Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Six
The Neutron Star
Almost immediately does he recognize that he's dreaming. Orange fabric feels warm and comforting in his pudgy hands, there's a misplaced smell on antiseptic, laughing, crying, and talks of wishes. Yes. There are so often talks of wishes. As usual, it takes in a sanitized room that could be mistaken for no place else but a hospital ward. Thirty-Two'd know. He's been quite the regular to such establishments in his time.
"Namek," the voices in this ward would repeat, over and over.
Namek.
When Thirty-Two finally manages to wrench himself from his bed, it's in a blanket tangled tumble, and upon finally breaking free of that, he violently vomits against the wall.
One, two, three… Yes, that's it, he soothes himself. The counting is helpful. It calms him.
Twelve, thirteen… fourteen…
He breathes out clogged, faltering gasps.
Sixty-one, sixty-two…
Finally, he spits out a last bit of sick. It's watery and an indication of a skipped meal. Of multiple skipped meals, in fact, if by how weak he also feels. The dizziness is always the last to go, and so he slides down the side of his bed, head low between his knees.
Thirty-Two has been this way since the tavern.
Since he'd spared him.
Thirty-Two hadn't needed to. In fact, he shouldn't have. If Lord Hailer finds out that Thirty-Two did such a thing for any reason less than strategy, Thirty-Two will pay the toll. He'd never get his time off.
Don't think about it, Thirty-Two reminds himself – as he has, numerous times over – whilst he watches the vomit submerge into the indents of wall.
The clean-up is a well-practiced state of affairs. Thirty-Two keeps cleaning supplies in his room and manages to have the room smelling of citrus at relative speed. Once, one of the cleaners found his supply, along with a canister of ammonia he'd once taken from the Research Department by accident after working on spaceship artillery, and she had reported Thirty-Two for possible terrorism, suggesting that he'd been trying to illegally create mustard gas – which is ridiculous in itself. Mustard gas is far too pungent in odor to be discrete. Thirty-Two would have a better chance with carbon monoxide, and for that, all he'd have to do is disconnect the carbon monoxide sensors and reconfigure the heaters. Not that he'd thought about it. Much.
In fact, he'd tried the same stunt as a boy – Thirty-Two had put himself in hospital for two days and only made his Youth Program Educator drowsy at best – It'd been quite the revelation to learn that certain wood types can also be a source of carbon monoxide poisoning. Who knew?
Darkly, the reminiscence reminds Thirty-Two to take his medicine. Still somewhat nauseous, it's a struggle to swallow the pills. He should be coming to an end with these now. Maybe he should wean himself off of them slowly – yes, he'll order a lower dosage from his dealer next time.
He returns the bottle to the shelf, rightfully next to his Astra.
The murder weapon from the tavern.
Thirty-Two recalls that small man's face, with its abject horror, and wonders if they'd ever met once upon a time ago. As that bullet passed through the man's head, Thirty-Two felt so little. Only after returning back to base did he think about it, about him and that man – the spared one – and now the thoughts trail after him like a sad, whimpering dog with a broken leg, so desperate that Thirty-Two can't stand to look at it.
A shower doesn't clear his head up. The icy burn of water slaps down at the bony junctures of his body, reminding him of last week's terrors. He can't bring himself to go to the medic nor the rejuvenation tanks because then they'd ask him for details of the injuries.
His head taps against the cool of tiles. It's a momentary escape from it all, and it's here he can breathe… even if it's just for the moment.
He thinks of the things he's grateful for just to focus on something. He's grateful to be back in the South. To be away from the North and the uncouth loudmouths who rejoiced death. For Lord Hailer to be travelling, away, so far away from the South. For a step closer to his time off – to be a step closer to his own goals.
Then, he remembers that man dying in the snow.
Thirty-Two breathes, and counts again.
After his shower, he dresses in his jumpsuit and a set of furs. His scouter sits loyally and he scours the reports, already having connected to the online system and data base. It displays Thirty-Two's usual daily dose of Frost Empire propaganda. Ads about enlisting for the army, working in research, and volunteering flicker attractively at the bottom of his screen. When he disables them, the latest Frost Empire "news" appears and Thirty-Two is left to stare at his own face. He's still making headlines over the execution fiasco, although it's not negative which is something, at least. No, it praises Thirty-Two's valiant efforts and asks for the Empire to support the efforts in securing Vegeta once more, mentioning little about Ytvl's betrayal or about how they'd all been made fools of when the rebel rescue team had burst through the ceiling.
Thirty-Two continues to read the drivel as, in his room, he oversteps his piles of research. Books lay scattered about the floor and nearly trip him as he reaches the door. Since bringing in Ytvl, he's not had much time to stay on top of things. The cleaners are no longer welcome. They've been banned since their reporting of him. Honestly, who in their right mind reports a captain? Clearly, some don't understand the system at all, not like Thirty-Two does. He understands it very well.
As does the cannon fodder, Thirty-Two thinks as he makes his way along the corridor of the residential unit. Soldiers trip over themselves to salute or bow. Even outside, several guardsmen acknowledge him as he moves past the window.
It's funny how fickle it all is. Thirty-Two is half the age of some of these men with perhaps a quarter of their experience, yet here they all are, groveling because the system tells them to do so. It'd be funny if Thirty-Two found pleasure in cruelty, but the situation actually just pisses him off; the two-faced delicacy of it. And, whilst he prefers the brown-nosing over the casual disrespect of the Northern people, he'd rather not have any attention at all.
Ytvl had been right in that regard. Thirty-Two isn't a loyalist. He hates all the falsities as much as any other non-brainwashed soldier, but what can he do?
Should he waste his time and join a rebel group?
Frost never melts.
The system may not be just and it may be delicate, but it's there and it's real, and there is little any of them can do about it.
So, what Thirty-Two can't understand is why. Why the hell did someone in Ytvl's position defer to such a cause? Ytvl's life had been comfortable. Lord Cooler doesn't seem nearly as strict as Lord Hailer, and if anything, Ytvl seemed enjoy the spider webs that make up the complicity of Empire politics.
So… why?
Why, Ytvl, why?
And now, in the depths of the holding chamber, hidden where no other soldier or prisoner wanders, hangs the drooping form of the enigma, of Ytvl himself.
It's a lone tower atop the oldest fort on Central where the holding chamber can be found, marking itself as easily one of the most weathered, war-torn and battered to exist across the South. It's here that prisoners can be found frozen in their cells or from up on their stakes, devoured by the elements.
But Thirty-Two isn't cruel, even to a man like Ytvl.
Multiple candelabra bring warmth into the frostbitten hell atop the hill. They sit in their respective copper-coloured sheenks pots around the room, illuminating the stonework hauntingly. Ytvl's harsh lines and filthy demeanour are softened by this eerie glow, but still, he's nothing short of an eyesore. So swollen with injury, he's barely recognizable as the captain Thirty-Two had been summoned alongside. Though, according to the guards, his tongue remains as quick as usual. Enough so that that they requested to cut it free.
It's unsurprising that Ytvl is a creature needing of conversation. He must be yearning for it by now, so desperate that Thirty-Two decides dropping in for a visit may finally yield fruit.
As expected, Ytvl perks up when he realizes he's no longer alone.
"Oh, you don't look very well," Ytvl says as though he's not the one bruised, bloodied and tied to a slab against the wall. "Have you been skipping meals?"
Thirty-Two ignores him, further lighting nearby torches to quell the darkness.
"That's not very Youth Program approved, Captain," Ytvl continues regardless, "How concerning."
"You can keep your comradely concern to yourself."
"Comradely," he parrots very slowly, savouring the reference. "Well remembered. I never took you for petty, Captain. I'd say it's nice to finally welcome you to my abode, but honestly, I detest having a dreary skeleton such as yourself come visit me. I never realized that all those furs were there to hide an eating disorder."
"Funny."
Ytvl's neck, along with his limbs, are clamped against wood under a metal bar so he has little to look at but at his captor – yet he's not put off, if anything, this empowers the bastard. "So, when do I get an audience with my beloved Lord Cooler? Does he miss me?"
"Ask him yourself. On the day he takes your head."
"How cold. Thirty-Two, are so maddened because you don't get to do the deed and kill me yourself?" he mulls. "Or will you be happy to ship me off when you accept I have nothing to tell you? Tell me, are you angrier at me or your supposed torturers for the lack of results?"
Thirty-Two leans back on the balls of his feet, saturating in his distaste. "I'm sure you have a sufficient amount of details to share. I just need to be more persuasive."
"The men you've had beat me haven't been at all persuasive. I would have flayed them for such poor effort. Have they never tortured a prisoner before?"
"Feel free to give them some pointers."
Ytvl laughs. It sounds raw and painful, and despite what he's saying, they both know he's been screaming. The men Thirty-Two chose to do the deed are well practiced, sadistic creatures who enjoy their job a little much.
The operation of keeping Ytvl here has been covert so only few people know. Until he tells Thirty-Two what he needs to know about Vegeta, Cilo and their location, then he must stay here with discretion. Thirty-Two doesn't want to announce his latest capture until he can bring both him and Vegeta in together as ordered. He doesn't want to risk the chance of losing his glory, and thusly, his prize.
"I find it rather telling that you've yet to organize my extradition to the North. What's the hold up? Have Lord Cooler and Hailer begun their warring already? Am I but a prize to be won or a piece to be traded?"
"Don't flatter yourself. Nobody knows you're here," Thirty-Two reveals just to see the reaction.
There's a pause and then a snort. It's wet with mucus and blood, but also derision. "You think your men will keep me quiet?"
"If they value their pitiful lives, they might."
"What a hateful person you are," Ytvl says with incredulity. "Which begs the question. Why did you spare the man I was travelling with?"
Thirty-Two doesn't immediately answer, wondering how best to deflect. He leans against the stone and does his best to appear casual. "What would you have done?"
Ytvl looks at him for a long moment, and it's in that moment that Thirty-Two realizes Ytvl knows something important – knows something that even the most sadistic man would never be able to torment out of him – and because of that, he's searching for something in Thirty-Two. A prior knowledge. Perhaps, information about who the man is – which goes to tell Thirty-Two that Ytvl must know about the man's connections to the Empire and to Lord Frieza himself.
Thirty-Two watches the truths come to light in Ytvl's eyes, saying nothing as they return to the darkness.
"Well," Ytvl ultimately says in a casual sort of way, breaking the spell, "I know for a fact that you weren't ordered to bring in anyone alive, anyone aside either myself or perhaps Vegeta. Neither Lord Cooler nor Hailer would have made such a request, and my connections told me none of it. So, I was left somewhat bewildered by your decision to spare the man when you had ample opportunity to kill him. One would infer that whatever reason you chose to spare him has little to do with your beloved lord's desires and more to do with your own ambition. But that's simply one man's guess. Or do you, perchance, have something you're willing to share, from one captain to another, about why you were suddenly struck with a wave of mercy?"
Outside, a gale of wind screeches past in its journey, rattling the bars, and at this time, Thirty-Two considers the ex-captain. He's not unintelligent. Thirty-Two always assumed as much but it's worse; Ytvl is annoyingly perceptive. Definitely dangerous. Definitively a threat.
Silence continues to hold between them, and after a time…
Ytvl laughs once more, to himself. "The quiet sort, aren't you? It makes me wonder what you're thinking."
"I say all I need to," Thirty-Two responds after a beat, "And on that, I already have. I needn't elaborate."
"Very disciplined. Though, I do think you made the wrong decision in sparing my companion, especially after executing the short one. Should that have been a fair fight then he would have quickly put an end to your antics."
"I don't much care about fighting fair."
"Oh, I noticed," Ytvl rasps amusedly. "And that's why you're the star of the show down South. The ambush at the tavern was wonderfully executed. You didn't even give me a chance to demonstrate my skills, which was a bit of a shame. I would have loved to go up against the Youth Program's golden boy."
Thirty-Two's eyes narrow on instinct.
What a dislikable man.
"But you don't like fighting, huh?" Ytvl continues, smirking. The dried blood on his chin cracks wide. "I was reasonably surprised at how many times you tried to avoid it, with me and then with my travel companion, the man. I'd heard good things about your skills so I was left unimpressed when you whipped your little Astra out. Whilst it was the safe option, and one I may have chosen myself, I expected to be dazzled by this extraordinary captain Cilo has been so interested in recruiting."
"I suppose your Cilo didn't mention to you why they're so interested."
"I'm but a small cog, Captain. I just do as I'm ordered and ask few questions."
"I don't believe that for a second."
"Oh, really."
Thirty-Two's lips curl into an insipid line and Ytvl relaxes against the hold of metal, melting into it as if he owns the place
Upon entering the holding chamber today, Thirty-Two had pondered the burning question of why Ytvl would want to turn against Lord Cooler after attaining such an exceptional position. He'd been made for life and now that's ruined.
Now, aside the desire to leave, other questions course the tip of his tongue. The usual: Who is the Cilo leader? Where is Cilo now? Where is Vegeta? How did that man get himself involved? But these aren't what Thirty-Two asks. Instead, he admits a curiosity to his prisoner, enjoying Ytvl's honest surprise at the direction.
"Ytvl," he says quietly, "During our first meeting, when we'd been summoned by Lord Hailer and Lord Cooler, something bothered me."
"Yes?"
"Lord Hailer had suggested the culling of the Saiyan people, I recall your reaction. You'd become…" It takes a moment for Thirty-Two to translate the word most suitable. "Anxious about it. At the time, I found it strange. It'd made me curious as to why. I know you don't have the blood otherwise Lord Cooler would have spoken otherwise. Why were you so moved by the decision?"
"That's… your question?"
"Yes."
The man's mouth opens and closes several times and he manages to look a little lost. "I… just did not want my friends to die."
Then, Thirty-Two had been right on the day. It truly had been that simple.
"Thirty-Two… Did it not bother you that men were being sentenced to death after years of loyalty, out of no fault of their own – for their race?"
"Not especially. No."
There's a flash of annoyance. It's the first Thirty-Two has seen of it. "They did nothing wrong," Ytvl urges through grit, holey teeth.
"They're soldiers."
"They're people."
"They soldiers."
"They're slaves, they—"
"They're soldiers," Thirty-Two reaffirms, louder this time, gaze steady. "Our lives are borrowed; a payment we owe the Empire."
"You don't believe that." Thirty-Two watches Ytvl bubble in his frustration. He swallows the worst of it but still bites back at Thirty-Two. "Don't be obtuse! Even sold—"
"You so much as turn your back for five minutes and the gluttonous, lust-driven pigs will have raped and pillaged the nearest settlement."
Ytvl strains against his shackles. "You cannot tar all with the same brush! Do you really wish ill-will upon an entire faction of people because of the few? I knew men, good men, who died under Lord Cooler out of no consequence of their own, just because I ordered them into battle. How about you? How many have you slayed with your words?"
"Not enough."
Ytvl's eyes widen just a fraction, and something in Thirty-Two's stomach makes him want to take his words back, to swallow them along with his tongue.
"Forget it," he concedes, pushing away from the stone. He meanders towards the torch, staring into its flame before snuffing it. The conversation is drawing to an end before it'd even started.
"I'd been wondering about you… but now…" Ytvl says, after weighing him up and down; "I think I have my answer."
After this, Thirty-Two decides not to converse with him any longer. Whilst Ytvl is the one tied to the slab, Thirty-Two still feels like he is the one holding the power. Thirty-Two dislikes it – dislikes him. The sooner he can extract information, the sooner he can be done with him the better; with that man and with everything that makes his chest strain and his body riot until vomit spews.
When Thirty-Two's fist crunches against the hard of cartilage, it's more satisfying than it ought to be. Ytvl groans when Thirty-Two punches him again, and then again and again as he tries to pry information out of that awful mouth. The questions come but the answers don't. And for hours, the stalemate continues until Thirty-Two turns to leave, knuckles dripping in blood, without anything to show for it.
Mind games. That bastard just likes mind games.
Thirty-Two is sitting outside, enjoying his usual contemplative spot atop the dome of the observatory. It's the highest point of the Capitol and overlooks a great portion of Central's occupied land. This afternoon, much of the land is lost to the rage a whipping blizzard that's journeyed from the east. It isolates them, so often the weather does during peak season. It means no ships (spare spacepods) can land and no man can enter, locking in the people here, trapping them with whatever supplies they've managed to hoard during the "summer".
And still, even with all that, Thirty-Two is relieved to have returned, to be contentedly secured within his own cell.
It also means Ytvl cannot be shipped just yet. Which begs the question: What will he do if Ytvl doesn't speak? Thirty-Two can't harbor him here eternally. Lord Cooler will eventually get wind of it, no matter how many soldiers Thirty-Two threatens to slaughter, and Thirty-Two will be forced to admit his failure at not yet retrieving Vegeta.
Thirty-Two clicks his tongue, sinking into the snow. Usually, the view calms him, but it's now reminding him that there's something beyond these glaciers, mountains and uninhabitable terrain. Of course, it's not entirely uninhabitable. There's the hamlet, in the mix of brown and grey, and within it sits the Green Snow Tavern; the place he'd left that man to leak out into the icy sludge.
Thirty-Two has tried to forget the image but it keeps coming back to him. Superficial wounds won't do much to a person like him or rather – to a, he dares think it, saiyan – and there'd been people there to help him. By now, he may very well be completely healed if Cilo has the decent technology Thirty-Two thinks it has. Off-brand regeneration tanks aren't exactly expensive.
A gust of wind blows hard from behind and Thirty-Two has to hold on to the panelling not to slip.
He was supposed to have been dead – that man.
Thirty-Two isn't a nostalgic person because that's dangerous. Never does he think of his life before leaving the Youth Program. But since seeing that man, there's been a discomforting scraping in his chest, daring him to think of warmer days – of times before the snow.
Thirty-Two's old planet – whatever it's called – had been nowhere near the icy wasteland of Central. It'd been green and opulent with vegetation, smelling sweet and zesty after rainfall. Thirty-Two remembers the heat of summer against his skin and the taste of sugar from fruit he's long since forgotten. There'd been such a variety of creatures on the planet too, all shaped differently and living in the solitude of nature. He remembers scales and fur and also the hardback of a reptile.
God. It bears too much to even reminisce about.
So, he stops. Head low. Eyes front.
Ice doesn't melt.
Thirty-Two remains snowy and stationary, married to duty with only the option of heeding his lord commander's words and following him into the darkness. Salvation will follow once Thirty-Two's duty is over.
But this duty is growing increasingly more complicated. First, it'd been Vegeta and now…
Thirty-Two closes his eyes, a faint twitching in his temple as he tries to recall it… the name.
Orange. Thirty-Two remembers that, radiantly so. The man hadn't been wearing orange the other night but for some reason it's the strongest association Thirty-Two can muster. Thirty-Two always does when he looks at the neighbouring star; so bright, yellow and orange, and warm against the skin despite the snowfall. But, he'd remind himself that the star was alive in a way the man could possibly have not been, and that the man was more like that of a depleted neutron star. A black hole. Dead.
Thirty-Two will never understand the sky.
He would gaze upwards, back when he'd been small, not always to make wishes, and he'd say that name every day because his own had been stolen. He'd do it until that name died like its bearer, lost to despair once Thirty-Two realized nobody was coming for him.
Presently, he opens his eyes just in time to see the first kiss of snow grace his nose. The world above is swallowed by grey-white – hidden – and Thirty-Two is left staring into the abyss, temples still throbbing, name just beyond the clouds and somewhere far into the reaches of the sky.
After several more days of little to no information from Ytvl, Thirty-Two still doesn't understand him. Thirty-Two's men are growing increasingly more impatient, demanding the use of the Shock Plate, a torture device in which currents of electricity are deployed through to the nerves of the victim. It operates with varying intensity levels ranging from 1-12.8. The highest recorded survivor lasted thirteen agonizing seconds at 11.1, but lost his ability to walk because of the weakness in the muscles due to extended periods of forced tetany. He later died once suffering a stroke, one of many caused by the aftershocks of the Shock Plate.
Now, it's not to say Thirty-Two is against using the Shock Plate, especially with a creature as stubborn as Ytvl, however, it being an option doesn't fill him with relief. Thirty-Two doesn't have the stomach to condemn torture for hours after hours, and he doesn't have the stomach to watch a person spasm and scream until their eyes pop from the pressure. It was bad enough experiencing it. The idea of inflicting it feels wrong, even to him – even to someone who would dispel the Boiler against a defenseless prisoner.
Yes, Thirty-Two is also a victim of the Shock Plate. He'd needed to understand the sensation of it in order to pass the Youth Program; just one of his many obligations in his learning journey there. He'd survived an impressive 7.1 without so much as a complaint, twitching quietly as he watched the other boys take their turns with the machine. One died. A ludicrously large boy with a penchant for cruelty – and for gluttony. His body had been too unhealthily engorged and so it'd fundamentally sizzled from the Shock Plate, his ki unable to circulate his body and push back against the currents.
Thirty-Two remembers not feeling even the slightest bit of satisfaction in watching him go.
It's an unkind bit of kit; the Shock Plate. Thirty-Two would rather not use it unless he really has to – which he may very well if things keep going as they are – Really, he has to commend Ytvl for being as well trained as he is.
Ytvl has screamed, shouted, swore and vomited, but he has not said a word.
Another issue is that requesting a Shock Plate would raise some eyebrows. Thirty-Two isn't ready for the attention just yet. He just needs to push. Whilst his men deal with Ytvl, Thirty-Two will also walk his own path, sleuthing if he has to. He's already sent out patrol teams to bring in residents of Central to be questioned. The tavern owner from the rally has been questioned several times now but apparently he, like everyone, seems to know nothing about this mysterious Cilo.
It's frustrating because Thirty-Two knows that Vegeta must be here. Somewhere on Central. The blizzard is now so unyielding that no ship would be able to break her. Ytvl wouldn't leave Vegeta unprotected (though, how strong is Vegeta?), and if that man was with him, Thirty-Two would bet every gold piece he has that Cilo is hiding them right under their noses.
Why are Vegeta and that man connected? What does Cilo have to do with this? Do they know about Lord Frieza? About the truth of it?
With a thud of horror, Thirty-Two wonders if they know about him.
As time draws on, Thirty-Two grows ever more vigilant. He watches over his shoulder. He hides away his research under a panel beneath his bed and destroys anything he has ingrained into memory. Perhaps Ytvl isn't the only insider Cilo has – they'd been too well prepared in securing Vegeta – they could have people anywhere and everywhere. Thirty-Two hadn't taken them seriously at first but if they know about what that man achieved then that's already a step ahead of the other rebel groups.
Thirty-Two spends so much time scouring scout reports that his eyes turn fuzzy. His head throbs and the soldiers loitering about the common areas stare at him with a level of pity. Even the other captains have a semblance of sympathy about them. Thirty-Two hates it – he doesn't want it from such bottom feeders.
As following days bleed into a week, his mood worsens with the quality of the scout reports. Poor. Lazy. Clearly, many of these soldiers are being bribed by the citizens.
Apparently, there has been not a single piece of contraband confiscated this month. How remarkable. Whenever Thirty-Two has the time to visit, he spots about twenty violations every hour.
Drugs. Illegal liquor. Prostitution. Weapons. Visa-less travellers. The list can go on.
He'll have to go out into the Capitol himself, won't he?
But first, he pays a visit to the Research Department. It's a busy division with several dedicated teams which circulate different subsections of the building. Modern and well-funded, it's unlike in the North, and that's because Lord Hailer prizes aspiration. His technological seedling has sprouted into a complex, multilayered flower, blossoming wonderfully with the inheritance from Lord Frieza to help further fund it. This is where the Shock Plate was born.
He strides along clinical walkways, nodding in greeting to the researchers when they salute him. There are many faces he recognizes. Some of them were in the Youth Program alongside Thirty-Two. They'd not been enrolled as soldiers, instead scientists, and they'd not been housed together, but Thirty-Two always found his way into their workshops regardless, and because their professor had been too frightened of Thirty-Two to shoo him away, he'd been allowed to wander.
"Hesla' ta!" one calls out from her station, giving Thirty-Two an uncomfortably warm smile.
Many in the department aren't afraid of Thirty-Two, though he wishes some would exercise a bit more distance when they address him.
"About time you showed your face," Researcher Nami, his contact, greets.
He works in the basement, in a clustered workshop that's rich in tinkered, broken or half-made contraptions that Thirty-Two loves to rifle through. A little heaven of curiousities. Within, Nami appears, attempting to break open a crate with a crowbar.
He grunts, levering the crowbar against the wood upon spotting Thirty-Two by the door. "Are you going to watch me struggle all day?"
Thirty-Two pushes him aside, takes the crowbar and makes fine use of it. The box bursts open, its contents spilling.
Nami whistles, admiring the mess of metals. "They're even using sheenks in the shell casing these days."
"Lord Hailer opened another mine a few months back."
"He must be making quite the pretty penny. Pass me that container. No, no. That one to your left. Your other left. Oh, bloody useless, you are. I'll get it. So, did you come all the way down here to tell me my coordinates for your captain buddy were wrong?"
Thirty-Two instead gestures the schematics pasted along the wall, and then to the hoard of metal. "Is this the 29-39?"
"It is. Ain't she a thing of beauty?"
"Mmm..."
"Get a hold of this."
"Iron," Thirty-Two grazes his finger along a strip of silver, "Won't this just oxidize in the snow?"
Nami's mouth twists awkwardly with swallowed words. "I doubt it'll be used around these parts."
Ah. They'll be taking this North – whatever it is – a weapon, by the looks of the hand guards. These are preparations for war. It seems Lord Hailer will try and win this with technology.
Thirty-Two sighs, rubbing his temples. Once this thing with Vegeta is over, conflict will surely follow and Thirty-Two will be caught up in it all.
"You look awful."
"Thanks."
"Go take a nap in the back room," Nami suggests, organizing his treasures, "I'll make sure to tell the patrolling soldiers you're not here."
Thirty-Two's fingers graze over the collection of wires. He wants to play, too. So desperately, he wants a break from it all.
"What you down here for, anyway?" Nami asks when Thirty-Two doesn't answer.
And once more, Thirty-Two doesn't answer, only this time because he doesn't know how to. Why did he come here? Thirty-Two's head hurts about as much as his chest does, and for some reason, he wants to be anywhere but near the holding chamber and Ytvl. He wants to be away from the soldiers upstairs. Away from his hidden research. He wants to be hidden deep underground like a cowardly mole.
Nami hums. "Well," he says with emphasis, a strange glint in those grey eyes, "I'm glad you're here. I did want to show you these. Taa-daa. State of the art. Katchin bolts. Real katchin."
"Oh," Thirty-Two all but snatches them from his hands. "So, you can construct the engine holsters for Project 43?"
"That's right."
"I've never seen katchin before."
"Strongest metal you'll get, that."
"Yeah. I've only read about it. Lighter than I thought."
"That's how you know it's real. If it's any heavier then it's been laced with another metal, typically cadmium or chromium."
Katchin is sourced in the North. It's a wonder Nami has managed to get ahold of some with all the trade embargos.
"Can I watch when you meld it?"
"'Course, but I'm not working on it yet," he grumbles. "We're still working on the repairs for the Northern Grand Hall security."
In a flash, Thirty-Two recalls that horrid day and his mood spoils quicker than it'd improved. It's with bitter reaction that he passes back the katchin. "Well, it didn't work the first time round. What is the use now?"
"We're updating the temperature tracking system as to not rely on power level dete-"
"How would that react with ki use?"
"We're working on it. The entire CCTV system is down for the upgrade."
At that, Thirty-Two's brows rise.
"You're not supposed to know that," Nami says quickly. "You didn't hear it from me. Nobody is supposed to know that."
"All the cameras?"
"Just for a few more days now."
Well, that's... problematic. If there are no cameras then this will change how he has to manage Ytvl's imprisonment. Speaking of, he doesn't stay much longer with Nami. This is in due to a generous serving of messages from the men guarding Ytvl. They're pleading for a Shock Plate. He tells them he'll think over it but he hopes he can somehow persuade Ytvl to talk instead. Shock Plates are messy business.
He already visited with Ytvl this morning (the affair hadn't been pleasant) and so, with little information coming in, sends out yet more scouting squads throughout Central to try and unearth where Vegeta may be cooped up. Clearly, Cilo have enough friends to help conceal the rescue team.
It's in the comfort of his room where Thirty-Two sprawls the large map of Central along his floor. The trick isn't just to find them, but also to manipulate the environment to ensure his victory, like he'd done back at the tavern. Thirty-Two won't succeed in hand-to-hand combat against that man. As Ytvl said, he'd definitely win in a fair fight – and that man knows as much as well. Thirty-Two remembers the self-satisfied look on his face when he'd fallen into the snow, relaying Thirty-Two's intentions right back at him.
Well, Thirty-Two won't let it come down to that. Fighting is troublesome, and as much as he doesn't harbour any fear of dying, he doesn't want to endure battling a physically stronger person when he can win by other methods.
Even if he has saiyan blood, he's no brute. He's not like them. Thirty-Two will use his head.
That man… he'd been… strong.
Thirty-Two's jaw tenses, his hands crunch the map.
Head down. Eyes front.
And so, he scours over the map, crossing out all the inhabitable areas and all the places where a ship's engine would most definitely freeze. Central isn't a big planet by any means so locating them shouldn't be impossible. Even despite the blizzard, Thirty-Two doubts that they've left the area. To be safe, he organized patrolling security ships in the atmosphere. They've been encircling the airspace since the rally, working alongside Security – which has been down. God. Why was he not informed sooner?
He has to hope they didn't make it through.
No, they didn't. He refuses to believe it.
Two black coffees down, Thirty-Two is feeling better by the time he's eliminated about ninety percent of the map. There are only four or five places Thirty-Two thinks they could be hiding and so he marks them with telling red circles. One by one, he'll check them out himself if he has to.
Just as he goes to collect the coordinates of the locations, his scouter illuminates.
Scouter 9422XB3 is contacting you…
He presses the button, answering appropriately. "Captain Thirty-Two, Southern Division."
"You actually picked-up, eh?"
Immediately, Thirty-Two sours. What the hell does this guy want?
"Pyrak," he manages, tempering himself, "I imagine this isn't a social call."
"'Course not. Strictly business. Like I'd wanna' waste my time chattin' with you."
"What do you want?"
"Here's a bit of good news. I'm returning South for that lil' prisoner you've got hunkered down in the holding cells. That's a load off'a your hands, right?"
Thirty-Two jumps to his feet, chest thumping.
But… that's impossible. How would Lord Cooler even know about Thirty-Two having Ytvl in the first place? Thirty-Two's not reported it in. There's no way anyone should know… unless the men Thirty-Two chose to torture Ytvl have spoken out… but why would they?
Thirty-Two doesn't like this.
"What prisoner are we referring to?"
"Ehhh, don't be like that. I know you've that rotten shit-head captain locked up. Lord Hailer told me himself and ordered I retrieve him."
"Lord Hailer…? Last I heard, he was travelling in the East Quadrant, taking audience with the Merchant Collaborative. Why would he bother himself with this right now?"
"I dunno'. Why don't you call him and ask him yourself if you're gonna' be pissy about it. I'm just doin' as instructed. It's not like I wanna' play deliveryman, y'know."
It's difficult because Thirty-Two wants to ask how they'd gotten the information on Ytvl, but he also doesn't want to appear disordered.
There's low noise of indignation over the scouter. "If you're that bothered, you can bring him in yourself and I'll be the one to go Vegeta-huntin'. I'd love to be the guy to tear him a new one - him and his rebel groupies. I'll line up all the corpses, pretty-like, for Lord Hailer."
"No," Thirty-Two says before he can stop himself. "No, I… I will do it. I'll find Vegeta."
"Oh, yeah? I gotta' say that you're sounding more eager than usual." There's a pause and Thirty-Two feels the beating against his ribcage. "…We good then? Tomorrow, you better have that traitorous shit ready for pickup. I'll be there early mornin' your time if that blizzard allows for it. Then, I'm'a rest up for a bit and then we'll move him that night, no later. You got it?"
Thirty-Two grits his teeth. What can he say? Who is he to deny Lord Hailer and his slimy stooge?
"Yes."
"I'll organize a pod. See ya, then."
And then the line goes dead, just in time for Thirty-Two to rip the wretched scouter from his face and launch it across the room.
Just what the hell was that? Why's Pyrak coming tomorrow? Ytvl has yet to reveal a single thing of value! The only thing he's done is caused a headache! He's not voiced a location, name or topic of interest in the days that he's been here, and now Thirty-Two's just going pass him along to a different jurisdiction? What a waste!
Why now – why does he now have to go?
Ytvl is his number one lead on Vegeta. It doesn't make sense. Just what do they expect him to do without a key witness?
Thirty-Two bets Pyrak planned this – somehow – just to try and take away this victory from him. It wouldn't surprise him. Pyrak has done this before. The bastard must have eyes all over the Capitol; perhaps one of the torturers reports to him – it wouldn't be the first time.
"Fuck!" Thirty-Two swears, leaning back against his bookcase. He knocks his head back, hard, and a couple of the books fall into his lap.
Their worn covers threaten to tear in his grasp, and he has to calm himself.
Just how many times does he need to count?
One he reaches the hundreds, 'Is Forever Too Long?' is slotted back into its place in the bookshelf.
He bets Pyrak is rubbing his hands together right now, manically happy to be able to ruin things for him. Thirty-Two has zero doubts that the guy's still salty over not being chosen to perform the execution. And now, this is his maliciously compliant revenge.
Fuck him, Thirty-Two then thinks as goes to return the second book.
'Golden Keys, Dragon Balls, The Godly Apples and 99 Other Legends'
He stares at this one. Orange fabric, fluttering; it once more crosses his mind. There's a smell of the ocean. Of trees. Of the sun.
What's a "sun"?
Thirty-Two drops the book, suddenly quite frightened.
Dangerous thoughts. Memories. Thirty-Two shouldn't think too much. Dangerous. Very much so.
He breathes out and slowly picks it back up off the floor as to return it to its rightful place. There are several bookmarks spread throughout this one, some more weathered than others. Thirty-Two has had this book for a long time now, after all. Years ago, finding the blasted thing had proved to be nearly impossible, and so he always keeps it securely in his room and away from peering eyes.
Dragon balls… If the other soldiers found out, they'd laugh. They put no weight in the mystics.
That's not to say that there have been no documented discoveries. A few years back, Lord Hailer and Lord Cooler had come across something most curious – the Tree of Might – and had consumed its power and apparently killed its caretaker. They suddenly advanced leaps and bounds in terms of strength. Thirty-Two remembers the rapid power increase sending shockwaves throughout the organization, and whilst Thirty-Two had been a young boy at the time, the memory holds firm. Unlike other memories – which are best left buried.
With that final thought on the matter, Thirty-Two takes his medicine, curses Pyrak's name and forfeits himself to sleep.
The next day, Thirty-Two's mood hasn't improved. After his final session with Ytvl this morning, he'd felt frustrated enough to visit the training chamber. It'd been more a case of destroying five or six of the robot combatants in a fit of anger rather than working out. It's fine. The robots won't be telling anyone of his meltdowns. Though, the training chamber technicians didn't look too happy with the ramifications of a bad week.
Later, he hears of Pyrak's arrival from the choir of gossiping in the refectory. His timer is ticking down. Thirty-Two needs to make use of Ytvl's time here. Should he just get ahold of a Shock Plate? Everyone will soon find out about Ytvl imprisonment soon enough anyway. Thirty-Two wonders if he could go through with it. Ytvl had been especially irritating this morning. Perhaps watching him writhe in pain might be satis—
He sighs.
It won't be. It never is.
Suddenly feeling rather ill, Thirty-Two pushes his plate aside. He'd been eating his first full meal of the week, a dish consisting of a mysterious meat that Thirty-Two would prefer to remain that way, along with a sludge pile of… blue. Thirty-Two swears he saw it move. Really. How is he supposed to gain weight when this is what he's served?
The chorus of whispers erupts into cheers when Pyrak himself enters the room. Like some kind of grotesque celebrity, he rewards his comrades with high-fives, dirty smiles and call-outs. Thirty-Two rolls his eyes. One would think he'd been the one chosen to execute Vegeta.
"There ye' are," he says upon reaching Thirty-Two's once quiet section of the room.
The brute is wearing all his furs – as usual – and looks about as wide as he is tall, reminding Thirty-Two just how much of a blockade the guy is. Thirty-Two refuses to give him any acknowledgement, even as Pyrak lumbers down on the seat in front. The entire table shakes, including Thirty-Two's slop. He stabs at it, pretending to be oblivious.
"Oi!"
"Yes, I see you."
"Ye' ignorant shit."
"What do you want? I thought you'd still be resting."
When Thirty-Two goes to stab at his meal again, Pyrak pulls the tray back. The metal of the spoon meets the metal of the table with a clang.
"I've just been to see our prisoner," the other captain goes to say, eyes glinting deviously when Thirty-Two finally meets his look. "You've messed him up good. Did he squawk for ya?"
Thirty-Two leans back into his chair. "Would that make a difference to you? Would you leave him in my care if he'd cracked? Would you let me have another try if not? For what do I owe you that answer, and for what difference would it really make to you, Pyrak? Stop taunting me."
He grins, devilishly happy. "From ya attitude, I'm guessing he's said fuck all."
"Feel free to take a go at him."
"Ye didn't get the Shock Plate. Those men of yours were complainin'."
"They do that."
"Shoulda' gotten the Shock Plate."
"We live and learn."
"Wanna' do it this afternoon?"
Thirty-Two snatches his plate back, forcing the blue sludge down his throat. "The Shock Plate?" he asks, feigning disinterest. "Feel free. I have plans."
Pyrak's mood cools by several degrees. "I said we're moving the prisoner tonight."
"I'll be back before then."
"You better."
Thirty-Two doesn't reply but that doesn't deter Pyrak.
"Y'know, it all kicked off bad after you came back here. Up North, after you blasted that soldier clean dead, fights started breaking out here, there and everywhere. It's been a hell of a riot. I dunno' how many soldiers have been killed now."
"Such a pity."
Pyrak laughs, leaning over the table with his wide, fur-clad shoulders. Thirty-Two releases his spoon in case he needs to react. "I thought you'd say that. You lit the match and then flew away home to chase after Lord Hailer's affections. But ya haven't had much luck, eh?"
"No."
A grin stretches out on that ugly, pointed face of his. His teeth appear sharper than his beak of a nose. "Well, ain't that just shite?"
"Dreadfully."
"Maybe you'll get demoted. How'd you feel about being one of those corpse carrier boys? I hear that they stink so bad that even the morticians avoid em."
At that, Thirty-Two stands, very much done. Pyrak does the same, disliking the sudden height different – he's strange like that.
"I'll see you this evening and no earlier."
"It's a date. Goodbye, Thirty-Two."
To try and take his mind off of Lord Hailer and Pyrak, Thirty-Two follows through on his earlier decision to take an expedition to the slums. He's already been a few times since the altercation at the Green Snow Tavern, having explored the area and the underground tunnels for any sign of Vegeta. Neither he nor the soldiers came up with anything. This time, Thirty-Two doesn't bother returning to the tavern, not that one, at least. He ventures through the shambles, undisturbed by the crooks and salesmen who skulk between alleys. It's quiet. With this many patrols, the citizens must be acting on their best behavior, terrified no doubt.
And then, there's the blizzard; an especially fervent effort to ruin Thirty-Two's searches.
Thirty-Two's wrapped in layer after layer of feathered and fur lined fabric. His uniform furs have been left at home as to avoid getting them damp with the snow. Wet clothes are the first step to hypothermia, and Thirty-Two's experienced enough of that to know how unpleasant it can be. No, he won't risk it. Today, he wears the simple rags of any common man around here.
That's not to say that he isn't recognizable. The few wandering residents offer distance to give space for him to walk. Mothers pull their children back. Eyes avert. Thirty-Two is left to stride alone.
The captains, regardless of identity, are all treated with that same respect – or rather, fear. It's been said that many a captain has, without provocation, made victims of the people here. Thirty-Two's seen it with his own eyes. When he'd first come to Central, he'd watched as one intoxicated captain choked out a bartender after he'd been refused a drink. The bar had been out of stock but that hadn't stopped the captain from stamping his mark.
Finally, he stops in front of the most popular watering holes in the hamlet. It's equally as depressing as the Green Snow Tavern. The crooked build barely even has a working door, and one of the windows is boarded up. He enters and straight away, the bar's occupants notice him. There's a pause of noise and nobody speaks. Thirty-Two waves a hand at them as to continue their affairs, and slowly, they do, if a little stiffly. Before Thirty-Two even reaches the murky bar top, there's a tankard of something brown facing him.
"On the house," the barkeep says, gruff and clearly very anxious at Thirty-Two's being here.
"I don't want a bribe," Thirty-Two replies, pushing it back. "Have no fear. I am not here to cause a disturbance, but I am also not here to drink. You can, however, answer a few questions for me."
The barkeep swallows. "What sort of questions, Captain? Were you the one to send all those soldiers in yesterday?"
"I was."
"I told them that I didn't know anything. I still don't. Whatever happened over at Green Snow has nothing to do with the Fiery Blizzard. We've been loyal to the Empire since before its acquisition of the East!"
"Very commendable…"
"Soldiers drink here every day! Captains, too."
"I understand. You're not stupid enough to question the status quo."
The barkeep swallows.
"Then, I'm sure you can help me out." Thirty-Two continues, then producing a smaller version of the map he's hidden back in his room. "See that big cross there, yes? That's where you get your import of ale, right? Right there. Right at the edge of Delta Mountain is where you collect your shipment. It's one of the only ports where ships can land without the crosswinds blowing them off course."
"Err, that it is, Captain."
"It's not always manned by soldiers, particularly when the tradesmen receive their shipments. Very rarely are there inspections."
"Yes. Though, the blacksmith next door got himself killed when they'd found him importing illegal goods…"
"Unsurprising. It's this level of severity which keeps you all in check," Thirty-Two says because he has to reaffirm the rules whenever they're brought up. "However, there have been no inspections for over a week now. This would have given ample opportunity for smuggling—"
"We would never!"
They always say that. "Every establishment has contraband. Should I conduct a search of the Fiery Blizzard to certify such a statement?"
There's a pause and then…
"Please... Not that."
"Well then, let's keep this brief." Thirty-Two leans over the bar. "During your last shipment, I believe there might have been… room for opportunity for certain groups to smuggle in illegal individuals. As a leading tradesmen of this area, have you got anything you might want to tell me before I uncover it for myself?"
The barkeep coughs and turns to survey the bar. He leans in. "Really, Captain, I don't know much. All I've gotta' tell you is that the port has been unmanned more than usual. Any time that I've turned up there, there are no soldiers to be seen."
"Even outside your allotted shipment time?"
"Yeah. I've not seen no soldiers for a while."
Thirty-Two hums.
"It surprised me too. It got me thinking that maybe they'd moved the men elsewhere. Even here, folks know something's going on, between the rebels and North and what have you."
But why would anyone move the men from the port? That's ridiculous. Manning Central has always been of the upmost importance, especially since it's the industrial hub of the Empire.
It doesn't make sense.
"I wasn't here today."
"R-Right, Captain."
After that, Thirty-Two asks around in a couple of other businesses too, mostly about their shipments and whether or not they'd had trouble. Some of the workers sweated and panicked far too much for Thirty-Two's liking. They definitely have some major contraband but that's not Thirty-Two's department so he categorizes it as unimportant. If anything, this is good news in case he'd need to later blackmail them.
Still, nothing comes up, nothing that can certify Thirty-Two's latest questioning on how and who smuggled Ytvl and the others here.
Cilo must have more workers on the inside.
Thirty-Two later returns to the research department. At first, Nami tries to kick him out but when he realizes that Thirty-Two is there on business, he jots down all the captain's grievances and promises to log them. He seems equally concerned about a security breach when Thirty-Two mentions it being a possibility, especially with the updates going on.
"You best be careful," he warns, head bowed over his workbench. "I'm feeling the funnies about this."
"Breach in security or not, Cilo won't kill me so easily. I'm not concerned."
"I wouldn't worry about being killed. That's not the worst they can do, kid –er, Captain."
Slip-up aside, he's right. According to his own research, Thirty-Two had found that Cilo also uses a firm hand when dealing with its adversaries, most notably, Shock Plates. Like the Empire, they're not above torture.
He'll step tentatively.
Just before dusk, Thirty-Two once more finds himself facing Ytvl.
Exhaustion has depleted him, the cold has took what's left. Ytvl's defiance must be wavering by now.
"Yes?" he croaks.
"You were smuggled into the ports," Thirty-Two tells him, using the Northern tongue once more, "But you did not land there, choosing to take refuge in the mountains far away from the Capitol or the hamlets. At first, I thought you had the soldiers disposed of, sometime before your valiant saving of Vegeta. But no, I feel you had them reinstated to other roles. That left the port open with no soldier to stop you. The latter seems likelier in due to the late deactivation of your scouter."
There's a garbled laugh. He doesn't raise his head to look Thirty-Two in the eye anymore. Limp, long brown hair obscures him and his many, many injuries.
"So," Ytvl croakily says, "You did track me, after all."
"If you chose to kill the soldiers instead of keep your scouter connected as to use the online system to relocate them, then perhaps it would have taken me longer to find you."
For once, Ytvl is silent.
A loud clang shakes him and suddenly he's up, wide-eyed, and staring at Thirty-Two as though a ghost had appeared. Between them on the floor now sits a Shock Plate. Thirty-Two observes Ytvl's impressive lack of reaction to it.
With practiced steps, Thirty-Two advances, boots echoing off the stone, furs dragging menacingly.
"That's not all," he says, low.
Ytvl's eyes bore into his own now, attention captivated. Thirty-Two has this way with people. His quiet demeanor has been said to be difficult to look away from. A strength, he'd been told back at the Program.
"That man," Thirty-Two whispers, coming to a halt barely a few feet away, "That saiyan…is no ordinary person, is he?"
Finally. Panic. Ytvl's face is rich with it. "What do you know?"
Thirty-Two holds the silence like a knife, pressing the blade to his throat. His hand will be revealed in his desperation but he'll pretend otherwise, that this is a strength.
"What do you know?" Ytvl repeats, fiercer this time.
"You're in no position to question me. I am the one with this, after all." With a twitch of the head, the Shock Plate is gestured to. "Now, Ytvl, I've already told you how you've done what you've done and now I've alluded to why. I'm very much aware as to why you're escorting that particular saiyan around—"
"Then why didn't you kill him when you had the chance?"
"Because that vengeance isn't mine to take."
"You—" Ytvl struggles against his holds for the first time. He looks scared. "Impossible. We didn't even – You. Who—?"
"Save yourself the torment of the Shock Plate and save me the effort of using it," Thirty-Two says drearily, collecting the blasted device from the floor. "Share with me the location of Vegeta and I will pretend I uncovered no such thing."
Eyes balloon, and then they thin. He doesn't believe him.
"I was ordered to bring in you and Vegeta," Thirty-Two elaborates very, very carefully. "I will do as such. Then, if Lord Hailer orders it, I will hunt down your companion and only then. Quite possibly, he will never learn of your saiyan friend."
Ytvl looks like he wants to say everything all at once and also nothing at all. He's choking on decisions. Strangely, he does neither. He laughs. It's an exhausted sound that must be like sandpaper in his throat.
"If Frieza couldn't take down Goku then what makes you think you could?"
Goku.
Thirty-Two nearly drops the Shock Plate. A wide berth parts his chest and bile runs all the way up.
Goku.
That's it. That's the name. How had he forgotten?
He turns around to face the cool slabs of stone, steadying himself, willing himself to breathe. He swallows the heat.
Ytvl is saying something, something in a faraway voice.
Goku…
Thirty-Two knows that name. It belongs to a dead man, the one who'd wear orange and ride a cloud between two sets of dazzling blue when the sky and the ocean were one.
God. God.
Thirty-Two holds a long, deep breath.
Head down. Eyes front.
He reminds himself of the mantra, and then he reminds himself to count.
The breath is released.
And then, so suddenly, the door crashes open, and no longer is it just Thirty-Two alone with the prisoner.
"Yer early," Pyrak says, intensely displeased. It's only a moment later does he realize what Thirty-Two's holding. "Oh, yer did get desperate enough then. Tsk, tsk. What a shame I interrupted the party."
"I haven't used it yet," Thirty-Two hears the words leave his mouth. "I still have time."
"Shipyard is ready for 'im. I gotta' get his ass outta' those locks."
"I'm not finished."
"Yes. You are," Pyrak responds, "Unless you wanna' take it up with Lord Hailer yourself? He ain't going to be happy with you for only bringing in one of 'em. Feel free to make it worse for yourself by denying him his order on top of that."
Sobering, Thirty-Two feels himself tense with decision. He needs Vegeta's location.
Then, the Shock Plate is snatched by Pyrak, and Thirty-Two feels himself being shoulder barged as the brute makes his way towards Ytvl. Behind, the sound of shackles being unclipped can he heard. The metal clangs against the floor.
Pyrak clicks his tongue. "At least make yourself useful."
Fists clenched, Thirty-Two weighs up his options.
Why Pyrak can't load Ytvl himself into the transportation pod, Thirty-Two has no idea. If he can't manoeuvre a weakened Ytvl by himself then why bother asking Thirty-Two? Why can't he enlist the other soldiers, as usual? Is it to rub salt into the wound?
All of this is too much.
Pyrak is the one to carry Ytvl through the empty corridors. Thirty-Two walks behind, furious. Thinking. Planning. At one point, Thirty-Two overhears Pyrak mutter something, and it's not to him. For some reason, it makes him all the more angry.
When they reach the docking station, Thirty-Two's unsurprised to find it unmanned as usual. The vast, cold and empty warehouse looks out over an impressive drop. In the dark, it's truly the abyss. And it's here that Thirty-Two feels the drafts of freezing wind pull at him, dragging at him to stare into its nothing. The blizzard wails on. It's singing its haunting tune, serenading Thirty-Two to the edge. He can't help but take a peak over, holding onto one of the docked ships for balance.
"Yer should do a summersault."
Thirty-Two ignores him, instead leading their group to the parking spaces for the spacepods. "What did you say to the prisoner?"
"I had to persuade this guy t' be a good boy," Pyrak says on the approach, tugging at his luggage.
Said luggage stumbles forward, bound by his sheenks-laden coil. It's knotted around his wrists, arm-creases and neck, and explains why he's struggling to keep his eyes open. By the time they reach the pod, his head is dipping.
Pyrak opens its door. "C'mon, help me get him into a pod."
"..."
"Oi."
"You're a big boy, Pyrak."
"Don't be your usual difficult shithead self."
"I'll supervise."
"Fuckin' grab him or I'll launch ye' into next week!"
To save earache, Thirty-Two does grab the very lethargic Ytvl just so he has something to do with his frustration. He repositions Ytvl's inflexible limbs into the cramped holding of the pod, making sure not to press any buttons as he does so. It's set up to have the sleeping gas keep Ytvl incapacitated for the entire journey back North. One push of the top button and it's lights out until he's homeward.
"I still don't understand why I'm here," Thirty-Two says after securing Ytvl in place.
"Well, I don't exactly fit into these pods that easily, do I? Not with him, at least."
Thirty-Two finally starts to feel his calm crackle away. "Are you so desperate to synch the opportunity to be cruel? Or do you finally want to have this out? Is that why? You've chosen the docking station during the graveyard hours on a particularly fearsome night. There's a blizzard, nobody knows we're here and—"
And the security system is down for an update.
He swivels in search of CCTV. Atop the walls, all the cameras are gone, leaving lonely, sparking wires in place. The lights are dim and the echoes of the wind scream louder than he ever could.
But he realises all this too late.
Just as he goes to take flight, Thirty-Two feels the sharpness of wire coil around his throat. He's pulled down to the concrete hard, pinned by the bite of strangulation.
"Activate the gas!" shouts a voice that isn't Pyrak's.
And that's when Thirty-Two realises what's going on.
Ytvl, rejuvenated, sits hovered above, using what must be every morsel of remaining strength in him to keep Thirty-Two in place. Thirty-Two, meanwhile, swallows his shock and pushes forward, just to be slammed back down by Pyrak as he passes over.
It's such a hard slam that Thirty-Two momentarily sees only black, barely coherent enough to hear the smashing of buttons behind. When he coughs, it feels wet.
"Hurry!"
Thirty-Two feels himself hoisted up, and to his great horror, quickly recognizes their intentions. They shove him through the doorway and into the velvet of the space pod. Everything's happening so fast. Only seconds ago, he'd finished putting Ytvl in here. How did this happen? Why is everything spinning? He tries to scramble forward, pressing against the combined efforts of two captains – but it's not just them he has to fight.
The sheenks in the coil instantly zaps at his energy, and his already fatigued body feels even more drained. Then, the gas has starts pumping.
He barrels forward, at first succeeding. Thirty-Two breaks through their hold and slumps out of the pod –but really, it's too late. His body has stopped cooperating.
"Fuckin' go ter sleep!"
Ytvl breathes hard. "It's working. I think he's almost out."
"Good."
"Let's get him locked in."
"Alright. Grab and hoist." Somewhere in the distance, Thirty-Two feels his body being lifted once more. His eyelids draw together. "Thank fuckin' God that's done with. Cilo better know what they're doing. When we get him back to Lya, she best—"
And like that, Thirty-Two's out.
He dreams of the sky, of orange and of the stars.