Number Thirty-Two
It's an astronomical wonder.
Nearby Capsule Corporation's private takeoff site, in a small patch of night sky amongst the stars, blues and pinks and yellows pulsate, visible to the people of Earth hours after the explosion transpired. They fade into glitter and then into nothing at all, the milky shine of the galaxy now lonelier for it.
"Whoa," breathes out Trunks, nestled between his grandparents. "What was that?"
Although beautiful, Goku recognizes danger when he sees it. He zips up his spacesuit, having received his invitation to meet in person with Cilo, knowing he'll be plunging himself back into the lights.
"The way forward."
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Patriotic Playthings
In the presence of Shenron, the mighty dragon of Earth, Goku had a new set of wishes for the first time in years of summoning him. No longer will Shenron reject to bring his son him. This is because Goku now understands that he cannot wish for such a thing, that Gohan cannot be summoned, that for the last decade, Gohan had been alive but strangely untouchable by the dragon balls. He'd recalled Gohan's ability to breathe life into the Namekian balls by touch alone. Namekians are disgusted by him. Gohan's energy feels rotten, like death, as described.
Death…
How many times has Gohan tried to kill himself? How many times has he failed?
What happened to Gohan's body after Goku had lowered him from his cross?
With the hum of the dragon's energy, Goku's eyes had closed, his hands had been shaking. He'd opened with a wish the others thought him stupid for asking.
"I wish you to bring Gohan Son to Earth," he'd tested.
The dragon had denied him.
In response, Piccolo had stepped forward. "Because Gohan Son is dead, right?"
"Is he dead?" Goku had pressed, heart encumbered with hope at the pregnant silence.
There'd been yet another pause. The dragon had been considering its answer. "No," he'd eventually permitted, leaving it at that.
Vegeta and Piccolo had reeled but Goku had already been devout to his own truth. He'd realized something was afoot the moment he'd opened the door to find Gohan's body gone. There'd been no others on the ship, no one at all—he would have sensed them. Piccolo did sense something, something Vegeta and Goku had not, if only fleetingly.
And who can sense Gohan? Namekians. Piccolo.
"He's not dead," Goku had concluded back on that ship, shocking even himself after holding his son's corpse no less than twenty minutes before.
"Don't be ridiculous," Vegeta had asserted.
Vegeta had eaten his words after summoning the dragon, mouth agape as Goku had processed what all this could really mean. By this point, two other wishes had already been made and so the third had needed to be decided—and fast.
But that'd been fine. Goku had known for quite some time about how to go about this should his instincts prove right—and they always proved right.
With bated breath, Goku had waited for the wish to be accepted. Would Shenron allow such a thing? Would it work? Would Gohan's connection thwart everything?
Long, daunting seconds had passed, until soon enough, eyes had glowed crimson, promising such a wish. The balls had dispersed and Goku had dropped to his knees, relieved. It'd been the best he could do.
The blackened skies had cleared, revealing the usual constellations mapping out the inky darkness over Capsule Corporation. In the background, Goku had absently recognized the painful sounds of a family reunion, of Trunks and Bulma, of Vegeta who had immediately vacated Goku's left to be with his loved ones.
And then.
"Goku!"
At the familiar tone of voice, Goku'd spun on his heels, spotting his friend in the nearby distance. He'd charged forward, stumbling over slippery, wet grass, before swallowing Krillin into a hug.
"Krillin!"
There'd been pushback.
"L-Listen! Goku! Let go! Stop! You've gotta' know that the guy who killed me was actually—!"
Although Goku wouldn't relent, there'd been a firm shove.
"Goku! Let go! That guy was—!"
"—Gohan, I know," Goku had finished, finally allowing space, squeezing his best friend by the shoulders and taking in the full image. "I know… I'm sorry."
"Y-You know?"
"Yeah."
"Oh."
He'd swallowed his shame. "We didn't find out in time. He's not here now. He's… Well…"
"He's not dead," Krillin had attested. "Goku, you aren't going to believe this…"
Goku had believed it. All of it. After dying, Krillin had been sent to King Yemma's desk, where King Yemma had complained about the cause of death and the perpetrator who had committed the sin.
"I didn't believe him when he said it was Gohan! Our Gohan… Y'know, heh, I'd just started laughing… I couldn't stop… I, uh, I think it must've been kinda' creepy. Some of the worker people at the Check-In Station had to move me out of the line until I calmed down.
"I… look… Goku, honest, I'd wanted to contact you right away—but I couldn't. They wouldn't let me. Heck, they wouldn't even let me speak to King Kai. They just sent me on my way to Otherworld. As a cloud! Can you imagine? I didn't even get to keep my body this time!"
"That's awful."
"Yeah, right? Well, before I was sent away, King Yemma did let slip something about Gohan, then he turned me into a freakin' puffy—."
By this point, Piccolo had lost his patience. "Spit it out!"
"I'm gettin' to it, all right? Don't shake me like that! I've just got back! King Yemma was gripin' about Gohan's name being on some list a load of times. I didn't know what he meant by that until later. That's when I learned that the list was somethin' called the Death Register. One of the workers told me that Gohan's been scheduled many, many times at the Check-In Station but just never showed up. That King Yemma always gets real mad whenever it happens.
"Uh… Why are you both starin' at me like that? Do either of you know what that could mean?"
Piccolo and Goku had swapped a look, a shared intuition.
Hours later, Krillin had been rightfully returned to his own family, and Goku, now alone, had saturated in his own aching bitterness.
God, he'd been so close. Gohan had been there. In the ship. In his proximity. Goku had dined with him. Had spoken and joked and even touched him.
He'd curled his fists, watching stars mockingly dazzle.
"Just so you know… I think you were right to make that wish," Piccolo had said in reference to the dragon balls. "For Gohan, it's a matter of if, not when."
Goku had focused on where the dragon once loomed, heartsick. "Whatever happened to him—that curse—I think it's because of Namek. Dragon balls, namekians, and now immortality…"
"Curse," he'd focused on, sardonic, thoughtful.
There's a weight of irony that Goku has yet to unpack. If Gohan is still alive like the dragon had said then that means… that means he cheated death. That means…
"Immortality. I don't know if that could even be called a curse… How many have wanted such a thing?"
"Frieza… Hailer and Cooler probably."
"But not Gohan."
No. Not Gohan. For him, it is a curse.
Gohan is not somebody who loves life. Even when hidden behind his number, even when he wasn't Gohan to him, Goku was able to recognize the nature of somebody who wants nothing more than to be invisible. To hide. To submerge himself in books. To immerse himself in the television with its bright colours and cartoony, playful action. It's as if he'd never seen a film before, Goku had lamented weeks ago.
Back when Gohan had been small enough to carry in one arm, they'd watch films together from the humble television set centering the warm and perfect little living room they'd shared. With Chi-Chi, too. They'd sit as a family.
Goku hadn't appreciated it at the time.
Really, to watch a film together. That's what Goku wants to do with his son. It's a wish so small.
One day, he promises himself, when this mess is over, Goku will make it happen.
"Damn it, Goku! You just dented the insulation space!"
Goku swerves the ship into a dramatic dive. Meteoroids graze by the shell casing.
"Be careful!"
The ship's pace quickens after finally clearing the longest asteroid belt of Goku's life. He's no hotshot pilot like Bulma or Gohan, and taking chances in a brand new ship in an active belt seems a sure fire way to be murdered by the prior. All things considered, it wasn't a bad performance on his part, with only a few near hits—it's just that Bulma's a total perfectionist who can't relinquish control despite being billions of miles away.
"Don't give me that look," she barks through the video call. "If I was there, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"
Goku sighs, activating the auto-pilot. "I don't know why you're blaming me. It was Vegeta who—."
"I'm blaming ALL of you! You all snuck off and STOLE my ship the moment my back was turned!"
That's not entirely off base. Scratching the back of his neck, Goku laughs, still awkward.
"You're all assholes!"
"It's just too dangerous out here. It's best if you wait on Earth for when we get back—."
"DANGEROUS?!" The speakers positively frazzle. "You'd all be dead without me!"
True enough. But Vegeta had been absolute in Bulma remaining on Earth with Trunks and her parents. Whilst she may be the best with the ship, she can hardly defend herself against the Frost Empire or whatever the heck else is out here. She can help from a distance. She's safe on Earth under the wish that has the planet unapproachable by anyone from the Frost Empire or any other group that may bring harm to it.
On the digital map, a space station flickers on the outskirts. It looks inviting with the fuel gauge as low as it is, but Bulma is determined to only use the reserves aboard the ship until reaching Cilo territory. He doesn't really want to go there. It's been a while since Goku's been, and even longer since he'd seen Lya, who had been mysteriously called away on business.
A replacement handler had taken Lya's position as quickly as Vegeta said one would, and he'd instantly put Goku to work with what was called "propaganda material". Since then, Goku has found himself a busy man—everyone wants to speak with him these days—and it's not that Goku doesn't appreciate all the kind words he receives for defeating Frieza, but it's just not what he's there for. People with names Goku cannot remember have been super welcoming, and they're all sympathetic when Goku tells them of his missing son stuck working for the Frost Empire.
"It's a tale as old as time," one mustached man with an elongated alien head had told him. "Separated by war. Monopolized young minds. How they prey upon the vulnerable."
"They have always turned the youth against their bearers. Stay resilient. Perhaps your boy will be one of the salvaged innocents."
"Wouldn't that make your son a saiyan? Oh. Oh, how difficult for him."
"Just anuva' reasun' to kill 'em Frost fuckahs!"
So many voices from so many nameless, faceless people who had rushed over to shake his hand. They'd just wanted to touch him. They'd wanted to thank him. To pray to him, perhaps, to achieve victory over the Frost lords again.
"Don't tell them who Gohan is, that he's Thirty-Two," Vegeta had advised when the crowds had dispersed.
"Why not?"
"You'd be endangering both yourself and him."
"Yes," Piccolo had agreed, "By outing yourself as his father then the Frost Empire may use that to punish Gohan. Not only are saiyans illegal, but you're also the most wanted person in the universe."
"I still think you're an idiot for making these videos at all," Vegeta had said. "Now you're stuck in the middle of this thing."
That's the point. Gohan can't just send him home anymore like some naughty kid. Goku's just as swept up in all this hell as Gohan is himself—if all this goes south with Gohan then Goku will fall alongside him.
"Have there been any more explosions near Earth?" Goku then asks Bulma, knowing that she must have been monitoring where there had been a nearby altercation just a couple of days ago.
"Nothing's pinged." The sigh is distorted. "There has been a lot of activity near Mars, however. It's been on the News."
"Mars?"
"Dad and I think that's about as close as they're able to get to Earth before they lose our signal. There've been plenty of efforts at contact, even with RF, but I've made sure to block all attempts, specifically DSN coming from foreign ships. We've had a bit of pushback from various global space agencies but Capsule Corp. has enough hold over them." The laugh is rich with condescension. "Try denying us and see where you'll be getting your next rocket boosters!"
"The wish really worked then."
"Oh, boy, did it ever. Otherwise, I think they—the Empire—would already have… y'know…"
Vegeta has explained in great deal what the Frost Empire does with bountiful, beautiful planets such as Earth. He's told them what saiyans would be expected to do. What would happen to the people of Earth.
Goku swallows. If they're rejecting communication attempts from the Frost Empire that means nobody at all would be able to reach them. "Do you think Gohan's… tried to contact us?"
There's a pause. "No, I don't."
He nods, knowing as much. A breath is taken.
"He's stubborn."
"He is," Goku allows on the release, laughing, sad. After a time, he smiles, staring at the microphone. "I'm gonna' have to drag him home, aren't I?"
"Kicking and screaming, I'm afraid. Like I said to you on Earth, Gohan's beyond reasoning. He's been indoctrinated into a sense of doom, and worse of all, the stubborn little jerk he is, he has no desire to escape it. I kind of get the impression that he gets a kick out of being miserable."
"Keh. Vegeta said that 'Gohan sentenced himself to his own misery'."
"I said that to him! Like Vegeta was any different when he got to Earth."
"Don't let him hear you compare them."
"Well, if anyone understands Gohan, it'll be Vegeta. And he knows as much, too. I think that's why he never has much nice to say about him—because he reminds him too much of himself from before. It's hard to look into a mirror like that, I suppose."
"I guess. Vegeta never talks about his time working for the Empire."
"Yeah… It's not nice listening," Bulma eventually replies.
Goku holds the beat. "Well, I… I hope that one day I have the displeasure of hearing about it from Gohan himself. As awful as that is to say."
"Me, too."
They lose connection sometime around three in the morning, Earth time, and Goku sits by himself, mulling over his thoughts as so often he does when left for long stretches into the graveyard shift. Vegeta and Piccolo are asleep (or at least, Goku hopes they are because one of them needs to take over the control panel soon), and so the only sound Goku has to keep him company is the low, monotonous hum of the computer. Staring into its screen colourlessly, Goku loses focus, his mind heavy with the usual knowledge that Gohan is out there, possibly at a control panel himself, alive and strong, sure, but resilient in his sadness all the same.
What time is it for Gohan? Is it night? Is it morning? Is he resting well? Has he eaten? Goku hopes that he's eaten.
Goku always thinks about the trivialities. He always wonders—especially now, after knowing what sort of person he is—what Gohan must be doing with his time, remembering him with his books and his pen and paper. What's Gohan's favourite thing to read about? What does he write about? Think about? Do?
Goku's addicted. All he does is think about Gohan, or think of ways in how to reach Gohan. He loves him so much. It's painful how much one person can love another. It's not fair, Goku believes, to hurt this much because of another. It hadn't hurt this much for anyone else. Not for Grandpa. Not for Chi-Chi. Not even for the little baby that was never born. But Gohan—no, that's different. Losing Gohan represents the moment in Goku's life where everything circled the drain, the agonizing ghost that follows Goku from day to day, reminding him of his sweet boy that became a victim to a fight that should have never been his.
It's true, Gohan should never have been allowed to planet Namek.
Nor to fight Vegeta and Nappa.
Chi-Chi had been right. He shouldn't have taken him to Kame Island on that fateful sunny day Raditz arrived on Earth.
God, it'd been a chain reaction, hadn't it? One horror after another. What chance had Gohan even had, really? Sure, under the circumstances, Gohan had at least been spared Cell, but what had he faced in its place? What monsters has Gohan instead suffered? What made him so hateful? So untrusting of others? So incapable to exhibit warmth. So like Vegeta in his incompetence to fathom kindness.
They are broken soldiers. Toys ruined under the hands of their Lords and that wretched, awful Youth Program. At least on Earth, Gohan'd felt the warmth of affection. By so, so many, he'd been loved. He's still loved. If only he could understand that.
A broken toy soldier which cannot feel.
Goku would kill for Gohan.
He has.
He did. Had. Would again.
Goku's world is dark, only brightening when shaken.
"Son," Piccolo says lowly, his large, clawed hand firm against Goku's shoulder. "Son, go to bed. You're no good to anyone like this."
Goku wipes his eyes, feeling, despite being caught napping on the job, that he hadn't caught a wink at all. Permanently exhausted, with brittle bones that are always pushed far too hard, Goku meanders to his room, where, lying in his bed, he quickly succumbs to the dark once more, imagining lines of plastic, cold playthings with faceless faces.
That afternoon, he wakes to the sound of Vegeta barraging against his door, announcing that they'll soon be arriving to Blue Bridge, otherwise known as Cilo's headquarters. It's atop a nameless dwarf planet orbiting the only blue giant star in the South. But it does so at a distance far enough to ensure a consistent layer of frost atop the small subsection of buildings making up the base. Worse yet, because there is such a prominent axial tilt, the seasons are rash and prone to bipolar blizzards. Landing the ship can be tricky.
There is no storming this time, thankfully, and it's Vegeta who awkwardly brings the carrier to a still in the landing zone.
"You're getting better," Goku praises as though Goku himself hadn't cost them two landing wheels when here last time.
"Fuck off."
They'd been expected at the landing zone, so a shuttle is patiently waiting to ferry them along the icy tarmac and into what could be described as a fort. Blue Bridge is not a bridge at all.
When asked about its namesake, Goku had been told of, what could be described as a childish fable, about an asteroid belt once named the Blue Bridge. Unlike other asteroid belts, this one had been inhabited by a fearsome clan. They'd lived over multiple manmade stations, riding the belt amongst the debris and meteoroids. This clan began their stay, vigilant—mindful—and active in order to avoid the onslaught of projectiles, but this changed with the new tide of generational currents. As the years carried into decades, decades into centuries and centuries into millennia, the clan grew complacent as the amount of meteoroids reduced. Arrogant, perhaps, with their occupation of the belt. For a stretch of generations, no meteoroids approached, and soon enough, they became that of a memory.
"But what goes around comes around," Vegeta had said, knowing the fable already.
"Yes," Clow had replied, eyes closed in mirth, appreciating his own story. "The Frost family now think themselves above the belt they have occupied. But—," there'd been a wink, "what is meant to be will return upon them."
Clow hadn't known it back then, as he'd stood beside Lya, giving his enthusiastic history lesson, how he'd be the next to become Goku and the others' handler. That being said, Goku doesn't think he'd minded the "promotion".
It's actually Clow who greets them after they leave the landing zone, all limbs and length, no muscle and, as Vegeta says, no brain.
"Welcome back, boys!" he calls out, giving a salute.
"The clone…" Vegeta grumbles.
Piccolo holds his pleasantries, forcing Goku to be gracious. "Clow," he says.
It doesn't deter him. "Blue Bridge welcomes back its finest guests for the Annual Anniversary Meeting. But, oh boy, it's a special one this time! Are any of you in need of rest? Nurishment? Saiyans like their food, after all! Or how about you, Piccolo, care for a dash of photosynthesis? Let's give those chloroplasts something to do with one of our heat lam—."
"Let's just get on with the video," Goku interrupts, referencing the propaganda videos they requested Goku make. The smile is strained. "It's been a long trip."
"Nonsense, nonsense. We must catch up. The higher ups can wait for their beloved content—it's been an age since we last spoke."
They spoke two days ago.
Goku almost feels bad for his dislike of Clow, especially with how much he tries to engage them—but when his gut knows, it knows. There's something not quite right about Clow, much in the same way there'd been something not quite right about Lya or Ytvl.
Still, it'd hurt all the same when Goku watched Ytvl, alive and well, on the television screen, addressing the loyal viewership of the Northern Frost Empire with a overextended smile across his face. Goku had shared meals with him. Laughed and worried and lived with him.
"I told you," Vegeta had said, "a snake."
Another toy soldier, Goku had instead decided. Another broken plaything.
And who are behind the hands that snap the plastic they made?
Clow claps his unmarred, smooth hands together, holding them in matrimony. "Oh, we've been quite the busy troopers here at Blue Bridge. So much has happened, so much is happening. We have a wealth of details to catch you up on, boys. A wealth indeed."
Vegeta appears to have swallowed a lime at the idea of a debriefing.
"Mostly good, mostly good. Don't you worry yourself."
"Oh, how relieved I am."
"That's the spirit!"
"Naturally, we've had some troubling news, too. We've taken on some losses in a recent acquisition of territory. Some leading Frost figures are forefront once more, notably Captain Thirty-Two of the South. Oh, that's right. You've had some crossover with him, haven't you?"
Goku's mouth opens the moment Piccolo ensnares his wrist, nails cutting deep. A thousand questions are rendered dead.
"Yes, we have," Piccolo says diplomatically.
"Quite the difficult character, so I hear," Clow says with sympathy. "He was sighted during a public execution."
"His?" Goku gets out, no matter how deeply Piccolo's claws pierce him.
"Oh, that would have made it easier for us, huh? No, I'm sorry to share, especially considering your racial connection, that it'd been a Saiyan heritage execution. He'd attended as a show of support to Lord Hailer, making it his first official public appearance since Vegeta's failed execution. With the North issuing a statement in Captain Thirty-Two's demise, we'd been relieved to have been rid of a leading captain of the South. Alas…"
"He's alive," Goku finishes, pretending not to be the happiest he's been in weeks. "Do you have any film of the exe—?"
"That's ghastly!" dismisses Clow, haughtily laughing, as though fanning away a dirty joke. "Oh, Goku, why would you want to see your own people being hanged? Really…"
"Yes, Kakarot, why would you? Have sense."
"Ah, right, yes, also… I must ask. Were you misfortunate enough to be caught up in the recent altercation in the North? The warring continued on for days on end. Surely, you must have at least past by some of its… debris in your journeying. A lightshow from your beloved and most secretive planet, if nothing else."
"No," Piccolo says before Goku can get a word out.
"Are you sure? Reports suggest, from your planet, that you—."
"That's hardly your business. Keep your nose out, clone," Vegeta snaps.
"Of course. I didn't mean to ruffle your feathers, there."
Already having reached his quota of Clow interaction, Vegeta walks ahead, likely in aim of the usual housing facilities they're welcome to during their stays.
Whilst Goku isn't as abrasive as Vegeta, he doesn't entirely disagree with the sentiment that the Cilo workers are all copies of one another, to a degree. They talk with jubilancy at the idea of a life without the Empire, to such a point that cheering at the prospect of war and singing songs over soldier executions isn't out of the norm. Bulma said that it's just a coping mechanism for these people—for those who must've suffered years under Empire rule—but for Goku, it's unnerving, and just another example of why Gohan had tried to keep him away from all this, of why he'd tried to send him to Earth.
Of what he wanted to spare him.
In his mind, Goku visualizes the memory, over and over, of shaking Gohan's hand after the Capsule Corp. ship abduction, remembering, despite the hand's limpness, its warmth.
Protecting me protecting you.
Goku will suffer whatever he needs to in order to see his son again; propaganda videos, boring meetings, warring and all.
Following a bland, unappetizing lunch amongst busybody Cilo soldiers, Clow ushers Goku into their usual recording studio down a dizzying set of grey passages. Piccolo had long since been redirected elsewhere, as so often they do here. They like to keep them separate. They know Goku is weakest when alone.
"Okay, time to get serious!" Clow says as though they'd been joking the entire afternoon away. "The higher ups asked if you can wear the purple uniform today."
The higher ups. Who are even the higher ups? It's always about the higher ups. Higher ups want more battle coverage. The higher ups need Goku to give another interview about Frieza. The higher ups are asking about when Goku can go tour the North in order to recruit more men. Goku's never even met these higher ups, just a string of emptily smiling faces that talk so positively of them, like Clow.
"My, my, Mister Hero! Aren't you looking dapper? Purple is your colour, indeed!"
"Um, if you say so."
"I do." Clow gestures Goku to a seat within the recording booth, as is usual form. "Water? Coffee? Wine?"
Vegeta told him never to accept drinks when nobody else is drinking.
"Er, no, thanks."
"No need to look so frightened, Goku." He's not frightened, simply unhappy. "It's only the usual statements we need recorded. Tell the universe that they are not fighting in vain, and that we, Cilo, are growing ever more victorious as the days come by! All very uplifting, you see. It's important to keep spirits high."
"Is Cilo victorious?"
"Why, of course!"
"So, you're winning?"
"Of course, we're winning, Goku."
"In the battles, Cilo has been beating the Frost Empire?"
"In a manner of speaking." There's a wink. "Trust in the process a little more. Let's see what the future brings. For now, let's shoot this video so we can retire in preparation for tomorrow's meeting. I hear they'll be serving a liquor-simmered roast!"
For the first time, the idea of food rings unappetizing.
"Uh, are we celebrating something?"
"That'll be telling," he says with a wink. "Don't overthink it."
Don't think, more like, Goku hears Vegeta's voice from inside his brain tell him.
"Let's just say, our most recent battle, the one near your lovely, little planet, has yielded fruit."
Three days earlier
BattleAxe2344
"This leaves you in quite the bind."
Thirty-Two turns, away from the speck that is planet Earth in the faraway, untouchable distance, to Ytvl, who leans against the control panel with a particularly difficult expression to dissect. He's awaiting Thirty-Two to voice his ambitions, as though that is something Thirty-Two would simply just do, as though Thirty-Two himself even knows what to do next. What can he even do? What is in his power right now? What would Lord Hailer expect? Should he kill Ytvl and the men of this ship? Should he continue onwards to Earth anyway? Perhaps Ytvl is lying, or just foolishly misplaced in his attempted approach of Earth.
"I trust they implanted another microchip?" Ytvl asks upon being met with silence. "That means Hailer knows your location—knows that you're here—so, it'll only be time until he expects you to do more than freeload a ride off of the BattleAxe."
Thirty-Two meets his gaze.
Ytvl smiles with what attests to condescension. "I have a surgeon aboard. We could remove the chip today."
"I am not working for Lord Cooler, or you, for the matter."
"I would make it in your best interest. You would never have to cross paths with Hailer again."
"No."
"You wouldn't have to serve on the front—."
"I'm not interested."
"You would rather be a number than a name." Ytvl clicks his tongue, frustration simmering. "Why do you allow nobody to help you, Gohan?"
"Don't call me that."
There's a weighted beat. Finally, Ytvl, pushes himself away from the monitor, shoulders lurched. "Once more, I'm rejected…"
Thirty-Two allows the silence to hold.
"It's because you're intoxicated on hatred, you know that, right? And that hatred makes you immature. Earlier, in our battle of artillery, you allowed your men to die because you think they're evil, so therefore dispensable, but people come in shade of grey. Criminals and saints alike are individuals, not caricatures."
This time, Thirty-Two bites his gums from speaking out.
"I don't understand you at all. You'd wanted the dragon balls and yet gave up on them the moment after you were killed by Northern men. You continue to work for Hailer despite your quiet hatred of him.
"Do you even know what you're doing?" Ytvl finishes with, exasperated. "Well, do you?"
Instead, Thirty-Two jerks his head. "Approaching foreign vessel."
"What?"
Thirty-Two gestures to the monitor, watching a flashing yellow dot approach at speed. At that, Ytvl spins, lips a thin line as he considers his next moves, eyes cement on the screen.
"Yours?" he asks Thirty-Two.
"I don't know."
"No… Most of your lot are holding the mines," Ytvl mutters to himself, "Cilo, then…"
Thirty-Two can't see the ship from any of the windows. It's still a healthy distance away (for now), but he recognizes aggression when he sees it on screen. No video transmission. No messaging. Nothing. "Try for contact."
Ytvl waves a hand. "No response."
"Any intelligence on the ship model?"
"The readers can't decipher it."
"Then, it's not Southern. We use standardized models that are in the system."
"What the hell is Cilo doing approaching a BattleAxe? Has Lya lost her mind?"
"Just her head," Thirty-Two replies darkly. When Ytvl doesn't react, he adds; "she's dead."
Again, Ytvl spins. "What?"
"She's dead."
"I heard you the first time! Are you sure? Dead? Lya?"
"I saw for myself."
Ytvl stumbles, just a moment, hand pressing into his knot of hair. "Fuck," he breathes out. He's mourning her, Thirty-Two then realizes, which is strange, not only because she now would have been his enemy, but because the impression had always struck Thirty-Two that she'd never thought much of Ytvl.
"Speed increasing," Thirty-Two informs, watching the dot grow in size. Because he's still displeased at how he'd earlier been spoken to, Thirty-Two feels no shame in giving him a punch in the arm. "Are you sure it's a ship? Ytvl? Ytvl, are you sure it's a ship? It's fast. Are you listening?"
"Y-Yes," he says, his gaze unfocused. "No," then he retracts seconds later, standing, more alert. He attaches a scouter, likely contacting his men. "I'll activate our projectiles system."
"You're being hasty."
"It's not a ship. You're right."
"I didn't say that."
"Power up the energy artillery," he speaks into his scouter anyway.
"But it's too big to be a missile attack," Thirty-Two murmurs, brows pressed.
Several soldiers burst into the control room all at once, taking their stations and paying Thirty-Two no mind. Quickly, the atmosphere grows chaotic with shouting and orders. Thirty-Two is abruptly shoved aside when a burly, unintelligent looking being takes his position in front of the screen.
"Deploy a Small Boy," Ytvl orders.
Thirty-Two doesn't know what a Small Boy is, guessing it to be the colloquial name for either a shell-missile or laser. Whatever the case, something about aggression in the face of the unknown remains unsettling. What would happen if the object held a Sorbothane counter firer?
"Can't you evade?"
"We're too large," Ytvl tells him. "We're also surrounded by debris."
"You're a war ship."
"And we're also near three major space stations."
"So?"
"Think about the casu—."
"Pilot well and you won't—."
Ytvl scoffs. "And the gravitational pull of them when we maneuver through thinned territory lines?"
Thirty-Two grits his teeth, thinking.
"Foreign object within range," tells a nearby soldier. "Small Boy due to make contact. Brace for blowback."
"Shields rising," informs another.
"Make an announcement to the men," Ytvl says to the lone woman operating a section of the control panel, "Code X3-Alpha. Non-combatants to the rear."
As the shields silently sweep down along the windows, finally, Thirty-Two notices the pinprick hurdling towards them.
"It is a ship," he realizes. "You, Radio Operator, is the object emitting any VHF signals? Tri-Waves?"
"Er…"
"Well?" barks Ytvl.
"N-No," replies the operator, perplexed in having to respond to their supposed captive. "Although, there are very low frequency EM waves that the system is now detecting—."
"Small Boy made impact. Brace."
Thirty-Two sends an unimpressed look at Ytvl as they both hold firm against a nearby steel beam.
"Well, I don't think the unidentified object is up for talking, is it? No need for radio," Ytvl snipes.
"It's clearly a ship," Thirty-Two bites back, "Non-responsive and accelerating at an unsafe speed for general passengers. I'm not worried about who is on it, but what is on it."
Ytvl seems to realize this all too late because that's when the blowback assaults the BattleAxe, catapulting soldiers up into the ceiling so aggressively that a symphony of neck snapping keeps them down. Thirty-Two tightens his core and spreads his legs, keeping balance, but just barely. Ytvl slips, and Thirty-Two has to catch him by his ridiculous red cape before he bites the tiles.
Another wave surges them backwards, suggesting that Thirty-Two had been right in his assessment. The ship had contained explosives, which is now bringing upon devastation not only to the, at best, stability of the ship but also to the neighbouring space stations Ytvl had wanted to protect. If this is Cilo then Thirty-Two finds some kind of poetic, devastating irony to it.
"N-Nuclear activity detected!" cries out one of the soldiers who had managed to crawl back over to his station, his nose an absolute mess of cartilage and blood.
"Deploy the masks," Ytvl shouts, causing a rainfall of gasmasks to fall from compartments overhead.
"Deployment failed in Sector 3. The system isn't responding. I think we've taken critical impairment. The sound frequency weaponry is offline, too. The damage taken—."
"From blowback?"
"No, it's most likely EMP," Thirty-Two says, grim. "If the explosives contained electromagnetic energy then it may have overstimulated the computer. Don't you have protective shields?"
"Obviously not," Ytvl hisses, and then turns to the remainder of his men as he attaches his own mask. "Any other failures?"
"Doppler system is acting with delay. Twelve systems now are unrespon—."
The ship is then rocked once more with a series of violent waves. Several of the out layer shields are cast wayside, and scarily, the window brandishes a long, deep crack from one side to another. Behind it is the ship Thirty-Two had suspected, fragmented and mid-charge, the BattleAxe its final destination. The Small Boy hadn't been enough.
"It's going to hit us," Thirty-Two says blandly.
"There must be—put your damn mask on!" Ytvl snaps. He then addresses the half-conscious soldier nearest them. "Can the EMUs be issued?"
"Uh… I… Er…"
"Offline," Thirty-Two says, watching the ship slowly begin to lose its assets, one blinker at a time.
"One will be enough," Ytvl dismisses, stumbling into a jog towards a containment unit near the ever-growing crack in the window. A white, pin-protected trunk of generous sizing is dragged forward. "What size are you? B-Small? B-Medium?"
Thirty-Two is aghast. "Me?"
"I saw what you could do at the Youth Program. I don't have that kind of ki reserves."
"I'm not some roof-mounted laser!"
"If you don't do this, thousands will die."
"They're probably already dead anyway," Thirty-Two dismisses, cruel, because fuck Ytvl for having the audacity to order him around—for trying to recruit him at each and every possibility they meet—for wanting to save him. Thirty-Two is not his charity project. Thirty-Two isn't one of his sorry dead siblings that probably deserved to die for allowing themselves to work with the Frost Empire.
Ytvl throws the EMU at him anyway.
"Be kind," he says simply.
Thirty-Two looks at the space suit in his hands, wondering why he hadn't already thrown it back at Ytvl for his boldness. He's naked with hope for Thirty-Two to do the right thing.
"We are individuals—," Ytvl continues in a soft albeit firm voice, "—who you do not know truly for us to be judged."
"I've known enough of you."
Ytvl practices a breath through his mask. "I'll never understand your insistence to suffer misanthropy—to suffer under Lord Hailer's cruelty when you've had multiple opportunities to do otherwise. Whatever you're serving in answering to him, because I know it is not loyalty, confuses me, but worse yet, it ruins you. I will not ask you to consider your own life because you've obviously never had a respect for it, and I will not remind you of your own ambitions because I don't understand them, but I will remind you that moments like these will enable you to be more than just a number."
Thirty-Two doesn't want to be more than a number. Just like them, he is condemned.
"You're one of us, too. Grey, flawed and Imperfect, but not hopeless," Ytvl stresses. "You have good in you. Why do you hate so much to show it?"
Thirty-Two hates to show any amount of himself. He just wants to be an invisible number. He wants nobody to watch him, judge him—look at him. It always feels too much.
"You don't always have to be a soldier."
For some reason, that hurt.
Thirty-Two feels his cheeks colour, the result a combination of embarrassment and frustration.
Glaring at the suit, Thirty-Two realizes that if he allows these people to die today, Lord Cooler will be one step closer to defeat.
Earlier, he had no problem with killing them himself. He would have dragged a blade along Ytvl's throat without a thought. What's the difference now?
Quite suddenly, that stupid idiot, Glellork comes to mind, along with the custodial staff he'd spared when he first woken up aboard. Why now? Why would Thirty-Two feel any pull now to helping these bastards live, especially since he knows that bringing Ytvl's head would bring him favour with Lord Hailer? He'd planned on murdering Ytvl less than an hour ago. Why?
Because they're asking? Because they're trying to appeal to a better nature Thirty-Two doesn't have or want to have?
"Please."
Thirty-Two holds Ytvl's eye.
There is a countdown of impending demise and Thirty-Two has his hands on the stopwatch. He has power, and he's acutely aware of the fact. He could be the difference—should he choose to be.
When the ship shakes, his resolve of hatred does, too.
He swallows, reminded of the moment he'd submitted to Bulma all those weeks ago.
"Fuck," he swears, resigning. What difference does it make to his life? "Fine, fine."
"Thank y—."
"Don't."
Quickly, he unfastens the suit and slips into it. It's a little big but it'll do.
"The headset isn't working," Ytvl says, zipping the suit up from behind. He sounds like he's smiling, which pisses Thirty-Two off all the more. "You'll be alone out there so be—What is that? It's moving!"
"It's my tail. Be quiet and attach the oxygen reserves."
It's different on top of the BattleAxe when comparing to the Capsule Corporation ship. For one, it's much, much larger, thankfully with more grip hooks that Thirty-Two wedges his boots between, and with its rough exterior, Thirty-Two is less concerned about slipping when performing his energy blasts. In fact, there's a peg that Thirty-Two attaches himself to with the coil embedded in his suit.
Now fastened in, he assesses the situation. The ship is still moving backwards with wild, unbridled ambition that's quite concerning. A stray asteroid or unlucky vessel in their path could further distort their trajectory. It's here he'd make a request for Ytvl to be mindful in his captaining, but with the lack of any communicative device, Thirty-Two is left to fretfully manage his surroundings by himself. He takes in a deep breath of dry, cool oxygen, focusing on the approaching Cilo ship. From what he can see, it's not exactly looking mint condition, with its fraying metal and blackened nose. Cargo vomits from its injuries, and explosives—probably—float into obscurity.
Onwards, the ship barrels towards them with a sort of unhinged gluttony. Impact is imminent.
Because of this, together, Thirty-Two's hands interlink, awash with pink, throbbing ki. He takes aim, closing an eye, when another concern has him pause. Could there be any more inactivated explosives? Ki-activated bombs? Could Thirty-Two's energy make matters worse?
He'd ask Ytvl for his thoughts if the blasted headset worked.
All right. That means he needs to take initiative, alone.
There's something daunting about it even though Thirty-Two is best working alone. He's not a fearful person. Fear is counterproductive to duty so it's best not feel it at all. Before today, the last time he'd felt the sensation in battle, interestingly, was when he'd last worn an EMU, helping Bulma bring her ship to safety. The fear for another… Is that why he's scared now? Even though he doesn't want the burden of saving those repugnant pieces of shit within the BattleAxe, why does he feel like he owes them something? Why does he feel like he should do this? An anxiety in keeping them alive? He'd been scared for Earth earlier, for whatever reason,—is it just a continuation of that?
He tries not to overthink it. His head is already so full.
When the Cilo ship closes the gap, Thirty-Two knows it's time. The energy deploys as a seamless stream of bubblegum pink, a jet against black. It silently meets the ensuing craft, cutting centre. Shortly thereafter, there is beat of nothing. Thirty-Two waits.
An explosion retches from the craft, pink and deadly with glittering detonation from whatever else was left onboard. There is immediate pushback, and Thirty-Two must clench onto the BattleAxe as it writhes and bucks, the surface below becoming increasingly more of a challenge to stay steady upon. The heat pushes the BattleAxe further off course, sending her right and low into a dip that isn't ordinary. The metal is challenged from the concoction of energy and explosives, and as a result, the front of the ship doesn't look as consistent as it once was. The kachin has become molten.
It's then that Thirty-Two himself feels like he's starting to cook within the EMU. He throws out several other blasts that are lower in heat but are more charged in acceleration, hoping to overcome the rising temperate with brute force. To better rival the heat from the explosion, Thirty-Two grows a ki blast of a larger magnitude, the width of it growing until fatter than even the Cilo ship itself.
As he throws it, he slips, falling face first into the shell. The energy's trajectory diverts, but this comes to work for Thirty-Two because of the ship's unsteady journeying. When the ship bounces up, the energy slices down. There is a collision of heat. Energy overlaps, and, now exiled by Thirty-Two's ki, the Cilo ship slowly starts to become that of a speck.
That… wasn't so bad.
He pushes himself up, not even panting.
That was fine, actually.
When he finally finds his feet, turning, he finds that, in fact, it is not fine, actually.
Opposite, a fleet of no less than thirty ships face the BattleAxe.
They'd been ambushed.
The fleet lets fire.
Thirty-Two doesn't die this time.
He gasps, perspiration pooling into his mouth as his throat burns with desperate need for oxygen. The oxygen reserves can't provide quick enough and so he chokes on this need, knees pressed against the metal of the ship. His hands slap down hard.
But he can't rest.
More shots ring out from the surrounding ships. There's only so much manna in his wrecked body, but still, Thirty-Two lets loose another wave of hissing, uneven energy, and as it has many a time before, the wave obliterates the attacks. Because of this, the ships are beginning to orchestrate their rounds of fire as not to overlap, forcing Thirty-Two to produce more energy each time. They must know his stores are depleting.
Sickly smears of luminous colours strike across the black, bursting into explosions upon being met with Thirty-Two's tide of pink ki. This has been going on for an excruciatingly long time for him, minutes drawing what must be an hour. This can't go on.
Thirty-Two arranges a quick spiral beam that cuts through two Cilo ships. They detonate immediately. It costs him, however. Thirty-Two trips over his own exhaustion, holding the metal, eyes closed as to ward off a tension headache.
He'd wanted to avoid all this. He's so sick and tired of all this needless death. Why the hell did he agree to this? Why is he bothering to save Ytvl and his men?
Below, the BattleAxe grumbles like a dispassionate old woman.
Yes, finally.
Within, Ytvl must be leading quite the brigade if it's operating again. Thirty-Two wonders if the power is from a backup generator or if they'd managed to work through the issues to have brought her to a halt. It's a cantankerous, old legend. Surely, it'll be able to throw an odd roundhouse or two before being taken down.
That's when her mouth opens, spewing forth at least fifty small fighter ships. Space lights up with yellow webs that shoot from their turrets. The glow from this collective is like a haze of golden fog which completely submerges the ships from Thirty-Two's viewpoint. He swallows his sigh of relief in turn for a deeper breath, comforted to finally have backup after so long of dealing with the assault alone.
Beneath, the BattleAxe growls, positively vibrating with fury, until an army of missiles shoot from below the bowels. They slide around the fighter ships, almost as if in a dance together, their synchronization as impressive as Thirty-Two's ever had the displeasure of witnessing, red against gold against the brightness of mass death. Space shines with it.
He splutters, standing, witnessing as smaller enemy ships are also released into the wild. They curl around him in chase of the BattleAxe's fighter ships. When one fires at him, the yellow webs of the Northern ship spring forth, capturing the enemy and enfolding it until it combusts into angry, white-hot flames. It comes to halt beside Thirty-Two, as if to act as a personal body guard as he collects his footing. Once stood, albeit in a lean, Thirty-Two looks over to the ship, recognizing it to be manned instead of automated like how the South would run it. Through the window, the soldier gives him a salute before casting off once more into battle.
That's when he feels the coil from his EMU being tugged hard. At first, he thinks it must have gotten caught up in one of the security latches as it has many times now when he's charging his ki blasts. When the tugging continues, Thirty-Two realizes that he's being slowly reeled back into the ship. Thankful for the rest, he allows himself to be withdrawn like a marionette from the stage.
Once sheltered in the airlock, Thirty-Two rips the helmet off and folds into two, haggard and panting.
"Aren't you a handy little cannon," Ytvl says by way of reception from the doorway.
Thirty-Two glowers up at him from beneath sweat-drenched bangs.
"And… thanks, for that, for holding them off," Ytvl complements, embarrassingly sincere. He then throws him a bundle of clothing. Red fabric with gold armour plates. Northern uniform. "I'm afraid we don't carry the Southern design."
"I told you. I'm not joining Lord Cooler."
"Then run around naked. That boiler suit won't survive more than a stray astra shot."
Thirty-Two takes a single last gulp of air, frustrated, before stripping the EMU off and then the boiler suit. The ship shakes, having taken a hit, and the lights above Thirty-Two and Ytvl flicker just as the spandex slides over flesh.
Thirty-Two pulls the armour over next, turning to Ytvl. "Shouldn't you be out there?"
"Yes," he replies, silence following. Once Thirty-Two is dressed does he finally continue. "Lord Cooler is en route."
"Here?"
"So, we just need to hold Cilo off until then."
"There is an entire fleet out there. The BattleAxe won't last thirty more minutes."
"It has to." Ytvl opens the door in wait for Thirty-Two. "If we retreat now, we'll lose access to the boundary line and Lord Cooler can't afford that."
"I don't care what Lord Cooler can or can't afford," Thirty-Two returns, following Ytvl down the corridor. Dim, fizzing emergency lights cast an ominous red glow that's barely enough to see by, and as they walk, they must avoid the trip hazards of debris and slumped, injured soldiers. Concussed men lead one another. The less lucky are already bodies littering. "You will not win this, Ytvl. Issue an evac—."
"We're surrounded. Life ships will be picked off one-by-one."
"Don't you have connections in Cilo? Strike a deal."
"Before, of course, but now? Now, they want me dead, and they'll take my men with me."
"Then stop betraying people," Thirty-Two deadpans.
"What choice did I have at the Youth Progam?" Ytvl retorts, leading them up and along a devastated staircase. "Cilo was already losing patience with me, because I'd followed after Goku and the others on their ridiculous quest to find you."
"Tch. You've always been loyal to Lord Cooler."
"But not the Empire," Ytvl hisses back, "Lord Cooler has always been good to me. Betraying him had been difficult and—."
"He enslaved you."
"Oh, so we're slaves when it benefits your account?"
"He made you a slave to the Empire and you're thankful for it. He is the Frost Empire, Ytvl."
"You wouldn't understand because Hailer harbours no kindness."
"Yet, I've never betrayed the Frost Empire."
"You liar." Ytvl scoffs, shaking his head, throwing open a door that spirals off its hinges. "You know what, I bet if Lord Cooler had been your commander then you wouldn't be such a hateful little punk."
"If Lord Cooler had been commander then I would have already ordered an evacuation off this ship."
Ytvl gives Thirty-Two a firm shove towards a room that looks to have already taken heavy fire. The security plates have closed over the windows and deep dents have protruded the metal of the shell casing.
"The armoury," Ytvl introduces. "Pick your toys."
Thirty-Two beelines for their outdated collection of Astra weaponry. He takes two, an accompanying throwing knife, and several grenades that contain unsavoury gas.
"You know, Goku could be on one of their ships," says Ytvl, almost conversationally, as Thirty-Two attaches his grenades to his bandolier. "He could be out there, right now, in the thick of it all, looking for you."
After sparing Ytvl a look of distaste, Thirty-Two checks the magazines of his astras. They're full. "He wouldn't go into battle with the North if he was looking for me. He'd want to confront the Southern line. Besides, you don't believe he's on there, either, otherwise you would have already sent message of having me aboard, in order to stop the attack."
"I can't deny that."
"I'm going to take a life ship," Thirty-Two then announces, subduing his astra into its holster. "I won't kill you this time, but should you survive this… mess, I will serve my duty for Lord Hailer the next and final time we meet."
Thirty-Two thinks, in the BattleAxe's expiration, Lord Hailer will be mollified even without the purging of Earth. The Northern front will be majorly weakened after this battle, even should Lord Cooler become involved. This is already more than what Thirty-Two could even ask for today for his lordship.
"You're so cocky." Ytvl's smirk dilutes into a withered smile. "Whatever Hailer is offering, I'm sure Lord Cooler would match it. You'd have allies—real allies—in the North."
The ship rumbles with another strike. He'd have corpses, not allies.
There is one thing Ytvl could give him. "Do you have any namekians aboard?" Thirty-Two asks, quite abruptly if Ytvl's expression is anything to go by.
"Namekians…? Why?" The gears begin to crank in his brain. "Is this something to do with the dragon balls?"
"Does it matter?"
"No way… You didn't have them! We checked you."
"Do you have a nam—?"
"No, none here. Damn it, Thirty-Two, where have you stored the balls? How did you even manage to take them? You—."
Another rumble shakes the craft, or rather, more than shakes it. It lilts it, causing the body to throw left in an abnormal swing that has all the weaponry to break from their casing. In this moment, Ytvl grabs Thirty-Two by the arm, pulling him behind one of the stacked shields as numerous deadly objects catapult around the room. Knives somersault into darkness when power is lost once more.
When all falls deathly quiet, Ytvl instantly breaks free and then into a run from whence they came.
"Shit," Thirty-Two allows, knowing that getting a life ship to work without power will be a challenge its own.
He chases after Ytvl, arriving at the control room. The situation is bleak. Outside, Thirty-Two had seen a vast number of Ytvl's fighters dashing around the BattleAxe. Now, through the deadly smog and heaps of floating wreckage, very few remain. The fleets, however, are still impressive in number. If anything, there are more of them, swarming around, enclosing like hands coming together to squash an insect.
"Make a request for contact," Thirty-Two says to Ytvl, staring into the graveyard.
Around, once boisterous soldiers have fallen silent, waiting for their captain's orders. They're scared, Thirty-Two understands. They know their fate.
"There is nothing else you can do," Thirty-Two continues. "There must be hundreds of ships out there. It's over…"
Ytvl's eyes are wide. He's been pushed into a corner. Thirty-Two would like to blame it on hubris, but even he hadn't foreseen the cosmic sum of support Cilo managed to build up over time. Where did all these men come from? How were Cilo able to recruit so quickly? Now that Ytvl has come face to face with this, does he regret betraying them? Does he now understand how his attachment to people—to a tyrant, no less—has thwarted his circumstances?
Look at what he lost. Look at what his loyalty built on community has cost him. Thirty-Two's goal is more important than any one person. He cannot be betrayed if he has nobody to betray him.
"Well…" Ytvl finally says, turning to his armour clad brethren.
All right, here comes the speech. What will Ytvl have them do?
"Tonight… we drink. We fight. We die! Are my brothers ready to fall arm in arm alongside me?"
Thirty-Two's mouth drops. What—?
And the men—they cheer!
They cry his name out. They cry Lord Cooler's name out. Bottles emerge from shattered cupboards. They smash the necks of wine and they drink and cry and remain at their stations, enthralled with this new direction.
"Make contact, you fool," Thirty-Two hisses, snatching Ytvl by his stupid fucking cape.
"They will take me, torture me, torture my men and then wave our heads in the face of Lord Cooler. That will never serve him well," Ytvl tells, grinning, joyous with the idea of death. Thirty-Two understands that sentiment but this feels off, so off-key so suddenly. Thirty-Two doesn't understand the motivation. "We haven't much else," Ytvl then explains, setting daring hands atop Thirty-Two's shoulders. "But we have the power over our feelings, over knowing that our deaths mean."
"Nothing!" Thirty-Two shouts, shrugging Ytvl off. "They mean nothing! Lord Cooler doesn't give a shit about any of you!"
The truth pains Ytvl and he does everything in his will not to believe it.
"I have nothing else," he adds softly, just for Thirty-Two as the cheering for Lord Cooler grows louder. "But I do have my brothers-in-arms."
"What about your real brothers—the ones killed—?"
Ytvl's face twists with conflict.
"You spoke so passionately about freedom!" Thirty-Two roars, incensed. "That couldn't have been an act!" He believes this now, from having remembered Ytvl speak about it aboard the Capsule Corporation ship. He knows Ytvl once had hope before he became weak with fraternity. Lord Cooler is not worth dying for. "You joined Cilo for a rea—!"
The ship tilts the opposing way this time, and soldiers and bottles fly indiscriminately.
From yonder the fissured windows, another ship can be seen entering the airspace, having just come from the BattleAxe's rear. It's not as large as the BattleAxe, but she's a ship of quality, of modern enterprise that must carry someone of importance. Lord Cooler, Thirty-Two realizes. It must be his carrier.
From cheering to silence, the ship once again thunders with glee, with seeing their master glide into battle at the last possible second. They'd been willing to toss aside their lives for Lord Cooler, and now they don't have to, they're thankful—euphoric—to have been saved by their leader. Do they love him? Thirty-Two doesn't understand. Lord Hailer would never have this sort of reception. He would never put himself so blazingly into the throe of battle, either. Perhaps that is the difference. Violence is all these men know, all they can appreciate. They are a part of this bloody system, of a family forged by shared trauma and victory.
Overseer Cace calls the Youth Program a family, but that could never compare to this.
And this… could this compare to a real family? To one without a dictator?
Thirty-Two feels, for the first time, so young. He doesn't understand any of it.
What's real? What's not? What's wrong? What's right?
All along, did Lord Cooler really care for his men? Does he now? His ship sends out missile after missile at the swarm of ever-growing ships, and the fireworks dazzle the inky backdrop of stars.
"He will die alongside us," Ytvl tells Thirty-Two, "if he has to."
"There's no winning this, even with Lord Cooler here," Thirty-Two says, watching the ships beyond exchange fire. The soldiers are drinking once more, blindly tripping over bodies. "I… Ytvl… I still don't understand…"
"Understand what?"
It goes even further back than Thirty-Two had realized.
He closes his eyes. "Do you remember…? On the day we met, you were concerned with the execution of saiyan soldiers. Even then, you seemed bothered about your men… and… I'd asked… but still…"
Ytvl looks at him, brown eyes holding a twinkle. "Being loved gives you strength," he reveals, "but to love others, that takes courage."
Thirty-Two stares at Ytvl, for some reason, a little sad.
"There are life pods where the body collection units are kept. They're smaller than usual space pods. Carry one to the airlock and take your chances, and continue with what you need to do."
"Ytvl—!"
His hand is snatched up into a steady shake, and above, Ytvl's expression is weighed down with candor. "I'm sorry for what I put you through," he says, "I really did just want to help you in the end. Maybe I was just trying to appease the memory of my kid brothers and sisters or something, or maybe I just felt sorry for you, for some kid stuck in this rotten fucking circus. I don't know. It doesn't matter."
He smiles.
"Just… please do try and find some happiness, Gohan, find—"
"You don't have to stay here, you id—!"
"—find Goku."
Ytvl squeezes a last time.
"Loyalty shouldn't have shackles!" Thirty-Two shouts when Ytvl pulls away, when he returns to the fold of his men, "Ytvl—!"
But he's ignored. Ytvl celebrates the North's downfall with his men, singing. Fate is a flip of a coin to them, but Thirty-Two recognizes failure.
So, he stands frozen, feeling so many things all at once that he doesn't know what to compartmentalize first. He aches with the fatigue of these strangling emotions. He hurts. His head. His chest. Thirty-Two doesn't know what to serve first. Ytvl—why does he want this? Why would he give up? Is he giving up, really?
The familiar feeling from earlier, from when he'd been hidden in his bunker before all this happened, returns to him. His throat constricts. He knows it's not sinus sickness now. But he's not sad, is he? He'd wanted to kill Ytvl. He'd tried.
But then, he'd tried saving him—and these wretched men.
Why?
What's happening to him?
From the crowds, he hears a last thing as he evacuates.
"Have courage, Gohan!"
Later, the crumbs of space will be made up of bodies and of the ships which once carried them. Life ships will interweave, scouting for treasures, for lives to further exterminate, to clean as to truly sanitize it of Northern Frost.
Lord Cooler's body will be found amongst his most loyal.
.
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HUGE APOLOGIES. I promised earlier but, honestly, my life has been a shit storm of unpaid promotion expectations that eat at my time. Don't we just love that? I was determined to get this chapter out (even if it's very late) now because we have a short holiday. I actually wrote a good chunk of this in South Korea, mostly when I was on the train from Seoul to Busan, which was special because I, as painful as this is to admit, really struggled with this chapter. That train journey was when I broke that block. That's another reason why it's as late as it is. It went though a lot of drafts (and there will still be grammatical errors-you're welcome! That's how you know I wrote it).
I recently read a fic where the author took a REALLY long break (years) and came back with a shit ton of chapters, admitting to us readers the toll it took on her. Writer's block is a real thing. I had it a lot with Horse, too, but never really brought it up. Confidence issues crop up, too. I often reread my stories just to keep in line with the tone, which takes time, too. Sometimes, it's frustrating how much love you give something like fanfiction, because when it negatively affects you, you feel stupid because this is supposed to be fun. It's supposed to be a release.
Oh, I also had the displeasure of some absolute window licker translate and upload my fic onto YouTube, so that was fun to get taken off. I wouldn't mind at all if I'd been asked and, more importantly, it wasn't monetized.
So... yeah... Haha, I'm not going to make promises on when the next chapter will be out, only that it's 2k deep as of right now. I also think the story will be a bit longer than anticipated-so, that's good news, right? Right?
I'll start replying to feedback ASAP. Back at work tomorrow so I want to get this chapter out before the darkness sucks me back in.
I do love this story and I won't leave it unfinished so don't worry. I know its ending. It's mostly plotted. I'm just British and like to moan, okay? All right.
Thanks SO much for your patience, and feedback, ofc. See you on the next one!