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By the time he was eight, the Crown Prince possessed the power to kill an adult warrior, as several of his unfortunate trainers discovered first hand. There was no one left on the planet of Vejiitasei in his fighting class. The King, who had been the finest fighter of his generation, could not have given the boy a close bout even had he been so inclined. Which he was not. One day the boy would kill his father, as was his right, as was his duty, to seize the throne and become King himself. The boy was not ready for the throne. The King was not ready to die. So the two prepared for their inevitable conflict by locking in a battle of wills. The Prince demanded to be let off world to continue his training. The King scornfully refused. No heir to the throne had ever been off world. The King had never been off world. His obnoxious son was certainly not going off world. When ever the Prince made his request -- which was often -- the King would punch or kick the boy, snapping that although his son was useless, the heir to the throne was too valuable to risk. The Prince accepted the physical abuse with the indifference of a true Saiyan warrior. He did not accept the King's refusal at all.
One day, shortly after the confirmation ceremony solidified his position as heir, Crown Prince Vegeta, heir to the throne of the Saiyans, last of the line of the house of Vejiitasei, hopped into a one-man scout capsule and blasted away from his home planet. His whereabouts were unknown until two weeks later (Standard Galactic Calendar), when he presented himself at the fighting tournament of King Cold and demanded to be allowed to participate.
Cold's organizers were used to dealing with upstart royalty from outer worlds, and prepared to give the standard response involving forms, protocol, and regional tournaments that would end with an invitation to stay at one of the royal residences for the tournament's duration -- until someone looked at the grim, haughty youth through a scouter and discovered he had a powerful ki reading of 15,500. The Prince's fighting energy was well above the minimum required for entry, and off the scale for a non-transformed Saiyan. There was a hasty consultation. The Prince was asked to demonstrate the bukuujutsu technique. Vegeta raised an eyebrow and lightly lifted off the ground, hovering several feet over the heads of the officials with his arms crossed. "Any child can fly," he said, his tone a mixture of contempt and boredom.
There was another consultation while Vegeta hung in mid-air, tapping a finger against his bicep in a manner the tournament officials found alarming. Saiyans were known for their tempers and viciousness. No one wanted to annoy even a low-class Saiyan, let alone one with a high ki. If the young Prince got miffed and decided to go on an oozaru rampage, it would probably take King Cold himself to stop him -- and Cold, who had arranged this tournament to keep his two sons entertained and out of his way, would not be happy at being disturbed.
"You're in, Your Highness," one of the officials said to the bottom of Vegeta's boots. "Come back this time tomorrow for the placement drawing."
Vegeta grunted. "Whatever. Just show me to the training center."
Even though King Cold promptly sent an invitation for the Prince to stay in quarters more befitting his station, Vegeta opted to remain in the training center with the other competitors. He did not do this out of camaraderie or a sense of fairness -- "fair" was not in the Saiyan vocabulary, and he considered his competitors to be little more than prey items -- but out of a desire to continually train. On Vejiitasei, Vegeta's work-out schedule was constantly interrupted by tedious duties that included such tasks as overseeing executions or standing on the launching platforms as the infants were sent off to conquer other worlds. In the days leading up to the start of competition the Prince trained diligently, remaining in his exercise cubicle, even taking brief naps there on the rare occasion when he felt the need for sleep.
The early elimination rounds, although they were covered by the media, were off limits to the public. Vegeta worked his way through his section of the draw methodically, usually killing his opponent within the first few minutes. While the matches were not specifically meant to be to the death, death was common enough that no one remarked on, or even noticed, the young Prince's penchant for lethality. His boredom, however, was evident to all; he stalked from bout to bout, glaring at all who dared cross his path, grimly muttering that there was no one here who could challenge him, either.
His successes did not, precisely, make Vegeta overconfident, because he had come to the tournament with the icy conviction he would win. But as he looked through his scouter at opponent after opponent, and saw none who approached his fighting power, he started to think that the trip (and the undoubtedly harsh punishment that waited him on his return) was not worthwhile.
The first inkling Vegeta had that things might not go as he assumed was just before the start of the public bouts in the big arena.
Looking at the draw on the computer screen, Zarbon smiled. It looks like it's going to be me against Jisuu in the quarters, he thought. We have similar power levels; that should be a good match. The smile broadened into a smirk that brought a hard edge to features most would think too delicate for a mercenary. Of course, if I could transform, I'd wipe the floor with his orange rear. But rules are rules...
One round at a time, he reminded himself. The two bouts remaining before the quarters in his draw had to be gotten through first. Zarbon did not think Kewie would give him any problems, and Jisuu should be able to handle that ugly pink lump Dodoria easily. Out of curiosity, he keyed in a few commands to see who else Jisuu might face before the quarters, and found himself looking at the scowling hologram of one Prince Vegeta. He needs some hair advice, that one... Glancing at the Prince's stats, Zarbon shook his head. The numbers were good, but Vegeta had gone about as far as he could get. The Saiyan would need massive amounts of luck to get past his next opponent, Gurudo, to even face Jisuu. Unless Jisuu tripped and broke his neck on his way into the arena, he was definitely on track to face Zarbon in the quarters. I can see the billing now--the battle of the pretty boys...
There was a stirring at the entrance of the training center. Glancing up, Zarbon out of habit tapped the side of his scouter to get a reading on who-ever was causing the officials to converge. The scouter clicked away, hitting Zarbon's own power level of 23,000, then climbing--
--then exploding over his face before Zarbon could shut it down. Blinking once, he heard popping noises from all over the center as other scouters overloaded. Oh-oh. Huge ki. That can only mean it's one of King Cold's sons.
He heard a soft voice apologizing to someone for breaking their scouter and straightened his shoulders, smoothing his already-perfect hair into place. It is one of King Cold's sons. It's Freeza.
Vegeta was not angry or humiliated when his scouter blew up. He was just very, very annoyed.
Looking toward the cubicle's opening, he saw an honor guard (he'd been engulfed by one often enough to immediately know what it was) surrounding a hoverchair right in front of his training area. The pasty white -- thing -- in the hoverchair was smiling, thin black lips creasing dimples into round cheeks. The wide eyes caught his; the smile broadened.
"Prince Vegeta, isn't it?"
Not only did it destroy my scouter, it's going to bother me while I'm training, thought Vegeta, his annoyance doubling. He gave a bare incline of his head and willed the thing to keep moving.
"Ah. I was sorry you declined my father's invitation to stay at my palace." The voice was smooth and very controlled. "I've had very little contact with Saiyans in recent years. I did have a meeting on Vejiitasei once with your father, King Vegeta, but that would have been before you were born."
Great. It's one of King Cold's brat sons. The Prince grunted in a non-committal fashion.
"I'm sorry for your scouter," the thing continued after a pause. "I really should have let the officials know I was coming by. They could have let everyone know to set their scouters to an -- appropriate level."
Vegeta flicked a glance at the thing's fleshy tail, the tip of which was hanging out of the hoverchair and twitching ever so slightly, and wondered if squeezing it very hard would have the same incapacitating affect on -- whatever the thing was -- as it had on most Saiyan warriors.
"I'll send you a replacement, of course." A wry note crept into the soft voice. "Since it seems most of the scouters in the building were set too low, I'll need to send several. Good day, Princeling."
Vegeta watched the hoverchair flit away, to stop at the computer station near a tall humanoid with long, braided green hair. Freak. Your impertinence in calling me 'Princeling' will cost you dearly when I am King. Turning his back, he continued training.
The promised scouter arrived a few hours later with a diplomatic message from Lord Freeza that it had been adjusted to compensate for the higher ki levels Crown Prince Vegeta would be facing in his remaining bouts. Vegeta held it in his hand, as if feeling its balance. A slight glow of ki energy surrounded his fingers for a second. The scouter vaporized.
"I don't need Freeza's little toys," he told the astonished messenger coldly.
For the rest of the tournament, he did not use a scouter.
The first bouts in the public arena were to take place when each of the four sections narrowed to sixteen competitors. Vegeta made the round in his draw, but was beginning to be pushed. His last opponent before the round of sixteen actually survived the encounter, much to Vegeta's chagrin. How the pudgy four-eyed monstrosity moved fast enough to sink a fist into Vegeta's abdomen almost up to the elbow was a mystery -- but not one Vegeta was interested in solving. Gurudo had been in mid-gloat when the heel of Vegeta's hand hit him square between all four eyes. "Wait until the enemy is dead before celebrating," the Saiyan Prince snarled -- which was just enough time for the referee to declare the fight over. Annoyed, Vegeta turned away. Wait until the enemy is dead before starting with the one-liners, he thought with a flash of his rare, sarcastic humor. Although if his audience consisted of bodies, who would appreciate his wit?
Gurudo was hauled off to a rejuvenation tank. Vegeta held a hand carefully to his mid-section, feeling cracked ribs bend unnaturally underneath his probe, but returned to his training cubicle. Saiyans healed fast, and already the ribs were knitting together. He would be fine for his bout with Jisuu in the public arena.
Jisuu proved to be a small, compact humanoid, not much taller than Vegeta himself. He had a fall of tumbling white locks set off by dark orange skin and a bright smile that irritated the hell out of the Prince the second he saw it. Jisuu evidently fancied himself a showman, waving cheerfully at the crowd, blowing kisses to females of all species, and striking dramatic lunging poses that, as near as Vegeta could tell, belonged to no martial arts discipline whatsoever.
If Vegeta had mingled at all with the other competitors, he would have known that Jisuu belonged to one of those rare species whose fighting energy could not be extrapolated from his birth ki, that he aspired to eventually join the elite Ginyuu Squad, and that his poses were carefully crafted to demonstrate he already possessed the stylistic flair the Ginyuu Squad required. If Vegeta had been wearing a scouter, he would have seen a ki level 5,000 points above his own and gone into survival mode.
Vegeta did not mingle, and he was not wearing a scouter. He looked across the arena at a clown going through absurd gyrations to please the crowd, and he was not impressed.
Five minutes later he was still not impressed. Although he was willing to concede Jisuu's ki blasts were powerful, all that posturing meant the energy discharges were telegraphed far enough in advance, a second or so, for someone with the inherent speed of a Saiyan to move out of the way. He is not taking me seriously, the Prince thought. And he relies too much on raw power. Vegeta had a healthy respect for raw power, but he had also been drilled for years in basic hand-to-hand combat techniques. Jisuu's martial arts skills were good, but not formidable. He is more powerful. I am smarter. I will win.
As Vegeta side-stepped another ki blast, Jisuu called out, "Hey, prince monkey-boy! Are you going to dance or fight?"
"You're the one keeping his distance," said Vegeta, disdain coloring his voice.
Jisuu laughed. "Meet you in the middle, kid!"
Vegeta pushed off at the same time Jisuu did, blurring into a blue and white streak that abruptly switched direction and went straight up when it got to the middle of the stadium, neatly avoiding Jisuu's near-pointblank ki blast. As if any moron couldn't see that coming... Smirking, Jisuu charged after him, catching up with the Prince twenty yards above the ground and leading off with an elbow toward Vegeta's bare throat. Vegeta threw up a forearm to easily block. A flurry of spectacular (but largely harmless) blows ensued, with Jisuu seeming to finally connect when a blocked blow to the abdomen left Vegeta's side open for a solid scissor kick. Vegeta headed for a belly flop with the ground; Jisuu landed gracefully at the edge of the field and bowed to the cheering crowd.
Vegeta tucked his feet under at the last second, hit the ground in a deep knee bend, and flew, both fists out, toward Jisuu's unguarded back. Jisuu yelped in surprise as the Prince's armored shoulder hit solidly, flailing and nearly stumbling out of bounds. Bringing his outstretched arms up under his opponent's, Vegeta fisted his hands into Jisuu's flowing locks and twisted as hard as he could, cleanly separating the vertebral column between the second and third disk. Taking an extra fraction of a second to make sure the spinal chord was severed, Vegeta contemptuously back-handed the corpse across the arena. It skidded, bounced, and rolled to a stop against the royal box where Cooler and Freeza sat watching.
"Never turn your back on a Saiyan," the Prince spat, then turned and stalked off the stage as the crowd went wild.
In his box, Freeza nodded. "Good advice. I'll remember that."
He must have some way of concealing his ki, thought Zarbon, his thin eyebrows arching as he visually tracked the path of Jisuu's body. Because there is no way a kid with a 15,500 ki could have done that to Jisuu... Tapping the side of his Freeza-supplied scouter, he looked toward the straight back of the Saiyan as the boy delivered his taunt, and pursed his lips. A kid with a ki of 17,500, on the other hand, might just pull it off. Especially if Jisuu assumed the difference in power would keep his opponent from doing anything so -- direct. Pivoting, the Prince marched toward the exit, which took him past the competitors' area. Looking into his grim face, Zarbon reminded himself that Vegeta was fighting without a scouter, and may have simply responded to the opening without any knowledge of his foe's inherent superiority.
Mental note: don't rely on the scouter with this one. After all, no one knows better than I that a low energy form can be used to disguise ki as -- something else. And although transformations were forbidden by the rules of the tournament, Zarbon had heard that Saiyans could transform into -- something else.
"Nicely done, Prince Vegeta," Zarbon said sincerely as Vegeta approached.
Vegeta barely glanced at him from under heavy, scowling eyebrows. "Out of my way, pretty boy."
Zarbon promptly turned sideways and swept out an arm to indicate the free passage. Vegeta pushed by him with a snort.
Shaking his head, Zarbon settled his shoulders back against the passage's entrance to watch the next bout. Royalty. Must be all the inbreeding.
Read The Young Prince: Chapter Two
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