Weakness. Weakness for all of us, my son.

I gave you so much; more came without being given. Strength, honor, pride...heritage...it was all for you, boy. The history of millennia, the lives and deaths of countless sacrifices all fell to me; fall to you. Not merely vengeance; responsibility...accountability. This was yours, to rule, control, to protect and honor, no matter what circumstances befell you. Until you join me in Hell, this is your purpose.

And you, child, have abandoned it--forsaken me, your subjects, your ancestors, your race, yourself. How can you claim to have an identity when you are the Saiyajin and the Saiyajin are dead to you? What peace can you find knowing that the souls of your people cry for blood, their bodies dust, flung to the corners of the galaxy. Can you hear them, boy? I hear nothing else.

You showed such promise...not that it ever could have been otherwise. Given your bloodline, there was nothing you could become but the finest our race was to produce. The wealth of the ancients was at your disposal, knowledge, training, anything you desired. All you had to do was absorb it, grow into the mold so painstakingly carved for you; carved from the stone flesh of ageless death, the driving force of generation upon generation of your kind.

Challenge. Life is never without it. We thrive on it. You were challenged, boy, in ways I had never intended. Perhaps I misjudged, or perhaps it was inevitable, but you were set to a test at a young age. I had no choice but to send you out toward your destiny and rest what faith I could muster in your innate strength. I knew you would survive. Brashly I assumed that I also would live to see the heavy hand of vengeance fall on the tyrant lizard. Wretched miscalculation; I escorted my people to Hell.

Surely you would avenge their deaths...our deaths. So much fell to you through no fault of your own and no fault of mine; perhaps our time was simply through. It needed not be so, they cried to me from Hell, it couldn't be so; our only solace lay with you. You still lived, you were powerful, you would draw blood for blood, death for destruction. You were our salvation, Vegeta.

How could you fail your people so completely?

What brought you to your decision, boy, to simply endure indignity upon injury upon injustice? Did you hope to exact fuller revenge by avoiding my fate--was there truly so much to gain? We watched, child, and rioted in Hell over what you endured: what you chose to endure. Where was your pride, when he touched you? Where was your honor, when you returned to his call? Where was your spirit when you bowed to him year after year after year?

I begin to think we took all of these to Hell with us when we left you behind; our pride burned, honor withered. My people's spirits stewed in bitterness as we watched you defile your heritage in the name of strategy: a sound plan but for your estimation of the monster's power. Years you had to mature under conditions harsh enough to bring out the best in you, and ultimately your downfall lay in simple miscalculation.

Disgusting irony. Perhaps you are my son after all.

Your once-people ceased to watch you then, but for a few. I, too, have observed, in spite of my subjects' objections; I have not told them of what I have seen. They do not know that you became a super Saiyajin. It hardly matters: a third-class amnesiac broke the barrier for you. They do not know that Freiza met his end at the hands of your son; they would not recognize him as Saiyajin if they saw him, soft human spawn that he is. They also do not know of your further failures--let that be your solace. They have not had to cringe through your stilted ascent in Kakarotto's shadow, nor your evident self-absolution from everything to which you swore, so many years ago.

You leave me no choice, boy, but to fulfill your apparent wish and release you from the obligations of your abandoned race. Twice you've died without reaching us--I tell you now that you never will. My people and I are at last descending into the lower Hells...you will not find us. Let your human companion be your comfort, let your half-breed child continue the legacy you began when you set your own behind you. Our race no longer dies with you: it is already dead.

And at last, Vegeta, you are dead to us.