Lost

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Part 3

Goku First person Narrative

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He sleeps most of the day, drifting in and out of
consciousness, conserving his energy. I watch him and keep my
distance out of respect. He doesn’t seem concerned. I wonder
if he remembers the previous night’s break down. I do not
ask him though.

They come for him that night. Six of them, lizard-like aliens,
all apparently male, all dressed in white. I stand, ready to
contest their claim, fearful that Vegeta will not survive another
encounter.

I am surprised when two of the white clad men step forward and
manhandle me into a sitting position. This is new. They shove my
head down, towards the floor. I hear, elsewhere, Vegeta cry out.

"Vegeta!"

My arms are wrenched behind my back and clipped together at
the wrists. I panic, struggling. For not the first time since
this nightmare has begun I attempt to raise my power. I only end
up feeling light headed and dazed, weaker than I was before. My
head swims. I can hear struggling off to my side and I try to
turn my head towards the sound.

I am wrenched to my feet again and marched to the furthest
corner of the cell. There is an iron ring here. I had wondered at
its use. Now I see. The two men who hold me push my head into it
and close it. Now I am unable to move more than a couple inches
in any direction. I shout at them to let me go, to let both of us
go, but to no effect. I am only wasting my energy and my breath.

Vegeta, for his credit, is as silent as I am loud. He stands
in the middle of the cell, pale faced and sullen as he stands
between two of the men. Small. Broken.

Vegeta… I remember his words from the day before with
extreme clarity. ‘They will kill me in front of you.’
It’s so horrible that I can’t turn away. A sinking
feeling of despair settles into the pit of my stomach. They will
kill him…

One of the men step towards him, drawing an object out of his
white uniform. It’s a needle. It’s amazing how much
little fears mean nothing when faced with greater fears. I
don’t even react to the sight of the needle.

It is Vegeta who recoils from the needle.

He tries to step back. He shakes his head. Desperately.
"Please," His voice is barely above a whisper… but
he is begging. He struggles in the arms of the men that hold him.
"Not here," He says. He draws in a quick jittery breath
from between clenched teeth. "Not here…"

They hold him down. The one inserts the needle into the former
prince. Then they let him go.

He scrambles back to his feet. The men, all six of them, stand
around him, very close. They do not touch him. Yet. He silently
shakes.

Then one of the men hit him. Hard. Vegeta goes down, sprawling
across the floor. The soft whimper he makes on impact is his only
protest.

I gasp in shock as one of the men crouches above him and
begins to tug off his clothes. "Stop it!" I shout.
"Leave him alone!"

One of them looks at me. He smiles. There is something
dangerous in his look. He looks away after a moment and returns
to Vegeta’s clothes. Vegeta offers up no protest… in
fact he lets out an odd sound as a hand slips into his pants.

He… giggles?

That is the closest word I can think of to describe the sound
that comes from his mouth. A giggle. Followed by more as well as
moaning and panting. They remove the rest of his clothes and
begin to remove their own.

I am desperately sick.

I struggle against the brace I am in. Pushing my neck against
it I can’t speak… I scream silently. My head swims. I
pull back far enough to cry out. "LET HIM GO!"

They ignore me.

Totally and completely, so intent they are on the helpless
prince. I watch as one of the men crouches down to kneel between
Vegeta’s legs. Another straddles his face and pushes his
organ into slackened jaws. That sets off another fit of giggles,
after which the man has to readjust. The other men stand in an
ever-tightening circle around him, cutting off most of my view of
him.

"Stop it!!" I scream again and again. I try
everything. I even offer up myself instead. Nothing gets through.
They still ignore me.

I give up protesting. I have to look away. I can’t stand
to see my old rival in that kind of position, despite the fact
that he appears to be enjoying himself. Even so, having my eyes
focused on an unoccupied corner of the room does nothing to block
out the noises. The groans and moans and wet slaps of flesh
against flesh. My friend I fought so hard to save is being raped
and I can do nothing about it. Nothing…

I don’t know how I survive the next while. All I know is
that I am numb when they finally finish with him and let me go. I
am oblivious as they leave the room, their weapons trained on me
the entire time. I don’t move.

I stand, silently, and stare across the cell where he lay. He
is still alive. At very least he is still alive. I can tell
because his chest moves in and out as he breathes. He is facing
away from me; his body dirty and defiled. I choke.

"Vegeta?" I call out softly.

There is no response.

The water bucket had been refilled since yesterday. I retrieve
it and walk over to him. First I make him drink from it, then
myself, before I focus on cleaning him. I try not to think as I
wash him with a piece of cloth torn from my pant leg.

"Kakarrot." My head jerks up. I look at him,
surprised.

He is peering down at me out of half lidded eyes. "What
are you doing?" He asks.

I don’t know what to say, so I look down and return to
cleaning. "Nothing Vegeta, go back to sleep," I return
cheerfully.

He almost does what I say, relaxing, and laying back against
the floor. He tenses and speaks again when the cloth I hold
swipes the side of his inner thigh.

"Don’t touch me." There is a warning note in
his voice.

I obey him, lifting the cloth and scrambling off a couple of
feet. "Vegeta?" I question.

He merely shakes his head and curls into a tight little ball
on his side, his back to me. I wince as I see the lines of
bruises and scars along his bare backside. His ribs stick out,
very pronounced, every time he breathes. I try not to think about
how he used to look, well developed and muscular, in contrast to
this.

"Vegeta, we have to get you cleaned up," I say
softly. I move towards him again, reaching out to touch his side.

"Don’t. Touch. Me." He says again. There is
desperation along with the warning in the tone.

I am silent where I sit.

He whimpers. The sound is barely audible.

"Are you hurt?" I ask concerned. It’s a dumb
question. Of course he’s hurt. Hurting.

"No Kakarrot," Is the reply, sounding like it is
grated out from between clenched teeth.

I am patient. I sit there for a few more minutes, wondering as
I stare at his back. He moans now, a desperate sound, and curls
in on himself even tighter.

It comes to me in a flash of insight.

I cautiously creep closer to him. "It’s the drug,
isn’t it?" I ask.

His head swerves back. He stares at me for a long moment,
wide-eyed. Then he nods once curtly and looks away again.

"Go away Kakarrot," He says, even as I open my mouth
to say something.

"I can help," I reply. Even as the words leave my
mouth I feel sick, nausea settling like a dead weight in my
stomach. How am I going to help him? By raping him as well?

"Can you?" He asks.

I am silent.

He laughs. It is a desperate, depraved sound. He turns around,
showing all of himself, cold hard eyes and an angry purple cock.
I avert my eyes, flushing.

He laughs again. I look back at him. My eyes search his. He is
in pain, as well as being amused, both emotions are clear on his
face. One shouldn’t be in pain as they are laughing, should
they? I decide that he is definitely suffering, there are tears
of pain welling up in the corner of his eyes.

Even so he smirks as he reaches towards me. He grabs me by the
hair, forcing my face close to his.

"Can you?" He asks again. The amusement melts away
by degrees.

I look at him, surprised. He is no longer laughing, but is
panting, the pained look taking over. His eyes glaze momentarily,
then he seems to remember himself with a small head jerk.

He blinks up at me. He looks confused. Lost. Slowly he
releases his grip on my hair.

"Kakarrot?" He slurs the word.

I don’t know what to say, so I only nod.

He shakes his head slightly. Then he starts and stares at me.
His hands grab my shoulders.

"You. Saw." Said between gritted teeth.

My heart nearly stops.

I still don’t know what to say. "I’m
sorry," I try.

He rolls away from me suddenly, dry retching. I’ve seen
this before. I reach out to him, running my hand down his
shoulder. Comfortingly.

A long thin keening sound erupts from the back of his throat.
He rolls up again, whimpering. His knees come up, and his arms
lock around him. He puts his head down and begins to rock.

"Vegeta," I try to soothe him. He merely begins to
rock more, violently, the pitiful sounds welling up from his
throat increasing in volume.

I shouldn’t touch him. I shouldn’t. He doesn’t
like it.

I can’t help it.

I pick him up, uncurling him in my arms, laying him in my lap.
He manipulates easily, though the sharp pleading noises from his
throat don’t stop. I hold him.

He is warm… almost hot to the touch. It’s odd.
It’s so cold here.

He moves, writhes in my arms. His hands flutter.

They move down towards his crotch, protectively, then climb
back up again. His nostrils flare. His eyes are firmly closed.

I watch his hands.

They go down, again and again, but never stay long. His hands
are shaking, flexing. They can’t seem to decide whether to
stay open or crush into a fist.

His cock is swollen and angry. It looks like it hurts. I stare
at it. I don’t mean to.

Finally I can’t take the sounds he is making anymore. Or
his hands. Gripping one of them gently, I move it away.

Then I reach down and cautiously touch him.

He shudders in my arms, a full body tremor. A small
"ah" escapes his mouth. Still his eyes remain closed. I
am grateful. I don’t want to see his eyes right now.

His sweat-streaked throat is exposed as his head falls back,
red lips parted and panting. His forehead creases more. Nonsense
noises fall from his mouth.

"Tell me if I’m hurting you," I say grimly as I
continue to manipulate him.

He doesn’t reply. The nonsense noises increase in volume
as I grip his swollen erection and move my hand up and down it
with rapidly increasing speed.

I set him down, laying him out. He whimpers as I release his
member. I crouch down, taking the head of it in my mouth. I lap
at the tip, running my tongue up and down the steeled flesh.

There is definitely something wrong with me. I am hard myself.
How can I possibly find this arousing? I don’t know, but
I’ve been hard since I decided to pick him up. My organ
presses against the inside of my gi as I continue to coax the
prince to completion. It demands attention it’s self. A
quick glance up tells me that Vegeta’s eyes are still
closed.

I reach down, quickly pushing a hand into my pants. I
can’t believe I’m doing this. All of this.

I grip myself, moving my hand along my organ as I continue to
suck him off.

He comes violently and with a long drawn out groan.

The liquid is bitter and toxic against my tongue. It tastes
much worse than the first time I did this. I spit it to the side,
then place my forehead down against the floor on the other side.
My hand is a flurry of motion within the confines of my gi. I
free my erection at the last moment and come jerkily, my own seed
decorating the floor only inches from where Vegeta lays.

I pant, trying to bring my breathing under control as I lay my
cheek against the cool solid surface of the cell. I replace my
pants with quick jerky moments.

Recovered, I scoot up his body to peer with concern at his
face.

His eyes are closed. His face is deathly pale and his
breathing is shallow.

"Vegeta?" I call out softly.

There is no response.

"Vegeta!" I call out, louder now.

Still he doesn’t move. He is unconscious.

I pick him up carefully, moving away from the evidence of what
has transpired and settle down in the corner with the blanket.

I gather up his clothes and struggle to redress him. All the
time I do so my stomach churns with wrenching guilt. I was
selfish. I should have never touched him. I should have paid more
attention.

… I’m no better than our captors are.

I don’t know what to do. He remains unconscious and
lifeless beside me.

I watch him. After a while I lay my head down between my
knees. I feel terrible, like there is nothing worth living for.
Like there will never be anything worth living for again. I have
never felt this way before. Ever. In my life. I wonder if this is
a bit of how he felt right before Frieza killed him, way back
when.

If he never wakes up I will never know.

He had a nightmare.

I resurface, coming to through the weary haze that envelops my
mind. I lift my head from my knees.

His cries are weak and pitiful. Each one seems to take far too
much effort to execute. His body is shaking now, jerking
violently, even though he is still unconscious.

I feel pain.

I reach out towards him. The moment my hand makes contact with
him, he screams and awakes. The utter terror I see on his face
isn’t one I am going to be able to forget any time soon.

"Vegeta," I try to reassure him, stroking the side
of his face and shoulder. It takes him an agonizingly long time
for him to focus on me. The moment he does, he cries out again,
tries to struggle away.

I am stupid. I grab him, trying to reassure him that I mean no
harm.

He cries out again. "Let me go!" He rasps, beating
against me with his fists. His blows are weak, I barely feel
them.

"Vegeta, stop it!" I say desperately, shaking him a
bit. "I’m not going to hurt you."

He finally stops struggling. His head falls back and his eyes
nearly roll back into his head. His breathing comes under control
and then he relaxes, going as limp as a rag doll in my grip.

He lays there, eyes closed, for several long moments.

I dare to speak. "Vegeta… can you hear me?" I
question.

His eyes reopen, slowly. He looks up at me, passively.

"Kill me."

The words are spoken in a whisper. His face is expressionless.

"I- I can’t," I say. My voice cracks.

He looks confused. His brow wrinkles and he frowns.

He reaches out towards me, tries to grab me by my hair. The
fingers fall through the thick strands. He isn’t strong
enough to hold on and the hand falls back to the floor, useless.

I reach out and grip it in mine, desperately.

"I can’t," I repeat, with more conviction.

His eyes burn as he glares up at me. "You can," He
says. Despite the fact that he is whispering, his voice is deadly
and serious.

I shake my head "no". I want to tell him that
it’s a stupid request, that he’ll get better, but I
can’t bring myself to utter the words. It would be a lie.

There is a lump in my throat.

"There must be some other way," I insist, quietly.
Pleadingly. There has to be some other way. There always is
another way…

"This is the only way I want," He replies calmly.
The corner of his mouth curves upwards. "Don’t you see,
Kakarrot?" Pain wars with mirth on his face. "The
longer you keep me alive, the more I will suffer. It won’t
end." His eyes, which are clearer than I’ve seen for a
long time, search mine for understanding. "What happened to
your compassion, Kakarrot? Do you like to see me suffer? Does it
amuse you?" He laughs out loud, a choking chuckle. It is a
bereaved sound.

"No, I…" My eyes tear up. "Vegeta~,"
I whimper.

He smiles. Weakly he reaches out and picks up both of my hands
in his. He lays them across his throat. He holds them there until
he is sure I will not jerk them away.

"Now squeeze." He instructs quietly. His face is
serious. He really wants me to do this. Almost as if as an after
thought, he adds. "I trust you."

He shuts his eyes. He looks calm. At peace.

I am broken. I can\'t resist this anymore.

My arms tremble. I am shaking my head even as I grip his
throat. I can’t do this…

I can. An image of him comes to mind, a terrible picture of
him trapped by the other men. Suffering. He is right. Prolonging
his life because I’m afraid to be alone is cruel. This is
the only thing I can do.

So I squeeze. Suddenly I want to squeeze every drop of
everything living out of him. I increase the pressure, watching
as my fingers press and sink into the pale flesh.

I watch as he struggles for breath. I watch as his eyes
flutter, but remain closed.

Time seems to stand still.

He goes limp beneath me.

Still.

Dead.

I rock back on my heels.

I am numb.

I can’t see for the blur of tears. I am sobbing, choking.

I hear a voice, distantly, over the sound of my grief. I
don’t know whether it is in my head or not, but it is
screaming at me.

Over and over.

"Father!!" It says.

"FATHER!!!"

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A/N: Thank goodness AFF.net was down for a few days, that took
entirely too long to write. O_o

There are a couple directions I can take this in, it may take me
a couple days to decide where to take it.

Responses to Reviews:

Yami-hikari: Er… sorry about that, some people may die.
*scratches back of head sheepishly*

Kakarott Lover, Calico Soneji: Thanks for the review!

Sinningia: I honestly don’t know if this will be a long
fan fic. Maybe. It depends on how long it takes me to convince
the characters to do what I want them to do.

Macha: Yup, I’d say Goku’s good and broken. Heh,
I’m glad you picked up on that, that was exactly what I was
aiming for.