Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Four
The Cindering
Head low. Eyes front.
Narrowly, the bottle skims Thirty-Two's cheek before shattering into an explosion of red liquid and green fragments in one unsurprising motion. Thirty-Two has witnessed many a disagreement between Lord Hailer and Lord Cooler, and it usually comes with bouts of violence. Some soldiers die in the crossfire, though most have the sense to keep their distance. Only Thirty-Two now remains, kneeling in the dour wreckage of the Grand Hall as tries not to breathe in the fumes of debris and the dead.
Soot courses towards him as Lord Cooler advances.
"And how do we know that he's not with them?"
Thirty-Two is snatched from the ground and hauled up for inspection. Lord Cooler's eyes are diluted with fury, scraping over Thirty-Two with the naked desire to see him pay for any and all crimes committed today.
Thirty-Two holds that gaze, meeting it with what must be an acceptable demonstration of devotion because he's roughly discarded back to formation.
"My men are not turncoats," Lord Hailer replies. "Your first ranked captain had been playing you for a fool this entire time, yet you question mine? Most revealing. Most inept."
"Tch." Lord Cooler is furious at everyone, including himself. "I take responsibility for Ytvl but you should look at your own. This boy should be executed for his incompetence. He's the one who let Vegeta slip through his fingers."
Thirty-Two wants to tell his commander that he'd taken the full force of the blinding technique/weapon and that he'd had little opportunity to retaliate considering the circumstances. Instead, he settles for silence.
But Lord Cooler isn't done. His tail thrashes menacingly behind, cracking stone. "And don't you dare call me inept, brother, when it was my men who'd brought in Vegeta in the first place."
"Yes. Brought in by the same individual who'd later help Vegeta escape."
"So, you blame this solely on me?"
Lord Hailer's silence is telling.
"How… How dare you!"
Lord Cooler seethes at the truth, lashing his tail once more, this time into an opposing pillar with such force that it detonates on impact. Rubble explodes skyward. Thirty-Two would later find some embedded in his hair.
Yes, whilst Thirty-Two can't feel energy, he certainly feels the rage radiating from Lord Cooler. The mania.
"I want him DEAD!" Lord Cooler rasps, "I want them all DEAD!"
Lord Hailer's gaze is heated with a calmer fury, but fury nonetheless. "Captain Thirty-Two," he addresses, low, almost rumbling.
Knowing that he's about to be issued an official order, Thirty-Two quickly drops back down to one knee and bows his head once again, this time in waiting.
"You will perform that execution, Captain. I want Vegeta found, and I want all who assisted him dead, including that Northern traitor captain," he orders very softly, "I want you to locate that tin can they call a ship, burst it open and wrench the prince from its contents. Bring him to me – alive – along with the heads of everyone inside it. Do not allow them to make a further mockery of us and the Empire."
"Yes, my lord."
Lord Hailer pauses.
"And then for that, Captain, I will finally grant you that leave of absence you so desire. Your three days."
The surprise winds him, and the joy has Thirty-Two appreciative. He almost smiles. "Yes, my lord!"
Though, Lord Hailer remains unmoved by Thirty-Two's pleasure and awaits his brother's expected comment on the matter.
"Then let it be done," Lord Cooler eventually says, still seething. "However… I want Ytvl returned to me alive."
Lord Hailer turns to him without expression.
"This transgression," spits Lord Cooler, "It's… it's-"
"Personal?" Lord Hailer breathes out, delightfully cruel. "How like you."
"I don't suffer traitors. I'll make an example out of him. I'll have him look me in the eyes like a man and tell me why he dared defy me after all these years of loyalty!"
There's a drawn out moment where Lord Hailer says and does nothing. Silence has always been his most crucial weapon.
"Let us return to the subject of soldiers," Lord Hailer ultimately responds, still low, still so considerate of his words, "If you are soft with them they will inevitably betray you. Loyalty means nothing in the face of survival. You may not be able to see it even in this captain's eyes… but he hates me. He'd have me dead if he could. They all would. Perhaps, every one of my men would.
"Yet, they follow me for I am the commander. Do you understand why, brother? They follow me not only because I fill their hearts with fear but also because fill their stomachs with food and their beds with women. The Empire is as important to them as it is to us. They are nothing without it or me. They need no kindness, only a firm hand. Otherwise, they really will have you dead. You said that you prefer your men with more bite but look at where that gets you; betrayed.
"Remind them of their place so they can remember yours."
Thirty-Two's hauled up once more, now by Lord Hailer's hand, and then backhanded so hard that he spins until striking marble. A spray of blood spreads over the grey.
"Alas, I needn't go overboard with Thirty-Two," Lord Hailer says, light, as if he hadn't just delivered a concussion. "The Youth Program instills proper principles. They'll see him true. Won't they, Captain?"
A cold dread washes over him as he recalls the aforementioned principles back at the program. The methods of installation. The teaching. The horror.
The air feels suddenly thinner.
Head low. Eyes front.
He swallows, remembering where he is.
"Yes, my lord."
It's with less antagonistic eyes that Lord Cooler now observes him, as though the violence has satiated him.
"Remember your duty, Captain," Lord Hailer says as he wipes his hand along the furnishings. "Do not return to me without Vegeta or that traitor."
Thirty-Two, too, wipes away the blood.
And finally, he bows.
"Yes, Lord Hailer."
A page is turned.
Thirty-Two has always had a sway to books; he likes the smell of dusty pages that nobody's touched in years, how the ink makes his fingers greasy, the intimate sanctuary of the stories within them. As a boy, whenever he could, he'd hide away and consume book after book until his eyes hurt from the strain of dim light. He'd go to bed each night thinking of the characters. He'd wonder about what could happen in the next chapter, or if the characters would survive until the end. And it wasn't always fiction that he'd read. Non-fiction (especially about multicellular organisms) could be enjoyable, and when he'd burned through the library at the Youth Program about persuasive environmental pieces, he'd then pick up something a little different.
Spacecrafts and Fleets.
It'd been a gateway. There'd been so many books about vehicles in the library that it'd felt inevitable, that Thirty-Two would always stumble into this educational refuge. A subsection of the Youth Program is devoted to innovation, namely scientific research and engineering. Whilst the Youth Program's military candidates are what bring the most recognition, the other divisions are nothing to sniff at. And lucky for Thirty-Two, they'd all shared the Program library.
Thirty-Two would read when he wasn't training or studying syllabus content, and when reading about spacecrafts stopped being enough, he'd tinker with them.
And that's what he's doing right now. Thirty-Two's buried himself into one of the older models of spacepods, most specifically, the B4348. The handbook is open and Thirty-Two guides his finger along the rough texture of the page, pausing at a most detailed diagram of the ship. Interesting. It's talking of the newer upgraded version of the model, of the one Thirty-Two tries to avoid in the shipyard whenever he's deployed. This ship is not one of those. This the model he prefers. It's a discreet machine, and the nitrous oxide dispenser always operates in a timely manner instead of sporadically like the newer models suffer from. Thirty-Two appreciates reliability over modernization. Once serviced, this pod will be how he maneuvers from one side of the Empire to the next.
And in this subsection of space, he'll be sure to find Vegeta. Their ship is of a unique design. Thirty-Two has sketched it out already. His memory for these sorts of things is nothing short of spectacular, after all. Rounded, wingless and comparable to a cargo ship as opposed to a manned vessel, the ship will definitely struggle to maneuver without being noticed. It'll need particular fuel. Most stations won't be able to service it. Thirty-Two has already listed all the contacts at Empire overseen fuel stations, having already sent men to question them on suspicious vehicles passing through.
Thirty-Two wipes his brow, smearing a streak of oil.
His ship should be ready by tomorrow once the ordered parts arrive. Wherever Vegeta has found himself, Thirty-Two shall follow.
First, he must tend to the archives.
In the confines of the Research Hall, Thirty-Two begins to collect information on the group he thinks Ytvl may work for. As per expectation, very few soldiers occupy the dwindling, dusty hovel. It's an unkempt space with no management. Of course, the North values brawn over brain. How unsurprising. It's all rather inconvenient to be faced with such a lack of resources, however. In the South, the research division is a well-organized, well-respected (well enough, at least) part of the organization.
Here, however…
Thirty-Two disdainfully observes the lone librarian asleep in a sprawl across his desk.
Still, Thirty-Two does manage to latch onto a single lead by the end of the first day. Out of the assortment of Frost Empire-opposed organizations, one does stand out from the rest. Originally, they appeared as a typical run-of-the-mill rebel group, perhaps with a bit better funding than most, but the well proved to be so much deeper.
Cilo is this assembly's name. A terrorist faction. Only several years old but with a success record that's oddly favourable in terms of combat and space occupation. Ah. Their fatality rate is also fortunate. Reading further, Thirty-Two notices that there have been no less than thirteen squads been lost to their forces this year alone. They're definitely being bankrolled. And are bring oddly quiet despite their success. Most peculiar. They've never once issued any statements out against the Empire and there's never been a declaration of war. It's all very strange. Usually, these rebel groups are vocal. They like to rally. And rally they must have, somehow, considering the cult following they've amassed over the years.
How troublesome.
Thirty-Two has seen a few rebel groups dealt with already. It's not uncommon for new ones to spring up like forgotten, stubborn weeds. They so often do after popular planets have been purged or a famous leader's execution. It's all part of the course. An occupational hazard.
In Thirty-Two's books, Cilo is most likely behind this heroic saving of Vegeta. According to reports, the group has been noticeably active recently, and, as discovered, they most certainly have the funds and connections to pull off infiltrating Empire space. Skimming through documents online, once the dismal archives are bled dry, Thirty-Two becomes sure that this is the lead he needs to follow, if due to the fact alone that only last month two other high profile rebel organizations were dismantled. Cilo would have absorbed the overspill of members. A tale as old as time.
Even online, there's little useful intelligence to be found. A lot of the information comes across as unconvincing rumours. Journalists document hearsays. Tabloids spill their usual gossip. But in between the tripe, there are a few gems. One particular tavern's name crops up more than once.
Green Snow.
It's back in the Southern quadrant, in Central no less. Near Thirty-Two's base.
'Green Snow was where the last gathering was held, I reckon.' one interview reads. There's a picture of a blue civilian with bulging pink eyes; one bigger than the other. Thirty-Two can't remember the name of the species, though unfortunately does remember their delight in devouring their spouses. His lip curls as he reads on. 'Pretty sure Green Snow is run by sympathisers. I've never been myself because I'm Frost Empire through and through. It's in my blood! But I do know a lad who goes to them meetings for a laugh. He says it's full of them protesty-types; all young soldiers. You know the sort; those ones who can't hack what it means to be a true man, the ones who question Lord Cooler's reign! It boils my blood, it does. Those cock-sucking traitors who call-'
Well, that's enough of that rubbish.
Thirty-Two sips his coffee. It's strong and bitter and not at all how he likes it. He wishes he could find some sugar, but anything sweet is still made unavailable to him. One would think being a captain would mean something around here, but apparently not. The shop worker had refused to even give him the smallest of packs. The weasel. And so cruelly, the caffeine is barely enough to stave away his exhaustion.
By the afternoon, he does wake up, somewhat. However, his head is now splitting from dehydration and reading through research articles for too long. It turns out there's a lot more information online the longer he digs, and Thirty-Two divides his time between looking on the larger computer in the Research Hall and scouring on his scouter. Annoyingly, most of the information online is blocked by the Empire's online firewall, so a good portion of the morning was spent trying to fight his way through the block.
Once he's finally through with his multiple very illegal proxies, he finds that Cilo has been growing steadily over the last year or so. It seems Thirty-Two's earlier researching had been correct. Cilo indeed has many supporters, some with deep pockets and boundless generosity. Several blurred faces stare back at him from the screen with quotes written out beside them, stating their unwavering support for Cilo.
Time drags forward slowly until Thirty-Two manages to find and access Cilo's website. It doesn't display much, only its name (written in four different languages), their group motto: Burn the Ice Away, and today's date. It probably doesn't seem like anything special to most, but Thirty-Two reads between the lines. The suggestion means they're present and that they're still active in opposing the empire.
He drains the bitterness from his cup.
Really, Thirty-Two has watched many rebel groups appear and disappear and for that, Lord Hailer has rarely seen them as anything more than a nuisance. Perhaps the odd one can become frustrating, like a small creature gnawing at your ankle, but they all end up the same way in the end: an example.
Thirty-Two has seen exactly four executions of rebel leaders. He can't remember their names, only the harrowingly hoarse screams bleeding into the night. Their begging. That's how it's supposed to be, because, honestly, who really remembers the lowly perpetrators? They are fated to become victims to time; lost.
And more will soon be lost. Their mantra following once Lord Hailer stamps out the rest of the insects.
His eyes glaze over, and he can feel the pull of the memories sending him into another spiral. Screaming men and women; burning, drowning, being suffocated… All slow deaths, all sending the same message.
The Frost doesn't melt. Ice is eternal.
Bright green eyes of one of the leaders had watched him, unblinking, as he'd cooked from the inside. They'd asked him why. They had wanted mercy.
It hadn't mattered in the end. He'd stunk of burnt meat and shit like the rest of them once he was dead.
The body had then been left to rot in a street, outside a school, in fact. Thirty-Two remembers seeing kids taller than he was peering over gates, horrified. He'd been fresh out of the Youth Program though no less used to witnessing death.
Ice is eternal, hope is for naught. Rebel groups will never succeed.
Get on with it.
Thirty-Two blankly stares at the computer screen, watching how his captain's badge twinkles back at him. His gaunt reflection stares back darkly, discoloured crescents sitting beneath his eyes.
Head low. Eyes front.
The next day of research yields similar results. This time, Thirty-Two doesn't skip dinner and faces the unwelcome attention with his chin held high. The refectory is rowdy and doesn't stop being as such on Thirty-Two's account. He enters, takes his tray of slop and sits in his corner, ignored by most except for the occasional stare. Pyrak is there. Whilst he doesn't stare, he does make it known very loudly of his gleeful disappointment in Thirty-Two's performance of Vegeta's execution. Pyrak has always been a hateful brute. Today is not the day that Thirty-Two rises to it.
But the morning is not without drama. There's a scuffle between some lowly Southern and Northern soldiers, which escalates when the captains become involved. Thirty-Two stays out of it, finishing the rest of his food in the courtyard.
In the damp evening, Thirty-Two considers whether he should go back southward and continue researching from his home base at Central. He's better respected and better connected there, not that he's had many problems of recognition since the execution, but being in familiar territory is appealing to Thirty-Two, especially with such dated research technology here. The archives are embarrassing. How is Thirty-Two expected to put together a plan of action?
There are also some political annoyances.
From a distance, he watches as two Southern soldiers approach and berate a Northern soldier in the yard. Thirty-Two knows he should probably intervene but doesn't give enough of a shit to bother. If idiot soldiers want to kill one another, then by all means…
Not long following, a body bag is seen being taken to the projectile shoot.
Late evening strikes with realisation. He's tinkering with his scouter, willing it to break through the firewall, with three empty coffee cups sitting by his side and nothing to show for a day's work, when the silence is broken. Nearby soldiers have been popping their heads in and out of the Research Hall over the last hour now, and Thirty-Two idly wonders if they have bets on him.
Thirty-Two breaks one of their noses when he launches a hardback. There's a crunch of blood, a single cry and then, finally, quiet.
It'd been in his frustration that he'd dropped his scouter. He moves to retrieve it, hand halting when the scouter beeps, Thirty-Two's location flashing with bright vibrancy.
Location…
He pauses.
Ah.
With haste, he fastens the scouter back on and dials in the code for the Southern Research Division. A soft bleep sounds out until the call is answered.
"Hesla' ta?" caws a female's croaky voice from the other end.
She's using the Southern tongue, commonly spoken on most Lord Hailer ruled planets and space stations. Thirty-Two recognizes her voice as one of the regular research team members. There aren't many women on the team, and even less elderly. He hasn't interacted with her much in the past so he asks to be passed onto someone he knows.
"Captain Thirty-Two!" greets Nami brightly. He, too, speaks with a Southern tongue, knowing very little of the common universal language. Despite this, he's very gifted in research and has been Thirty-Two's go-to for the last year. He's a portly, middle-aged man who rarely leaves his workshop except to attend the refectory or collect parts for his ships. He works in the Research Division between both the engineering and technological department: Thirty-Two's ideal position.
"Researcher," Thirty-Two acknowledges respectfully.
"Oh... How can I assist you, Captain?"
"I need you to track down the last known location of a scouter."
Shuffling can be heard on the other side. "Sure. You got the code?"
"No, you'll have to access the main database for this."
"Alrighty then. You got a name?"
Thirty-Two pauses, knowing Nami won't like the answer. "It's a captain. From the North. Captain Ytvl."
A long breath is released from the other side. Thirty-Two knows finding a captain's location is never easy. Most captains have access to their own files and usually edit their history and location data. Thirty-Two does it on the regular. Deleted data can be retrieved but it takes a lot of time and effort.
"Well, there goes my evening," Nami jokes, and Thirty-Two can hear a rapid flurry of keys being pressed all at once. "My superior won't be too pleased with me. You best write me up a justification."
A form for missing work. The Research Division must be regularly burning the midnight oil, too.
"Sure. Whatever. So long as I get the location."
Speaking the Southern language releases a tension Thirty-Two didn't know he had been experiencing. The drawn-out, nasally phonics are so much easier to pronounce than the blocky vocals of the common dialect. He wonders if the researcher senses this – conversation quickly shifts to personal when the silence draws on.
"When you're back, I need a hand in the engineering workshop. Got my hands on a 29-39."
Another new toy then, Thirty-Two supposes. It's probably a spaceship.
"Sure. If time allows."
"You'll have to make some. I think you're gonna' love her, kid. She's a thing of beauty."
Thirty-Two hums, liking the idea of being in the workshop but better liking the idea of achieving his three days off.
"I'll be in touch hopefully tonight or tomorrow," Nami then tells him, "Be well, Captain."
"Same to you, Researcher."
The call ends with a final beep, and Thirty-Two finally feels a sense of satisfaction. Hopefully, this goes somewhere because he's sick of chasing phantoms and rumours. He needs results. Turning back to his thin pile of archived papers, Thirty-Two resigns himself to a long night of breaching the firewall and collecting whatever research he can on Cilo and their possible connection to Green Snow Tavern.
Researcher Nami doesn't call that evening or even the next day.
Thirty-Two grows frustrated, enough so that he voluntarily goes to the training chamber to burn off steam. He'd had to kick out two soldiers who were fighting heatedly ("Sir, I promise I wasn't going to kill him!" Sure.) At least one of them was a Southerner because he'd scampered out the moment he saw Thirty-Two at the door.
Unfortunately, he doesn't feel any better after the workout session, just sweatier. It drips over his scouter when he checks for missed messages or calls.
A blank inbox stares back. Nothing.
"What a joke," he breathes, closing the application. Why the hell hasn't Nami replied yet? He should have something by now. Unless that bastard Ytvl disappeared into a cloud of shit and rainbows, then it shouldn't take this long. But Thirty-Two doesn't have to wait too much longer, for it is after the dinner time rush when he finally gets his response.
Dinner itself is a tense occasion. The refectory has finally partitioned itself into two sections; Southerners and Northerners. Thirty-Two chooses to sit by one of his fellow captains instead of his faraway corner as not to further rock the boat, and is rewarded with curt nods from the soldiers around him. It's quiet, considering how loud soldiers can be, none more so than during feeding hours. The atmosphere feels thick, and Thirty-Two wonders if he's missed something during the hours locked away in the Research Hall and the training chamber. No more does he hear of the whispers, and no more does he hear about the failed execution. There's only the lingering silence; it's… unexpected, and most discomforting.
The slop he's served lives up to expectation, however. It tastes bland, oily, and is grey in colour. Just as he's about to try and stomach another bite, he's interrupted.
"Captain Thirty-Two," speaks a tepid voice. Thirty-Two turns to the source and is surprised to see one of the soldiers he'd kicked out of the training room earlier.
Pausing with distaste, he sure as hell hopes the soldier isn't here to grovel. "What?"
"I, um… wanted to apologize-"
His utensils are dropped when he sighs.
The soldier is young, maybe a year or so older than Thirty-Two. His eyes are big, and there's a sort of delicacy about him. Red and bronze armour shelter him, signifying that he's a Northerner as Thirty-Two had originally suspected back in the training room. And, really, in one way, Thirty-Two has to give it to him; it takes guts to approach a table full of Southern captains.
Regardless, Thirty-Two bats a hand at him. "Leave."
"B-But-"
"Go away."
His captains laugh at the display but it doesn't deter the soldier.
If anything, the soldier advances with speed, approaching closer into Thirty-Two's personal space than he'd ever allow. Over and over again, the soldier bows his head as he repeats his apology, forcing Thirty-Two to slide his chair away just to put some space between them.
"Please forgive me, Captain," the soldier continues to croon. Thirty-Two hates the noise. "I won't disrespect you or the Empire like that again."
Some captains are now laughing so hard that snorting can be heard.
Thirty-Two feels his cheeks warm. "Right, right, you're forgiven, now fuck off."
The soldier beams at him with a bright sparkle. Those eyes glow, and immediately it reminds Thirty-Two of Ytvl's faux friendliness. His stomach churns at the sight of it. The soldier bounces back to his table and pale-faced colleagues and Thirty-Two tries to pretend he'd witnessed none of it.
He collects up his spoon, sour.
"Wasted opportunity, that," purrs one of the older captains. He has a lewd look on his face, one that makes Thirty-Two feel dirty.
Thirty-Two shudders and turns back to his dinner. The brown sludge stares back at him, and what little remaining of Thirty-Two's appetite disappears.
Wait, brown?
...
Ah.
He looks down at the trays of his fellow captains to see pools of grey, or at least the remnants of it. Temples throbbing, Thirty-Two's eyes dart between his own food and their food, and then over to where that doe-eyed soldier had disappeared to.
The chair scrapes back when Thirty-Two stands.
The little bastard.
He swings his tray up, ignoring the lingering stares of the captains as to follow the soldier's path. He swerves past a gaggle of researchers, some who appear aghast as he approaches. Several move out of the way at speed, others are pushed aside by Thirty-Two until, ultimately, he spots the boy sitting at a table with his peers. He's laughing at something. He won't be laughing for long.
The solider only notices Thirty-Two as he arrives at the table. His skin turns from pink to white almost comically.
"C-Captain!"
His friends shuffle away, watching Thirty-Two as he looms over the table. The soldier looks up with those wide, innocent eyes of his but doesn't otherwise make a bid for freedom. They'd be around the same height if the boy dared to stand. But it seems he has turned to stone, his baby deer legs unable to carry the weight of his stupidity.
Thirty-Two drops the tray down on the table, slop splashing red armour.
"Eat it."
"C-Captain?" he squeaks. "I… I… this is your food, sir. I-I couldn't-"
"Eat it."
What little noise there was in the canteen has now come to a brisk end. Thirty-Two can hear the soldier's breath quicken, and the murmuring of Southern and Northern soldiers alike, yet not a single soul steps in.
The soldier looks down at the food, and then back up at Thirty-Two. Silence hangs in the air like a dark cloud.
Suddenly, lightning strikes. Thirty-Two slams a fist down on the table.
Furiously, the refectory shakes.
"Eat. It."
He allows the silence to stretch out into something painful, and in this, the soldier tries to speak, tries to defend himself in the face of Thirty-Two's icy fixture, but chokes on any passing word. When nothing comes out, Thirty-Two feels his face twist into something sour and ugly.
The soldier's wide eyes expand even wider. He looks impossibly young. "P-Please."
But they both must know begging is futile.
Thirty-Two's hand raises and the light in his palm jets at speed. Pink blossoms. There's a flash and the refectory blinks into darkness.
The smell of burning hits before the soldier drops dead to the floor.
Krrrrrrr.
Metallic groaning indicates the refectory's back-up generator is coming to life. And when the dark is dispelled, the light brings a spill of red across sanitized white. Nobody moves, not even Thirty-Two. He scours the area, daring anyone to confront him. Row after row watches on, expressions shaped with alarm. Even the Northern captains don't move. They just watch.
Still, there's always one. As Thirty-Two turns to leave, he catches Pyrak's delight near the other Southern captains. Thirty-Two glares when the wretched fool sends him a thumbs-up, hearing the bastard's deep belly laugh follow him out of the canteen.
Outside, in the courtyard, Thirty-Two breathes out deeply and purposefully before swallowing the night's thin air. Every breath feels like fire. What a mess he just made. His temper is just... it can be embarrassing. He reminds himself of the soldier just to give himself something else – anything else – to think about. Thirty-Two did the right thing. That boy had tried to poison him. Who's stupid enough to do that? In front of everyone? He'd signed away his own life - and for what? A ridiculous rivalry between two factions!
Damn it.
Thirty-Two can't even eat his fucking dinner in peace. How the hell is he supposed to find Ytvl and Vegeta with vermin like that trying to trip him up? What a stupid idiot that soldier was – what an arrogant child.
An arrogant… dead… child.
Thirty-Two sits.
And that's when his scouter flashes with notification. Talk about timing.
"Researcher," Thirty-Two answers, lethargic.
"Er, greetings, Captain… Bad time?"
"Have you found the location?"
"The scouter was deactivated, most likely by Captain Ytvl himself. It looks like he was heading south though, possibly towards planet Central."
Thirty-Two clicks his tongue. "Any a specific location?"
"Yeah, it's at a fuel port; the Axis Station. Know it?"
He does. They stock a large variation of fuel types so it's a suitable stop for any ship that hasn't been certified by a particular craft-maker or company. It's also usually frequented by pirates. Thirty-Two thinks back to the ship Vegeta was on-boarded onto, and how it didn't look like any other space crafts he'd come into contact with before.
"It's also on a direct route to Central. Nami, I think you're right, they're heading your way."
Nami chuckles into Thirty-Two's ear. "I guess I'll be seeing you sooner rather than later, then."
"I suppose you will, but I have no time to play around with ships. Have Logistics deliver an Astra-C22 and three cases of ammo to my unit. Plus two crates of sheenks."
"Sounds like a heck of a party."
Thirty-Two scoffs, enjoying the irony.
"Yes. In a tavern, no less."