The pink majin, known as Buu, glanced at the ground of the subway. His red irises observing the dirt-covered floor of the street car. Buu sighed, the chill of the winter caused a puff of warm air from the pores of his head. Buu's breath smelt of so-called chocolate-flavored vodka and his thoughts were occupied with images of those flocks of freakish-looking pigeons outside of the metro station. The pink majin had been to countless planets, destroying them in seconds, but never had he been so terrified of something so frivolous as freakish-looking flocks of birds and a shirtless, ripped Tsar Putin and his favorite human puppet of a prime minister. The Vegito-flavored toffee candy was almost as terrifying.  

Buu adjusted his purple scarf and "M" button that held it in place; although it was still technically fall, it sure felt like winter in St Petersburg. The air was still bitter, even indoors outer space felt like a heater compared to this. As stupid as those pathetic humans are, they should at least have the common sense in them not to have built in a cold, wintry place like this. Cussing under his breath, his blue tongue drying under the bitter winter, the majin exited the silent street car, his head turned down at the stop of the tracks. 

At least, I would hope. There's no telling how stupid they can be sometimes. After exiting the station four blocks his apartment, he entered a produkti, or a small grocery store, and bought some more chocolate-flavored vodka. Buu then headed up to the apartment building; Soviet-era, each block no different from the other. His apartment was a single and the size of a college dorm. Buu collapsed onto the bed next to kitchen.

Buu began to pick at his nails, painted black by a fifteen-year-old Moldovan sex slave in a so-called "nail parlor". Recently there had been filed complaints from neighboring businesses of suspected trafficking, but the authorities were too corrupt to take action. Picking more at his nails, the black polish began to chip off, revealing that his nails had turned completely clear over the past six months. Buu immediately drunk the entire bottle of chocolate vodka and punched the nearest wall, finding his strength had diminished almost to the point where it almost didn't break through.

'That red-skinned prick...' Buu scowled, remembering the words of King Yemma after his battle with Goku, 'Hell is not enough. Not for you, at least. I will send you to St Petersburg, the Venice of the North; it's a city on Earth, the planet you destroyed. I have taken your ability to manipulate ki away from you already right as you walked into my office. And in 18 months, you will be fully human. Until then, you will change slowly and painfully under in the Motherland.'

"I hate you...I hate you...I hate you..." Buu ground his teeth. He already noticed his skin getting lighter and shifted more beige. The black of his eyes were slowly turning grey. His ears had already begun morphing three months into his stay. His ability to regenerate took longer and longer each time he tried to. He skin was beginning to grow thinner, but more solid. His tongue had gone from blue to a reddish purple. The landlord continually knocked on the door, though Buu was too drunk to answer or to comprehend was the old babushka was saying. 

"Mr. Buu, are you alright? The couple two doors across from you reported a crash. Are you hurt?" her voice echoed from behind the door.
"Vodka. Buu want more vodka."

The old woman left, seeing as this was not a dire issue. Buu cringed at his neighbors' gossip through the thin walls. "What is it?"
"Nothing, it is just Buu drunk and overreacting to something."
"What was it?"
"Nothing that huge. He is drunk, that's all."
"I see."

Buu glanced at the ceiling. 'One more year as a Majin...twelve more months...' His thoughts turned from his neigbors, chocolate vodka and the creepy looking pigeons to imagining himself as a human. The very thought chilled his blood. He reached in his kitchen cabinet for some beer, and drank it as he lied down on his bed. Buu suddenly felt a sharp pain somewhere in his body; his internal organs were readjusting again. His neighbors in the apartment kept gossiping,
"What the Hell is that?"
"Oh, let me deal with this. I'm the landlady."
"Alright,"

A continuous sharp pain, like someone tore at his internal organ with a shard of old, uneven, rusty sharp glass and cut through it slowly, but with a lot of pressure. When he described it to a human, they told Buu that it sounded a lot like passing a kidney stone. Buu continued to try and regenerate, but it only made it hurt more. His blood temperature skyrocketed. Buu began to cough up blood that continued to turn into a mix of blue, red and its original purple color into a bucket stolen from an alcoholic neighbor.

The landlady knocked on the door again, "Are you sure you are alright? What is the matter? Should I call a medic?"
"Go....leave...Buu...alone."
"Very well."

Buu managed to reach into kitchen cabinet, it being only centimeters away and his arms still being able to extend, and chugged down a bottle of Ibuprofen. He felt better, but his temperature skyrocketed even more and caused him to finally pass out. 

Buu awoke the next morning with a stomach ache and hangover, but got up anyway. He went back down to the nearest Produkti, or a small, cheap grocery store, to buy some medicine and some milk. He glanced at the items, picked up whatever had the most Ibuprofen in it, and then headed over to the frozen goods. 'Twelve more months. One year more of this shit. And then I'll be trapped here forever...'

He reached to grasp a milk gallon when he heard a familiar voice.

"Sorry, but I'll be taking that," a smug, black and spiky-haired Saiyan grabbed the gallon of milk.

Goku then turned over, "Sorry, but I have to head home soon. Chi-Chi will get so pissed off if I'm late again--wait...I know you! Um,"
"Take the damn milk and get out of face before I punch it in," Buu stated firmly, grabbing the milk gallon behind it.
"Well, if you do want to spar, I'd be glad to-"
"I have work today, and I have a  a bit of fever, so if I'm sorry, I can't." Buu cringed and walked away.

"Wait, you're one of the evil forms of Buu, aren't you? Super Buu, right? What are you doing here? And how did you manage to get sick? You look really pale."
"It does not concern you. And since when do you care about my health?"
"Of course I should."
"Let me buy my fucking milk and medicine in peace and let me go on my way-"
"How long have you been down here? I haven't sensed your energy at all."
"Six months."
"...What? Oh, I guess that'd make sense. Anyway, um...where you live?"
"I have an apartment three blocks from the Narvskaya Saint Petersburg Metro."
"Ok...well, see you. Weird...next I'll see Cell picking up eggs. Do you mind if I stop by sometime?"
"...Fine, whatever." Buu rolled his eyes.
"Awesome."

After that awkward encounter, Buu went to work at Pavlov's, a fancy restaurant that many opera, ballet and music connoisseurs leave their gold rings, purses and pearl necklaces at before some performance and have to call some time during intermission.

'Twelve more months...one year...twelve more months'