The Prince could easily win a fight.  At least, it was thought he could. But he simply wouldn’t fight his
trainers at full power. “I don’t want to hurt them, Your Majesty,” the Heir would explain, head humbly
bowed. “I can, and I wouldn’t hesitate to kill an enemy, but my trainers aren’t my enemies.” And nothing
the King said would convince him otherwise.
        The King chafed at that.  He was the King, this was his son, and the Prince was acting like a coward—afraid to face his enemies!  It was a thorn in his side.  He had vowed to keep the Prince strong, and the Prince resisted him at every turn.  He was becoming weaker, more softhearted, and more softheaded every minute he acted like such a weakling.
        The Prince hit the trainer especially hard.  King Vegeta watched carefully.  To his chagrin, the Prince
went over and helped the Saiyan to his feet. “Are you all right?” he asked politely.
        The trainer grunted and pushed the Prince’s hands away, getting up on his own. “You would be killed,” he
said, then spit blood.
        “No, I wouldn’t,” Prince Vegeta contradicted. “I wouldn’t ask an enemy if he was okay.”
        “But I am the enemy!”
        “No, you’re not.”
        “Then you must think of me as the enemy.”
        “But you’re not, so I can’t.  By the way, I’m sorry about that hit.  I didn’t mean for it to be so hard.”
       The King growled under his breath.  The kid was so damned polite.  He had to break through the reserve.
        They began training again.  The trainer got off a particular vicious hit, probably as slight payback for
the attack the Prince had hit him with.  Prince Vegeta’s ki flared for a moment and the King watched
hopefully.  Would he attempt to destroy his attacker?  Would he be a true Saiyan?

        No, of course not.  The Prince’s ki went back down.

Though he attacked, it was an attack that the Prince knew would not be fatal.  How to break through the
child’s damn complaisance!

        Then an idea came to him.  The Prince was but five years old, after all.  Words might not register, but actions, direct actions, would most likely make an impact.  Yes. That was how to go about it.

***
        Vegeta stepped into the training arena and looked in surprise at the new man who was there. “Where’s—” he
started.
        “He’s been exiled,” the new man interrupted. “I’m taking over your training now.”
        “Why has he been exiled?” Vegeta asked curiously.
        “King Vegeta ordered it.  I may be a powerful guard, but I cannot claim to know the mind of the king.”
        Vegeta shrugged. “All right, then.” He smiled at the
new trainer. “Can we start now?”

***
        King Vegeta watched.  He had hoped, but not expected, that his son would catch on immediately.  But he
supposed it was his own fault for not being more direct.  One trainer would not make that much of an impact on the young Prince’s life, and how could the Prince know why the man had been exiled?
        He left the arena and went to his private chambers.  Once he was settled, he summoned the footman.
        “Yes, Your Majesty?” the footman asked. “How may I serve you?”
        “Have you observed my son?” the King asked brusquely.
        “Um…yes, Your Majesty.  Many times.  Might I inquire in which specific area Your Majesty is curious?”
        “His behavior.”
        “Oh, yes.  Extraordinarily polite, your son.  Friendliest person I’ve ever met, Your Majesty.  Is…is
that what you wanted to know?”
        “Who is the Prince particularly close to?”
        “Ah, well, he is polite to all, Your Majesty, but I’m not quite sure who he considers himself ‘friends’
with.”
        “Well, find out.”
        “Yes, Your Majesty.  By this time tomorrow, you will have a list of all of the Prince’s friends.”
        “Take your time.  I want this to be a most accurate list.  You’re dismissed.”
        “Thank you, Your Majesty.” The footman bowed and left.  He went to the throne room and wrote down the
names of all who were there and questioned them as to their status to His Highness.  Most modestly insisted
that while the Prince was very courteous, they couldn’t boast to be more than acquaintances, unless
he pressed.  Then, some said that they felt that perhaps the Prince might hold them in some regard.
The footman sighed and went back to his chambers to finish the list.

***
        King Vegeta looked at the list.  It was quite extensive, almost exhausting.  His son kept strange
company; at least, according to this list, he did.  Palace guards, nobles, and even a few servants were on the list.  With most of the Prince’s time spent in training, the King wondered when his son had time to associate with the variegated rabble.
        King Vegeta smiled slightly.  It wasn’t very often, but sometimes the King found his duty to be a pleasure.  This was one of those times.  Some of his son’s “friends” were some of his most loathed enemies. And now he had an excuse to kill them.  Or at least exile them.  As a King, he always had to think of political reasons to get rid of his enemies.  Who could argue that strengthening the Empire was inadequate reason for exile?
        “I’m sorry, Kalery.  I didn’t want to do this,” he lied to the guard in front of him.  Kalery, while useful, had struck a sour chord in King Vegeta for some unexplainable reason.  The geneticists were attempting to isolate the genes that attracted and repulsed, but had been unsuccessful as of yet.  So Kalery got to suffer the displeasure of his King.
        “Do what, Your Majesty?” Kalery replied.
        “You have to be exiled.”
        “What?” Kalery laughed slightly, as if it were a mistake.
        “I’m sorry.  My son…”
        “Is something wrong with His Highness?”
        “Nothing that your exile won’t fix.”
        Kalery looked at him. “I see,” he said slowly. “Well, if that’s Your Majesty’s decision, I respect it.” Kalery kneeled submissively. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for the privilege of serving with you.” His voice was
muffled.
        “Goodbye, Kalery.” The King kept his voice level until Kalery had left.  Then, unable to help it, he
chuckled, for just a short while.
        He looked through his list and summoned the next person.  This had to work.  The Prince had to be cured
of this…compassion.  How else could he expect to reach Super-Saiyan?

***
        The Prince was not cured.  He was, if anything, more compassionate.  He was friendly to the newer members
of court and King Vegeta had more people to kill.  The King would watch from his throne in frustration.  But
what could he do?  His son was smart, and he would catch on…eventually.
        But until he did…King Vegeta sighed heavily and had the footman draw up another list.

***
        Time passed, as it has a habit of doing.  Vegeta wasn’t quite sure why, but he knew if he showed any sort of favor for a particular person, he or she would be killed or exiled immediately.  That went to his trainers, too.  If he didn’t go full out and try to kill them, his father would.  So he became quieter and fiercer.  When he wasn’t fighting, he began leaning against the nearest wall, arms folded, and brows drawn into a scowl so fierce it discouraged anyone from approaching him.
 
Until he was eight years old.

        For three years, no one had tried to strike up an acquaintance with him.  Then, one day as he leaned against his wall, he felt a tug on his armor.  He looked down and his glare darkened. “Who are you?” he asked, slowly, distinctly, and in tone that promised death if the wrong answer was given.
        The kid didn’t answer.  He just looked up and asked, “Are you the Prince?”
        Vegeta stared at him for a moment, then decided to answer. “Yes, I am the Prince,” he answered shortly.  The child seemed amiable enough, and, besides, Vegeta didn’t want to be responsible for his death.  Still,
he couldn’t help asking, “And you are…?”

        “My name’s Seboll.  My papa’s a guard here.  I’m going to be a guard, too, someday.”
 
That was the brat looked familiar, Vegeta realized.  He’d seen him around with his father.
 
“I’m going to guard the King when I’m trained.  I guess by the time that happens, you’ll be King.  So I’ll guard you!” Seboll laughed in delight at the thought.
 
Vegeta didn’t respond.

        “You’re very quiet, aren’t you?  But I talk enough for two—or so Papa says.  Guess.  I’m four years old.”
 
Vegeta felt his mouth twitch in slight amusement.

“Yeah, well, I’m eight, squirt,” he replied.

        “But today’s my birthday.” Seboll emphasized the word as if it were something special.  Vegeta realized that
to him, it might be.  After all, not everyone lived the life of a Prince.
        A guard—Vegeta thought his name might be Lechu—suddenly materialized in front of them. “Seboll,” he said in alarm, “have you been bothering His Highness?” He addressed his son, but looked at the Prince.
        “This is your brat?” Vegeta inquired.  He knew his harsh tone was the thing that would save the child,
but the guard didn’t, and his paled.
 
“Y—yes, he is, Your Highness.”

        Everything about Vegeta radiated indifference. “Then take him,” he said dispassionately.  His whole attitude was carefully neutral.  There would be no reason to report this incident to his father.
        The guard recognized his son had been saved from death. “Thank you, Your Highness.” He picked up Seboll
and attempted to bow.
        Vegeta waved an arm. “Do your duties,” he said, but couldn’t help watching wistfully as they left.  Seboll
was young, but the conversation was the closest thing to a friendly one Vegeta had  in a long time.

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