Emotions are the trigger.

It’s a concept that’s touched on in the related media. Even outside of the big ticket transformations, there are moments like little baby Gohan rising out of Raditz’s pod, or Vegeta slamming on Beerus after the cat backhanded Bulma. Thirty minutes pass before I figure it out. There’s only so many specks of red-brown dirt you can count before it wears on you, and I feel a familiar flame burn the second I consider throwing my hands up and walking toward the horizon until I drop. An accident, for sure, but a grin pulls at my lips all the same.

It disappears as quick as it comes. I breathe in, slow and practiced, before releasing everything my lungs hold in a long exhale. I reach down to my stomach, chuckle a little when no pain comes. The power that had flared to life not even a moment ago fades away, and I stare down at my hands as I squeeze them into fists.

Planet Plant’s two suns belt down from different spots in the sky. With one hand, I wipe the light beads of sweat on my brow away, and with the other, push myself back up to standing. Even baking in the midday heat, a deep chill goes through me. A shiver at the missing fire.

For just a fraction of a second, it’d been there: the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, my heart hammered, and my muscles contracted, ready to spring at a moment's notice. It isn’t a new feeling. I’d been an adrenaline junky my entire life. Bungee jumping, skydiving -- fuck, I’d done it all. And if there’s one thing that I know intimately, it’s the feeling that you get right before doing something bold, stupid, reckless.

That feeling is the same feeling that ki creates. And now I can make it from thin air.

Or, at least, I should be able to.

It’s like flexing. I think of my situation: how hopeless it seems, and I let the rage I keep tightly leashed burn. A spark ignites inside of me.

I feel it in the sand first -- without shoes on, it shifts beneath my feet. Next, it’s the compressing, tightening sensation of the muscle that's there yet isn't. The smell of ozone, the numbing taste of szechuan, the sound of my blood roaring in my ears. It’s staggering, but nothing compares to the sight of my aura cutting the air the same way it had done for Maiz and Zorn and Nappa.

The ground pushes away from me. Butterflies swim in my stomach. And as my feet leave the planet’s surface, a laugh bubbles from my throat. I’m flying. The thought, while idle, isn’t unwelcome. And for the first time in either life, I realize that I have the ability to force my will upon the world in a way that previously, I could’ve only imagined.

Amazing.

For a world named after greenery, planet Plant sure is fucking ugly. Even floating half a hundred feet in the air doesn’t improve the scenery much, and the badlands never seem to end. “Nappa said something about a forest,” I say, rub at my nose with my thumb. “I wonder where it is.”

Well, no time like the present and all that.

I reach. Not with my arm, but with my mind -- to the pool of power inside of me. Loosening the pressure makes me fall a bit, until I’m only ten or so feet off the ground. I flex again. Forward. And as I stop dropping, the wind tears through my hair when I shoot off toward the horizon.

It feels exactly how the show makes it look. I soar. The ground below me passes in streaks of reds and browns and whites, bluring together like scenery through a passenger side window. I twirl through the air, dance, and enjoy the view the entire time, passing the rocks and stones that make up this dreary land.

It takes a minute to figure everything out. But I get the hang of pushing, releasing, and controlling my ki quick enough. Even with how much focus I have to use to keep myself in the air, a smile still pulls at my lips. I climb, rise higher and higher, until the cacti and dry shrubs are little more than ants, and I look out at the world.

Everything is drab. Dying. But there’s also life that’s harder to spot. It’s there, between the weathered, red rocks that reach towards the sky. Or it hides in the dunes, shimmying out to bask in the heat of planet Vegeta’s two suns. However, even as I look down from the cloudless sky, I don’t see enough green to make up a forest.

It must be very far away.

Or I’m looking in the wrong area.

I turn, shift my ki to pivot in midair. There’s no large trees in any direction, no forests to speak of anywhere in sight. But I spot something down below.

Even though the shimmering of water is faint, it still catches my eye. There’s a river in the distance.

A swell at the end makes a small lake -- more a pond, truthfully -- but the river itself has to lead somewhere. For a moment I play with the idea of following it, see where upstream goes, but it might be best to revisit that idea later.

I’m kinda thirsty. Haven’t had much to drink today.

I fly toward the ground. There’s still discomfort with my abilities as I get closer, but it’s momentarily forgotten as I take in the little bit of livery around the water’s edge. Trees, grasses -- shit, there’s a color that’s not red or dead, and my lip twitches as I draw near. Dropping out of the sky, even with my shaky legs, I stick the landing. There’s only one problem.

There’s still at least a quarter mile between me and the lake. I sigh, roll my neck from side to side, and groan when it pops. With another flex, I jump, and even though I don’t summon enough energy to ignite myself with power, I still clear the distance with a single step. A frown pulls at my lips. Part of me wonders how much of this is actually me. Is it all rote muscle memory: built up from hours and hours of Vegeta (the real Vegeta) throwing himself into fighting and training?

Doesn’t really matter, I guess.

With steady steps, I make my way to the edge of the lake. The smell of wet grass and still water assaults my nose, and for the first time I realize how much sharper my senses are. The sounds of wildlife, muted yet thriving; the taste of the dry desert air; even the feel of the earth and the occasional tremors that run through it all seem so clear. They’re things that I wouldn’t have noticed before, but they’re things that I appreciate because I can notice them now. Careful not to get my furs wet, I step into the shallow parts of the water, catch the liquid with my cupped hands. It’s enjoyable, feeling the fresh water run down my throat, and I hum as I breathe just a little bit easier.

At least, up until I hear a snap behind me.

I smell blood before I see it. I turn. Slow as I can. And I twist my neck just enough to see a large, quadrupedal cat slinking in the tall grass. Its eyes burn an acidic yellow, accented by the red that stains its face and the foot long fangs protruding from its upper jaw. It watches me as I shift and turn to face it.

Maybe I’ve issued an unknown challenge. The beast stands up to its full height, and holy shit, it’s gotta be at least eight feet tall. There are stone plates carved into its back, darker than the otherwise brown, light color of its fur. It’s the first thing I notice as it rises, up until it steps away from the grass, and its disjointed raptor talons dig into the wet dirt. Mud squishes between its toes as it takes a couple of steps closer, but it never crosses the line into the water. The beast stops at the edge and stares.

I swallow. “You’re a fuckin’ big one, yeah?” There’s no response, but the almost-tiger tilts its head to the side as its tail waves back and forth. An itch bubbles up just beneath my skin. “So what’s the deal? You here to fight or something?”

Fight? I snort. Maybe it wants to feed. A hard doubt exists with ‘or something’. It doesn’t help that the beast doesn’t offer any type of confirmation. But I can see the look in its eye, notice the way it shifts its weight to its haunches to pounce. Dammit, of course I’m in the water. I crack a knuckle under my thumb, shift my legs apart, and let my body flow into a stance that feels natural. With one hand raised into a tight fist in front of me, and the other resting at my side level to the ground, I wait.

It doesn’t take long.

The beast leaps. It’s almost on top of me before I finish blinking. A yelp leaves me, and I jump forward under its legs, stop and turn back to face it from the shore. The cat slowly paces back around until it faces me, and even though our roles have reversed, it still easily stares down at me from the watering hole.

Come on, dumbass. Think. It stalks closer, center mass lower to the water than before. Fuck. The teeth are just long enough to drop into the water, and as it drags them further and further, they make their own wake. Fuck fuck fuck. Throwing up my guard as fast as I can, I reach for my ki.

Just in the nick of time.

I bring my hand up, bash away the clawed foot that flies at me, and grab a hold of the large fang that’s inches away from my face. The beast adjusts on its feet, pushes down with its entire weight for the killing blow.

It never comes.

A crack, a pop, a startled cry. The beast retreats back into the water, and it glares at me as it prowls; its toxic eyes continue to watch me like a rat, but there’s something else besides the casual hunger from before. It takes me a second to realize why. But when I glance down at my hand, see the ground bits of crushed bone, and the long piece of tooth, it starts to make a bit more sense.

Woah, it broke. I almost laugh. But when I look up, meet the watchful glare of the tiger, and confirm that this did indeed come out of its mouth -- well, maybe now isn’t the best time to gloat.

Its right fang ends in a short stump, less than a quarter of its previous length. I toss the shard in my hand to the side. “So much for that,” I say, whisper the words under my breath. Based on the way the beast’s ears twitch, and the way its tongue comes out to lick at its chipped, bloody tooth, it hears me. A slow breath leaves my lips, and I bring my steady hands up into loose fists.

A sharp pain explodes in my shoulder.

I’m on the ground. Pushing back against the weight bearing down on me, I’m able to make out the shape of another large cat. Its talon digs into my deltoid, and as it presses down, the already acute, piercing feeling worsens. My clenched fist loosens, my arm goes limp, and my head swims.

Of course there’s a second one. I curse under my breath, try to get my knee out the mud and up under me. How stupid can I be? Just because it looks like a cat doesn’t mean it is one, and it isn’t like lions don’t hunt in prides. My breath comes in fast, ragged gasps, and I try to reach for my energy. I try to flex that muscle.

Nothing happens.

The other beast steps out of the water. Ten feet away. I wave my hand behind me, try to force the cat off my back, but I’ve got no leverage. The first one takes a step. I slip in the wet clay, grunt as the second talon comes down and digs into my back like a one-hundred pound tick. Four feet. Blood pours down my arms as I struggle. This is it, I think, meeting the triumphant glare of the cat that approaches.

I’m about to die. Again.

That’s pathetic.

Rage ignites inside of me: hot and fiery and burning. No, not again. I refuse to die like some chump within a week of dying like some chump. I reach once more for that ever elusive power, and this time I refuse to be denied. With shaking hands, I push myself up just enough, force my leg into a better position, and get the leverage that I need.

Determination blossoms. I stare into the eyes of the predator above me. There’s a sudden shift. It knows -- maybe not a full or true understanding, but there’s a pause as it steps back. I can see the exact moments its instincts take over.

It doesn’t matter. My aura snaps to life. There’s a cry at my back, a startled sound that the second cat makes. I flex, scream -- pure, concentrated force erupts and surrounds me. My teeth clench hard enough that I think they might shatter as the talons in my back are ripped away, but I don’t have time to focus on it right now.

I still have to worry about the big one.

There’s a clear moment when pride and instinct battle. It’s an internal war, a struggle that happens in a fraction of a second. I take one step forward, and the tiger’s stance shifts. It makes up its mind. Instinct loses. The beast strikes forward in the same pattern it had used previously: a swipe with its claw, and an attack from above with its one, remaining fang.

“I’ve already seen that!” It isn’t meant to be a taunt, but the words leave my lips all the same. With my smaller, more agile frame, I’m able to jump over the leg, and I grab ahold of the tooth before it can connect. Even from this awkward angle below it, I can make out the baleful glare in its eyes.

The cat knows it has lost. The tooth snaps. Once more, bone grinds to dust in my grip. But instead of retreating, I flex, push against the ground with my ki, and fly into the predator turned prey.

There’s a small gap between its jaws.

It’s a bit like threading a needle. That small little space is all I need, and I take the tooth that I hold and push it up into the soft, weak flesh of the upper mouth. It gives way. The fang tears through the cat's skull like a hot knife through butter. The beast lets out a final, jagged gasp before it falls to the ground. Dead.

A harsh breath leaves my lips as I cut off my ki and touch back down. It’s over. I place my hands on my knees, gasp for air in fast, needy breaths. My arms and legs shake, less from strain and exhaustion, and more from… Well, several things. The battle high, the adrenaline leaving my system, the knowledge that this is my first win. It’s a genuine victory, one I clutched out of the literal jaws of defeat. A smile tugs at my lips. It’s finally over.

Except it isn’t.

The shuffling in the grass is what gives it away. A change in the air, a shift in pressure -- I duck under the large foot within a hair’s breadth from my head. My hand snaps up. Two sounds follow: the sickening crunch of a broken bone, and the sharp squeal the second cat makes as it tries to jump away.

I don’t let it. There’s no rest for the wicked, and I keep on top of it during its retreat. The beast’s sickly, yellow eyes widen. It swings and snaps in rough, uncoordinated strikes and bites, intent on pushing me away.

It doesn’t work. The roles have reversed. Once, these cats prowled the sands they called home. Now? They’re prey, weak and scared in the face of overwhelming power.

Too bad it isn’t smart enough to understand.

A broken front leg is practically a death sentence in the wilds. At least, it is back home. And out here in the harsh badlands of what would once become planet Vegeta, I can’t imagine it’s any different. I stand back, let it make some space between us. Instead of doing something smart like running, it turns back toward me, crouches, and growls as its hackles rise. Despite the ten feet between us, the cat doesn’t calm at all.

Good. A grin pulls at my lips. I drop my stance, stalk towards the side with the limb it has to baby. It snarls, ready to swipe with its good leg, but I never step into its reach. Instead, I opt to circle it.

Go ahead, get tired. Afterall, I’m the hunter here.

Maybe it’s a bit lame of me to play with my food in such a way. But my back still stings, and I twitch at every little gust of wind that brushes against the exposed, raw wounds in both shoulders. A hum leaves my lips as I stop, adjust, and change directions to circle its less bum side.

Fourteen seconds pass before the cat loses its nerve. When its pupils shrink down to pinpricks, and it takes a step back, I know it’s coming. A warcry, angry and biting and full of fear, tears from twisted lips as it roars -- a final challenge. It lunges, jumps away from the rock it had been perched on, and swings at me with its bad leg. It’s a feint. The eyes give it away, how they glance to the ground, and the beast shifts its footing. In a maneuver that’s probably more painful than it looks, the broken leg acts as a pivot. It puts its entire weight into one final swipe.

Too bad everything is as clear as the nose on its face.

The same nose I aim for.

I dodge the talon aimed at my neck. Everything stills. For a microsecond, the surroundings fade away. It’s just the two of us. A heartbeat, a breath, a final prayer -- my clenched fist connects with soft cartilage.

It all gives way.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

I don’t notice the exact moment that my knuckles make contact with its skull. I’m too focused, too ‘in the zone’. But pulling away, having to shake the bits of bone and brain matter off of my hand as the tiger falls over dead isn’t exactly my idea of a good time. Traces of yesterday’s dinner rise up in my throat, try to make themselves known, but I swallow them back down and stumble my way over to the water.

I dunk my hands in. They’re both coated in blood and dirt and grime, but it’s the right one that gives me trouble. The one that made the killing blow. It isn’t some ‘there’s blood on my hands that won’t wash away, no matter how hard I try’ moment, but as I start to come down, as the adrenaline fades away like a forgotten memory, reality catches up.

That had been a close call. Too close. On my first day out of the cave, I came closer to death than I had in more than twenty years prior. My hands start to shake as I bring them up to splash water into my face.

I snort, chuckle, try not to laugh because I just might cry. Well, outside of the obvious. But this? This is different. It isn’t a freak accident, a one in one-hundred blue moons type of occurrence. This is the new norm. Out here in the middle of this dying land, I’ll be doing this each and every day. For food, for strength, for a chance to survive.

This is my life now.

“Hey, Veggie. You still alive?”

I blink, bring my hand up to the button on the side of the receiver. “Yeah, I’m still alive,” I say, grunt more than anything. “Why? What’s up?”

Nappa snorts on the other side. “I told you to flare up if you needed help.” I can hear his smug smile, and I briefly wonder if talking down to other people like this is a skill he practices in front of the mirror every morning. “You shined pretty bright there for a second, kid. Seeing as you forgot, it must’ve been a pretty good fight for you to get so serious.”

I hum. “A couple of jagumear,” I say when the word comes to me. Stone-tigers to the Tuffles. “I thought there was only one of them. Second one snuck up and got me pretty good on the back.”

A chuckle. “How big were they?” Maiz asks. There’s an explosion over his line before it dies for a second, but he comes back without too much choppiness. “I haven’t seen too many big ones around lately. Thought we might’ve eaten ‘em all!”

Scrubbing at the crud caked up my arms, I turn and look at the two corpses. “Hard to tell now. The bigger one has to be close to nine feet tall, standing upright. Maybe Eight-and-a-half?”

There’s a whistle over the static. “That’s a good kill,” Nappa says. There’s no biting remark that follows. “Good job, kid. I’ll switch lines in a second and send someone to pick them up.” He barks out a sharp laugh. “They might be the best eating that any of us catch today!”

I sigh, wince as I bring a hand up to my shoulder. “Hey, captain, can you do me a favor?”

“What do ‘ya need, kid?”

“Whoever you send,” I say, picking at the dried blood on my back. “Can you make sure they have some bandages?” A huff leaves my lips. “I’m going to need it.”

A laugh from the line. “Yeah kid, don’t worry. I’ll send Olave.”

Okay, who the hell is that?

----------------------------------------

“Yo, Vegeta!”

I adjust the impromptu cooking spit, flip the chunk of meat I’d carved from the loin, and shuffle the coals around with a stick. “Olave,” I say, offer a wave. She returns it easily enough. “You took your time.”

I mean it as a joke, a way to break the ice.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say.

Her easy going smile falls. She grunts, hops off her hover carrier, and makes her way through some of the wet grass near the water’s edge. With one hand, she pulls her long, wild hair over her shoulder, and with the other she carefully balances the bag she’s carrying atop her head. She stops in front of me and crouches down.

“Vegeta,” she says, deadpan. She goes out of her way to gawk at my shoulder. “You’ve been out of the med-bay for what, three hours?”

Her smile comes back, twice as sickly and just as sharp. “That’s gotta be a new record.”

Oh, great. I can’t even tell if she’s mad. And if she is, it’s probably my fault.

She places one hand on the ground as she opens her bag. “Really,” she says, leafs through its contents, and pulls out a pot. “What the hell are you doing this far out in the middle of nowhere?” She huffs out her nose. “Was hunting that dry? It took me two hours to get here, you know, and that was with a ping from the captain. I knew where you were.”

“So what, you get lost or somethin’?” The words tumble out of my lips before I can think to stop them. But as her lips twitch, and her smile loses some bitterness, I breathe a bit easier.

She snorts, fails to stop her chortles. I scratch my cheek, lean forward, and poke the meat to check the doneness. The entire time, I chew the inside of my lip to stifle my chuckles. “It isn’t that deep.” I twist my back enough for her to see the wounds. “C’mon, if you get this treated quick enough, I’ll share my food with you.”

Olave grins, sly as a fat cat with eyes on the pet canary. “You’ll share your food with me, and you’ll help me load my cart.”

It’s official. I’ve been played. Forget being king, my new title should be ‘Vegeta: certified sucker’.

King of the Saiyans? More like King of the chumps.

“Yeah, sure,” I say, place a knuckle to my nose and shotgun out a clump of crust and blood. “Whatever. Just do what you need to do. I’ll help when we’re done eating.”

She grabs a couple of things from her bag, skips over to the water, and fills the small metal pot she’d brought before placing it over the fire. Coming around behind me, she stops, pauses, takes a minute to follow up once she has her hands on my bare-back. “Damn, Vegeta,” she says, and I wince as her soft touch ghosts over both punctures. “I know you were hunting jagumear, but these are rough.” My breath hitches, and I grind my teeth as she pokes one in a couple different spots. “The one on the right is much worse. From the looks of things, it must’ve been torn out. It’s a lot deeper, too.”

“Yeah,” I force out from between clenched teeth. “Sounds about right.”

The moment the sterilizing agent touches my skin, I hiss. Hell, I can smell the cleaning alcohol burning my skin as much as I can feel and hear it. “Quit being such a baby,” Olave says. She slaps me on the back before she starts scrubbing away at the blood and whatever else is stuck. “You act like this is going to kill you.”

A snort leaves me. “If it doesn’t, you might.” Despite the words, a smile pulls at my lips.

The entire sequence feels strange. I don’t know Olave. Before today, I'd never spoken to her; but at some point, I had. It’s an odd dichotomy. And while I can recall small interactions she’s had with Vegeta, they’re scattered. Few and far between. Until today, she’s never spoken to me.

Despite that, she’s familiar. I feel like I’m talking to a long lost friend, even if I’m not.

Or maybe I am. It’s hard to tell.

“Vegeta, is the water boiling?” I nod. “Go ahead and hand it to me, then.” A hum leaves my lips as I pick it up and place it off to the side for her to use. Olave offers a quiet thanks, and I look down at the irritated skin on my palm.

Back home, grabbing a metal pot out of a fire was a quick way to end up with a nasty burn. Out here it’s an annoyance. A sigh leaves my lips. This is just another stark difference in Saiyan hardiness.

“Okay, the gauze is dry.” Olave places a calloused hand near the more shallow wound. “I’m going to start stuffing these before covering. Whenever you get back to camp tonight, you come straight to the med-bay and get them replaced.”

A grunt is all the confirmation she gets when she sets to pack the punctures. I bring my hands together over my lap, close my eyes, and breathe in. The first one isn’t the worst. I’ve experienced pain before, and while everything is relative, it’s more of a mild discomfort than anything more severe.

The second one sucks. It’s dreadful, and it throbs in a quick, sharp staccato. I roll my jaw, snap it from side to side. In the heat of battle, I hadn’t noticed how much deeper the wound was. Now that I’m thinking back on it, the jagumear that pounced on me was the smaller of the two, by at least a foot and a half. Maybe two. I fold my hands inside of each other and focus on the pop of my knuckles.

Good thing the bigger one didn’t get a hit in.

“Alright, they’re packed.” I turn to Olave. She wipes some sweat away from her brow and gives an easy-going smile. “Now raise your arms over your head. I’m going to wrap your back to keep things clean.”

I do as I’m told. Several minutes pass, and when she’s done, I grab my furs from their spot by the fire. “Okay,” I say, throwing my shirt on. “Let me check the food real quick. If it’s ready, we can have something light to eat.”

Olave cheers. I grab the spit, flip it a couple of times, poke the thicker spots of the striploin. At first I’m worried about the temperature. A snort leaves my lips, and a grin pulls at them.

I’ve eaten raw meat for a week straight. Ain’t no way my stomach can’t handle something a little more rare.

“So, what made you wanna cook it?” I raise an eyebrow at Olave, who rubs the back of her head and offers a sheepish smile. “I mean, you’ve never cooked anything before. Hell, none of us really cook. It’s kind of a Tuffle thing.”

If it wasn’t for the fact that the Tuffles canonically go extinct, I’d lament the side I was born on. Reborn on. Whatever.

“Olave,” I start, sigh, and bring a hand up to rub my eyes. “Have you ever even had cooked meat before?”

Her silence is telling. It gives her away almost as much as the red on her cheeks and the way she huffs. “If it’s so good then how come we don’t cook, huh?”

“Probably because it’s a lot of work that nobody has time for.” I pull the striploin off the fire. It’s still a bit softer in the middle than I’d like, and I’m sure that it’s more pink than I would naturally eat. At least, for a cut I’m unfamiliar with. But after an entire week of cold, uncooked food, it’s hard to care. “You got a knife on you?”

She mutters under her breath and hands me one from her bag. I half expect it to protrude like a plasma cutter, maybe even a light-saber, but I’m pleasantly surprised at the normal steel blade. Or whatever metal alloy makes this thing up. It looks close enough to steel to call it as such, at the very least.

“What are you doing?” Olave asks. She leans over my shoulder, breathes on my neck as I cut the strip loin into small, width-wise pieces. “Why are you going through all this trouble for a bite to eat?”

Because it’s not a cow; I don’t know what I’m cooking -- there’s a million different reasons. “I don’t know how tender it will be,” I settle on, instead. “If it’s tough, cutting it against the grain of the muscle makes it more pleasant to chew.” I pick a piece up and hand it to her. “Just try it, okay.”

Olave eyes the meat like a jeweler inspecting a gem. A fake one, by the grimace. She snorts. “Whatever. If I die, it’s your fault. You know I’m going to haunt you.” She throws the piece of meat into her mouth, chews, and swallows.

Silence. “That good, huh?” I ask and turn back to grin at her. My next remark dies before it lives. Drool runs down her chin, and as I catch the way she stares at her own hand, it’s hard not to laugh. “Hey, calm down. You know you can have another piece, yeah?”

Her attention snaps to me. “Vegeta!” She whines my name like a dog when you take away its favorite toy. “C’mon, lemme have another piece.” Olave leans against my back, tries to reach over me to grab the bulk cut. I slap her hand away.

I grab a piece for myself first, throw it into my mouth. It chews well enough, and even though it’s a muscle on a much more active animal than a domesticated pig or cow, it’s almost tender. The biggest problem is the clear lack of salt. But between this and the raw, hairy ass meat I’ve been eating for the past several days, it isn’t even close.

“Chill out,” I say and toss her another piece over my shoulder. “And come sit down so we can eat this.” We might not be civilized, but I’m not going to feed her, either.

We go back and forth a bit in comfortable silence. Olave is enamored with the food, and I don’t really have a way to start a conversation. It’s a bit awkward, talking to someone who knows you, even if you don’t know them. Uncomfortable becomes an understatement.

Eventually, we finish, and I kick some sand over the fire before helping Olave with the carcasses like I promised. “Hey Vegeta,” she says, catches my attention over the several thousand pounds of tiger on my back. “You’re not headed back to camp for now, are you?”

“Not right now, no.” The words leave my lips, and I drop the carcass onto her hover carrier. It’s a long steel platform with rails to hold onto, a couple of dials, flips and switches that work for controls, and a small engine that looks like a jet turbine on the back. When she’d come in, it had hovered ten or so feet of the air. With all this extra weight, I doubt it’ll get more than a foot or two off the ground.

“I have some more work to do today. When everything is said and done, I’ll head back.”

She sighs, like she expects the answer but still doesn’t want to hear it. “At the very least, come see me when you get back. We need to get those bandages replaced.”

Olave places a hand on my shoulder, leans over, and smirks. “I’ll see you later, Short-stuff.”

I snort. “Quit acting like you’re big shit. You’re only a foot taller than me, and I haven’t even had my growth-spurt yet.”

She laughs. I do, too. And as she hops on her carrier, I return her wave as she disappears into the distance. I stare down at my hands and clench them into loose fists.

It’s time to figure things out.

----------------------------------------

When there are two suns in the sky, there’s a lot of daylight.

It seems obvious in hindsight. Two doesn’t strictly mean double; they’re not far enough apart for that. But as I drag myself back to the cave, when my muscles ache and my limbs shake, I realize I’d been out here longer than I’d intended.

How many hours have passed? One sun has set, while the other still rests high in the sky. Though the heat doesn’t affect me much, the air has cooled, and I wonder for a moment if training now is the right call. I scoff, dismiss the idea as quick as it comes. Conventional wisdom agrees. Physical conditioning is all the easier in the cool chill of the early morning. The darkest hours are just before dawn, and they’re primetime for traditional workouts.

At least, for humans.

As pretty as it sounds, conventional wisdom no longer applies. In this world, it’s different. Harshness creates results. I slow in the sky, drop down to the earth below, and walk to the entrance of the cave. If there’s anything that the Room of Spirit and Time has taught me, it’s that the more severe the training environment, the better. Piccolo, Vegeta, hell even Goku spent huge swaths of time in the worst climates on planet Earth imaginable, all to reap the rewards that I’m looking for. If anything, I shouldn’t avoid the heat at all.

I should live in it. Thrive in it. Eat that shit for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Chew it up, spit it out, and ask for more with an eager smile and an empty bowl.

A heavy breath leaves my lips. I lean forward for a final series of stretches, grunt when my back gives a satisfying pop, and walk into the cave. I’m not sure what to expect. When I had left this morning, nothing had been set. As I take my first few steps, and my eyes adjust, a new world lies before me.

There’s furniture. When I’d awoken on a literal stone slab, I’d been curious if Saiyans had ever heard of beds, let alone interior design. I guess they have, as several couches, tables, and containers litter this new common area. Previously, the only light had come from electric lanterns or standing floor lamps. Cave lights now dangle from the ceiling, blanket the room in a soft glow that feels far less artificial. It’s still a cave, but it no longer looks like just a cave.

It gives off a strange sense of home. Like a friend’s house that you spend too much time at, or maybe a relative’s place that you frequent during the week. It’s cozy, comfortable, welcoming in spite of the stone and rock walls. But there’s one more strong, striking feature that blows everything else out.

A massive cooking pit sits in the center of the room.

It’s surrounded by a short series of stone slabs that act as a perimeter. They raise up a foot or two in the air, and surround a massive bed of glowing coals and burning logs. The larger of the two jagumear, impaled on a series of stakes, roasts atop the fire, fills the air with heat and smoke and an aroma that makes my mouth water.

“Well, if isn’t the man of the hour!”

I blink, turn, and eye the tall man off to the side of the exit. He sits atop a rock with some kind of fruit in hand, brings it up, and takes a bite. “Surprising enough that you found a jagumear that large,” he says between bites of his fruit. Juices run down his chin, and bits of unswallowed pulp spray out his mouth when he speaks. “Even more surprising that you were able to kill it that clean. Good work, Vegeta.”

He offers a short, curt nod as he swallows. I stare for a second. It’s a sign of respect, and after a second passes, I return it easily enough before making my way further into the cave.

There aren’t many Saiyans left. Knowing it as a conceptual detail and seeing it in person are two different experiences. I understand the race is dwindling, in the same way that I understand large cats are dangerous. But staring out at the cave, seeing the less than twenty members that make up our tribe, hits like a metric ton of tiger on my back.

“Vegeta!”

I pivot on my feet. Olave runs up to me, some sort of charred vegetable in hand. She tears a piece off, hands it to me, and I hold it up in front of my face to inspect it. “Go on,” she says. A dazzling smile brightens her face. “Try it! I bet you’ve never had anything like this before.”

It’d be a bit awkward to call her a liar, so I don’t. I take the food, toss it into my mouth, and nod at the familiar flavor. “Thanks, Olave,” I say, even as I glance left and right at the room. “But, well--” I pause, bring a hand up to motion at the pit “--can you do me a favor and tell me what the hell is going on?”

She laughs. High, bright, full of sunshine. It’s a stark contrast from the girl I’d met earlier. She’d been funny, but without the dry, biting sense of humor, she’s a different person. “I told Captain Nappa about what happened -- with you, I mean. I told him about the food, too. He got real quiet for a second. Ran his hand through his mustache and stared at the floor. Then, out of nowhere, he announced a celebration!”

Hold up. We have those? “What are we even celebrating?” My words are quiet, almost a whisper.

Olave laughs again, reaches for and grabs my hand. “You, of course! Your swift recovery, the successful hunt, a bright future -- all of it!” She pulls me to the back, past the friendly faces and cheerful chatting, towards the med-bay.

“We gotta do this right now?” I ask, grin as she stops to open the door. Holy shit, it’s an actual door now. With real hinges and everything. “You’re not even gonna let me eat first.”

“I already let you eat, dummy.” She shakes her head, tears off another strip of the bell pepper, and hands it to me before she pops the rest of it in her mouth. She must be in an incredibly good mood.

It isn’t everyday a Saiyan shares.

“Let me get those bandages replaced, first.” Her smile takes on the same mocking, teasing edge from the watering hole. “Then you can go and eat until you throw up. Again.” She starts to laugh, but she stops when the door swings wide and she sees what’s on the other side.

Or, more accurately, who.

Nappa watches us from his spot on one of the cots. He smirks, takes a long swig from the water-skin, and pushes himself up. “Olave,” he says, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Go take a walk, okay? Vegeta and I have some things to discuss.”

Olave looks like she wants to say something. She doesn’t. With a final salute at the big man, she turns at the door and leaves.

“Vegeta.”

Not Veggie or kid or brat. Vegeta. It might be my name, but he rarely uses it. “Good work with the jagumear,” Nappa says. He crouches down in front of me and places a hand on my shoulder. Indecision wars on his face. In his eyes. He breathes in his nose, out through his mouth, and squeezes my shoulder tight enough for some mild discomfort, but not enough to hurt. In the span of a second, he ages a lifetime; and in that moment, he reaches a decision.

“Sometimes, I think I’ve failed you.”

I blink. What? “When your father died, I was the last of his guard,” Nappa says. He swallows the lump in his throat, but he never once looks away. “In a lot of ways, you became my responsibility; I made a promise to Lord Vegeta. But I was a warrior, not a leader.” He rolls his jaw from side to side. “Certainly not a father. I fell back on what I knew: how to fight, how to hunt, how to survive -- but I ignored everything else. Happiness was a luxury we couldn’t afford.”

His breath smells of fermented drink, and I briefly wonder what he has in the skin he pulls from. “But today,” he says, “when I got back, and I listened to Olave go on and on about what you’d done, it made me realize something. Having something to live for matters just as much as living.” His smirk returns, though it looks fragile. Forced. “Somehow, you made me remember that.”

Nappa pauses. For a second, I think he’s done, and the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding comes out in a sharp exhale. But he doesn’t stop there.

“I’m proud of you, Vegeta.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Nappa stands up, walks away. As he shuts the door behind him, I reach up and wipe at the wetness on my cheek.

What the hell was that?