I did not ask for my title.....but there is no Vegeta apart from it. It is who I am. All I am.

Vegeta, Prince of Saiyans.

I am a prince of what once was and will never be again, a dynasty of fists and fangs and blood and sweat…. And….I am a prince unrecognized as such by the only other surviving members of my race. Two reluctant subjects.

My bark of bitter laughter startles the boy. Sparkling like multifaceted black diamonds, his too-human eyes meet mine. They are like holes in a dam, leaking every drop of precious emotion, eroding the tenuous hold I maintain on my self-control.

He knows.

It is there in those eyes, skewering me with a look, undisguised and intense.

Why does that surprise me? This hybrid brat, son of a brain-damaged third-class warrior, is young and naive, but he is no fool.

The fetid scent of sex is heavy in the air, its stream of sticky evidence drying rapidly on the back of my thigh. It crusts on my skin like the scab of a wound, and I can longer resist the temptation to scratch at the itch which crawls over my flesh like an army of marauding insects.

He knows.

And I realize that there is no longer any reason for me to suffer the foul remnants of the alien’s climax, hiding it beneath the thin cover of lust-ravaged clothing. With an angry snarl I rip the tattered pants from my body, tightly balling the stretchy blue material in my hands, quaking with the force of my pent-up rage. I use these rags to scrub harshly against my skin, rubbing so furiously my thigh is left reddened and raw. I scour and scour; the abrasive pain is almost a welcome pleasure as I lose myself in the sting of the circular motion. Round and round, I watch my hand blur as I slough off the cells of the tainted flesh. I will rid myself of that vile touch.

But no matter how hard I try, it remains fixed in my nostrils. Breath that is too sweet in aroma but not sentiment, fragrant flowers rotting on the vine, groans hotly on the back of my neck. It whispers; it pants.

It remains ingrained in my pores. Spectral fingers grope with unconcealed avarice, stroking my manhood in a mocking imitation of a lover’s caress. They touch; they tease.

With a muffled curse at all the deaf gods, I fling the soiled rags high above my head. Gathering my power I coalesce it into a concentrated beam, retribution in electric blue. Unleashing decades-old anger, I burn the rags to ash with a pop and a sizzle.

Suddenly, I feel weak, bereft of physical strength. I stumble to my knees, the aftershocks of my tremendous release sending a wave of seismic shivers to ripple down my spine. The earth is warm…then hot on my skin, baked by the unrelenting rays of the large red sun which is near blinding as it bares itself in all its dazzling brilliance. I feel heat seep into my entire body, but I am unsure if it is the external touch of solar radiance that blisters me or the internal touch of bitter shame.

The boy moves toward me, his steps small and uncertain as he blocks the sun from my face. Looking up, I see something in his eyes, his face, his aura. An emotion buffets him like a summer squall, gray clouds chasing across a blackened sky, a crackle of atmospheric electricity.

Pity? Does he pity me?

Fury seizes me, magma racing through my veins. Pity! I will not be pitied. I will see him dead for this final betrayal. How dare he pity me after what I have done?

Another step closer to me and I can reach up and snap his neck cleanly…or not. I can envision my darker hands against his alabaster throat, squeezing life from a boy I wanted….no…needed to save.

But I hesitate, waver. Examining what I see in his midnight eyes, so like my own and yet so different, I make a discovery. It is not pity, but sympathy. Strange that I should even know the difference as it is so slight, and I do not remember having seen either before. Twin emotions that are almost identical, but where the one brings with it a sense of superiority, the other conveys a reflection of equality, a kinship.

"Ve…Vegeta."

He speaks, his voice high-pitched by both his youth and discomfort.

"I…I want to thank you."

He knows………. everything. Understands.

So he wants to thank me? Gruffly, I demand that he never discuss this with anyone. It is all I want…or need.

A shadow passes over his face, fogging his bright eyes. Somehow, I realize he is hurt by my rough demand.

Slowly, he lowers himself to his knees before me, a shiver passing over him as he whispers softly, desperately. "I want to thank you, my prince."

Our eyes lock. My mind whirls with the implications. Is this truth? Do those two words have meaning?

For a few eternal moments we each stare into the mystery of the other, exploring depths lying exposed for what may be the first time. Two members of a warrior race who have brought their blood-borne violence to a once peaceful world.

Then the boy leans forward, engulfing me in his small arms. I stifle a gasp…shock at this token of….what?

Gratitude?

I have never been touched in this manner, and I almost shove him away. But…..vague memories of this curious warmth…...a voice, rich and soothing…..muscular arms embracing with gentle strength….a scent of the Dornar woods.

Unwillingly, my own arms encircle the brat in return, drawing us closer together. I am buried in both the past and present, cocooning myself in the gossamer strands of shifting time.

I allow this…this gesture….this comfort. Not because I need it, but because he does.