"He did it… He did it!!!"

Idiots.  Of course he did it.  He's a lot like his father in some ways: soft, too forgiving – but when the time comes, the power to win is there at their fingertips.  I long to be able to hate them for that, but the simple truth is that I hate myself.  I have failed where they succeeded.

Failed.

For the vast majority of my life 'failure' has been something that happened to other people.  Not me, not the proud Prince of the Saiyajin, who had the potential to be the best warrior in the universe.  Not me, not then.  Yet in the past few years I have had the term rubbed in my face more times than I would really care to admit to anyone.  It shouldn't have happened, I should have been the best – but it did, and I'm not.  Instead I'm second – no, third - to a brain-damaged half-wit and his half-breed son.  Doesn't that say something about the Saiyajin… and about my life.

My life - I've spent almost all of my waking hours fighting, training, yet it seems like all my goals are nothing more than intangible illusions, mirages that vanish every time I think I'm almost there…

"Vejita, do you need any help?"

"No!" I growl at the imposing Namek.  "I don't need your help!"

He smirks as though he knows something I don't, and follows the others back to the palace.  I stare after them for a few moments.  They have taken the boy's body with them, so I presume the sentimental fools will resurrect him.  'Sentimental fools', I call them – but they're not the ones who almost lost this fight by attacking blindly, uselessly.  I laugh shortly.  Perhaps I'm the brain-damaged one, or maybe the insanity of these humans is contagious and I've simply stayed on this planet too long…

The past four years have been the longest I have ever stayed in a single place since I first left Vejiitasei as a child.  I've been moving ever since, travelling from planet to planet – obeying Freeza's orders.  I grit my teeth at the memory of my failed attempts to defeat the creature who had manipulated my destiny, playing me out for all I was worth.  He even killed me.

I wish they hadn't brought me back to life.  I haven't even managed to have a decent fight with Kakarott - and now the idiot is dead.  He sacrificed himself in a partially successful attempt to save the world.  I'd kill him for daring to die by someone else's hand, only he's already dead.  How's that for ironic?

I clench my fists in anger, and slowly fly away from the battlefield.  I don't pay much attention to the direction I head in because it doesn't really matter one way or another.  There is nothing left for me now on this damned ball of rock that has caused me so much trouble.  The strangest part is, it's that very trouble that I find myself missing, already.  Without Kakarott there is no-one left for me to fight.  The thought of fighting Kakarott's human friends is simply ridiculous, and I have no desire to battle Gohan.  Despite his strength and ability, the child is simply not a warrior at heart.  I doubt he'd kill me, even though I know he can, and I can do without the humiliation of being permitted to live again.  I suppose I could always chase down Piccolo, but I like to believe that I'm not quite that desperate yet - even though I'm heading that way pretty fast.

The sky above me darkens, and I stop in mid-air, automatically turning my head to gaze in the direction of Shenlon's ki.  A few moments later I am able to sense Trunks' ki, close to that of the dragon.  I relax a little and wait until the sky clears, but Kakarotto does not return.

"I will never fight again…"

The words sound strange in my ears, and it is a moment before I realize that they were my own.  I want to deny them, but in my heart I know it is too late.  Defeating Kakarotto had become my only goal in life, the very reason for which I trained so hard.  I had wanted to defeat the jinzouningen and Cell, yes, but only because he was aiming to accomplish that very task.  I had tried to beat him to it, and for a few minutes I had achieved that - but what are a few minutes compared to a lifetime?  I will never be a better warrior than him now.  I will never have another chance.

I continue on my journey through Chikyuu's atmosphere until I have used up the very last dregs of my energy.  The sky is dark once more, but this time naturally so.  Lights are flickering on in the city around me, and I find myself staring into one of the brightly lit rooms of Capsule Corporation.

Bulma is sitting at the table with her back to the window, the baby peering over her shoulder at me.  Trunks is standing next to her, leaning down to kiss her cheek before leaving the room.  He leaves most of his hair behind him, though.  I make a mental note never to let that woman near my head with a pair of scissors.

I watch her as she cradles the baby in her arms, soothing him to sleep.  It takes quite a while, but I don't care.  It's not like I have anything better to do, now.  She stands carefully as soon as he is asleep, and carries him out of the room, presumably to wherever the brat sleeps.  I open the window after she leaves, and settle myself in the chair she has just vacated to think.

Now I just need something to think about.

I consider finding an empty bed, but although I'm tired I don't feel like sleeping.  I stretch my hands out across the table, my fingers brushing the locks of hair that had been clipped from Trunks' head.  Soft and fine, just like his mother's.  Nothing like mine.

It's strange to think of him as my son.  I had fully expected to live out my life without producing any children; at least, not in this manner.  On Vejiitasei more than four-fifths of the population came from tanks, their genetic code cobbled together from samples in the gene archive.  I had been produced that way, like the dozen or so other embryos that could have held my position had they been any stronger, or I any weaker.  It was much more practical for a warrior race - using this selection method each generation was that much stronger than the previous one, and let our female warriors remain in battle as befit them.

It has been a long time since I last faced a formidable female foe.  The tin can doesn't count.  Nor does Bulma.  She screams too much.  The brat gets that from her, too.  Thankfully it looks like he'll grow out of it.  Bulma won't, but then I'm not sure I'd want her to.  The thought makes me want to smile.

"So, you're back," she states from the doorway, as though my thoughts had summoned her.

"Obviously."

"Will you be staying?"

I shrug.

She grabs a couple of cups of coffee from one of the robotic servants and sits down across the table from me, pushing one of the cups over to my side.  I accept it wordlessly.

"You know, you could at least take a shower," she comments.  "Preferably before you leave a trail of sweat and dust all around the house."

I sip at my coffee.  I would have preferred tea.

"Trunks told me how Goku died."

"He was an idiot."

"He saved the world."

"If he was so damn great, then why couldn't he have saved the world and still lived to fight me?" I snap at her, losing what little patience I had.

She doesn't speak, but simply arches one eyebrow at me.  I glance away, not willing to look into her deep blue eyes at this moment.  We sit in silence for several minutes.

At last, she reaches over and picks up a lock of Trunks' hair, wrapping it around her fingers.

"He's a nice boy."

I snort.  She didn't spend two years with him in the Room of Spirit and Time.  "He's a good warrior."

She smiles a little, then her expression alters.  "He didn't have his father around," is all she says, but in my mind I can hear her asking the question: would I be around for the brat?

On Vejiitasei I had never really had a 'family', not as these people use the term; few Saiyajin did, and those few were considered aberrations.  'Family' basically meant 'liability', and it was every Saiyajin for himself when times became rough.  The strong survived, the weak perished.  That was how it was back there and then.

Chikyuu confuses the hell out of me at times.  Like Mirai no Trunks' world, where the warriors died, and it was a weak, non-combatant who provided the means to a solution; but then, Bulma wasn't really weak.  Not then, not now.

She drinks her coffee quite calmly, her composure assuring me that she will raise the brat with or without me.  I finish my own drink, and move away from the table.  I turn back just in time to catch her with her eyes downcast, a disappointed frown on her face.

"Our son will," I inform her.  She blinks her bright blue eyes at me, a small smile dancing over her lips as she shrugs nonchalantly.  "That is," I amend, "as long as I get his mother."  I smirk while her stunned expression transforms to a half-scowl half-smile, then continue through the doorway in search of a shower.

The one in Bulma's room seems to be quite adequate, to me.