Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Two
The Boiler
Before him is a war zone. Not a literal one, mind, he's seen his fill of those, too, but this time, it's instead rows of soldiers dining upon the refectory's finest cuisine (which isn't fine at all). Thirty-Two makes his way through them, trying with all his might to swallow his disgust as they gorge themselves noisily. He doesn't know what he detests more; the greasy slop bestowing the serving trays or the soldiers themselves. It's embarrassing. They look as though this is their first introduction to food, like they believe utensils are optional. Thirty-Two walks by with a crinkled expression. The carnage that accompanies the mad food rush is always enough to make him arrive either very early to the servings or very late, or simply not at all.
Judging by the disgruntled faces of many dining captains, Thirty-Two can tell that they are still unhappy with Lord Hailer's decision to have him execute Vegeta. They either choose to avoid his line of sight or opt to stare him down. Both are preferable to Pyrak's self-satisfied smirk which Thirty-Two would most enjoy dismantling himself. As the lout passes, he gives Thirty-Two a wave that's supposed to be ironic. Such the charming creature he is.
Thirty-Two forces himself to collect the usual greyed "meat" and vegetables, sitting as far away from everyone as possible by tucking away into a corner where nobody can bother him. He tries his best to look unapproachable by scowling and pressing buttons on the profile of his scouter.
Oddly, it's not as effective this morning.
"Captain Thirty-Two."
He wills himself to look up.
"Yes?"
She's one of the captains from the meeting, the one with the scar slashed across her face. "We had the… pleasure yesterday," she says, "We spoke briefly."
He doesn't know her name.
"Captain Tapi."
"What can I do for you… Captain Tapi?"
"Oh, you're cautious! Good. You ought to be around here." She considers him with a rigid sort of look. "Have you started your preparations with the Boiler?"
Well, at least she doesn't beat around the bush. "I have."
"Is it… going well?"
"Swimmingly."
"It's a very difficult technique, and although they won't admit it, most of the captains can't perform it or at the very least can't perform it well."
Thirty-Two takes a mouthful of his breakfast just to save himself the effort of a reply.
"It's no trouble for me to assist you in your learning, should you need it."
He swallows the food, but not his pride. "I'm capable," he eventually says, "That's why Lord Hailer requested my assistance."
The lines stretched across leathery skin crinkles when she regards him, making the edges of her pointed face appear even sharper. "The execution must go without a hitch, Captain. Can you guarantee that?"
Even if he had the smallest bit of temptation to ask, it's long since disappeared now. His stomach twists in indignation.
"Is that all, Captain Tapi?"
There's a flash of regret from her. It's an oddly open reaction, Thirty-Two thinks, and he feels uncomfortable for having witnessed it.
"Don't think me ignorant to your power, Captain, it's just—"
"I said I'm fine."
Captain Tapi doesn't look convinced, which is fair enough because it's most definitely a lie.
"Help is available to you," she tells him, "No soldier needs to find himself alone."
And then, he's just that – alone – when finally, she decides to vacate Thirty-Two's personal space, leaving him to stare after her with a level of incredulity. There's almost regret. The Boiler is a most difficult technique, after all, and he only has two days…
He shakes it off.
It's fine. Thirty-Two's fine. He'll learn it. Alone.
If there's one thing Thirty-Two can do, it's self-educate.
He stabs at the last of his food, watching the oil leak out, suddenly more nauseous than usual.
A day passes.
The one before had been spent in its entirety practicing the Boiler, and now burns streak down his arms in bright, painful lashes. Thirty-Two knows that he can't put off going to the infirmary any longer; the wounds could easily become infected. And as tempting as it may be to put the trip off, there's no doubt that Lord Hailer would be unimpressed if his executioner was glowing with ugly burns on the big day.
When Thirty-Two arrives to the medical unit, doctors apply cooling salve and pass him a bottle of painkillers with an mg that's embarrassingly low. What's the point? They won't even take the edge off. Back in Central, Thirty-Two has his own contraband collection hidden under a floor panel in his chamber, with them achieving more than easing a headache.
The burns aren't a new impression for Thirty-Two. His energy can be sporadic, wild as it's been previously described by instructors; seemingly having a mind of its own if Thirty-Two doesn't have his hands firm on the rein. Powerful, blistering blasts with killing intent. Dangerous not only to Thirty-Two's victims, but also to Thirty-Two himself, it's practice that he needs and practice he avoids. He hates training, with the only enjoyable aspect being applying the theory if only down to the science of it.
The Boiler is no different. It takes a type of control that Thirty-Two doesn't have. Theory cannot help him if his proficiency isn't high enough; Thirty-Two has the raw power, he has the wits, but he doesn't have the skill.
Let it be said. Thirty-Two really hates training. He truly, honestly does. Call him lazy, call him unmotivated. That's fine. Thirty-Two would rather find himself holed up in his chamber – book to hand – than in any training facility, regardless of whatever they say about saiyans. 'It's in their blood'? 'Saiyans are warriors'? 'He's supposed to live for the fight'? What a joke. Thirty-Two would rather swallow glass.
Still, what must be done must be done.
Hours pass with only more burns added for his efforts. Licks of red now stripe down his neck and he can feel blisters bubbling from the grave of older injuries. The turtleneck will be coming out tomorrow.
He can control the fire's temperature now at least, but it's only enough to either make it scalding hot or lukewarm. The magic middle ground he needs to hit seems to be out of reach, and time is quickly running low. With the execution set to be less than a day away, Thirty-Two urges himself the strength. He's met deadlines before, and he will this time. He has to.
Later, a few hours in, his energy bursts into an explosion of smaller flames and he grows discouraged. Thirty-Two allows himself a moment and then tries again and again, and then again until the smell of burning flesh starts to hurt his throat.
It's early evening by the time he allows himself a break. Food is a must as his hands are shaking so violently that when he tries to perform the Boiler the fire becomes comically wobbly. The books tell him to meditate if unable to find "the calmness within the technique", and that's all well and good but Thirty-Two doesn't have the time to meditate.
He showers and changes, applying the salve after as instructed. Like a good patient.
Admittedly sore (in more than one way), Thirty-Two drags himself back to the training chamber after he eats a pitiful meal of the usual soggy vegetables and meat. It's on the way back and passing through the foyer that Thirty-Two notices something peculiar about the lift in the far section. It's the same lift he took to visit Vegeta a couple of days ago, only now the emergency light above is flickering. It's as he gets closer that he hears a tired hum of electricity.
Most strange.
The lift itself is down. He presses the controls but is left waiting, and so decides to take the initiative to ply the doors ajar and slink his way through. It's a long way to the bottom; dark and mouldy, the toxic musk reminds him of what's awaiting. He jumps. The lift is stuck at the bottom of the shaft and so he falls with speed, landing atop its ceiling and then into it when kicking out the emergency door.
Upon exiting, chaos welcomes him.
There are guards sprinting from one instance to another, filthy, panicked and shouting; languages bark over one another in haphazard overlay with Thirty-Two struggling to make sense out of any of them. Many of the non-fighting soldiers have taken refuge under desks or are pushing past Thirty-Two to take their chances with the many, many stairs leading up.
Thirty-Two snags one soldier by his armour. He's covered in a smothering of liquids.
"What happened?"
It's one of the head guards if his colour of uniform is anything to go by. The guard's eye drops to Thirty-Two's captain's badge and relief sweeps over him.
"Captain!"
"What happened?"
"You must have received our mayday signal! I thought it hadn't gone through because of the power outage." He wipes at a brow, breathing out a damp sigh of relief. "It's… The problem is… it's confidential. The prisoner that caused this, well—"
"Vegeta, yes."
"You know! Yes, well, That's just it, sir. Vegeta powered up! It tripped the power and several of the doors to the cells became unlocked."
That's impossible. Vegeta is under sheenks. Thirty-Two refuses to believe him strong enough to push through that and then the ship's defense system.
"The cells are opened?" Thirty-Two repeats, wondering if he'd mistranslated the language. Common is very blocky, after all. "Are you sure? How about Vegeta's cell?"
"Locked, thankfully," lowly replies the head guard, narrowly dodging other guards as they bustle past. "But several of the prisoners did manage to break free. We lost thirty-five of them."
"They escaped?"
"No. Dead. We executed them during their escape."
It's just Thirty-Two's luck to get caught up in this. He shouldn't have chased curiosity, but well, now that he has… perhaps he could take advantage of the situation. "How many prisoners need returning to their cells?"
"I think… I think we're okay now – with the prisoners at least. But, Captain, if you could… The generator in Vegeta's cell is still down and I don't think any of the guards dare face him alone. He exhausted himself but… About Vegeta… Well…"
Excellent. He hadn't even needed to find an excuse.
Still, Thirty-Two tries to look like he'd just been put out, gesturing with an arm. "By all means, lead the way."
The mystery liquids from earlier unsurprisingly turn out to be blood, and they splatter the high reaching walls all the way along the passageway in many colours. Thirty-Two notices the body of an unlucky prisoner being shrouded in a black sheet, others less respected as they're shifted onto lumpy piles in corners. Some of the guards remember to salute him as he passes them in the corridors, whilst the others who don't recognize him or see his badge continue cleaning up the fallen debris, prisoners and fellow soldiers without break. Despite the riot being short it must have been violent.
Vegeta's private cell entrance remains unmarred.
"It's just him in there so he couldn't have had any help," the guard says to him as he types a number into the keypad. It hadn't been locked yesterday but Thirty-Two wouldn't be surprised if Vegeta had earned himself some extra security. "It should have been impossible for his energy to even affect the power supply like it did," he adds, aligning with Thirty-Two's beliefs.
When they enter the familiar cell, it looks fine for the most part, save for the new richly prominent cracks running along from one side of the confine to the other. They're barely noticeable because of the dim lights, which cough with the ambition to conserve what little energy they have left. In his darkened pit, Vegeta sits and pants like a caged animal, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes glowing with livid energy.
If looks could kill.
"Like fuck am I being killed by the Boiler," is the first thing Vegeta says to him, his voice gravelly. "I demand Cooler, or Hailer, or whatever Frost bastard is in charge to come see me."
"You're not one for making demands anymore, Vegeta," the guard barks, striking the bars. "You've made a real fucking mess out there!"
Vegeta smirks as more sweat slides down his face.
"The head guard needs to examine the generator in your cell," Thirty-Two informs.
"Oh, it's the boy wonder," Vegeta greets. "I've got no shit for you today. I am very sorry."
For being locked up in a prison cell, Vegeta seems to be doing better than most. He's kept his arrogant attitude intact, and even worse, that famous sense of entitlement is as prevalent as ever. Thirty-Two and the guard take a step towards the cell at the exact time Vegeta draws closer.
"Come in and I'll kill you both."
"Be reasonable," Thirty-Two rebukes, "You've just wasted a mass of your energy trying to power up despite knowing these cells are coated in sheenks, a substance that zaps and absorbs ki over long periods of time. What would you do once you escaped? The entire cell block is covered in sheenks and you're already exhausted. If you do attack all you're going to do is waste both of our time, and then I'll be forced to force-feed you so much sheenks you really won't be able to defecate."
The guard hits the bars again, hard enough that it rattles. "So be a good boy, and let us do our jobs."
Thirty-Two wants to stuff some sheenks down this guard's throat too.
"Try me," Vegeta snarls.
What a hill to die on.
Thirty-Two instructs the guard to punch in Vegeta's cell code. The guard does but looks wary about it. Vegeta doesn't move straight away but as soon as he does, Thirty-Two's in there, incapacitating him into a ragdoll against the wall. There's not much of a rebuttal but that's not for a lack of trying. Energy-starved, Vegeta attempts to push back, but what use is he against sheenks?
The guard slithers past Vegeta and Thirty-Two and scurries over to the generator, terrified. Thirty-Two practices patience as Vegeta practices his breaths, both unmoving as the generator's shell casing is heard being removed. He wonders how he could word his next question to Vegeta, about how he could ask about planet Namek once more without bringing unwarranted attention to himself.
"That looks like it hurts," Vegeta instead opens with.
Thirty-Two's confused at first until he notices Vegeta nodding his head back towards Thirty-Two's many, many burns. They must appear as inflamed as they feel. He ignores the remark and tightens his grip so not to encourage Vegeta to get the wrong idea. No attempts of stupidity are welcome today.
"Are they practicing on you?" Vegeta asks with spite, his shoulders jutting against Thirty-Two's sore hands. "Those burns are from the Boiler. I remember what they look like."
Thirty-Two doesn't contain himself, his tone sharp and nasty. "I'm sure you remember performing it too," he says without meaning to.
"Of course, I fucking do. Except, I wouldn't practice it on other soldiers. I didn't think this shit show could sink any lower, but here we are."
It takes a moment to realise what Vegeta is suggesting. He looks down to see his coat low over his captain's badge. There's no play in hiding the truth, and so shuffles the badge into light. Thirty-Two is no ordinary soldier and he'd never allow himself to become a guinea pig.
Vegeta puts the pieces together, appearing stunned if only briefly, before submitting back into exhaustion. It's a sour look, as though he'd taken an entire lemon in one bite. "They're sentencing me to death by a novice captain who can't even perform the Boiler."
"I wouldn't say that I'm a novice."
"Then you're an embarrassment."
"I'm not the one being executed."
"You'll have your turn, you sniveling, little snot."
Thirty-Two doubts that.
"You're as disposable as the rest," Vegeta further insists, "You're a pawn yet you think you can look down on me? How stupid are you? You're nothing."
"I'm more than that." But Thirty-Two doesn't elaborate. He doesn't feel the need to brag about his accomplishments. But equally, Vegeta is unlikeable and Thirty-Two wants to make him hurt just a little and so adds; "I'll be the captain who kills Prince Vegeta."
When Vegeta's shoulders give an aggressive thrust forward, Thirty-Two knows he's touched a nerve.
"What a foul bootlicker you are. There are always mindless slaves like you ready to serve the empire, huh? Ready to swim in the mud and shit and serve those bastards. Tch… Nothing's changed. Nothing ever will."
"Are you talking from your own servitude, Vegeta?"
"No. I always had my own mind."
"So, you only murdered for your own goals. I see. Did ridding yourself of Lord Frieza simply help you cut out the middleman?"
"You have as much blood on your hands as I do mine," he bites back, not entirely wrong, "I know what you must have done to earn your rank, boy. How old are you? Nineteen, maybe twenty summers? A captain at that age? You must have killed—"
"Still not as many as you."
For a time, Vegeta stares him down – his glower veiled in inquiry – until he leans forward with a sticky laugh, his conclusion reached.
"Pathetic," he sneers. "Think you're pious, boy? We're all rot!"
It's incredibly rare for Thirty-Two to lose his patience. He likes to see himself as a simmering pot atop stove; full of heat but never quite bubbling over. His control is excellent. His manner is professional, contained. Stoic, as it's once been said.
So, one could call it out of character for Thirty-Two to lash out.
He knees Vegeta in the back like a petty, petulant child.
Vegeta groans and it's almost worth it, the moment only ruined when Thirty-Two remembers his reason for wanting words with Vegeta in the first place.
"Namek," he starts with, "Tell me of it."
"Fuck off, you nasally challenged Southern cunt. Send Hailer if he wants—"
"Tell me."
"Or what? You're already executing me tomorrow. What else can you do? Rough me up a bit? Bother me until sunrise? Remember who you're talking to. I'm Vegeta, Prince of—"
Thirty-Two can't bare to hear it, shoving him to the floor.
"All done, Captain," announces the guard near the generator, its shell coat now back in place. The machine is purring with life once more. "Err, should I request back-up?"
"No. It's all right. We're done here."
Vegeta glares up with such ferocity that the heat is near visible, and in that moment Thirty-Two wants to say something cruel, he wants to hurt Vegeta more, but even more so than that he wants to learn about Namek.
Vegeta is the first to open his mouth. "I'll be back."
It's so morose that Thirty-Two finds the comment amusing. He's surprised into a laugh. "Really?"
"And when I return, you'll be the first I kill."
Thirty-Two smiles darkly. "I'll take you up on that."
He leaves the cell and closes the door behind him, and this time he does spare a final look at Vegeta. What he sees makes him want to crawl out of his own body. The way Vegeta just stares at the floor with… with anguish is horrific.
It's a private moment, Thirty-Two quickly realizes; one he regrets seeing.
He slams the outer door behind him.
Oddly, it inspires him. He focuses with devout dedication on bettering his technique – on control – just not to think of that pitiful face once more.
Thirty-Two vomited three times last night.
Two times were in the training chamber, where he'd hunched in a corner and expelled what little food he'd eaten that day. A reward for performing the Boiler to a respectable temperature. And the final time had been in the middle of the night after one of those cloudy, haunting dreams. The unfamiliar language, the orange and green and everything which ended in fireworks. Always fireworks. Always hot and burning and too bright to look at.
The next morning, he's disorientated. Sometimes, after the dreams, he feels like an infiltrator in his own body, as though he's not supposed to be there. It comes with vertigo.
Today is one of those days; a day where he just feels wrong, unnatural even.
"What a time for this," Thirty-Two mutters as he cradles his head, still bundled in his bedding.
He at least still has a few hours before the execution, thank God.
Thirty-Two knows he needs to look respectable for the occasion. So he steps over the puddle of vomit he'd attempted to clean last night, and stumbles into the shower where the water runs at a cool temperature so as not to upset his many burns. The salve worked well enough yesterday but angry blotches of red remain and they're sore to the touch.
Breakfast is a quick affair, all in all because Thirty-Two can barely stomach a single bite without feeling queasy.
It also proves unusually lively in the refectory. Despite the ruckus of being chosen as Vegeta's executioner, and the subsequent fuss, it seems that the news of his being chosen is now common knowledge, and so, many soldiers suddenly feel that it's okay to approach Thirty-Two.
"Make it hurt!"
"He's gonna' cry like a bitch!"
"Do it for the South!"
Another soldier simply passes by and squeezes Thirty-Two's shoulder. Thirty-Two damn near chokes on his food from the shock of it.
"Well, doesn't it feel festive in 'ere?"
He doesn't need to look up to know it's Pyrak looming above him. With the ambition of having his breakfast in somber solitude forgotten, Thirty-Two flourishes a hand gesturing for Pyrak to sit down. He may as well, considering his morning is already ruined.
Pyrak does and Thirty-Two's relieved not have him hovering above. "They announced Vegeta's capture this mornin' while ye' were snoozing."
"Okay." Thirty-Two forces himself to eat a mouthful of gruel, speaking around it; "So, what do you want?"
"Did ya learn the Boiler? Bets are on. I've got money on ya that you don't even perform it. I reckon that you're gonna' piss ya knickers."
Instead of replying, Thirty-Two swallows his food and sips his water. The action of smacking his lips makes Pyrak's gaze darken, and it brings admittable glee to Thirty-Two because he's already in such a bad mood as it is.
"I see," he eventually says, "You're still unhappy Lord Hailer didn't choose you."
"I'm not upset," Pyrak says quickly.
"Of course."
"I couldn't give two shits."
"Mm."
Pyrak leans in over the table and knocks the water out of Thirty-Two's hands. It clatters before smashing, but it's just white noise amongst the hustle and bustle of the canteen and no one pays them any mind.
"When you fuck it up today, and you will, just know that I could' performed the Boiler fucking spectacularly." He gives Thirty-Two an up and down. "Even Lord Hailer couldn't look past your pretty babyface to make the right choice, could 'e? Gotta' make an impression for the cameras, after all."
Thirty-Two feels his lips threaten to curl, and he has to force himself not to react. To breathe.
"Pyrak, do you really want to cause a scene on Lord Hailer's special day?" Thirty-Two whispers in promising tones. So frustrated, he converts to the Southern language. "Are you that desperate to prove your worth? Can it not wait until we're back at Central?"
"I'm jus' sharing my well wishes."
"Remember that we're representing the Southern division." If not anything else, Pyrak has his pride. "Act with some decorum."
Pyrak contemplates his next actions. For a moment, Thirty-Two believes the brute might take a swing at him, but then, Pyrak's chair pushes back with a stretched screech. He stands. Waves of Pyrak's captain furs follow him as he turns and bestows his absence.
Good riddance. Thirty-Two already has enough to contend with this morning.
Normally, he doesn't go so easily, so quietly. Hmm, Pyrak's quiet fury is alarming, unnerving really, and Thirty-Two can't help but feel that he hasn't heard the last from him on this trip.
After that display, he's really not hungry.
Pyrak has always disliked him since as long as Thirty-Two has known him. The first time they'd met was in the Youth Program many years ago, some foggy era from Thirty-Two's childhood he struggles to recall. For whatever reason, Pyrak detests Thirty-Two. Perhaps it's because Thirty-Two's study scores were higher, or perhaps because Thirty-Two has proven, time and time again, his physical prowess over him, and Pyrak, who must be at least five years older than him, is a petulant, immature sore loser. He's always towered over Thirty-Two (who's tall in his own right) and is wide and burly and with enough power to dominate all the weaker soldiers – but not Thirty-Two, never Thirty-Two.
Their personalities are also at odds so that doesn't help. Where Pyrak is popular, Thirty-Two is anti-social, and where Pyrak is brash and cruel, Thirty-Two is reserved and… well, it's not like Thirty-Two can't be cruel. He can be, but he doesn't relish in it like Pyrak does. And for years, Thirty-Two has indeed seen him relish. Pyrak graduated the Youth Program a year before Thirty-Two did, and so in Thirty-Two's final year he hadn't needed to suffer Pyrak's cruelty or self-imposed rivalry, which had been like having a gnawing dog removed from his ankle. However, when Thirty-Two had graduated, been bought and placed into Lord Hailer's ranks, Thirty-Two's thin amount of luck seeped into the wind because he'd been once again reunited with Pyrak. They even house next to one another. Share cadets, even. Yes, Lord Hailer does like to pair them together, which must be out of sheer spite because it's the worst kept secret how poorly they get along.
In fact, nastily, Thirty-Two wishes it were Pyrak's head on the chopping block instead of Vegeta's. Or better yet, Thirty-Two could burn both of them. Feeling somewhat inspired, he rises and discards his tray of food. Today he'll do his duty and prove his naysayers wrong.
As he walks free of the refectory, Thirty-Two lumbers the weight of being watched, Pyrak's gaze the weightiest of them all.
The chosen facility for the performance is the Grand Hall. Lord Hailer and Lord Cooler wouldn't choose anything less than magnificent for the grounds of Prince Vegeta's execution.
And most certainly, Thirty-Two is dressed for the occasion, wearing his heavy furs and a fine jumpsuit that is thickly woven and expensive. The turtleneck covers the burns, extending into a face covering up to his eyes. If he's going to be aired live to billions then he's at least allowing himself the luxury of his face mask; it'd be mortifying to see his own gaunt mug staring back from the coverage.
It bares not thinking about. Thirty-Two checks the time on his scouter. He hasn't long, and so he advances into the hall. It's not somewhere Thirty-Two likes. The design is gratuitous. Supposedly like frost, crystal pieces adorn the ceiling with what one might think as wintery effect. But Thirty-Two disagrees. He knows real winter, understanding how tasteless this is – tacky, almost – even though the entire piece must be worth three times the sum of Thirty-Two himself. These trickles of gems sparkle in formation, lingering over the room so high above that you could stack ten men and still not reach them. Thirty-Two pretends them to be stars, just for a moment, so he can disassociate himself away and into the countryside. There'd be a chilled breeze, sleet when the storm clears up, and only the whistle through the trees.
Thirty-Two likes the countryside and he likes the stars, too, but he long since stopped wishing upon them. It's a strange habit he'd once had. He doesn't know why he would make wishes as a boy, because none of the other children would and he'd tried to explain it to them even though none of the others could understand. Thirty-Two wonders if this wishing habit has something to do with his rotten saiyan heritage.
It doesn't matter now.
The Saiyan people are nearly all dead, and today, Thirty-Two will bring another to the grave.
He approaches the stage centre of the hall, climbing the ornate stone. The only lighting around it comes from the half-moon of candles. They dot around the front end of the hall, imprisoning the darkness and Thirty-Two along with it. It's haunting, and not remarkably cozy as some might suggest. It looks like a sacrifice is about to be made.
Clenching his jaw, he surveys the room.
The Grand Hall is already full of spectators. Lines of soldiers are positioned precisely to look perfectly uniform, single file to face the stage where the show is to be performed. When Thirty-Two climbs the stage, a low murmur threads the crowd. Two thrones have been placed to the right of the stage as to be in a good range of the performance, ready for both Frost lords to have an enjoyable viewing experience, and so Thirty-Two stands aside the one on the right. It isn't long until the Northern captain, Ytvl, appears. He maneuvers his way through the crowd, chatting candidly to soldiers as he goes, laughing, joking, with that open expression Thirty-Two detests.
Soon enough, he comes to stand beside the throne on the left. There's no acknowledgement between the two.
The crowd falls silent and Thirty-Two realizes that this must mean their lords are arriving. Sure enough, the two enter the hall together, sharing a quiet conversation. Lord Hailer doesn't so much as acknowledge the crowd when they reach the stage, but Lord Cooler at least offers both captains a curt nod. The captains bow their heads in reverence, and each lord subsequently takes a seat beside their respective captains.
"Bring him in," Lord Cooler instructs Ytvl. Ytvl once more bows his head before disappearing off-stage.
A wave of nausea washes over Thirty-Two. This is it. He's moments away from performing the Boiler.
Head low. Eyes front.
There's a hiss. A buzz, even, like from an insect. Thirty-Two looks for it, only to see a small device with rotating wings soar past him and hover above the stage. It takes a moment for Thirty-Two to register that he's currently looking at a camera, one ready to film the execution live… and possibly ready to catch him in the act of failing to kill Vegeta.
He wills himself some fucking confidence.
Thirty-Two's fine. It'll be fine. It's always fine.
Lord Hailer is poised in his seat, intimidating and assessing. He's wearing a formal armour-set today, much like Thirty-Two is. They're united in blue and furs, and also in their silence.
"Loyal soldiers," Lord Cooler begins in name of the Frost Empire, addressing the crowds and then the camera, "Individuals across the many Frost-ruled circulate, rebel factions, and all those in between, I welcome you to join us today for an event most outstanding.
"For many years, we've suffered as a culprit continually escaped our clutches and sullied the great Frost name. Many of you may recognize his face, and many of you may recognize the hardships he has brought upon our cause. Today, we are going to rectify his wrongs and bring justice to the Frost family, and, of course, to our dearly departed brother… Lord Frieza.
"The injustice of Lord Frieza's murder has plagued many of us, and for a regretful amount of time now we've been unable to rectify this evil deed against the most prestigious Frost Empire and with it, all of you who serve under it. Until this morning. Here, atop the Northern Flagship, where finally, Justice's hammer shall fall.
"Vegeta, the Prince of the Saiyan people, today will be executed."
Cheers. Hundreds of them. Millions possibly, from a world beyond the cameras.
"Lord Frieza," Lord Cooler drawls, loud, over the jubilance in the aim of inflicting a somber mood, "Was murdered. He was slaughtered by what this individual, Prince Vegeta, represents. And so today is the start of a new opportunity for us, an opportunity to be rid of our universe's worst scourge. We are going to finish what Lord Frieza started."
Thirty-Two surveys the room in anticipation for their reaction. Will they still cheer?
"It is our duty to set all right. By doing so, under the rule of the prestigious Frost name, let it be known that every living saiyan will thusly be destroyed."
It's not cheers at all. Charged conversation erupts, bursting from small groups all around the hall. Thirty-Two sees varied reactions: horror, discomfort, ambiguity. Lord Cooler allows them a moment, an insipid line cutting his own face. "Any individual with higher than 25% saiyan coding will be felled."
There is a pause, and the silence is deafening. Thirty-Two knows that many of these soldiers will need to be genetically tested.
"It is time for action!" Lord Cooler exclaims, cutting through the tension in aim of keeping the crowd. "Today we end this foul race, starting at the very top! We bring to you… Prince Vegeta, Prince of the Saiyan People."
And sure enough, Captain Ytvl appears with Vegeta in tow. Vegeta looks truly drained. He's ghost white – clammy from the exposure of sheenks. Ytvl drags him by the arm and thrusts him onto the stage. At this, the camera buzzes around frantically, zooming in and out on Vegeta's thunderous face as the crowd hisses their obscenities at him. The dread in Thirty-Two's stomach twists when the camera then pans onto him.
Vegeta is next hoisted into a square indentation carved into the stage floor. It's coated in sheenks, and due to Vegeta's overexposure to the substance, it will be effective in keeping him still during the execution.
It's true that whilst Vegeta looks tired, he doesn't appear scared; his eyes are murderous. They never once leave Lord Cooler's.
"Prince Vegeta," Lord Cooler greets coolly, "How courteous of you to join us."
"Fuck off, you slimy lizard," Vegeta wheezes. As such, Ytvl backhands Vegeta so hard that he spins on the spot. Vegeta eyes the captain with renewed repugnance before spitting out a blob of fresh, red blood, wheezing.
"Such a foul mouth," Lord Coolers reprimands, eyes alive with disdain. "I have little to say to you, only that I hope that wherever you find yourself after this life is equally as dismal, as pitiful, as your current. You're not worth my time, nor the Frost Empire's. The only person's time I will allow you to further take is Captain Thirty-Two's, and that's as he cooks you alive so you take no man's time once more."
Vegeta tries to speak but Ytvl strikes him a final time, sending him to the floor.
Lord Cooler is appeased by this. His tail flickers out as he takes his seat between Lord Hailer and Thirty-Two. His loyal audience laughs, hungry for more violence as they applaud their master. Their sick yearning for Vegeta's blood makes Thirty-Two's skin crawl, especially knowing he's about to feed it.
Finally, Lord Hailer lazily raises a hand.
The crowd immediately quietens. Lord Coolers says not a word more.
It's time.
His stomach sinks as he steps forward to where Vegeta is spread across the ground like ruined newspaper. Sneering, he spits more blood, right in front of Thirty-Two's feet.
Repulsed, Thirty-Two retreats his polished boot. If one of Thirty-Two's soldiers did this then he would give them a swift kick to the face. But it's not one of his. It's Vegeta's last bout of defiance.
"Let it be known! The Northern soldiers secured this creature!" Lord Cooler feels unable to keep in, "But together, with our Southern brothers, we will bring its foul existence to an end! No more will Vegeta's legacy be a stain on our fine work as a collective. This is our gift to you. One of Lord Hailer's Southern captains will perform the execution today. Captain Thirty-Two, named so in accordance with his Youth Program number, will execute Prince Vegeta using the technique known colloquially as the Boiler, one which has been a staple of our fine institution long before any of us present were even conceived. Traditional and vengeful, I see no better end for Prince Vegeta's story other than such a regal execution method."
Vegeta looks up at Thirty-Two, and then sees the camera. Blood still dribbles down his chin as he snarls like the beast they paint him to be. "Do your worst, boy."
Beast. Monster. Saiyan.
Burnt.
"Commence, Captain."
Thirty-Two breathes a single long breath, feeling Lord Hailer's gaze burn into his back.
Head down. Eyes front.
Then, he does it.
The heat from Thirty-Two's burns suddenly feel unbearable, as though they know they're about to be scorched again. He raises his arm regardless, his own furs sliding down, and readies the flame. It dances softy in his palm, the heat slowly building as the technique requires. The crowd is silent, eagerly awaiting Vegeta's screams.
The fire builds and builds until the flames licking at Thirty-Two's wrists hurt enough for it to be considered hot, but not hot enough to instantly burn.
His eyes find Vegeta's unreadable ones. They close in anticipation.
He looks ready.
The flames leak from his palm.
He looks ready to die.
Thirty-Two finally casts the Boiler with perfect aim. Some part of him registers the camera zooming in on the attack, but he's so focused on the technique that doesn't care even if it catches his mask slipping. Apprehensive, but cautiously optimistic that the attack is the right temperature, Thirty-Two watches as the fire swallows Vegeta.
Vegeta's eyes burst open in anguish.
His mouth opens.
Thirty-Two waits for it.
And just as he's about to scream, everything turns white.
At first, Thirty-Two thinks it is just him – that he's the only one turned blind. But shrieks sound from the crowd, and he hears Lord Hailer call out his name in a series of commands. Just as he's about to attempt to heed the orders, pain explodes from one side of his face and he carousels onto the stage. It's not over. His assailant is insistent, pursing him once more. The feeling of someone's fist grounding into his stomach isn't foreign to Thirty-Two, and so he reaches out and tries to grab the offender. For his effort, Thirty-Two is struck another time across the face, and kicked so hard that he flies free from the stage and into a wall. He feels the concrete shake and crack upon impact.
During all this, he's still blind, and Thirty-Two hopes – with mild panic – that it isn't permanent. Nearby, an explosion erupts and the shockwaves emit from where he thinks the centre of the stage is. The chaos of fighting sounds from around him. All the surrounding hitches of energy trigger his scouter into action, recording the jumping of power levels with frenzied beeping. Alarms ring out. And it's all too much. His senses are being assaulted.
Thirty-Two can also hear soldiers shouting orders between themselves. Some are charging towards the stage. Others are exiting the hall. It's all so difficult to gauge with the state of his vision; it at least gives Thirty-Two the impression that the blindness has worn off for the other soldiers.
Was it a bomb? Perhaps some kind of explosive they've never heard of before?
A specialized attack?
Blotches of colour finally start returning, but his head hurts so much now that it's practically impossible to focus. The first thing he makes out is the stage, or rather, what's left of it. The Boiler's goliath fire must have spread during the attack, overwhelming everything in its path and growing into the monster which it has now become.
Lord Cooler and Lord Hailer are long gone, vanishing in the commotion.
As Thirty-Two runs back to the stage, the fire continues to grow, hungrier and greedier than ever. Flames strangle his flesh; reigniting the burns and making them shoot white shocks up his arms. He bears it well, pushing away offending soldiers, shouting at them to "calm down!", and trying to find where the hell Vegeta has managed to crawl to. He's weak. He couldn't have gotten far, especially with the fire and… smoke.
That's when Thirty-Two notices the lack of said smoke filling the room. Bleary eyes advance and witness thick, smoldering clouds escape through a hole in the roof.
Through the density of grey-black, Thirty-Two sees the unmistakable flickering of vehicle lights.
A spaceship?
There's a thrill of panic.
"Where's Vegeta!" Thirty-Two demands the nearest cluster of soldiers. They're fighting the fire. Why aren't they looking for Vegeta? "Where the hell is he!" But none of the soldiers can hear him over the crackling of the flames. Debris falls from the ceiling and a storm of dust and ash make it near impossible for the men to navigate.
They're useless to him. As usual, he'll do this himself.
Thirty-Two jumps up in brisk movement, flying past the fire and onto the decaying roof of the Grand Hall. Smoke has ignited into flame behind him, and it sears his previously earned burns until agony courses down his arms.
As he swivels atop the crumbling rooftop, he's quite suddenly greeted with a crisp punch to the face.
Honestly, he'd expected as much and so Thirty-Two takes the hit with stride, pulling the arm towards him and landing a punch of his own. The perpetrator flies back and takes a fall into the sharp tiles of the decaying structure. Flames swoop up and welcome the attacker with an orange, menacing hug.
Rebels.
Thirty-Two turns back to the sky with frantic motion. He'd been right about seeing a spaceship. It's moderately sized and of a unique design, painted white and, most importantly, being used to load Prince Vegeta. Several people have surrounded him and usher him forward through the doors.
Thirty-Two narrows his eyes, examining his route.
He runs forward over the tiles and makes a jump for the ship. The smoke is thick, the heat unforgiving. This is of his own making.
Just as Thirty-Two's about to make contact, a blue boot connects with his previously wounded cheek and instantly, he helixes down and crashes back into the roof, where intricate tiles catch him, cutting into his skin as he pistons deeper into the debris. He finally stops when he bounces against a girder. A shock of pain runs along his waist as the taste of metal fills his mouth.
From this sprawled position on the rooftop, Thirty-Two witnesses as, at this crucial moment, the spaceship launches itself backwards at a speed no soldier could compete with.
All Thirty-Two can do is watch morbidly as it ascends further and further away.
The ravenous fire of the Boiler below him burns on, casting a menacing red glow on the world around him.
Vegeta had successfully escaped.