thought that her death would affect him this much. Not so absolutely, so thoroughly. He had told himself it was nothing he could change. She had gotten old and then she had died. But perhaps such rationality did not matter in this. Perhaps all that mattered was that she had been alive, so gloriously alive, and now she was gone. Why should it be less devastating for the inevitability of it all?
She had been so clear as she went. At the end he had felt her closer than ever; her goodness, her strength. It was amazing.
---
Vegeta did not know how long he stood there in the middle of the room, unaware of his surroundings. What brought him back was the memory that his hands were still cowered in half dried blood.
Looking around the room, he noticed a faucet-like object protruding from the wall in the corner behind him. It was about as high as his waist and as he walked closer he saw that there was a small button on the wall beside it. As he expected, water rushed forth from the tap when he touched the button. It ran to the floor and disappeared down a fairly large hole. A second press on the button made the water stop.
Absently steadying himself with one hand on the wall, Vegeta leaned down to look at the hole in the floor. It was circular, about as large as his hand and it seemed so deep that it might as well have been bottomless. A contemplative look suddenly crossed his face and he gave the bare surfaces of the room a meaningful stare. For some reason the situation struck him as slightly funny. I have been pampered, haven't I? At least in Capsule Corporation... I did not have to squat. The amusement was fast to disappear, since he lacked any will to hold on to it.
He washed his hands, thoroughly. He then took off his shirt and rinsed it off several times under the running water. While doing this, he tried to form in his mind some sort of explanation; a good one. He imagined Bulma stood there behind him, just out of sight, waiting for him to speak.
Most situations, he decided, could be reduced to the barest of facts, like “he did it” or “she's dead”. A simple fact could explain it all. But, he thought as he twisted his black shirt to get rid of some of the excess water, what was fact, really, other than a seemingly solid construction of someone's perceptions?
Ignoring the coldness of the damp fabric, he put the shirt on again and sat down next to a wall, his legs outstretched, one ankle crossing the other. In a gesture that was more comforting than casual, he wrapped his arms around his midsection.
Fact: a raging beast was living in his mind. This beast wanted nothing else but to live out its hate, to rip and tear and to mangle.
Right. Very likely. And the beast had broken teeth, dull staring eyes and its pelt was clotted with blood. Right.
Vegeta closed his eyes and conjured up the image. When had the fantasy become so powerful anyway? So bloody real.
In his mind he walked up to the growling beast and roughly grabbed its ear. “Look at this,” he said, turning to Bulma who sat on the living room sofa. Her short skirt reviled her smooth thighs and her striking sky-blue hair ran over her shoulders, light as clouds and supple as oil. Vegeta wrenched the beast's head in her direction and she stared speechlessly into its mute eyes while slimy drool dripped on the 20 000 zenni carpet.
Veteta shifted his head against the uneven surface of the wall. This was going nowhere. This was not himself and this was definitely not Bulma.
This was just hiding.
For a moment he did nothing, he just breathed. Then he started talking. He did not speak out loud, his voice was no more than a whisper of a breath, but he formed each word carefully in his mind. “Of course I know that it's just me. No bloodthirsty animal. Just me. You would never accept that would you? You thought you knew every part of me... but I never showed you this one.”
As he talked he could almost feel her listening. He saw nothing but the inside of his own eyelids, but he could feel her warmth and sympathy. He continued to address her, the whole time afraid that the comforting illusion would suddenly fade.
“There is an ugliness in me that I would never let you see. Perhaps I was ashamed and perhaps I was afraid. I know you cared about me, this… love… that you used to talk about, though it did take a long time for me to believe in it. Well, this is a part of me that you would not love.”
He paused, unwillingly waiting for her to protest, like she always did when he had said something like that. The silence was nothing that he had not expected and still it was utterly shattering. An all-consuming sense of loss rolled over him, a flood of feeling that was almost tangible. It was as if an arm or a leg had been torn off and his body was bleeding and screaming in shocked deprivation, but instead it was his soul, his soul bleeding and screaming. He tried to take a step back… distance himself. But it was no use. So he addressed it, he spoke directly into the loss.
“I understand now,” he said, the words coming fast, “that I used you to bind it. I used you or whatever you gave me to bind this beast. Through you I did it. And when you died... when you died...”
She was dead, that was the reality of it.
With a tremendous effort of will, he disentangled himself from the suffocating loss, before it completely pulled him under.
“The wreath, the beast...” he slowly resumed, quelling the insisting thoughts that said that he was abandoning her, that he had an obligation to the pain. It would be there waiting for him after all.
“There was a time when I thought this... rage was a useful tool to call upon during the battles, the killings.” He sighed suddenly and deliberately raised his head from the wall just to swing it back again. Hard. “And now I'm hiding again. The truth is, I could never resist it and neither did I want to. It came over me sometimes when I was fighting, this rage. Not always, but sometimes. Those were the best of times. At those moments I felt... like a god, righteous and mighty.”
Vegeta shrugged uncomfortably, he did not like thinking about it. Most of all he did not like the undeniable exhilaration that accompanied the half buried memories.
“In the beginning,” he continued, “it was just a feeling, I did not really think about it. But the rage grew stronger, more solid. You see, all the time... I was feeding it.”
Without any conscious decision, he was on his feet, pacing the small room. He turned abruptly as he reached one black wall, and then another, not really seeing it.
“Every time I had to beg for mercy, I was feeding the rage. Every time I had to kneel in front of... of Frieza. I should have fought him. I should have given my life defying him. Instead, because of my fear and my pitiful weakness, I bent my neck and forced words of fidelity and smiles of gratitude... just like all the other cowards.”
He stopped pacing and drew his hands over his eyes and cheekbones. He had been cold, but now he felt like he was burning. “You want to know what I believe? I believe that I created the idea of the beast, its shape so to speak. It was a boy's fantasy, a lonely boy with a lot of hate and a lot of anger and no one but himself to direct it at.”
Vegeta fell silent, all to conscious that no one was listening. He could not feel a whisper of Bulma's sympathetic warmth. He kept addressing her though, hoping against hope that some part of her would still stay with him.
“I kept telling myself that one day I would get strong enough to stand up to Frieza and defeat him, but at the same time I knew that that would demand a miracle. It came to a point when I just didn't care. My failure... I did not care, because I had fed my caring to the rage. The only thing that still mattered was to get stronger... and there were times then I didn't knew who craved the strength: me, or the beast.”
He fell silent again, his eyes restlessly shifting between the confining corners of his room. He could feel that the ship was moving. Although he did not hear any engines or felt any movement penetrating the floor, he knew that they were hurtling through space at a very high speed.
He went back to the wall and sat down, in the same position as before. He felt cold again.
“When we first met, there wasn't much left of me, was there?” He wanted to say something more, something that would let her know just how much she had meant to him, but he could not.
For some things, Vegeta assumed, there just were no words.
Vegeta did not know how long he stood there in the middle of the room, unaware of his surroundings. What brought him back was the memory that his hands were still cowered in half dried blood.
Looking around the room, he noticed a faucet-like object protruding from the wall in the corner behind him. It was about as high as his waist and as he walked closer he saw that there was a small button on the wall beside it. As he expected, water rushed forth from the tap when he touched the button. It ran to the floor and disappeared down a fairly large hole. A second press on the button made the water stop.
Absently steadying himself with one hand on the wall, Vegeta leaned down to look at the hole in the floor. It was circular, about as large as his hand and it seemed so deep that it might as well have been bottomless. A contemplative look suddenly crossed his face and he gave the bare surfaces of the room a meaningful stare. For some reason the situation struck him as slightly funny. I have been pampered, haven't I? At least in Capsule Corporation... I did not have to squat. The amusement was fast to disappear, since he lacked any will to hold on to it.
He washed his hands, thoroughly. He then took off his shirt and rinsed it off several times under the running water. While doing this, he tried to form in his mind some sort of explanation; a good one. He imagined Bulma stood there behind him, just out of sight, waiting for him to speak.
Most situations, he decided, could be reduced to the barest of facts, like “he did it” or “she's dead”. A simple fact could explain it all. But, he thought as he twisted his black shirt to get rid of some of the excess water, what was fact, really, other than a seemingly solid construction of someone's perceptions?
Ignoring the coldness of the damp fabric, he put the shirt on again and sat down next to a wall, his legs outstretched, one ankle crossing the other. In a gesture that was more comforting than casual, he wrapped his arms around his midsection.
Fact: a raging beast was living in his mind. This beast wanted nothing else but to live out its hate, to rip and tear and to mangle.
Right. Very likely. And the beast had broken teeth, dull staring eyes and its pelt was clotted with blood. Right.
Vegeta closed his eyes and conjured up the image. When had the fantasy become so powerful anyway? So bloody real.
In his mind he walked up to the growling beast and roughly grabbed its ear. “Look at this,” he said, turning to Bulma who sat on the living room sofa. Her short skirt reviled her smooth thighs and her striking sky-blue hair ran over her shoulders, light as clouds and supple as oil. Vegeta wrenched the beast's head in her direction and she stared speechlessly into its mute eyes while slimy drool dripped on the 20 000 zenni carpet.
Veteta shifted his head against the uneven surface of the wall. This was going nowhere. This was not himself and this was definitely not Bulma.
This was just hiding.
For a moment he did nothing, he just breathed. Then he started talking. He did not speak out loud, his voice was no more than a whisper of a breath, but he formed each word carefully in his mind. “Of course I know that it's just me. No bloodthirsty animal. Just me. You would never accept that would you? You thought you knew every part of me... but I never showed you this one.”
As he talked he could almost feel her listening. He saw nothing but the inside of his own eyelids, but he could feel her warmth and sympathy. He continued to address her, the whole time afraid that the comforting illusion would suddenly fade.
“There is an ugliness in me that I would never let you see. Perhaps I was ashamed and perhaps I was afraid. I know you cared about me, this… love… that you used to talk about, though it did take a long time for me to believe in it. Well, this is a part of me that you would not love.”
He paused, unwillingly waiting for her to protest, like she always did when he had said something like that. The silence was nothing that he had not expected and still it was utterly shattering. An all-consuming sense of loss rolled over him, a flood of feeling that was almost tangible. It was as if an arm or a leg had been torn off and his body was bleeding and screaming in shocked deprivation, but instead it was his soul, his soul bleeding and screaming. He tried to take a step back… distance himself. But it was no use. So he addressed it, he spoke directly into the loss.
“I understand now,” he said, the words coming fast, “that I used you to bind it. I used you or whatever you gave me to bind this beast. Through you I did it. And when you died... when you died...”
She was dead, that was the reality of it.
With a tremendous effort of will, he disentangled himself from the suffocating loss, before it completely pulled him under.
“The wreath, the beast...” he slowly resumed, quelling the insisting thoughts that said that he was abandoning her, that he had an obligation to the pain. It would be there waiting for him after all.
“There was a time when I thought this... rage was a useful tool to call upon during the battles, the killings.” He sighed suddenly and deliberately raised his head from the wall just to swing it back again. Hard. “And now I'm hiding again. The truth is, I could never resist it and neither did I want to. It came over me sometimes when I was fighting, this rage. Not always, but sometimes. Those were the best of times. At those moments I felt... like a god, righteous and mighty.”
Vegeta shrugged uncomfortably, he did not like thinking about it. Most of all he did not like the undeniable exhilaration that accompanied the half buried memories.
“In the beginning,” he continued, “it was just a feeling, I did not really think about it. But the rage grew stronger, more solid. You see, all the time... I was feeding it.”
Without any conscious decision, he was on his feet, pacing the small room. He turned abruptly as he reached one black wall, and then another, not really seeing it.
“Every time I had to beg for mercy, I was feeding the rage. Every time I had to kneel in front of... of Frieza. I should have fought him. I should have given my life defying him. Instead, because of my fear and my pitiful weakness, I bent my neck and forced words of fidelity and smiles of gratitude... just like all the other cowards.”
He stopped pacing and drew his hands over his eyes and cheekbones. He had been cold, but now he felt like he was burning. “You want to know what I believe? I believe that I created the idea of the beast, its shape so to speak. It was a boy's fantasy, a lonely boy with a lot of hate and a lot of anger and no one but himself to direct it at.”
Vegeta fell silent, all to conscious that no one was listening. He could not feel a whisper of Bulma's sympathetic warmth. He kept addressing her though, hoping against hope that some part of her would still stay with him.
“I kept telling myself that one day I would get strong enough to stand up to Frieza and defeat him, but at the same time I knew that that would demand a miracle. It came to a point when I just didn't care. My failure... I did not care, because I had fed my caring to the rage. The only thing that still mattered was to get stronger... and there were times then I didn't knew who craved the strength: me, or the beast.”
He fell silent again, his eyes restlessly shifting between the confining corners of his room. He could feel that the ship was moving. Although he did not hear any engines or felt any movement penetrating the floor, he knew that they were hurtling through space at a very high speed.
He went back to the wall and sat down, in the same position as before. He felt cold again.
“When we first met, there wasn't much left of me, was there?” He wanted to say something more, something that would let her know just how much she had meant to him, but he could not.
For some things, Vegeta assumed, there just were no words.
---
The young man flouted naked in a tube of fluid. Small bubbles of air escaped the tight mask on his face and disappeared out of sight. The deep wounds across his chest and on his throat were clearly visible. It was hard to believe that he was still alive with wounds like that, let alone that he was expected a full recovery.
Captain Asdef laid his hand on the glass. It felt cold to the touch, although he knew that the marvelous healing fluid inside the tank was in fact warm. Like the advanced communication device on the ship, the regeneration tank was just another reminder of Frieza's legacy.
The captain looked away from the soldier's pale face so that he, for the hundredth time that day, could glance at the screen high up on the wall. For a fraction of a second he was sure that the small room displayed on the screen was empty, and his heart seemed to pause in his chest. But there he was. The prisoner. Vegeta.
Asdef had to assure himself over and over that it was true. Vegeta, one of Frieza's most terrible assassins, were sitting there on the bare floor, helpless and powerless.
For the life of him, he could not explain exactly how this had happened.
When the short man, who's mere presence had inspired such horror and awe, had asked if they possessed the means to render him powerless, Asdef had dared to hope. And then the Earthlings had decided to make their move. The captain supposed that he could not blame them, not after he had threatened to destroy their planet. Their timing could have been better though.
When the report of the attack from the ground came in, Asdef had seen how the face of the man opposite him had harden into an expressionless mask. This is the end, he had thought.
After that, everything had happened so fast. They hardly had time to realize that Vegeta had gone outside before the entire city beneath them had been wiped out. Vanished just like that. Asdef distantly registered his own astonishment over the sheer arrogance of the act. So Frieza's warrior had not thought that they could handle it on they're own, had he? In one spectacular move he had sought to remove the problem altogether, as if to show them that they were completely incompetent.
Arrogant as it was, Asdef mused as he once again turned to look at the young man in the tank, Vegeta's move had still confirmed that the Earth mattered to him. According to all information, the end of Frieza had meant the end of Vegeta's killings. The reports from New Namek had all agreed that, astonishingly, Vegeta had lived in peace for decades now. He cared for his adopted planet and would go to great length to protect it.
Of course, nothing of that mattered before the Law. Nothing changed his past, or the fact that his strength, un-harnessed, constituted a great threat to the peace of the galaxy. Under no circumstances could they risk the rise of a new Frieza.
“And just as I thought I had him figured out,” Asdef whispered, “he only showed me how wrong I was.” Vegeta had entered the ship again and, without looking at anyone, he had walked to the table where the metal collar rested. With short measured movements, he had put it on. He had told them to activate it. Asdef had issued the order at once, thinking to himself that he had been wrong. The attack from Earth had changed nothing; Vegeta had just brushed it aside like an annoying insect and continued on his original intent. The risks had been colossal, but in the end the plan to use the Earth as a gambling pawn had worked.
When the collar had been activated, Vegeta had not moved at first, or done anything to indicate that he felt anything different. Then he had slowly sunk down on a chair, letting his breath out in a long sigh. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Asdef had time to think that he looked like someone that had been freed from a tremendous burden and was finally allowed to relax.
The captain still was not sure what had prompted the youngest of his soldiers to do what he did then. Perhaps he had had some part of his training in mind, something about unarming a prisoner. Whatever the reason, the young man had taken a few quick steps forward and, practically leaning over Vegeta, he had grabbed the white pillow that had been lying on the table, looking very much out of place.
What happened next, the captain thought, must have been instantaneous, and yet the details were all so vivid that it all seemed slow and almost leisurely.
Vegeta was on his feet. With one hand he had grabbed the throat of the young soldier, his fingers sinking deeply into the flesh. As he swung his captive down on the floor, the captain had caught a glimpse of Vegeta's face, eyes wide and teeth reviled in a silent snarl. At first Asdef had thought that it had just been the jacket, but Vegeta's hand clawing at the brown-clad chest had left a wide red tear and a splatter of blood hit the floor like a glass of water that had been forcefully overturned. The next time his hand had come down, it was bone that splintered. Fingers sank down between shocking white ribs, bent, and pulled.
Then four, five, of the men had been on him, taking hold, physically lifting him off the ground. And still he would not let go his grip of the throat, no matter how much they tried. He only closed his fingers harder. Somehow that ripping had been the worst, the worst sound.
“Just when I thought I had him figured out.” The captain briefly studied his own reflection in the rounded glass of the regeneration tank, before focusing his eyes on the pale figure hooked up to the machinery.
As he exited the room, he resisted the impulse to check the screen once again. The prisoner would be there, safely bound and locked away. He was not going to hurt anyone anymore.
It was strange to think about though, that it had been Vegeta himself who had done the actual binding.
The young man flouted naked in a tube of fluid. Small bubbles of air escaped the tight mask on his face and disappeared out of sight. The deep wounds across his chest and on his throat were clearly visible. It was hard to believe that he was still alive with wounds like that, let alone that he was expected a full recovery.
Captain Asdef laid his hand on the glass. It felt cold to the touch, although he knew that the marvelous healing fluid inside the tank was in fact warm. Like the advanced communication device on the ship, the regeneration tank was just another reminder of Frieza's legacy.
The captain looked away from the soldier's pale face so that he, for the hundredth time that day, could glance at the screen high up on the wall. For a fraction of a second he was sure that the small room displayed on the screen was empty, and his heart seemed to pause in his chest. But there he was. The prisoner. Vegeta.
Asdef had to assure himself over and over that it was true. Vegeta, one of Frieza's most terrible assassins, were sitting there on the bare floor, helpless and powerless.
For the life of him, he could not explain exactly how this had happened.
When the short man, who's mere presence had inspired such horror and awe, had asked if they possessed the means to render him powerless, Asdef had dared to hope. And then the Earthlings had decided to make their move. The captain supposed that he could not blame them, not after he had threatened to destroy their planet. Their timing could have been better though.
When the report of the attack from the ground came in, Asdef had seen how the face of the man opposite him had harden into an expressionless mask. This is the end, he had thought.
After that, everything had happened so fast. They hardly had time to realize that Vegeta had gone outside before the entire city beneath them had been wiped out. Vanished just like that. Asdef distantly registered his own astonishment over the sheer arrogance of the act. So Frieza's warrior had not thought that they could handle it on they're own, had he? In one spectacular move he had sought to remove the problem altogether, as if to show them that they were completely incompetent.
Arrogant as it was, Asdef mused as he once again turned to look at the young man in the tank, Vegeta's move had still confirmed that the Earth mattered to him. According to all information, the end of Frieza had meant the end of Vegeta's killings. The reports from New Namek had all agreed that, astonishingly, Vegeta had lived in peace for decades now. He cared for his adopted planet and would go to great length to protect it.
Of course, nothing of that mattered before the Law. Nothing changed his past, or the fact that his strength, un-harnessed, constituted a great threat to the peace of the galaxy. Under no circumstances could they risk the rise of a new Frieza.
“And just as I thought I had him figured out,” Asdef whispered, “he only showed me how wrong I was.” Vegeta had entered the ship again and, without looking at anyone, he had walked to the table where the metal collar rested. With short measured movements, he had put it on. He had told them to activate it. Asdef had issued the order at once, thinking to himself that he had been wrong. The attack from Earth had changed nothing; Vegeta had just brushed it aside like an annoying insect and continued on his original intent. The risks had been colossal, but in the end the plan to use the Earth as a gambling pawn had worked.
When the collar had been activated, Vegeta had not moved at first, or done anything to indicate that he felt anything different. Then he had slowly sunk down on a chair, letting his breath out in a long sigh. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Asdef had time to think that he looked like someone that had been freed from a tremendous burden and was finally allowed to relax.
The captain still was not sure what had prompted the youngest of his soldiers to do what he did then. Perhaps he had had some part of his training in mind, something about unarming a prisoner. Whatever the reason, the young man had taken a few quick steps forward and, practically leaning over Vegeta, he had grabbed the white pillow that had been lying on the table, looking very much out of place.
What happened next, the captain thought, must have been instantaneous, and yet the details were all so vivid that it all seemed slow and almost leisurely.
Vegeta was on his feet. With one hand he had grabbed the throat of the young soldier, his fingers sinking deeply into the flesh. As he swung his captive down on the floor, the captain had caught a glimpse of Vegeta's face, eyes wide and teeth reviled in a silent snarl. At first Asdef had thought that it had just been the jacket, but Vegeta's hand clawing at the brown-clad chest had left a wide red tear and a splatter of blood hit the floor like a glass of water that had been forcefully overturned. The next time his hand had come down, it was bone that splintered. Fingers sank down between shocking white ribs, bent, and pulled.
Then four, five, of the men had been on him, taking hold, physically lifting him off the ground. And still he would not let go his grip of the throat, no matter how much they tried. He only closed his fingers harder. Somehow that ripping had been the worst, the worst sound.
“Just when I thought I had him figured out.” The captain briefly studied his own reflection in the rounded glass of the regeneration tank, before focusing his eyes on the pale figure hooked up to the machinery.
As he exited the room, he resisted the impulse to check the screen once again. The prisoner would be there, safely bound and locked away. He was not going to hurt anyone anymore.
It was strange to think about though, that it had been Vegeta himself who had done the actual binding.