I haven't read any really good Bardock stories, so I decided that I would try something with him. This should be five parts, each being two years apart from one another. In this one, Bardock is sixteen years old. And this is rated T for gore, violence, and some adult themes later on. Enjoy!
A young Saiyan stood, his lean back pressed against a large stone wall that ran the length of the capital of Vegeta. He snorted, watching the higher-class Saiyans his age attempt to fight. It was pathetic, really, and Bardock wanted to turn away from the battle, if it could be called as much. They ignored the defensive aspect of the battle, dropping their arms and allowing their opponent a well-aimed kick to the chest when tired. Even the offense was sloppy, with energy blasts so pitiful used that even a third-class Saiyan like himself could block them with ease. But that was the catch: he was just a third-class Saiyan.
He growled as an elderly superior barked in his direction, "Boy! Fetch these two water!" He dropped his arms to his side and bit his bottom lip with frustration, tearing at it with his jagged teeth. He hated having to be the errand boy for others who received the privilege of training, of going on missions, but that was all a part of the package. Low-class warriors were servants before fighters, or at least until they reached adulthood. Then, as soon as they became of age, they were legal to do as they please, within a certain set of boundaries. But he was only sixteen. It would be another two, good years before he could quit this apprenticeship and pursue other opportunities, able to finally go beyond what anybody expected of him.
But as of now, he was simply a boy. He was stuck serving underneath these first-classers, struggling at watching them struggle. He wanted to be able to show them all that he could do what they could and more, and that his class would not be what determined him. He was determined to change all of this by the time he was an adult. He would overthrow this unfair hierarchy, all determined by birth, and allow talent to be what ruled. He could feel a rebellion in his chest, though that would have to wait.
For now, he was the water boy.
Bardock sighed in defeat as he trudged across the dirt plain, a grounds reserved for the upper-class to fight. Then he entered a compound with a press of a button, feeling dejected. No, this wasn't what was meant to be of him, but this would change one day.
He managed a smirk as he glanced back, seeing one boy take a swing at the other before the metal door closed behind him. They were disgraces, but he couldn't show them up without getting in trouble again. He remembered the last time he had beaten up a first-classer, putting him in charge of kitchen duty. And with the massive amount that Saiyans gorged themselves with, that had been torture for his fifteen-year-old self. But he was a year older, a year wiser. He knew better now than to allow his instinct to take the better of him, remembering how he had actually torn that boy's thumb off, and though the arrogant brat had deserved it, he knew it didn't do him any good to get in trouble. With satisfaction, however, he noted that it had certainly taught those first-classers to never mess with him.
He found two large, metal canisters sitting at the foot of a large machine. He held the mouths of them up to the spout of the contraption one at a time, allowing water to flow through and into the containers. Then he carried them quite effortlessly back outside, despite their being several gallons each. And as he came back, he was greeted by two thirsty Saiyans running up to him, stealing the jugs from his hand.
One of them, a tall and lanky one by the name of Onio, took a swig of the jug before shoving it back into Bardock's open arms and sneering, "See you, third-classer." Pars, the other boy who was considerably stockier with a lot of baby fat, chuckled lowly at the insult and also shoved his half-empty jug into Bardock's arms, running after his sparring partner. Bardock only clenched his teeth at the teasing, knowing that it wouldn't be worth getting into trouble by shoving Onio's face in. He didn't want to relive the nightmare of kitchen duty.
He ambled slowly towards the two boys, fighting again in the blazing heat. Bardock gazed up into the clear, red sky, staring at the battlements of King Vegeta's palace sitting in the distance. He wondered what it would be like to be able to stroll through that palace, taking the place of royalty for a day. Bardock had heard that the prince, only a few years older than him, was already sporting a fine moustache. The Saiyan rubbed at his own face, soft as a baby's bottom. At this rate, he would never grow so much as stubble, something that boys his age enjoyed making fun of him for.
He set the canisters of water down on the dry ground, slumping against the wall with his arms crossed. He watched as the two made fools of themselves, with Pars tossing his large body at Onio, almost knocking his competitor down. And then a few weak energy blasts would be exchanged, only to heighten the excitement of the match slightly. Bardock wasn't easily impressed, and this, he felt, was not impressive at all.
He watched out of the corner of his eye as the adult supervising this match left, probably for a bathroom break. He was ancient and apparently had a weak bladder, Bardock having seen him around on occasion. He sometimes wondered if the supervision was necessary for him more than it was for the two in the match after his little slip-up the year before, seeing as he had never remembered there being an adult watching over matches before. But this old man apparently trusted these three boys, almost men, enough to trust that they could be left alone for five, ten minutes without breaking out into an all-out brawl.
The elder, unfortunately, was wrong.
It hadn't been Bardock, to his own surprise, that had made the first move despite how eager he was to join this fight. He did want revenge for the boys having treated him like nothing, but his temper was so bad as to risk being hauled off to the kitchens again just because of a few words. No, he simply surveyed the match coolly, the back of his Saiyan armor protecting him from the heat of the stone wall. He pulled a little at the bandages tied around his hands, wrapped so as to protect his palms under circumstances in which a superior kicked him over and on to his knees for working too slow. He was tough for his age, but he wasn't stupid. Any chance to prevent scrape or cuts was a chance to prevent infection.
He had been idly playing the with white bandages when he heard a boy's voice yell, "Bardock!" He looked up at his name being called, seeing Onio signaling for him to come. "Don't you want to come and fight, third-classer?"
Bardock only snorted lightly, ignoring him as he lilted his head back down. It wasn't worth the kitchen, he told himself. But then he heard Pars' rougher, deeper voice as he taunted, "Come on, Bardock! Are you a wimp, now? You think we're gonna pound you in the ground like a galactic slug?" Bardock revealed a small smile at this, trying to overcome the urge to show the fat Saiyan just who was the galactic slug. And he succeeded, remembering the kitchens and the dreaded dishes that were waiting to be washed by hand.
But he found it harder to keep his head down as he sensed them approach him. "I think he's worse off than a galactic slug, because at least they have something up in their heads," Onio taunted, coming dangerously close to the third-class Saiyan. "I'd rather be a galactic slug than a Bardock!"
The boys laughed deeply before stopping only a few feet in front of the boy, their clean, white boots stirring the dirt beneath them. But Bardock was too proud to allow their insults go unnoticed, and he simply muttered, "I'm not stupid." As much as he would love to throw a few comebacks at their faces, he knew that they would only be grounds to fight. And a fight would be the first thing to send Bardock back to the kitchen.
A fight seemed inevitable, however. "Oh, so you're not stupid!" Pars exclaimed, as if surprised. He then pointed at the bandages wrapped around Bardock's hands, grinning maliciously. "If you're not stupid, then can you tell me what those are? Are those your third-class rags?" he asked, daring to poke the dangerous Saiyan. But Bardock did nothing, only heaving a large intake of air.
"I think it's what he uses to wipe," Onio jeered, gaining a hearty chuckle from his friend.
"Probably what his mother wrapped him in as a baby." Pars crossed his arms, snuffing the air. "Absolutely filthy."
Then Onio pretended to sympathize with Bardock, whispering, "Don't you remember that this poor boy doesn't have a mother? He's not as lucky as we are, being first-class." And Bardock winced at this, an anger flaming within him as they brought this point up. Third-class Saiyans were automatically taken away from their parents, sent to go on one dangerous mission as an infant. And if they survived, they were returned to Vegeta to basically serve as domestic servants until they reached legal age. Higher classes, even second-classers, had the choice of sending their children on these missions, though they almost always got their child back. Third-class children were never returned to their families, though, being stuck as an eternal orphan, their parents not even considered worthy of having children.
And then his heart stopped pounding all at once as he listened, carefully and closely, as Pars insincerely laughed, "I forgot! My apologies, Bardock, but it was probably better that you didn't get to know that broad of a mother of yours."
Bardock lifted his head, his upper lip twitching at this insult to his mother who he had never met. He suffered, not knowing who was his mother out of all of the women that he passed by. Any one of them in the markets could be his mother, and he was tortured with thoughts of what she could be like. There were many acceptable ways that he portrayed his mother, but a 'broad' was not one of them. He snarled furiously, "What did you call her?"
"A broad," Pars repeated proudly, bearing a smile and not noticing the expression of death on Bardock's sharp features. But Onio noticed this lust, this lust to kill in the third-class Saiyan's eyes, and backed away unsteadily. Never had he seen an expression as determined and fierce coming from a man so young, so tortured with thoughts of who his mother could be. His chest lurched, his heart pounding against it as he stared at the chubby Pars, and Onio knew exactly what would happen, though he was too shocked to warn his friend. And, all at once, it happened.
Bardock lunged forth, grabbing Pars around his blubbery neck and tackling him the the ground. The first-class Saiyan writhed helplessly under Bardock's mighty grip, surprising even Onio, who could only step back and witness the struggle. The lankier first-class Saiyan watched the ferocity in the way that Bardock had pinned his prey, suddenly remembering that this was the Saiyan who had wripped Pota's thumb off just the year before. So with a fear coursing through his veins, he snapped out of his paralysis of shock and ran off, screaming at the top of his lungs for somebody to help.
Bardock ignored Onio, his dark, beady eyes focused on Pars, whose face had turned a toxic blue with the constricting grip around his windpipe. "What did you call my mother?" he hissed through his teeth, baring them menacingly. There was no way that anybody would take advantage of him in a race of fighting peoples just for his class, not when he proved to be better than the first-classers, stronger. He jerked Pars in his grip, who wriggled desperately, repeating in a harsher tone, "What did you call my mother?"
But no words could pass through Pars' lips, and Bardock watched as they withered, the lack of oxygen depleting the boy's energy. And finally, when Pars had turned all but purple under his grip, he stood back up with a sneer of disgust on his face. He felt no sympathy for this boy, his conscience not damaged at all in this quick end to Pars' life. It took no energy to restrain himself from using a ki blast to get the boy's death over with, to allow him to die quickly and painlessly. He wanted to see this boy suffer, to see him suffer the same way that he had years ago. And so he stepped towards Pars once more, resting his dark boot on top of the Saiyan armor.
"Good-bye, you stupid galactic slug," Bardock whispered, bringing his foot down with full force to crash through Pars' Saiyan armor. And he watched unflinchingly as Pars' eyes rolled to the back of his head, only the whites with pink veins showing, his head tilted back and shaking slightly. Then he lifted his boot back out of the boy's throbbing chest, having stepped through a few vital organs, and examined his right boot with triumph, now stained with the red of bloody victory.
He grinned to himself, allowing his tongue to roll over his lips even as the elder and Onio returned, a flock of others staring incredulously at the scene. This was worth any punishment, the sweet glory of vengeance.
His victory was short lived, unfortunately. Many thought it to be impressive that a third-class Saiyan had taken on a first-class Saiyan and succeeded in defeating him, suggesting that they allow him off without sentence. But there was still the fact that he had murdered poor Pars, and some of the upper class sympathizers thought he needed a justifiable punishment. This was certainly far more severe than when he had merely torn off Pota's thumb, though it was also far more impressive. So each seemed to balance out one another, with many elders clearly approving of his actions that day, many disapproving, and he somehow ended up with the same punishment he had faced just the previous year.
He was back in the kitchen.
Though he enjoyed it just about as much as he had the year before, he was relieved to not have received a worse punishment. It was a good thing that Saiyans were such a blood-thirsty race, because from what he heard from outsiders, murder is an executable offense on many planets. And there was no way that he would be able to carry out a revolt when dead, making him very glad to still be alive. Plus, during his first day in the kitchen, scrubbing at the dishes, he found that he had a few admirers of his brave actions that previous day.
The most important one that he found out about, though, was Tora. He was of a thinner build than him, though he still had an impressive amount of meat to him. He had found the boy, only an inch taller than him, when they had been assigned on dishwashing duty together. And Bardock knew that he immediately liked this Tora boy the moment he worked up the courage to ask, "Did it smell?" And when asked to clarify, he had simply shrugged his thin shoulders and said, "You know, the guts. When you crushed Pars' chest with your boot, did it smell?"
And the boys bonded immediately afterward, mostly over their affinity for all things gory, being at that age for Saiyan boys. They found killing fascinating and talked of it often. And they would brag of their accomplishments in life to one another, Tora explaining that he had gotten the dreaded punishment of the kitchen by tussling with a first-classer and punching him so hard in the stomach that he threw up blood all over the royal carpets in the palace. Apparently, Prince Vegeta with his brown moustache and growing beard had stepped in the mess, having been preoccupied with thoughts of something else. Bardock couldn't help but imagine the regal prince, with his signature curly moustache, scrunching his face up in distaste. He was still jealous of the prince for being able to grow facial hair, but that was a fact he kept to himself.
So kitchen duty proved to not be too terrible of a punishment, what with them passing the time of day together. They were occasionally joined in by a large brute by the name of Borgos, who got the punishment very often but only for short intervals of time, such as a few days, for minor crimes. He was also a third-class Saiyan, and he had always been quiet, puzzling Bardock. But whenever he wasn't around, Tora took the privilege of explaining that he often was found beating up the younger children, a natural instinct for power hidden deep within him. Even this information didn't turn Bardock away from him, as it only justified that he was like them. He was just trying to get along, caught in the struggle of a third-classer caught in a world fit for first-classers alone.
It wasn't long before the two friends began plotting ways to bring down the Vegeta regime, talking only when supervisors had left the kitchen for moments at a time, or when they were lying in their cots one on top of the other, confined to these quarters. But as they listened in on gossip from the hired help, those weaker Saiyans that actually got paid to do simply tasks such as these, they learned that it was not the Vegetas at all that were in charge. There was apparently another man above them, a creepy alien of sorts who went by the name of Frieza. Bardock and Tora spent much of their time speculating just what he could look like, adding limbs and heads and fanged mouths to them each time they played this game, continually scrubbing away at dishes or mopping the floors. Much of their time as maids in the kitchen was spent wasted, but it did not all go to waste.
They decided that, together, they would form a group of fighters to go on missions in battalions. They weren't certain of a name yet, but they had two years to think of that, when it would be legal for them to create a squadron of fighters. The two disbanded after their three months of forced labor, but as they did so, they were completely unaware of how much the other would change in these years gone by.