Unlike their Universe 7 counterparts, the Namekians of Universe 6 were not divided into specialists. There were no Dragon or Warrior castes; no distinguishing clans. Each native of Namek was equally capable of combat as they were at magic. Furthermore, their reproductive cycles differed. The Namekians of Universe 6 were extremely limited in the number of children they could birth. Two. Two eggs were all a Namekian could produce in a single lifetime, and only after they reached 60 solar rotations - the equivalent of 250 Earth years. This biological constraint prevented booming populations and sprawling cities. It kept them close to their ancestry but staggered their technological growth.
Indeed, before the first aliens arrived on Namek, hard work was all that they had. Autonomous machines like robots and computers didn't exist. The Namekians traded herbs and medicines for tools and equipment. They trained warriors from other worlds in exchange for knowledge and food. And although they were offered complex types of machinery like vehicles or microwaves countless times, the Namekians always doggedly refused. Their hearts were with their culture, their traditions; their simple Namek ways.
More than anything, Slug wanted to return to that.
He was slumped against the cold Katchin of his cell, opposite his bunk that had been toppled over. A rivulet of violet-colored blood flowed from his lower lip. His right eye was swollen and bruised, and one of his antennae had been ripped off at its base. Perhaps most disturbing of all, a large section of his skull was completely concave; resembling a partially deflated balloon. A pair of silhouettes stood over him, each backed by a flickering orange light and an intense crackle of flames.
"We warned ya', Namekian. You had this coming!"
The infuriated voice sounded vaguely familiar but Slug couldn't pinpoint it. He was dazed and confused. It all happened too fast. One moment he was asleep, dreaming of Namek. Next, his mattress was being lifted and tipped. Fists and boots attacked him from all angles, knocking his wits about. Slug tried covering his head but the last stomp nearly finished him. He heard a crunch, felt a sharp pain, and then wilted as his energy sapped and unconsciousness crept in. The Namekian's head had been caved in; dented into an unrecognizable shape. However, before he could fade, something wet and freezing struck his face and shocked him awake.
"Eh, don't worry about it," one attacker reassured the other. "He'll heal up quickly."
Slug rolled onto his back; his left unblemished eye glaring up at the figures. At first, they were an imperceptible blur - his vision hadn't properly settled. And then he focused, the foggy silhouettes becoming gradually clear.
The guards.
The first officer held a blazing wooden torch; the second cradled an empty water bucket. Their knuckles were stained purple, and sadistic smirks were plastered across their faces. Slug couldn't defend himself, it was an ambush; a planned attack. Motivated by a wicked desire to see Slug beaten and bloodied, they waited until he fell asleep to exact their cruel intentions, catching him when he least expected.
"You could chop off one of his limbs and he'd grow it back," continued the officer.
"Really?" asked the other. "What about his head, could he grow that back?"
The first chortled at the question, "Nah, then he'd definitely die. It's the same with vital organs. Destroy a Namekian's heart or lungs and they're sleeping with the fishes." He etched worryingly closer to Slug. "But remove an arm or a leg..."
The Saiyan crouched beside Slug, lowering his fiery torch close to the Namekian's eye. Within it, he hoped to see fear or anxiety, maybe even a tear. The inmate had been brutalized within an inch of his life, and for most prisoners, that would be more than enough to break them. Instead, as Slug's mind composed itself with realization, the guard saw unbridled rage; a seething fury bubbling just beneath the surface.
"What's the matter, Slug?" the guard inquired jeeringly. "You look upset."
The second Saiyan swiftly chimed in, "Maybe you'll think twice before disrespecting the food we prepare for you!"
Cackling, the torch-bearing officer found warped amusement in taunting the inmate. "Say..." he then added. "Do you really need both of your arms?"
Slug remained silent. He wasn't going to speak and give them the satisfaction of dialogue. His body was still in shock, and he would undoubtedly be in severe agony afterward, but Slug's mind remained sharp. Centuries of combat training and preparedness readied him for moments such as these. In times of interrogation or torture, he was taught to not give the enemy an inch; to remain steadfast and endure. It was the art of fighting without physically resisting.
"I wanna see it," said the other guard. "Cut one of them off, go on! Let's see if it grows back."
"My pleasure..." replied the first, his tone dark and fiendish. With his free hand, the Saiyan reached into his belt and retrieved a grubby impromptu blade fashioned from random components and sticky tape. "Confiscated this from an inmate up top. They thought they were gonna stick me with it... Didn't work out too well for 'em. He's in the infirmary now, with two fractured orbitals and a snapped knee." Rotating the shank in front of Slug, the metal glinted in the fire's light. It was serrated; still razor sharp and intended for cutting. "Rather than let this fine piece of craftsmanship go to waste, how about we test it on one of your limbs?"
Reaching for Slug's frail arm, the guard's brown pupils dilated as his adrenaline spiked. Slug tried pulling away but the officer slashed at his face, resulting in a deep laceration across his good eye. More purple fluid poured from the injured Namekian.
"Stay still, you mongrel!" the Saiyan warned, foam frothing at his mouth. He was bloodthirsty, barbaric; devoid of any reasoning. At that precise moment, there was nothing separating the prison guard from someone like Eluppa, besides a grey and tan uniform. "Don't try to fight it..."
Old, fragile, and overwhelmed, Slug bit down hard and helplessly accepted his fate.
TWO DAYS LATER
More rainstorms. More thunder and lightning. Like before, the bucket was brimming with rainwater and a large figure sat before it, this time shrouded in a dark woolly blanket. It was quiet; it had been for a while. The madcap space pirate, Eluppa, wasn't in his cell. He'd been removed from solitary confinement for 'good behavior' and was now serving his time among the other inmates.
At least, that's what the guards explained when they rushed in and escorted him out. The truth was likely a lot more abhorrent. Eluppa was witness to the abuse that cost Slug his arm. They couldn't have that short purple alien prattling about it while the warden chaperoned a member of the royal family around. Chances were, Eluppa was locked up someplace secret, disconnected from the main complex, out of sight and out of mind. Or perhaps he was floating face-down in sewage, unresponsive and being gnawed on by diseased rats. Regardless, the psychopathic blabbermouth wasn't around to cause them issues.
When the warden learned of the royal visit, panic quickly ensued. It was such short notice. Corridors were briskly swept and sanitized. Fresh new coveralls were distributed to the inmates. Holes and cracks were filled in with resin or cement, and their excessive rodent problem was temporarily dealt with. It was an ambitious clean-up mission. The prison hadn't been subject to this level of care in decades, and still, it was like a band-aid on a blaster wound; a well-intentioned but ill-conceived effort. The guards made the consequences for misbehaving during the visit extremely transparent to everyone, including their own. Those they deemed troublemakers vanished without a trace. Those that were injured or displayed symptoms of abuse were either powdered in make-up or - depending on the severity - braced permanently to hospital beds, appearing as though they were undergoing treatment for a prison brawl gone wrong. Anything that could depict the penitentiary in an unpleasant manner needed to be hidden and buried, or at the least easily excusable.
Solitary confinement, for the most part, was left relatively untouched. Since the news broke, the guards ventured down twice with rat poison and insect repellent, the latter of which made Slug ill. They also pressure-washed the floor and put in scented candles to mask the wretched odor. The major precautions - namely removing Eluppa - had already been taken. Still, it was unlikely that Warden Pinrut would bring the royal visitor here, at least not willingly.
It was almost forty-eight hours since the attack. Slug's skull had recovered its shape. His antennae had regrown. All the bruising and swelling had disappeared. But the deep cut across his left eye, the one caused by a makeshift blade, stubbornly refused to heal. He jerked his shoulders to adjust the woolly blanket, then extended a hand to the wooden bucket.
"Grrrr..." he growled in frustration as he struggled to take hold of it. The container weighed too much for one hand. Unfortunately, one was all that he possessed. Contrary to his assailants' beliefs, Slug's right arm didn't grow back. It wasn't because he was unable, but they didn't account for Slug being so old - ancient, even. The energy required to regrow entire limbs was far too much for the Namekian to muster. This came as a total shock when the guards visited the following morning. They panicked, tossed him a blanket, and threatened him with further violence if he told anyone.
"Snitches get stitches," they said. "And Namekians get un-legged."
The woolly covering was enough to encompass Slug's sizeable frame. He used it to conceal his fleshy stump, which had ceased bleeding but throbbed excruciatingly at the slightest breeze. Surviving with one arm was going to be difficult. Simple things like getting out of his bunk or lifting a bucket required a great deal more effort. In an age long since passed, Slug had the very same limb amputated while on a hunt. His party was out stalking a Kreplik, an enormous creature native to Namek with a voracious appetite. It had been attacking his village in the night; targeting farmers and their livestock to fill its stomach. They followed it back to its lair and confronted the beast, during which Slug's right arm was bitten off. On that day, he experienced being single-handed for a fleeting moment. That was nothing compared to now.
A series of low-pitched grunts escaped from the Namekian as his left arm stretched out, becoming elastic and malleable. Like a constricting serpent, it coiled around the bucket twice over and squeezed. He then raised the wooden container to his mouth and wolfed its contents down. As the water flowed into his gullet, Slug's thoughts were on his sons, Nicul and Pidoku. They were younglings, still learning their place in the tribe. Both showed immense potential and exceptional leadership qualities. Nicul was the shorter of the two. He was charismatic; full of peace and vigor. Pidoku, on the other hand, was far more assertive. He was always thinking of the tribe's welfare; always willing to fight for it. The two boys were a near-perfect split of their father.
He reminisced about the time they went foraging for fruit not far from their dwelling.
"Over here, Father!" Nicul called to him. "I see a Metnug plant!"
"Ok, ok!" Slug joyously laughed. "Well spotted, my boy."
"RARHHHHHHH!" To Slug and Nicul's surprise, Pidoku burst out from the brush and came sprinting past them, roaring at the top of his lungs. His hatchet was raised high above his head, and in one fell swoop, the youngling thrust down and chopped the plant in half. "Take that!" he screamed.
"Pidoku, what are you doing!?" Nicul yelled, baffled by his brother's actions.
"Killing it?" replied Pidoku, appearing equally perplexed.
"You moron! We can't harvest the fruit if you cut it in half, that's where it grows!"
"Sure we can!" Pidoku said. "It just means we'll have to harvest two halves instead of one whole! Take a look!" He stepped aside, revealing the bulbous coconut-like fruit divided into two pieces. "See, more fruit for us!"
"That's not how it works!" Nicul planted the palm of his hand into his own face. "Father, tell him!"
Slug erupted into a hearty chuckle. Seeing his offspring squabble reminded him a lot of his childhood; how he used to argue with his siblings over such trivial matters. He was proud of his boys and how far they'd come. One day, Pidoku and Nicul would lead Namek into the future. Slug truly believed they would carry on the traditions passed down through generations and-
Hakai!
The wooden bucket - Slug's lifeline in the hopelessness of the Pinneyapple Penitentiary - suddenly exploded. It all came back to him at once. The tournament, the invitation, and above all else, the pain. Memories of that torturous afternoon on Namek were like daggers in Slug's heart, far more agonizing than anything the prison officers could inflict. The silence was disrupted by anguished pants. Slug was palpitating; desperately trying to control his breathing. The emotional turmoil was just too much to burden alone.
"AHHHHH!" His tough exterior finally shattered. The Namekian's voice became stricken with grief and sorrow. Everything he had bottled up erupted at that exact moment. A bitter chill enveloped him like the woolly blanket didn't exist, and his stomach knotted and folded until he felt the growing urge to vomit. "AHHHHHHHH!"
"What in Father's name is that distressing racket, Pinrut?"
"I-I'm so sorry, Your Grace. I'll go and see to it, right away!"
Wandering down a gloomy, torch-lit cobblestoned corridor, Warden Pinrut and Prince Olarus - third son of King Sadala - leisurely made their way through. A long red carpet had been rolled out to cushion the prince's feet from the knobbly uneven flooring, and two guards flanked them, each armed with an electro-staff to punish any unruly inmates. The warden was a dark-skinned and stocky Saiyan sporting a thick black beard and grey cap. His arms were too staunch for the standard-issued uniform, resulting in him tearing the sleeves off to expose his bulky biceps. Most prisoners were intimidated by Pinrut, and they had every right to be. He was a ruthless, no-nonsense type of character. Anything that disturbed his peace typically ended in a public display of humiliation or a fierce lashing. Prince Olarus, on the other hand, was incredibly lean; lacking any noticeable muscle definition. Draped in his royal garments, the prince's avian-like frame instilled more dread into the prison staff than Pinrut or any inmate could ever hope to achieve. His hair was a fiery red, stylized upward into two sharp points like twin mountain peaks, and he was bedazzled in expensive jewelry; fingers stacked to the joints with gold rings and diamonds.
The short-notice visit had been orchestrated by King Sadala. The king had grown concerned that his monetary contributions were being scandalously misused - after all, the Pinneyapple Penitentiary was funded by the royal treasury. To investigate, he sent his third eldest to the facility and tasked him with auditing. He needed to be sure that all invoices matched the ledgers; that the money was being properly allocated and that the prison wasn't falling apart. Needless to say, the staff were quick to act. They illicitly forged financial statements and swept glaring problems under the carpet. They achieved the bare minimum to mask underlying issues such as painting over bloodstains or erecting portraits over holes in the walls. Where the king's gold was mostly going was into their pockets, with Pinrut, of course, receiving the lion's share.
They had just passed a grey door with a plaque that read 'SOLITARY CONFINEMENT' above it when a harrowing cry echoed out. To Pinrut's embarrassment, it soured the prince's jovial mood.
"It came from in here," Olarus turned and approached the door. "Solitary confinement... what is this? Please explain."
Clearly anxious, Pinrut swallowed a nervous lump before forcing a smile. "M-my Lord, that's where we keep the misbehaving inmates. They're isolated from the rest of the complex until they calm down and learn their lesson."
"And who, pray tell, is currently in there?... What exactly did they do?"
"Uhhhh..." A bewildered expression struck the warden. In truth, he didn't know who was down there, because he hardly paid attention to internal affairs. Unless there was a riot or someone had died, Pinrut couldn't care less about what went down. Fortunately for him, one of the guards leaned into his ear and whispered the answer - sparing him from further embarrassment.
"A Namekian named Slug, Your Grace," he said. "He didn't like the food our chef had prepared so started a brawl in the mess hall."
"Mess hall means... the dining area, correct?"
"That's right, My Liege."
"I see... Slug, hmm? I recognize that name. May I pay him a visit?"
"Uhhhh..." Again, the warden's countenance stooped to uncertainty. He didn't know Slug's temperament or condition, and there was a strong possibility that visiting him could open up a can of trouble. But then Pinrut remembered his given orders. If Slug did pose a problem, the guards would've removed him from the picture days ago. "I-... I don't see why not, Your Grace. Please, allow my guards to enter first."
The warden turned and instantly locked eyes with the escorting officers. Without uttering a single word, they received the message, loud and clear: Go in and shut the wailing Namekian up.