I wake up in the dark.
There isn’t any light from my window, no soft red glow from the alarm clock I should’ve thrown away years ago. I can’t see a thing. And as I push myself up onto my elbows, a sharp, stabbing pain in my stomach puts me back onto the ground in half a second.
Everything hurts.
“Fuck,” I gasp out between chapped lips, and I immediately wish I hadn’t. My lunch -- breakfast? -- bubbles up in my throat. It’s hard to remember what I even ate, but it somehow tastes worse when I force it back down.
Can someone get me the number of the truck that hit me? No, that’s not right. It takes a bit to remember, but the realization dawns with an almost casual detachment as I stare up at the ceiling and try to breathe. It wasn’t a truck that hit me, or a car, or any other automobile.
It’d been a train.
I remember driving home from work. The tracks. I’d stopped on the tracks in five o’clock traffic. The train didn’t slow down, my driver side-door was stuck, and I’d only made it halfway out the window -- swallowing my lunch for a third time is just as unpleasant. I inhale through my nose, exhale through my mouth. One thought continues to eat at me.
If I’m not dead, then where am I?
“Heh, you still alive in there, brat?”
My head turns, even as the rest of my body screams in protest. In the dim glow of a connected room, the shadow of a large man stares back at me. All I can see are the whites of his eyes and his sharp smile. He squats to the ground, and with a loud click, small lights that pepper the floor bathe the room in a soft glow. It doesn’t hurt, but it takes my eyes a second to adjust. When they do, I realize I’m in a cave.
How’d I miss that? Now that my eyes take everything in, the musty, wet smell becomes all the stronger. I can see water drip from the stalactites above into small puddles that litter the floor. And the hard stone I’d been laying on is literally hard stone… that I’d been laying on.
But what catches my attention the most isn’t the cave. It isn’t the water, the bad lights, or traces of laughter I catch from the other room now that I’m listening for it. No, the only thing I’m focused on is the big asshole in front of me: six and a half foot tall, shredded as hell (in nothing more than a speedo, no less), and a receding hairline that screams ‘I should go bald; I’m just delaying the inevitable’.
But with arms like that, someone else can tell him.
“Oi, I asked you a question,” the man says, a cocksure grin on his face. How can someone with a mustache that bad be so smug? “Don’t tell me the Tuffle borg that got you in the gut somehow got you in the head, too.”
“Tuffle?” My words are barely a whisper, but it doesn’t stop the dam from breaking.
Everything rushes back. We’d been in the woods, hunting. Beasts, Tuffles, anything we could eat -- it didn’t matter. We stumbled upon a party of them. Maybe they’d been hunting, too, maybe they’d been traveling to another one of the cities. Again, it didn’t matter. With only two borgs it should’ve been an easy fight, an easier victory, and the easiest meal.
This time when the food comes up, it doesn’t stop. I roll onto my side, and the contents of my stomach plaster the ground in chunks of yellow and brown.
“Ah hell, kid,” the man says. His voice, while not soft, lacks the snark it’d had only a moment ago. “They musta got you good if you’re lettin’ your lunch up. I’ve only ever seen three Saiyans blow chunks in my entire life.” He barks out a short laugh. “I remember when Shorty ate that rotten wolvaby corpse on a dare. He looked about how you look right now!”
As big as he is, the man strides across the room in a second. Careful not to step into the stomach crud on the ground, he takes a knee and presses a hand to my torso. He hums. “It seems like everything is close to where it should be,” he says, moving his hand to another spot. Fresh pain blossoms all over again. “Your ribs are still screwed up, but I’m sure after another couple of days you’ll be back to fighting form.”
A couple of days? I frown, look down at his hand, and realize that it covers up half of my body. Rather he’s bigger than I thought, or I’m tiny, and it’s easy enough to gauge his height from my spot on the ground. I push myself into a sitting position, even with the big guys protests.
The world spins. It takes a couple of seconds for it to stop. When it does, and I’m able to stare at my hands -- my small, tiny hands -- all I can do is blink. What the hell. Whatever weird dream I’m living in, I want out. Now.
“Yeah, your arms are both still there. What, you worried you lost one?” My attention shifts back to the big guy. He’s all smiles in the worst way possible, but he purses his lips for a second and rolls his fingers across the raised stone that is my bed.
His fingers leave dents.
“Wonder if you got a zenkai from that fight,” he says as he brings his hand up, rubbing a thumb against his mustache. Wait, what? A zenkai? He’d said Saiyan, earlier. There’s a puzzle here, and the picture looks worse and worse. “Heh, a little power-up never hurt nobody.” He turns back toward the cavern he’d come from earlier. “Zorn, get in here!” He stops, glances down at me for a second, and pushes himself up off of his knee. “And bring some food! Kid threw up all over the floor.”
Everything starts to snap into place when the big guy’s tail unfurls from around his wait. It lazily waves back and forth, and it all starts to make sense.
Even if it actually doesn’t.
There’s a door that separates the two caverns. Or a couple pieces of wood that are fastened together well enough. It’s hard to tell from here, but another man moves it aside before he enters. He’s tall, not nearly as tall as Mr. Clean’s roided double, and instead of just wearing a speedo with some boots, he’s clothed in furs. The most striking thing about him -- outside of his long, dark hair, and the tail around his waist -- is the sleek steel and green stained-glass scouter affixed to his right eye. He carries a large, partially skinned animal leg in one hand, and tosses it at the big guy.
“Need anything else, Captain?” Zorn asks, voice cut from coarse stone. The big man shakes his head, a quick dismissal, and Zorn turns his attention to me. “You’re up pretty quick,” he says. Past his stiff demeanor, there’s a gleam in his eyes. A silent challenge. “Let me know when you’re ready for a fight.”
Power surges off of Zorn in waves. Like strong winds before a storm, it whips and cuts through the air. But there’s more. I can feel it in the back of my head like a sixth sense.
This is just his natural presence.
He hasn’t charged up, hasn’t unleashed everything he has. What I’m feeling right now? That’s just his default. The thought should probably scare me, make me feel all sorts of ways from fear to hate. It doesn’t. Even as my hands shake, as a cold sweat breaks out on my brow, a smile makes its way onto my face. I want this challenge, and I try to rise from my seat until nausea throws my ass back down.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Oi, cut that out,” the big man says, though he doesn’t make a show of it. He’s still grinning, and he tosses the animal leg next to the bed. “Kid’s still all sorts of messed up. And unless you want me to tell everyone you’re pickin’ fights with brats in the med-bay when we meet back up, you’ll calm down, Zorn.” Zorn grimaces, but doesn’t respond. The big guy turns his attention back to me. “Make sure you eat something, or you’re gonna take too long to heal.”
Like an entire uncooked moose leg, I guess.
“Anyway, if you’re done showboating, why don’t you check him with your scouter?” The big guy’s entire body tenses up a bit, and he goes from casual body-builder to full on ‘I kill my dinner with my hands’ predator. “I don’t care if you’re tryna look tough -- that shit doesn’t matter.”
Zorn grunts and brings a hand up to the scouter. With a press of the button on the side, it comes to life and goes through a series of clicks and beeps.
Holy shit, it sounds just like the show.
It takes a second for the thing to settle, but when it sounds off like an alarm, Zorn scoffs. “I think there’s something wrong with my scouter, Captain Nappa,” he says, and wait... What? Nappa? “There’s no way this reading is right.”
Zorn unclips the thing from his face and passes it over to Nappa -- and wait, that actually is Nappa! His facial hair looks a bit more pronounced, and he has actual hair, but it’s the same sociopath that tore earth’s fighters apart before getting dunked on by the main man Son Goku.
Nappa takes the scouter and does the exact same thing. It beeps several times, and when it stops, his focus shifts from the number on the HUD to me. His grin stretches. “Seems like you have gotten a bit stronger,” he says, handing the scouter back to Zorn. “Haven’t even hit your growth-spurt yet and your power level is already over one-thousand.”
“When you’re back in fighting shape, call,” Nappa says, turns back to the entrance, and waves as he walks away. “Outside of that, I’ll have someone come and check up on you once a day or so just to make sure you’ve got enough to eat.”
He glances back one final time before he makes his way through the door. “Get some rest, Vegeta.”
Oh, hell no. As soon as the door shuts, I adjust myself and look into the puddle below me. Even when my body creaks and groans, as the water drops into itself and the ripples ruin the image, I stare long and hard at my own reflection.
I’m Vegeta.
Though, not Prince Vegeta. We look similar enough that I miss it at first. But as the puddle stills long enough for me to take everything in, I notice my longer sideburns, and my hair that’s closer to burnt brown than black.
It’s the face of his father. Vegeta senior. A person whose history I know next to nothing about. A man who has more on screen presence in specials and straight-to-TV movies that I’ve never seen than he has in the entirety of the original show’s runtime. Flopping back down onto my rocky bed, I stare up at the ceiling and listen to the echoes from the next room over.
I’m King Vegeta, but I’m not even a king.
How does one become a king? The thought is idle, but as my eyes droop shut, it keeps my brain running. The answer is obvious.
By leading, of course. Conquering. Taking things that aren’t yours, or defending things that are. Being a symbol, an icon, someone that people look to in their time of need and stand by in the call to action.
But in the world of the Saiyans? It means having the strength to do all of that and more.
As sleep overtakes me, I have one thing on my mind.
I’m not King Vegeta. I’m a fraud, and I’m doomed.
The next time I come to, I’m alone. Even though there’s no one else in the room, the lights still hum in the way that fluorescents back home did, and a soft glow covers the cave floor.
I close my eyes and listen. Silence. Unlike the day before, there’s no revelry in the room next door, and the only other sounds I pick up are the occasional drops of water and the way the air whistles through the cavern ceiling. I’m not certain what that means. At least, not yet. With a grunt and a little effort, I’m able to shift onto my uninjured side and stare at the door across the room.
Unfortunately, I can’t stare through walls. But there isn’t any light, and with a lack of noise, it’s a pretty comfortable bet that I’m alone.
A sigh leaves my lips. Forcing myself up -- thankful that I don’t vomit on the floor, again -- I take stock of some of the things nearby. There’s food. Or, well, there’s whatever kinda leg that Zorn left that’s supposed to be food, a large basin filled with fresh, clean water, and a big pot in the corner.
That’s a chamber pot. Like, to shit in.
What the fuck has my life become?
I grunt, reach out towards the leg and grab it. Despite being the same size as my body, it doesn’t weigh more than a feather, and I heft it over before dropping it on my lap. No, that’s not quite right. When I push the basin over just a touch, it dawns on me that it isn’t that the leg is lighter.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I’m stronger.
It makes sense. Actually, it doesn’t. Nothing makes sense anymore, and while the numbers game of being a Saiyin -- somehow -- makes me more physically able, I’m not going to pretend like there’s clarity here. The world’s gone mad, and I’m not defending it.
“Who the hell took a bite out of my meat?”
The words leave my lips before I can think it through, and I wince. The pain never comes. I stretch, shift from side to side, and while my breaths come out in rough, tight gasps when I move too much, the general feel of everything seems to be fine despite the lingering pain. Overnight (or however long its been, I’m not sure) my broken bones and shattered ribs have somehow stitched themselves back together, and I’ve gone from worrying about punctured organs to worrying about the vittles in front of me.
Blessed be the magic of sleep, and all that.
As cool as that is, I’m still missing an alligator’s bite out of my anime food stick. Thing honestly looks like it rolled straight out of One Piece -- or, more accurately, one bite. Whoever the hell chomped on this thing has a mouth like a prehistoric predator.
I roll it over in my hands, try not to wince at the feeling of the patches of fur no one bothered to clean off. Carving is a skill, and whoever skinned this should be fired. Out of a cannon. Into the sun. I exhale through my nose, sharp and heavy.
This feels like a bad joke. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m sure Zorn just tore this off of something and brought it straight to me without any proper cleaning. My hand comes up to pinch the bridge of my nose, and I clench my teeth as my stomach rumbles. I’m hungry, but how the hell am I supposed to eat this?
Well, Saiyans do have strong stomachs.
It’s an errant thought, and equal parts unwanted and welcome. I look up and stare at the ceiling as I huff. Fuck. Am I really about to eat this raw ass chunk of meat? My mouth waters and my nose twitches and my jaw shifts from side to side.
Yeah, I am.
There’s a saying my dad used to throw around when I was growing up. ‘Son,’ he’d say and grin before clapping me on the back. ‘You hungry? I am. Hell, I’m so hungry I could eat the crotch out of a dead horse.’ I’d always laugh. Without fail, that line would make me smile.
Shit. I ain’t laughing now. Something like that is a lot less funny when you’re actually living it.
I sniff it first. Okay, it smells fine. Normal, even. I’m not sure if it’s purely my imagination or if something else is going on, but I detect an almost metallic scent. Iron? I hum. Maybe, but I don’t pick up any traces of spoilage or rot. Conceptually, this is something I know that people do, but it isn’t something that I’ve ever done before. That makes it weird.
Screw it. I’m all in. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I offer a quick prayer to whoever listens. Please, please don’t let this give me a super tapeworm. Or space brain worms.
I take as large a bite as I dare, gag a little as the muscle fibers break apart between my teeth. Oh boy, that’s gross. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ve chewed it enough when I try to force it down, and it slides down my throat in a solid, cold chunk. It’s not that bad, I want to say, but it’s a bit moot when the only person who’s listening is me.
And I already know I’m a filthy liar.
It’s hard to get through more than a couple of bites before I place the leg back off to the side and lift the wide-brim basin to my lips. My hands shake a bit, less from strain and more from the knowledge of ‘ah, yes, I just ate roughly a pound of uncooked, unprepared meat straight off the bone’. But I calm my thrumming heart with a smooth breath, enjoy the water as it rinses everything down and clears whatever remains.
I place the bowl in my lap and gaze, once more, at my reflection. It’s odd, having someone stare back at you that you vaguely recognize. That’s not me, I want to say, but it is. Yet instead of short cropped hair, a sharp widow’s peak frames my face; where once my eyes had been green with specks of brown, now they’re the color of lump coal. My hair is wrong, my eyes aren’t quite right -- my entire face pisses me off. It’s set in a permanent scowl, and even shifting my brow and trying to smile doesn’t detract from my new, dour countenance.
There’s also the height issue.
Honestly, I’d never been tall before. At five-foot-ten, I’d always felt like the epitome of the five-eleven versus six-foot memes. But now? I doubt I’m even able to clear four feet without my hair included.
At least I’m supposed to get taller.
If I can live that long.
I throw my head back against the stone and groan, stare at the ceiling that disappears into the darkness. Therein lies the problem. From what I can remember from my new set of memories, which isn’t much, I’m supposed to be Vegeta: hunter and warrior of Nappa’s tribe. The king, it seems, has a rather mundane origin. Despite that, if I can’t fight and can’t kill, what good am I to anyone?
As futuristic as the Saiyans are in terms of tech -- and honestly, that’s attributed to their Tuffle neighbors -- they’re still a nomadic and tribal society. If they’re not fighting with the Tuffles, they’re fighting amongst themselves, and making it easier for the Tuffles to come after their small groups instead of having to worry about huge, powerful clans.
That’s why I’m here, I realize. The noise in the room next door had to have been set up and prep for everyone else to follow. This is a new location.
You gotta be kidding me. I blink a couple of times, bring my hand up to drag down my face. This right here is why there are so few Saiyans. Since the fall of Planet Sadala over a hundred years ago, anyone that was able to make it off-world and settle down has done nothing but bicker and fight. Or, in cases like Nappa, focus on trying to build something from the ashes that remain. Too bad that doesn’t seem like a priority for most. Only the most staunch of traditionalists seem to give a rat’s ass about what happens to the rest of the Saiyans, and with the way things have been going on planet Plant, most of those were killed off years ago.
“Holy shit,” I say, whispering the words under my breath. Nappa is the old-guard. He’s gotta be at least one-hundred and fifty years old at this point.
A frown pulls at my lips. My memories -- Vegeta’s memories -- are as full of holes as swiss cheese. They taper off there. And I can’t tell if it’s an issue with his listening abilities, or if it’s a problem with me. With Us. Or… whatever we make, whatever we are.
I’m having a midlife crisis and I’m not even ten.
I push myself off the rocky bed and stretch. A sharp exhale leaves my lungs when my back cracks like poorly tempered glass. Okay, it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. “Focus on what’s in front of you,” I say to myself, roll my shoulders, and pop my neck. “There are always problems you can’t fix, so let’s start with what you can.”
Like being able to fight.
Not trying to toot my own horn, but I’d been in a couple of fights before. Ten or so years ago. In grade-school.
But that was then; this is now. And there’s a universal difference here, one that fills my blood and veins and muscles that embody this new change. I’m strong now. Not just in my physical strength, I think as I sit down, cross my legs, and close my eyes.
I have new toys now, too.
Trying to find my ki is a unique experience.
It’s like having an extra muscle: one you can’t see, but one you can certainly feel. It’s there in the back of my mind, something I can reach toward and pull on. Only, there’s one problem.
I don’t know how to pull it.
Feeling ki and using ki are completely different concepts. I chew on my bottom lips as my eyes blink open, and I adjust into a different position. Inhaling through my nose, exhaling through my mouth, I try to be patient.
A cold chill sweeps through the cavern. I close my eyes again, bring my hands together while my arms rest on my legs. In a roundabout way, this reminds me of my teaching days, like watching young people trying to fret an instrument for the first time. Using a new muscle group is never easy, and I’ve gone through my fair share of students that struggled.
Now I’m on the other side. I don’t like it here.
There’s a snap. It’s sudden, so sudden I almost miss it. Friction builds, at the nape of my neck and the base of my spine, and wind surges away from me. A smile cuts across my face. I don’t know what I did, but it worked. Warmth floods my entire body, and I feel as if I could lift the entire world atop my shoulders.
The feeling disappears just as quick. Pain surges. Ice replaces the flame. I’m cold, freezing, and I struggle to stand on shaky legs before stumbling to the rock that is my bed.
“It’s so over.” The words leave my lips as I start to fall. And before my back hits the ground, my vision fades.
I decide to keep things low-key.
I slip in and out of sleep over the next several days. Trapped in this cave, it’s hard to tell how much time has passed. A day? A week? Honestly, maybe longer. Without the sun, the moon, or the stars, it’s hard to orient myself, to tell what my internal clock matches up against. There’s no alarm on my nightstand. Hell, there’s no nightstand! And with no natural light, it’s hard to tell how long each dreamless rest lasts.
It’s a waiting game. I'd like a moment to train, some time to figure things out, but I’m forced to listen to what my body needs to heal from the injury in my side. In a way, it’s almost a routine.
First, I lie down. When I wake up, I drink some of the water at my bedside. Maybe I’ll have a bite to eat; twice now someone has taken the bone that I’ve painstakingly cleaned and replaced it with something fresh. Sometimes I’ll use the chamberpot in the corner, sometimes I’ll do some light stretching. But then I’ll lay back down, close my eyes, and repeat the process.
After the fourth time falling asleep, Nappa returns.
“Hey brat, c’mon!” He doesn’t knock so much as he beats the door down. Literally. He stomps his way into the cave, takes one look at me, and motions with his hand. “You just gonna keep sleeping? Get your ass up; there’s work to be done!”
He turns away and storms out of the room. “We’ve got a hunt that’s about to start, so hurry up!”
There’s some furs next to my bed. At some point, someone seems to have brought and left them here. I’m not sure what happened to whatever I was wearing when I took the hit from the borg, but it doesn’t really matter. Throwing them on over my underwear, I make my way out of the room, and come face to face with our hunting party.
Nappa -- Captain Nappa: his rank might not matter to him, but it is very important to some -- stands at the front. He’s the only one with battle armor on, and he’s flanked by Zorn and another man who I don’t recognize at first. The man is a bit shorter than Zorn, but not by much, and his tighter, cropped hair doesn't do him any favors for his height.
His name is Maiz.
I blink. Apparently, there’s more help from Vegeta’s memories than I expected. I don’t recall much about the man, but I know that he’s a decent guy. Well, at least for a Saiyan.
Flashes of memories come to me, but they’re muddled and layered and confused. It’s hard to recall much about the man. He’s a decent guy. Well, at least for a Saiyan. Maiz is more likely to pick a fight over food than some perceived insult. He offers a grin and a lazy salute.
“Kid, quit dawdling and come on!” Nappa snaps two fingers in front of my face. “You’re staring off into space again. I need you to get yourself together!”
The big guy adjusts the armor he wears, tugs at the collar. Honestly, he looks just like he did when he landed on earth. Well, everything looks the same minus the hair. It’s still weird to look at. The only other differences are the older, squared pauldrons on his shoulders instead of the just-as-silly rounded ones from the start of the series. Not sure why it took Prince Vegeta so long to go shoulderless -- the style is infinitely better -- but I’m glad he never looked back.
“Alright everyone,” the captain says. He starts marching towards the entrance of the cave and doesn’t spare anyone a glance back. We’re lackeys, and that means we’re just meant to follow. “We need to get some food, and we need to let little Veggie get his bearings. Don’t travel too close to Jambul city, but sticking to the forests isn’t a bad idea, either.” Maiz laughs, assumedly at my nickname. Zorn just grunts.
Following Nappa out of the cave, we walk past a surprising number of people. Most of them seem to be setting up shop, and a smug smile pulls at my lips. My guess seems more and more on the nose. Some of them are skinning and butchering animals, some are setting up furniture, and a handful are sifting through piles and piles of what looks to be scavenged or salvaged metals -- maybe electronics and equipment. But there’s one constant.
They’re all working. There are no idle hands. No one sits off to the side or takes a break. Everyone comes together, works in the same way that a well oiled machine would.
It’s impressive. There aren’t many times I’ve seen a group come together so seamlessly, but I turn away and ignore it. There are more important things to worry about. And as the cave entrance draws nearer, a breath catches in my throat. For the first time in days, I can see natural light just beyond, and I clench my hands into tight fists in anticipation.
We step out of the cave. The sky greets us.
I might not be in Kansas anymore, but if someone told me this was Arizona, I might believe them. It would take a lot of convincing, maybe a kegger or two, but I could buy that narrative. It’s dry. Even the air is dry. Flat, red-brown badlands stretch out as far as the eye can see, dust billows in the wind, and the only variance comes from the high, steep plateaus that frame the horizon in the distance.
This is planet Vegeta? This sucks! It’s almost as shitty as Tatooine!
“Alright everyone, listen up.” I give my attention back to Nappa. He turns to us with his gorilla arms crossed over his chest. “Tuffles aren’t the priority today, food is. As nice as some newer equipment would be, we’ve only got a couple days left in our supply.”
A sharp grin cuts across his face. “That being said, if you find a couple of mooks walkin’ about, and they happen to run into a big, scary Saiyan, I won’t get on your case about it.”
White-blue energy erupts from the captain in jagged flames. “Stay low to the ground, and flare your ki if you need help.” He reaches up under his arm bracers, removes an ear piece, and throws it to me. “I don’t have a spare scouter for you, kid. But this thing is linked up to our channel and frequency. Just press the button on the side and shout.”
He floats off the ground a couple of inches. It’s amazing to watch. “We’ll lend you a hand if you need it,” he says, and shoots off into the sky like a rocket.
Maiz and Zorn are gone just as quick. Maiz offers a lopsided smile and a lazy wave before he takes off. Zorn grunts. They disappear into the distance as I stand there, completely lost.
Okay, so how the hell do I do that? A gust of wind starts up, ruffles my hair, and kicks up dirt that blows away. I wait for an answer: from Nappa, from Zorn, from Vegeta or my own memories -- I don’t know who, and I don’t really care.
It never comes.
I look down at my too small hands before I close my eyes and concentrate. The muscle is there, same as always, and I try to remember the steps I took to stretch it before. Nothing happens. This time, there’s no magic snap that lets me feel my own power, no pressure that lets loose to tear at the air around me.
It’s just me. I sigh, squat down, and close my eyes.
This might take a while.