Number 32

Chapter Four

The Embers

Head low, eyes front.

Only narrowly does the bottle of wine skim 32's cheek, before shattering behind. But he dares not move, for before him, both Lord Hailer and Cool are in the midst of an argument. Their voices have climbed so high that many servants and soldiers retreated into hiding. Only 32 remains, kneeling in the dour wreckage of the Grand Hall, trying not to breathe in the fumes of debris and the dead.

A phantom of soot courses towards him as Cooler advances.

"And how do we know that he's not with them?" he spits, venomous.

32 is then collected from the ground and hauled up for inspection. Cooler's eyes are wide and furious and 32 would rather look anywhere else, yet he holds that gaze, and meets it with what must be an acceptable demonstration of devotion because finally, he's dropped back to the floor.

"My men are not turncoats, unlike yours, brother." Lord Hailer retorts. "Your number one captain had been playing you for a fool this entire time and you hadn't even noticed. Are you really so inept?"

"Tch." Cooler turns back to 32's commander. "I take responsibility for Ytvl, but you should look at your own. This boy -he should be executed for his incompetence; he'd been right there, on stage! He let Vegeta slip through his fingers!"

32 wants to tell his commander that he'd taken the full force of the blinding technique/weapon and that he'd had little opportunity considering the circumstances. Instead, he settles for silence.

But Cooler isn't done. His tail thrashes menacingly behind, cracking stone as he considers the other tyrant. "And don't you dare call me incompetent, brother, whenit was my men who'd brought in Vegeta in the first place!"

Lord Hailer barks a laugh. "The same individual who'd then help Vegeta escape? It was likely his ploy to make us look like idiots live-on-air, you fool!"

"You think only I harbour traitors in my faction? You truly blame this solely on me?"

"Tch! You'd be soft to think I won't exercise punishment on my underlings, but not for a moment would I consider anyone else's responsibility for yours for your lack of recognition! How dare you allow the Frost family to be played like this!"

Cooler, now livid, whips that tail again, this time into an opposing pillar. It explodes on impact and sends debris flying. 32 would later find some embedded in his hair. He can't feel energy, but he definitely feels the rage radiating from the beast; he can see it in the mania of his expression as the tyrant breathes hard.

"I want him DEAD! I want them all DEAD!"

Lord Hailer's gaze is heated with a calmer fury, but a fury nonetheless. "And they will be."

Lord Hailer then turns back to him. Knowing that he's about to be issued an official order, 32 quickly drops back down to one knee and bows his head once again, this time in waiting.

The submission seems to somewhat appease Lord Hailer because 32 next recognizes the voice to sound smug, taunting almost. It's a message to Cooler.

'Look at my dogs… so much better trained than yours.'

Instead, he says; "You will perform that execution, Captain. I want Vegeta found, and I want all who assisted him dead, including that filthy Northern traitor captain. I want you to locate that tin can they call a ship, burst it open and wrench the prince from its contents. Bring him to me, alive, along with the heads of everyone inside it. Do not allow them to make a further mockery of us and the empire."

"Yes, my lord."

"Only then will your mistakes at the execution be forgiven, do you understand, 32?"

"Yes, my lord."

Above him, Lord Hailer offers a reproachful sort of expression, but it's not aimed at him. It's still set on Cooler. "Naturally, our division will clean up this debacle, but it'll be together that we demonstrate the true strength of the Frost Empire and the legacy of the family."

Flowery words, 32 thinks, and Cooler is clearly in agreement. He says nothing and instead watches them both, barely sated with the display. His lip upturns, but gives a nod, regardless.

"Then let it be done," he eventually says. "However, I want Ytvl returned to me, alive."

"Whatever for?"

"This transgression," Cooler spits, "it's… it's-"

"Personal?" Lord Hailer sneers, delightfully cruel. "How unlike you."

"I don't suffer traitors. I'll make an example out of him. I'll have him look me in the eyes like a man and tell me why he dared defy me after all these years of loyalty!"

It's at the moment that 32 feels himself yet again hauled up, as though he's simply a sack of meat to be chucked about. This time, it's Lord Hailer. He has 32 by the chin and poised uncomfortably in Cooler's direction.

"These dogs don't understand such a thing," Hailer replies with him in hand. Icy fingers pinch at 32's skin, sending a cold shiver down the young man's spine. "If you are soft with them, then they will inevitably betray you. You may not be able to see it in this husk's eyes, but he hates me. He'd have me dead if he could –they all would; perhaps every one of my men would."

32 falls yet again upon release.

"Yet, they follow me, for I am the pack leader... Do you understand, brother? They follow me because I fill their hearts with fear, but also because fill their stomachs with food and beds with women. The empire is as important to them as it is for us. They are nothing without it or without me. They need no kindness, only a firm hand. Otherwise…" He smirks with such little mirth that the ruins shudder with an icy chill. "…They really will have you dead. You said to me the other day that you prefer your men with more bite and free-will but look at where that gets you; betrayed.

Consider this a brotherly piece of advice; remind them of their place, so they can remember yours."

And with that, 32 receives a firm kick to the jaw.

He flies against a wall, causing both it and him to crumble into the soot and the sharpness of debris. Agony rages down the side of his face and when he raises his fingers to the wound, they return wet. A matching boot strikes again, this time harder, and whilst 32 guesses that his commander must be saying something, he cannot be sure due to the ringing in his ears.

Finally, he's dragged back up and sent towards the door.

"Alas, I needn't go overboard with 32," Lord Hailer says, light, as if he hadn't just delivered a concussion. "The Youth Program instils proper principles. They'll see him true. Won't they, Captain?"

A cold dread washes over him as he recalls the aforementioned taught principles back at the program –the methods of installation, the teaching; the horror.

His chest hurts, the room feels small, the air; thin. It's all too much.

Head low, eyes front.

He swallows, remembering where he is.

"…Yes, my lord."

It's with refreshed eyes that Cooler observes him. Still, the heat remains. 32 can't decide if the tyrant wants to see him dead then and there, or have him be useful to him and drag Ytvl back. Perhaps even Cooler can't decide if that visible conflict is anything to go by. With a final tail flick, he turns away, leaving 32 little to read.

Then, the moment finally comes; the light at the end of the tunnel. Lord Hailer gestures towards the door, releasing him. "Remember your duty, Captain. Don't return to me without Vegeta or that traitor scum."

32 shakily wipes at the blood and bows.

"Yes, Lord Hailer."

Just as he turns to leave, he hears the final slither of distaste from his superior.

"Tch. And with the honour as a Southern captain, wear your blasted furs."

The next morning brings equal cheeriness.

Really, for 32, it's understated how much he would love to drown Pyrak in his own gruel.

The bastard had smirked at him as soon as he'd entered the canteen that morning, all bright and sunny just to spite the misfortune swilling around 32 right now. And to top it off, 32 couldn't stomach the food, no less the stares and utterings of those around him. Each whisper felt like screaming and 32 had wanted to snuff them all. Some of the soldiers were noticeably charred after the previous day's episode, and there was a lingering smell of cooked flesh. Somehow, they'd managed to make themselves even more repugnant.

Eventually, he'd slammed the food tray into the trash and slammed the door on his way out, daring anyone to approach; to say what they wanted to out loud.

Say that I failed. Do it.

Pyrak would. He'd sing it from the scorched stage if he could; it'd be a ballad he and all the obnoxious Northern soldiers could dance to, along with that piece of shit, Ytvl.

32 stops, feet perched as he halts suddenly.

Stop it.

All of this is going around his head -as usual. He so often works himself up like this, and as better as he is these days at not succumbing to the self-pity, it's still annoying to find himself caught up in such emotions.

He scrapes a hand along his face, pulling at the hair and pressing the bruise along his cheek. 32 knows better than this –he's trained himself out of this, so why is he feeling so… so… nostalgic?

Quick to answer, an image plays out in his mind; it's of an orange gi. The fabric flitters against equally bright flames.

Tch, he knows why he feels that way; Goh—32… No, 32.

32 knows why.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

His body fails him and he falls into a crouch, head against the hallway's wall.

You died. You died –I know you did. I saw Namek and you and Frieza and… and then nothing. I saw nothing and knew you were dead.

But… clearly not.

32's memories of those days aren't the best now. The multitude of concussions hasn't helped over the years, but that… saiyan isn't someone one just forgets. If there's one thing 32 remembers from the fog of his childhood, it is how brightly that man had shone… that man… that dead man.

It's impossible. I didn't…

32 didn't plan for this.

"Fuck."

Does this change anything? I… I…

It's the chattering of nearby soldiers that has 32 shoot up, rigorous. When they pass him, they daren't steal a glance, gingerly avoiding him as they tip-toe in the direction of the canteen. Their fear somewhat rejuvenates him. It feeds that dark, rotting sense of satisfaction as he watches them scurry away.

Vermin.

And the moment of doubt fizzles away; 32 remembers who he is. He straightens his captain's badge, puffs out his newly equipped furs and makes haste towards the Research Hall.

This changes nothing.

In the confines of the Research Hall, 32 begins to collect information on the group he thinks Ytvl may work for. As per expectation, very few soldiers occupy the space, and the place is a bit of sty, giving the impression that Northerners care more about brawn than brains. Not that this surprises 32, not really; but the revelation does come at an inconvenient time as with such a lack of resources, the leads are thin.

Still, 32 does latch onto something. Out of the variety of Frost Empire-opposed organizations, one does stand out from the rest. From the start they might appear as your typical run-of-the-mill rebel group, perhaps with a bit more cash behind them, but the well runs deeper than that.

This group; Cilo, operates in strict secrecy, keeping hidden the faces of the leaders and even the documentation on its agenda. That's all a bit strange, especially considering the cult following they've amassed over the years. 32 then reads about some possible big-name backers.

He sighs, rubbing his temples. Surely, more practiced captains would be better suited to this role. 32 has very little interest in politics. False niceties, empty smiles and systematized socializing goes far over his head –he's Southern; a people known not to enjoy the complications of such things.

And now he has to quite possibly deal with an organization like Cilo? How troublesome.

In 32's books, Cilo is most likely behind the heroic saving of Vegeta. They've just been so active recently, and they certainly have the funds to pull it off. Skimming through the flavourful documents online - ones citing hidden meetings, rallies and business trades - has him sure of it.

Yet, overall, there's actually little useful intelligence to be found. A lot of the information comes across as unconvincing rumours as journalists document hearsays. But in between the tripe pieces, there are a few interesting pointers, he supposes. One particular tavern's name crops up more than once in the documents.

Green Snow.

It's back in the Southern quadrant, close to where 32's main base is on planet Central.

'Green Snow was where the last gathering was held, I reckon.' One interview reads. There's a picture of a blue man with bulging pink eyes; one bigger than the other. 32 can't remember the species but unfortunately remembers their delight in devouring their spouse after a domestic. His lip curls as he reads on. 'Pretty sure Green Snow is run by sympathisers. I've never been myself because I'm Frost Empire through and through. It's in my blood! But I do know a lad who goes to them meetings for a laugh. He says it's full of them protesty-types; all young soldiers. You know the sort; those ones who can't hack what it means to be a true man, the ones who question Lord Cooler's reign! It boils my blood, it does. Those cock-sucking traitors who call-'

Well, that's enough of that rubbish.

32 sips his coffee. It's strong and bitter and not at all how he likes it. He wishes he could find some sugar, but anything sweet is abhorrently expensive so the funding department doesn't splurge. One would think being a captain would mean something around here, but apparently not. The shop worker had refused to even give him the smallest of packs of the sugary good stuff –the asshole. Whatever, 32 only wants the caffeine rush anyway.

By the afternoon, he wakes up a little. However, his head is splitting from dehydration and reading through research articles for too long. It turns out there's a lot more information online than he'd expected, and 32 divides his time between looking on the larger computer at his disposal and looking on his scouter. Annoyingly, most of the information online is blocked by the Empire's online information prevention system, so a good portion of the morning was spent trying to fight his way through the firewall.

Once he's finally through, he finds that Cilo has been growing steadily over the last year or so. It seems 32's earlier researching had been correct. Cilo indeed has many supporters, some with deep pockets and boundless generosity. Several blurred faces stare back at him from the screen with quotes written out beside them, stating their unwavering support for Cilo.

Time drags forward slowly until 32 manages to find and access Cilo's website. It doesn't display much, only its name (written in four different languages), their group motto: Burn the Ice Away, and today's date. It probably doesn't seem like anything special to most, but 32 reads between the lines. The suggestion means they're present and that they're still active -opposing the empire.

He drains the bitterness from his cup.

32 has watched many rebel groups appear and disappear and for that, Lord Hailer has rarely seen them as anything more than a nuisance. Perhaps one or two can become frustrating, like a small animal nibbling at your ankle, but they all end up the same way in the end: an example.

32 has seen exactly four executions of rebel leaders. He can't remember their names, only the harrowing echoes of their screams, and their cries for mercy. That's how it's supposed to be, because, honestly, who really remembers the victims? Their names are lost to time.

More will soon be lost, as will their united cause once Lord Hailer stamps out the rest of the insects.

His eyes glaze over, and he can feel the pull of the memories enrapturing him. Screaming men and women; burning, drowning, being suffocated… All slow deaths, all sending the same message.

The Frost doesn't melt. Ice is eternal.

Bright green eyes of one of the leaders had watched him, unblinking, as he'd cooked from the inside. They'd asked him why –they had wanted mercy. Alas, it hadn't mattered in the end; he'd stank of burnt meat and shit like the rest of them once he was dead.

The body had then been left to rot in a street, outside a school, in fact. 32 remembers seeing kids taller than he was peering over gates, horrified. He'd only been a boy then and fresh out of the Youth Program. That was when the message had been ingrained into him.

Ice is eternal, hope is for naught. Rebel groups will never succeed. Get on with it.

32 blankly stares at the computer screen, watching how his captain's badge twinkles back at him. Above, his gaunt reflection stares back with eyes wide and dark as matching discolouration shaped like crescents sit beneath.

Cilo seems to have one thing the others don't…

His mind spins and the orange imagery returns; the man donning it doesn't look a day older than he remembers, heroic and straight out 32's deepest repressed childhood memories.

32 falters, and the cup in his hand cracks.

Get on with it.

So he does.

The cup, now misshapen, sits back on his desk with its crack running south, as 32 continues his research.

32 treats himself to a particularly bright pill that night, revelling in the distortion after finding out little to nothing about Ytvl's whereabouts. Lord Hailer and Lord Cooler are away on business (most likely saving face after the disaster of Vegeta's failed execution), so there's no threat of a sudden summoning and so he pardons himself an evening of reckless intoxication.

Colours spin around the room until 32 can't focus. Shapes dance, grow and shrink, and the lightness 32 enjoys bubbles inside of him. The numbness continues on until the early hours of the morning, and the little sleep he manages is dream-free.

The next day of research yields similar results. This time, breakfast thankfully doesn't present Pyrak, but it's not without drama. There's a scuffle between Southern and Northern soldiers which escalates when the captains become involved. 32 stays out of it, finishing the rest of his food in the courtyard.

Sighing, 32 considers whether he should go back southward and continue researching from his home base at Central. He's better respected there, not that he's had many problems of recognition since the execution, but being in familiar territory is appealing to 32, especially with such dated research technology here.

Also…

From a distance, he watches as two Southern soldiers approach and berate a Northern soldier in the yard. 32 knows he should probably intervene but doesn't give enough of a shit to bother. If idiot soldiers want to kill one another, then by all means… Yet, it is proving distracting. Perhaps, he should go home to Central…

Late evening strikes when he has a realisation. He's fiddling with his scouter, with three empty cups sitting beside him as he sulks over his fruitless research. Nearby soldiers have been popping their heads in and out of the Research Hall over the last hour now, and 32 idly wonders if they have bets on him.

"Get lost!" he finally snaps after their third walk-by. In his frustration, he'd dropped the scouter and moves to retrieve it, hand halting when the scouter beeps, randomly showing 32's location.

Location…

His eyes widen.

I'm an idiot.

With haste, he fastens the scouter back on and dials in the code for the Southern Research Division. A soft bleep sounds out until the call is answered.

"Hesla' ta?" caws a female's croaky voice from the other end.

She's using the Southern tongue, commonly spoken on most of the Hailer-ruled planets. 32 recognizes her voice as one of the regular research team members. There aren't many women on the team, and even less elderly. He hasn't interacted with her much in the past so he asks to be passed onto someone he knows.

"Captain 32," greets Nami. He, too, speaks with a Southern tongue, knowing very little of the common universal language. Despite this, he's very gifted in research and has been 32's go-to for the last couple of years.

He also drinks 32 under the table every time.

"Researcher," 32 acknowledges respectfully.

Today is not a social call –it's entirely professional and Nami responds in kind. "How can I assist you?"

"I need you to track down the last known location of a scouter."

Shuffling can be heard on the other side. "Sure, you got the code?"

"No, you'll have to access the main database for this."

"Alrighty then, you got a name?"

32 pauses, knowing Nami won't like the answer. "It's a captain, from the north. Captain Ytvl."

A long breath is released from the other side. 32 knows finding a captain's location is never easy. Most captains have access to their own files and usually edit their history and location data. 32 does it on the regular. Deleted data can be retrieved, but it takes a lot of time and effort.

"Well, there goes my evening," Nami jokes, and 32 can hear rapid typing in the background.

32 smirks, but promises to buy Nami a drink when he's next back at base, feeling a bit less pent up. Speaking the Southern language releases a tension 32 didn't know he had been experiencing. The long whispering sounds and hiss-like tones of the phonics are so much easier to speak than the harshness of the common dialect.

"You best buy me something good. Or better yet, I need a hand in the engineering workshop. Got my hands on a 29-39."

Another new toy then, 32 supposes. It's probably a spaceship.

"I'll be in touch hopefully tonight or tomorrow," Nami then tells him, "be well, Captain."

"Same to you, Researcher."

The call ends with a final beep, and 32 finally feels a sense of satisfaction. Hopefully, this goes somewhere because he's sick of chasing phantoms and rumours. He needs results.

Even so, 32 concedes researching for the day, and his stomach elates. If he's lucky, he might catch the end of the dinner-time period in the canteen. Scraps do not sound appetizing right now.

Dressing back into his furs, 32 considers everything he's learned over today and yesterday, and although it's not a lot to go on, at least he has something.

Green Snow.

Well, at least he knows where he's going to take Nami for that drink.

Or so he'd think. But Nami doesn't call that evening, or even the next day.

And as a result, 32 is frustrated, enough so that he voluntarily goes to the training chamber to burn off steam. He'd had to kick out two soldiers who were fighting pretty heatedly. At least one of them was a Southerner because he'd scampered out the moment he saw 32 at the door.

Unfortunately, he doesn't feel any better after the workout session, just sweatier. It drips over his scouter when he checks for missed messages or calls.

A blank inbox stares back; nothing.

"What a joke," he breathes, closing the application. Why the hell hasn't Nami replied yet? He should have something by now. Unless that bastard Ytvl has disappeared into obscurity, then it shouldn't take this long.

But 32 doesn't have to wait too much longer, for it is after dinner when he finally gets his response.

Dinner itself is a tense occasion. The hall has finally partitioned itself into two sections; Southerners and Northerners. 32 chooses to sit by one of his fellow captains as to not rock the boat, and is rewarded with curt nods from the soldiers around him. It's quiet, considering how loud soldiers can be, especially during feeding hours. The atmosphere feels thick, and 32 wonders if he's missed something during the hours locked away in the Research Hall. No more does he hear of the whispers, and no more does he hear about the failed execution –only the lingering silence, it's… unexpected and discomforting.

The slop he's served lives up to expectation, however. It tastes bland, oily, and is grey in colour. Just as he's about to try and stomach another bite, he's interrupted.

"Captain 32," speaks a tepid sort of voice. 32 turns to the source and is surprised to see one of the soldiers he'd kicked out of the training room earlier.

Ugh, no.

Pausing with distaste, 32 looks the soldier up and down. He sure as hell hopes that the soldier isn't here to grovel. "What?"

"I, um… wanted to apologize-"

His utensils are dropped when he sighs.

The soldier is young, maybe around 32's age, if not a little older. His eyes are big, and there's a sort of delicacy about him. Red and bronze armour shelter his form, signifying that he's actually a Northerner as 32 had originally suspected back in the training room. And, really, in one way, 32 has to give it to him; it takes guts to approach a table full of Southern captains.

Regardless, 32 bats a hand at him. "Just go."

"B-But-"

"Get lost."

His captains laugh at the display but it doesn't deter the soldier.

If anything, the soldier advances with speed, approaching closer into 32's personal space than the captain would have liked. Over and over again, the soldier bows his head as he repeats his apology, forcing 32 to slide his chair away just to put some space between them.

"Please forgive me, Captain," the soldier continues to croon. 32 hates the noise. "I won't disrespect you or the empire like that again."

The captains are now laughing so hard that 32 swears he can hear snorting.

32 feels his cheeks warm. "Right, right, you're forgiven, now fuck off."

The soldier beams at him with a bright sparkle. Those eyes glow, and immediately it reminds 32 of Ytvl's faux friendliness. His stomach churns at the sight of it. But the soldier smiles, regardless, and after one more bow, he bounces back to his table and pale-faced colleagues.

"Wasted opportunity, that," purrs one of the older captains. He has a lewd look on his face, one that makes 32 feel dirty. Disgusting.

Leery, old twat.

32 shudders and turns back to his dinner. The brown sludge stares back at him, and what little remaining of 32's appetite disappears.

Wait.

Wait, brown?

He looks down at the trays of his fellow captains to see pools of grey, or at least the remnants of it. Chest tight, 32's eyes dart between his own food and their food, and then over to where that doe-eyed soldier had disappeared to.

The chair scrapes back when 32 stands, his fists vibrating.

That. Little. Bastard.

Furious, he swings his tray up, ignoring the lingering stares of the captains, and follows the soldier's path. He swerves past a flurry of other soldiers, some who appear aghast as he approaches. Several move out of the way instantly, others are pushed aside by 32 until he spots the first soldier sitting at a table with his peers. He's laughing at something, and the heat in 32's stomach boils into blistering bubbles.

The solider only notices 32 as he arrives at the table. His skin turns from pink to white almost instantly.

"C-Captain!"

His friends shuffle away, eying 32 as he looms over the table. The soldier looks up with those wide, innocent eyes of his but doesn't make a move otherwise. They'd be around the same height if the young man dared to stand. But apparently, the soldier has turned to stone, probably unable to even use his wobbly legs should he want to.

32 only has two words for the little shit.

"Eat it."

He chucks the tray down on the table, slop splashing at the young man's armour. It looks like speckles of mud; brown on red.

"C-Captain?" he squeaks. "I… I… this is your food, sir. I-I couldn't-"

32's voice drops low as he fixes his gaze on the soldier. "Eat it."

What little noise there was in the canteen has now come to a brisk end. 32 can hear the soldier's breath quicken, and the murmuring of Southern and Northern soldiers alike, yet not a single soul steps in.

Good, because he'd probably kill them.

The soldier looks down at the food, and then back up at 32. 32 presses closer when he notices the shit glance towards the exit. The captain gives an frosty smile as the break of sound loiters, expression cooling even further.

Suddenly, he slams a fist down on the table. Furiously, the canteen shakes.

"Here," 32 offers as he gestures towards a spoon, the soldier's eyes follow. "Let me know how it tastes."

32 allows the silence to stretch out into something painful. The soldier tries to speak, tries to defend himself in the face of 32's icy pleasantry, but chokes on any passing word. When nothing comes out, 32's smile disappears. He feels his face twist into something sour and ugly.

The soldier's wide eyes expand even wider. He looks impossibly young. "P-Please."

But they both must know begging is futile.

32's hand shoots forward and the light in his palm grows with rapid speed. It launches a swirl of blue and pink like a spherical jet, coursing fast, and stealing the light of the room.

It also steals the soldier's light as the blast hits the man directly between his eyes. The smell of burning hits before the soldier drops dead to the floor.

Nobody moves right away, not even 32. He scours the area, daring anyone to confront him. Row after row watches on, expressions either clouded or shaped by alarm. Even the Northern captains don't move. They just watch.

Still, there's always one. As 32 turns to leave, he catches Pyrak's gleeful demeanour near the other Southern captains. 32 glares when the idiot sends him a thumbs-up, and hears the bastard's deep belly laugh follow him out of the canteen.

Those slimy snakes in red, those fucking Northern assholes –how dare they?

Outside, in the courtyard, 32 breathes out, long and deep as he swallows the night's thin air. Every breath feels like fire. God, he'd love to just… just blow something up, and he isn't even that way! Between the pressure of the failed execution, his new mission and seeing his fath—

He pauses, fists clenched, and then reminds himself of the soldier just to give himself something else –anything else- to think about.

The… the fucking audacity!

He can't even eat his fucking dinner in peace. How the hell is he supposed to find Ytvl and Vegeta with vile vermin like that trying to trip him up? What a stupid idiot that soldier was –what an arrogant fool.

An arrogant… dead… fool.

32 sits.

And that's when his scouter lights up over his left eye. He has a call –finally.

"Researcher!" 32 answers, prompt.

It comes across as more aggressive than it had meant to, but all things considered, 32 can't bring himself to give a shit.

"Er, greetings, Captain… Bad time?"

"Have you got me a location?"

Nami doesn't push the matter and gets right to the point. "His scouter was deactivated, most likely by Captain Ytvl himself. It looks like he was heading south though, possibly towards planet Central, according to his last location entry."

32 clicks his tongue. "Got a specific location?"

"Yeah, it's at a fuel port; the Axis Station. Know it?"

He does. They stock a large variation of fuel types, so it's a suitable stop for any ship that hasn't been certified by a particular craft-maker or company, and is usually frequented by pirates. 32 thinks back to the ship Vegeta was thrust onto, and how it didn't look like any other spacecrafts he'd come into contact with before.

Finally, his chest lightens. "It's also on a direct route to Central. Nami, I think you're right, they're heading your way."

Nami chuckles into 32's ear. "I guess I'll be seeing you for that drink sooner rather than later then."

32 snorts, stands and starts walking back towards his room. He has a trip to pack for. "Yeah, I know exactly what tavern we'll be going to too."

.

.

.

.

.

.

It's been far too long since I updated this. I don't know why because it's a million times easier to write than Horse, yet I only got to it when I'd been mid-writing a chapter for Horse and my computer deleted 4K of it :) So now I can't look at that story for a while, haha. Oh well, have a chapter of this instead. And the chapter after this will be spicy.

Thanks for the reviews, favs and follows (and also to Kags as per for her beta-ing!). I hope you enjoyed this one and have a grand day.