Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Eight
The Unwilling
The warmth of summer. The waves lapping at the shore; they're so forceful and yet so gentle, and they brush against him with their hushing lullaby. If he imagines hard enough, he'll hear the sea birds. The breeze against tropical foliage. The whispers of the wind. The nothing.
Thirty-Two submerges into this favourite fantasy of his.
It's with great effort that his eyes force open. His ocean is red this time.
It must be an off-brand regeneration tank.
Where is he? What happened? What did he do?
He asks himself these questions every time he wakes up in a tank. Though, it's been a while since he was last here. When was it? Before or after his acceptance of Captain? He can't remember. His head hurts. His everything hurts.
There's talking outside the tank in low, masculine voices which can't be deciphered.
Thirty-Two doesn't panic. Instead, he lists the facts he has, and then he tries to recall his last concise memory.
Well, the first fact he has is that he's no longer aboard a Frost Empire ship. They only use branded regeneration tanks instead of whatever knockoff this red, sceptic-smelling thing is. The second is that whatever happened to him must've been severe enough to have put him down. Thirty-Two doesn't remember fighting. Had he been ambushed? Poisoned – again? It hurts to recall…
He's still too tired to think. Perhaps, he'll sleep a while longer…
Then, a hand presses against the class, fingers splaying like sticky tentacles. The voice is louder. It's inquisitive. Is it asking Thirty-Two a question?
The second voice sounds further away now, and the light in the room is switched off. The hand disappears, the voice along with it.
And then, Thirty-Two returns to his fantastical sleep. To his ocean.
When Thirty-Two wakes next, he wakes – and he remembers.
There's a thump in his chest. His heart wishes to break through his ribcage, and Thirty-Two wants to break through the wires holding him down – wants to break open the machine and spill its healing fluid everywhere.
But he can't move.
So, he doesn't try.
He needs to conserve energy.
Breathe, he orders himself, deeply swallowing oxygen. He must remain calm. He must remain aware. For that, he focuses on the sound of channeling air through the oxygen mask.
The liquid is now a bright ruby, so the lights must be on wherever he's being contained. Thirty-Two may not be alone in this room, not that he'd know without his scouter to tell him what his eyes cannot. He tries to make out the blurs through the regeneration fluid, yet the blurs remain just that.
Why would they heal him? Why didn't they try to kill him?
Thirty-Two frowns, frustrated.
And that's when the world turns dark. A great, dark circle blocks the light – a head? A head. There's drumming when fingers tap along the glass. A laugh follows, one that Thirty-Two would know from anywhere.
Pyrak. What a traitorous swine. Thirty-Two didn't think he had it in him. He'd always parked his head up Lord Hailer's backside, after all – why would Thirty-Two ever imagine him anything other than a fur wearing loyalist wanting to climb the ranks?
If he could, he'd roll his eyes – he'd turn away and pretend that this was all beneath him. Instead, Thirty-Two saturates in both the healing fluid and his frustration, schooling his expression into a nice, blank sheet. He imagines Pyrak feeling satisfied right now, and so tries not to imagine him at all. There's another laugh, a last slap against glass and then, darkness.
Thirty-Two is restless upon his next waking.
It's a sign that he's nearly fully recovered, or usually, it would be, if not for the difficulty in judging his own energy stores. The sheenks implants embedded beneath his skin has thrown Thirty-Two for a loop, giving him vertigo and making everything feel ever so slightly off. Thirty-Two has plenty of experiences with short exposure to sheenks but to have it so deeply situated within him is something else entirely. It feels wrong – as though one of his limbs has been axed.
He doesn't have long to contemplate this when the water around begins to drain at record speed, faster than any regulated regeneration machine, thrusting Thirty-Two into the cold of reality and –
He's punched.
Thirty-Two falls out of the machine, spluttering. The outside air feels thin. His chest is struggling to keep up. The side of his head throbs from the assault, but he hasn't the time to react before being hauled up by his sopping hair. He's sandwiched between an arm and a wall.
"Good morning," Ytvl greets, "Now, if you'd be so kind you'd remain very still."
Thirty-Two brings a knee up. Usually, it would do the trick but his body is under sheenks so it doesn't do the trick at all. It'd been like dragging a boulder up through sand. There's little to no impact.
"Yes, yes," Ytvl continues, "You're cross with me. I understand. Do it now, Bulma."
Thirty-Two feels the familiar sensation of his scouter sliding over his eye. Half of the world is dyed its familiar red with a delicate, womanly hand awkwardly maneuvering the metal to sit against Thirty-Two's ear.
"Stay still!" orders this woman, less delicate.
It takes Thirty-Two approximately five seconds to realize their intentions. His eyes scrunch closed, and he rocks against Ytvl's annoyingly firm grip.
"Fucker," he mutters. Ytvl must reposition a hand against Thirty-Two's throat just so he can use the other to peel back Thirty-Two's eyelid. "Fucker," he repeats, this time in a language Thirty-Two suspects is Ytvl's mother tongue.
They succeed and Thirty-Two hears the affirming identification beep from his scouter. They actually managed to bypass his measures. How? Nobody has been able to—
"Yes!" the woman cheers, snatching the scouter back and possibly ripping a handful of Thirty-Two's hair along with it. She doesn't waste time in securing it to her own face. There's a pause. "Finally!"
Ytvl's hold on Thirty-Two slackens.
"Oh, wait a sec."
Then, the hold tightens.
"This isn't right," the woman mutters, "Why can't I enter the System Portal?"
Ah, that's relieving.
Thirty-Two doesn't take chances with technology. They hold digital footprints, which are far harder to wash clean than physical records. Data can be easily retrieved with the right mind and the right skills. By having the precautions – good security – then it'll be even more difficult to target him; never has he been hacked, nor has he had his data breached. He won't make it easy for the rebels.
"What's the deal? Why can I still not access your lousy Empire stuff?"
Ytvl sighs, though he doesn't sound exactly unamused.
"Tampering with the scouter operating system is illegal," he scolds, clicking his tongue. "What a naughty boy you are."
"Yes," Thirty-Two agrees with a swelling sense of irony, "I'm the worst offender of Frost Empire legislation here…"
Ytvl laughs, and then he punches him hard across the face.
Thirty-Two wakes a final time, not in the ruby-coloured liquid of the regeneration tank, but instead on top of a bed in a windowless, white bedroom. When he stands, it's like a fawn's first steps. He wobbles first, and then collapses in a bundle of limbs, violently striking a doorhandle with his chin when he drops. Already, the right side of his face aches, and his head feels like he is hosting a loud, base-thumping party. Somehow, it impossibly worsens.
So much for stealth.
Thirty-Two pushes open this door to see if it opens. It does – to a bathroom.
Well, Thirty-Two's never had a toilet in his cell before. As far as cells go, this is, well, it's pretty nice, almost as if it isn't a cell at all. Not even the captain suites are this high quality back at Central. This room is polished with LED lighting that illuminates a modern design, bringing warmth to the single bed, desk, chair, cupboard and set of drawers it's been equipped with. Oh, there's a mirror... God. Thirty-Two wishes he hadn't looked – he's a mess. He's healed mostly, except for a bruise along his cheek from where Ytvl hit him, but that's not to say he's looking well. What's left of his clothes barely clings on against grimy skin, and his shoes are nowhere to be seen.
Thirty-Two isn't sure whether or not to feel relief when he spots a folded pile of clothes on the desk. There's a towel accompanying them.
He fingers the cotton. It's good quality.
How disconcerting.
Thirty-Two, who's found his footing now, tries the door leading out and finds himself unsurprised to discover it locked. With the implants, Thirty-Two isn't sure if he has the strength to bring it down.
Next, he looks for cameras. Once, he found Nami working on CCTV cameras the size of pennies – the quality of the video hadn't been high enough definition to use throughout the organization, but they have their place. He'd told Thirty-Two that the team's ambition is to have them out by next year to use for spying purposes against the rebels. Who's to say the rebels haven't been working on something similar?
After a while of searching, the only thing he has to show for his efforts is a trashed room.
So, he takes his shower.
And it's glorious.
There are solutions and perfumed gels Thirty-Two has only ever read about. The ones he'd use back at Central are scentless and always seem to dry his skin out. These ones are luxurious. His skin feels uncomfortably silky.
Perhaps, these potions have been laden with poison? There's a flesh-eating solution that originated in the East. Thirty-Two temporarily lost a finger to it when he'd been twelve when one of the boys at the program organized for it to be smuggled in. They'd later found the boy (or what'd been left of him) in a bucket in his room, liquified, from his own recklessness with it.
So, it turns out, however, the gel's one crime is making Thirty-Two smell fruity fresh. It doesn't even sting his eyes.
Thirty-Two finds the rebels' silent request for his showering strange. After torturing him for days on end, do they really believe they could win Thirty-Two over with kindness? Isn't it a bit too late for that?
Or perhaps, they're just stupid. Are they weighed down by kindness? Thirty-Two has seen it once or twice before – civilians expending niceties just to be slaughtered moments later, ghostly laughs following soldiers as they turn to pillage the next settlement.
Then, Thirty-Two remembers his experience with the Shock Plate.
No. That hadn't exactly been… nice, had it?
Thirty-Two puts on the bestowed clothes (a Frost Empire issued jumpsuit – though, it's an older model – with stretchable boots, underwear and most surprisingly of all; his furs). He thinks about the furs for a few minutes, staring at them, wondering – why had they been given to him? Is this a test? Are they checking his loyalties to the Frost Empire? Pyrak is around here, isn't he? Thirty-Two imagines him sauntering around, his hideous, matted cloak trailing along the floor in chase.
Drumming his fingers against the table, Thirty-Two glares at his furs, willing them to set ablaze to save him the effort of deciding what to do with them.
There's the chance Thirty-Two is over-thinking all of this. He does that. Overthinking. Though, he's always considered it a fine quality – parnoia has kept his secrets his own, after all – why fix what's not broken?
He rests his head against his hands, focusing away the throbbing. And that's when he realizes. He's moving. Well, not him, personally, but everything around him.
Thirty-Two is on a ship.
Shit.
Shit.
He drops to the floor and presses his ears against it. Nothing. She's silent – but Thirty-Two knows the thrust of momentum. It must be a sizeable ship – he could barely register it at first. How the hell did they take-off from Central? The security—Oh, ah. Thirty-Two understands now. They'd been the ones attacking security, hadn't they? Just how wide of an assault is this? How many people are working for Cilo?
They even managed to recruit the person who defeated Lord Frieza.
Thirty-Two, on the floor, pauses, and then breathes in a shaky mouthful of air.
Is he here – Goku?
Suddenly feeling quite unwell, Thirty-Two finds himself jumping to his feet and towards the door. There are two locks: a biometric and a rim cylinder. He quickly hunts around the bedroom and bathroom, ambling to find something needle-like, making do with a safety pin he finds in a first aid kit under the bathroom sink. A rim cylinder is easily picked. It's likely being used as a back-up in case the biometric goes down – which it does when Thirty-Two applies the tiniest shred of energy he can to the fingerprint detection plate. Usually, this wouldn't affect him, but under sheenks, Thirty-Two finds himself breathless at even creating the smallest spark.
The lock hisses, crunches and then beeps. Thirty-Two thinks it might be resetting itself in an act of self-preservation. Once he picks the rim cylinder, the door seems to swing open all by itself.
That's when the alarm sounds.
Thirty-Two swears under his breath, taking off down a curling corridor, hoping the ship doesn't host the same level of CCTV that Central does.
As he runs, he notices the window opposite, looking out into the dark expanse of space. There's no traffic. Wherever they are mustn't be near the orbit of Central – how long has Thirty-Two been asleep? Where have they taken him?
His boots are light against the tiles but not entirely noiseless. When he stops momentarily, he hears others approach at haste. Three, four of them? They're talking, arguing.
Thirty-Two looks around. There are several doors. They all have those biometric locks, and already Thirty-Two is breathless. He looks up. A ventilation duct. It's unkindly small.
Well… it's a good thing he did leave his furs, after all.
Thirty-Two jumps, quickly yanks the casing free and hoists himself inside, making sure to reattach the casing as best he can. Then, he waits, peering through the grate.
Ytvl jogs intro frame first, Pyrak closely behind, furs, as expected, ambling.
"Which way?" Ytvl asks, stopping at a crossroads of corridors.
Vegeta next appears. "Up. Follow the walkway to the rest of the personal rooms. I'll go to the evacuation point. Like hell I'm letting him take a lifeship."
"And wha'da 'bout me, short stuff?"
"Jump out the window for all I care!"
Each take a route their own, but it's Vegeta's which most interests Thirty-Two. There's a moment of deliberation. Does he exit the vent now and follow or does he crawl his way through the system, unseen, and try his luck with wherever it takes him? Thirty-Two doesn't know who else is onboard this ship. That white faced woman wouldn't be ideal to run into, though Thirty-Two isn't sure if she's combative or not. Then, there's the blue-haired woman who stole Thirty-Two's scouter – and, well, he'd like that back very much before he left, but what's the likelihood?
Then, there's Goku.
No. No, it's best to avoid him.
Thirty-Two shimmies down the ventilation system. He's not risking being caught. No, thanks. So, he follows the thin tunnels, barely squeezing himself along the, sometimes, pitch black route in aim of finding somewhere of interest. The grates below mostly open into corridors looking no different to the first. Occasionally, he comes across either Ytvl or Pyrak in their search, stopping in his tracks when he does so, before continuing down the ever tightening route.
Finally, the ventilation shaft provides. It opens up to what looks like to be an engine room, and so Thirty-Two emerges awkwardly, for the first time thankful for his skinny frame.
Okay, what's he dealing with here… There's a high-pressure steam boiler for atmospheric propulsion, two electricity turbines, something that looks like it's been used for engine cooling and a modern computing system which seems to be connected to the control deck somewhere upward of the ship. Thirty-Two bets he's found himself in the belly, and that this is only one of multiple engine rooms. There's no way that this is enough to control a ship of this size. And what a size it is – Thirty-Two would know; he'd just toured it through the ventilation system. For a passenger ship, it's impressive.
Thirty-Two swallows his desire to explore this very well equipped engine room. He needs to find an out.
In rooms like this, there's usually a map of other key locations.
Ah. There it is.
Thirty-Two runs a finger to his location point, displayed as a looming red arrow over a picture of the ship. It's definitely the oval ship he saw rescuing Vegeta from the execution. What an odd design.
Ah. As suspected, he's on the bottom level. There are two other engine rooms, though this is the biggest. Now, where's the evacuation point. That's where he'll find a lifeship. His finger comes to rest on the most northwestern point. He'll have to lure Vegeta away somehow, but his first aim is getting there.
So, he takes what he thinks will help. A torch will be useful in the shaft. Beside it is a lighter, a pen and some papers which have been scattered across a desk. He takes the lighter but pauses when he considers the papers.
That writing…
His fingers trace the penmanship, his lips mime the words by their own will.
Outside, there's footsteps.
Thirty-Two decides not to dally, returning to his vent along with his goods and the knowledge of where to find the evacuation point. The ship is new, and thankfully so. Thirty-Two loathes the idea of crawling around like a rat amongst dust and rodent skeletons. He uses the torch when offered two opposing routes, recalling which way is best in accordance with the map. His memory is near eidetic, but moments of stress hinder it – and he's admittedly a bit stressed.
A short moment later has Thirty-Two re-emerge into the bright corridors, and then he finds himself in a foyer of some kind.
He must be drawing closer – he remembers a foyer being listed nearby the evacuation point.
It looks like a social room. It's… very homely, with plush sofas and cushions scattered around. There's a large screen that Thirty-Two supposes must be a television, and a table that's home to empty glasses, plates and some playing cards he's seen somewhere before. Now that the alarm has been switched off, Thirty-Two can hear the undertone of music playing. It's of a man singing – which is strange. Thirty-Two's only ever heard female singers perform, and they do so occasionally for the soldiers during socials, though they never look happy about it. Thirty-Two heard that the singers are never treated very well, and that the prettiest suffer a swelling of the stomach some months later.
Thirty-Two listens from his hiding spot, oddly transfixed with the baritone.
And then he leaves his vent, turns up the volume of the music, and then to add fuel, he takes out the lighter and sets fire to the sofa.
Once more, alarms sing. The chaos is impossible to ignore.
Thirty-Two climbs back into his vent and scurries along his journey. He hears shouting now. Lots of voices. Arguing, again – from Vegeta.
Then, nothing.
Thirty-Two jumps out when he reaches the most northwestern room of the ship. The evacuation point. It's a room made entirely of windows, but it's not whatsoever dark. Light emits from a computer monitor, colouring the room white. He taps it, wondering if it's touchscreen. No, all right, that's fine. He types on the keyboard. There's a system Thirty-Two will quickly need to work out before he can open the hatch to the lifeships. Will they work like pods? Will he be able—
Angry points dig into his collarbone.
Thirty-Two moves on reaction but in his weakened state it's hardly a fight. The clawed hand drags him down and bounces him off the tiles.
Above, stands a namekian.
Thirty-Two bites the inside of his mouth to stop himself reacting. A namekian. Why - out of every species imaginable - a namekian?
This namekian looks as equally displeased as Thirty-Two feels, which goes to tell Thirty-Two that his effect on them remains as strong as ever.
"Disgusting," the namekian sneers, taking a step back.
Yes. Thirty-Two's heard it before.
Perhaps, he can use this to an advantage. He pushes himself away, sliding across the tiles and towards the door in a bid to escape – but the namekian is fast. He must be of a warrior clan, and he must have a strong stomach because he quickly grapples Thirty-Two up off the floor and against the wall without further complaint.
Thirty-Two breathes hard, levelling his panic, maintaining eye contact with this oddly willful namekian. Said namekian stares him down, mouth upturned. When he punches the wall to Thirty-Two's left, the alarm from the social room goes silent.
"I've got him!" the namekian calls out.
Moments later, Thirty-Two's pursuers lumber in. Vegeta looks most annoyed, and strangely so it's with the namekian.
"And where the hell did you appear from?"
"The surveillance room. Nobody thought about the cameras."
I did, Thirty-Two thinks unhappily from his hanging spot. But he'd been so close. So very close.
"Goku must be at the second evacuation point, then," Ytvl says, and then to Thirty-Two, he offers a slow, patronizing clap. "Bravo. The last few days had been rather dull by all accounts. You do know how to keep it interesting."
"Here," the namekian says, thrusting Thirty-Two towards the party with the delicacy of a bull in an antique store, "Someone else take him. I can't stand how he feels."
Pyrak snatches the opportunity and Thirty-Two's taken by the throat. "Hello, poppit."
Thirty-Two refuses to even look at him, focusing instead on the namekian as he leaves – on the one person in this room who can feel the depravity of Thirty-Two's energy.
It's always the same.
Namekians – those very few he's come into contact with – avoid him. It's as though Thirty-Two's been stricken by a plague only they can feel, and they do enjoy telling those around of how wretched Thirty-Two feels – how evil the energy is.
There'd been only one namekian in the Youth Program, and he'd not even been born on planet Namek, instead originating from a space station somewhere in the South. Namekians never fare well in the South. It's so cold. Their bodies wither away quickly due to their high water content, but this boy's hadn't – and that's what made him an investment in the eyes of the program. He'd been unusual.
By some accounts, Caro had been a decent person, and even though Thirty-Two had been young, he remembers him well. Caro would not eat with the other boys because namekians do not eat, but sometimes he would drink. He'd like to stand outside in the sleet and absorb the nutrients from the sky – the others would make fun of him for it but Caro had been above the cruelties. Of course, he'd been a target for bullying, not only because of his quirks but also because of the haughty attitude he'd armour himself with. Caro thought himself superior. He'd been a good fighter, an even better healer and a wonderful scholar; he would read books suited for children three or four winters older.
He'd also been, as aforementioned and most importantly, decent.
Thirty-Two would watch him tend to other boys' injuries. He would let them confide in him. He held them when they cried for their mothers – Thirty-Two knows, he'd heard the rumours, and he'd once seen it for himself. Thirty-Two had stumbled across Calo quietening down one of the small children, similar in age to Thirty-Two at the time, and he'd watched in awe at the rare act of kindness.
Calo's kindness had soon devolved into revulsion. When he saw Thirty-Two watching, he gathered up a handful of rocks and aimed for Thirty-Two's face.
"Go away!" he'd shouted even though Thirty-Two had never once made an enemy of him. "You're damned!"
Thirty-Two had been at a loss. He'd of course received worse, but for Calo, an older boy many weaker ones looked up to, actively attacking him had been alarming.
"You're evil!" he'd snarled, "You are damnation!"
Thirty-Two had only been there two years then, so he would have been considered as green as the other small children. But Calo had made it clear how much he'd hated him.
Calo hadn't survived much longer. One of the near graduates had managed to behead him during combat training.
And then, the little ones had been left without a shoulder to cry on.
Thirty-Two had tried to forget about all of it.
But he'd had a couple more run-ins with namekians. There'd been prisoners onboard an occupied space station during one of Thirty-Two's training missions. When they'd watched their friends being executed by the Boiler, the namekians had silently and resiliently watched on, but when they'd been left under Thirty-Two's management, they'd started crying. One had begun screaming at Thirty-Two, calling him an "abomination".
Another incident had happened when a rare namekian soldier visited from the North. He'd stayed as far away as possible from Thirty-Two and had refused to enter the same ship as him, accepting punishment from his captain quite readily in lieu of his refusal.
Yes.
Thirty-Two finds it fair to say that the Namekian people do not like him.
Which makes this latest revelation unwelcoming to say the least.
"Aren'tcha' excited?" Pyrak asks, full of false cheer, "We're gonna' visit Namek. What's with tha' face? Don't tell me you don't wanna' go!"
Thirty-Two has been cuffed – hands behind back – and is now sitting in the remnants of the fire he'd started. Soot has coated his new jumpsuit and Thirty-Two imagines he has a smattering of it across his face from where he'd been thrown down.
"That'd been my favourite couch!" complains the blue haired woman, gesturing to its charred remains. "It'd been imported! Do you even know how difficult it'd been to get it through customs?"
Vegeta stands, arms folded, wearing an exasperated expression Thirty-Two's never seen on him before. "Priorities, woman…"
But he doesn't focus too heavily on Vegeta. Instead, he practices his one-thousand-yard stare, hoping for the man perched on the table not to bother too greatly with him.
"So, you're not an android," this man, Goku, says, thoughtful, dashing Thirty-Two's hopes.
It's not the first time Thirty-Two's been called a robot.
"How come only Piccolo can sense you?"
Thirty-Two has answered the question before. "Perhaps you should take it up with him," he says simply.
"'Sense' isn't necessarily the word I'd use," Piccolo the namekian tells the group, "It's like… like feeling rot. It's the smell of death."
"Charmin'," Pyrak laughs, "Hear that, Thirty-Two? Yer stink."
"Namekians are a superstitious lot," Ytvl shares, "The number of times I'd hear my namekian men talk of oracles and make beliefs had my eyes rolling to the back of my head."
"Believe what you want," Piccolo mutters.
"I shall."
It's at this time that Thirty-Two leans back into the soot. He'd thrown down the lighter after use. If he manages to find it, he could use the flame to weaken the metal and then he may possibly be able to snap the handcuffs—
A gust of air slaps into him, up shooting the soot and Thirty-Two into the back of another sofa.
"You're relentless, huh?" Goku says, palm lowering.
"Goku! What have I told you about using energy outside the training room!"
"Sorry, Bulma. He just—"
"All of you," barks Bulma, turning and facing each of them – Thirty-Two included. "I don't know how many times I've had to tell you braindead idiots about not firing ki around the ship. If you blow a hole in it, then we're oblivion!"
"Yeah, yeah." Pyrak yawns for effect. "We've 'eard it all before. Vegeta, put a muzzle on 'er, for God's sake."
"What did you say?"
"Yer a naggy bitch and I'm sick of getting it in the neck from you!"
Thirty-Two watches with interest when Vegeta stands to attention. Oh. This woman must be his partner – gross. This also explains her especially disdainful approach when dealing with him. The first thing she'd said to him today had been about how he'd escaped being rightfully executed.
"Honestly, Thirty-Two," Pyrak sighs as though he hasn't tried to inflict torture on Thirty-Two a handful of times now, "She's got far too many opinions for a blaunche-chausetté."
"A what? Why do you keep calling me that?"
"Ignore him, Bulma," Piccolo rightfully suggests.
Pyrak is grinning at Thirty-Two because he's likely the only person onboard to know how offensive the term is. Disgust must be clear as day across his face because Pyrak grows ever more pleased with his chaos.
"You can hear them fucking all night long," Pyrak purrs in the Southern tongue, delighted.
"Knock it off," Ytvl scolds, "We're guests. Speak the common language, for God's sake."
"Being here'll make yer wish you were dead already," Pyrak continues regardless, "With how painfully vanilla they are. My only joy is wondering when I'll get the time to burn Vegeta and his bitch myself." He coughs when Ytvl stands, waving him away. "Oh, I'm just welcoming Thirty-Two as is customary of our Southern tradition. No need ter get arsey."
Thirty-Two returns to his thousand-yard stare, questioning the stability of the bolts on the door leading out.
"Check the bottom drawer, Goku."
"I have. There're just some wires in there."
"Take 'em out."
"Really? It's just wire. What can he do with wire?"
"To the pile."
"Really?"
"Really, really."
Well, that's Thirty-Two's ambition of overloading the outlets out of the window – not literally, because he doesn't have a window. He in fact has nothing in his cell now, spare some bedding, a towel and –
"Can he do something with this?" Goku asks, showcasing the citrus body wash.
Ytvl looks at it for a long time, and then he looks at Thirty-Two as though he wants him to answer the question. Really, what can Thirty-Two do with some body wash?
Hmm.
What can Thirty-Two do with some body wash?
"Isn't this a bit much, Ytvl?"
Between the two of them, a pyramid of donned contraband sits in a pile: the first aid kid, some scissors Thirty-Two had originally missed, the wires, a can of aerosol, razors that he embarrassingly wouldn't need anyway, a fire extinguisher, batteries from the smoke alarm, the smoke alarm, a pair of coater hangers, the cardboard insert of the toilet roll, and a screwdriver Ytvl fished out from under the bed.
Thirty-Two sits on the bed, watchful – of the pile, not of the man standing over it.
Head down, eyes front.
"Thirty-Two escaped with a safety-pin, and he nearly made it onto a lifeship in less than forty-five minutes. How would've we explained that one to Lya when we got back?"
"Jeez…"
"I told you to shackle him to the bed."
"That seems a bit far."
"Does it, though?"
Thirty-Two doesn't find it strange when people discuss him whilst he's in front of them. It's not exactly irregular. But they seem not to enjoy it, sparing Thirty-Two a glance like he's already managed to ply up the floorboards.
A pair of boots come to stop under Thirty-Two's nose.
They're blue, with orange strips running vertically directly through the middle.
"Look," Goku opens with, "I know we didn't get off to the best start, and I guess you aren't very happy about being here right now but I just thought I'd suggest starting afresh, y'know—"
"Jailer to prisoner?" Thirty-Two interrupts.
"Yeah, I, uh, I guess."
Thirty-Two doesn't like Goku standing this close, and he certainly doesn't like him hovering above like that – as though Thirty-Two's a kid. Which he isn't.
"I… see."
"You're not going to go anywhere, are you?"
"Not right now."
Goku coughs, and Thirty-Two stares into the nice, safe abyss.
"So… Uh, I thought you going into the vents was a good idea," Goku then compliments awkwardly. From the corner of his vision, Thirty-Two sees him scratch the back of his head. "If we didn't have the cameras then we might not've been sure where you were planning on goin—"
"Oh, God. Is there a vent in here?" Ytvl realizes, and then he's studying the empty walls and ceiling with meticulousness. There's one in the bathroom but Thirty-Two can't even fit his fist through it. "Ah," Ytvl says upon finding it.
"I'm sure you won't have to stay locked up in here the whole time," Goku says, quiet, and then adds with a smirk, "We let Pyrak out, y'know…"
Thirty-Two would laugh if he wasn't so utterly against it.
"You're not gonna' make this easy, huh? It'll be better for you if you did. You're stuck here, after all. And really, I don't think you should be all that mad," There's a depreciative smile. "You're the one who killed my friend."
"The small one," Thirty-Two remembers.
"Krillin."
"He couldn't shoot the gun."
"Well, neither could you – when it counted."
Thirty-Two's brows twitch, threatening to come together.
"You didn't kill me," Goku elaborates, but there's no further question about it. Not yet at least.
"You didn't kill me," Thirty-Two returns. He remembers the Shock Plate – does Goku think he doesn't? It's a memory he's avoided unpacking.
"I don't like to do that, y'know, kill people."
"Not everybody kills because they like it."
"You didn't hesitate with Krillin."
That's not true. Thirty-Two had given them both ample opportunities to flee, and he'd spared the small one numerous times until he got cocky and mishandled the Astra. But mentioning it would be splitting hairs, and Thirty-Two has the feeling this is what Goku wants him to do. He's trying to draw him into conversation.
"…Like I said, he couldn't shoot the gun."
"No." Goku frowns. "I guess not. But you couldn't fight all that well, so I guess it evened out."
"Un." Thirty-Two's tongue is faster than his common sense. "You're the one who lost."
"Well, you're the prisoner."
"…I am," he admits, "For now."
Thirty-Two assumes Goku not to like the answer but his expectations are subverted. There's a smirk, and for the first time Thirty-Two is reminded that he's dealing with a saiyan here. They live for the challenge. For the fight of it.
"I'm taking the comb, too," Ytvl announces, walking back into the bedroom from the bathroom. "No doubt he'll use the teeth for something."
Thirty-Two sleeps like the dead.
He's usually a restless sleeper, tossing and turning and plagued by strange dreams. That's not to say that he doesn't have strange dreams. He does, each time he rests his head, and they submerge him into a world that's familiar but not, using a language he doesn't know but has heard so many times before. Every time he wakes, it's with a start, and he remembers where he is and who's here. It must be the sheenks ailing him to sleep because he's finding himself repeatedly drawn back to his admittedly comfortable bed.
Even so, Thirty-Two hates staying away from his room, and worse yet, he hates staying away from his medicine. He'd been near the end of his fixed run. Maybe he'll be okay. Maybe his body won't need it now. He'd already reached Tanner Stage Five, after all, long ago. Nobody will suspect anything.
Thirty-Two wonders how long has passed since his attempted jailbreak. A day – two, maybe? He's starting to get hungry. Thirty-Two is good at subduing hunger. He did it often as a kid as protest, though they'd just get sick of him and stick him with an IV. Thirty-Two doubts they'll do that here because Goku seems to be embarrassingly soft, and he seems to have a level of authority in the group. Yes. Thirty-Two noticed how eyelines would always return to him. Even Vegeta couldn't help but orbit Goku. He didn't contest Thirty-Two's return to the cabin as opposed to the storeroom like Pyrak had whined about.
Goku defeated Frieza, and that's why they respect him.
Do they know other things about Goku? About his… ties? About his relationships – or his kin? Vegeta must know. Thirty-Two remembers meeting Vegeta. He wonders if Vegeta remembers meeting him.
Dangerous thoughts.
Thirty-Two keeps having them.
He rocks to comfort himself, knowing very well why he does it.
Thirty-Two is his number. It's his ID. His calling. He doesn't need a name because he has a duty. Thirty-two is his number. It is his duty. His calling. His duty.
When he sleeps (this time, choosing to do so on the floor), he tells himself this over and over just in case he starts to forget.
"I thought the bed was pretty comfy," Ytvl says, standing over him, tray in hand. "But I suppose you Southerners may think you're too macho for a goose feather mattress."
Thirty-Two stares up, bleary eyed, so desperate to ask how long he's been locked away.
"Apologies for the delay. There'd been an incident," Ytvl continues in a mumble, sliding the tray on the desk. "I'm sure you're more than a bit peckish."
Thirty-Two refuses to admit that he's hungry to Ytvl, and he refuses to admit how good that food smells to himself. The only thing Thirty-Two does is get up and sit on his fancy bed
Ytvl has taken a seat in the opposing chair. "You're not going to ask, are you?" he hums, contemplative, after a drawn-out moment of silence. "Are you never even the slightest bit curious?"
Yes.
"Not especially."
"What a liar. A good one, though. I said that to Cilo. I knew right away that we weren't going to get any results with a Shock Plate. It was quite the surprise, though, when you took ill with a fever."
Thirty-Two hadn't been surprised. Their torturers weren't cleaning up their messes as they went. Novice move.
"So, are you here to confiscate more toiletries?"
Ytvl gestures to the tray with a flourish. "I'm here to put meat on your bones. I told you before that I was sick of your dreary skeleton."
Thirty-Two doesn't recognize the food. It looks like a stew of some kind.
"I know," Ytvl coos with false sympathy, "It's not Youth Program approved. I'm just as familiar with the wondrous slop served in the canteen. As nice as it is, I'm sure actual food will just have to do." When Thirty-Two doesn't move, Ytvl opens his mouth in understanding. "Oh, do you want me to have some first to show that we're not poisoning you?"
"Why would you poison a prisoner?"
"We could want to lace you to keep you docile."
"Then, how will you question me?"
Ytvl wags a finger up and down, grinning. "Oh, you don't miss a beat."
The food is pushed ever closer, but the idea of eating in front of Ytvl feels very wrong.
"Look, I'll just say it," Ytvl then says, tone shifting into something heavier. The way he leans over makes Thirty-Two straighten his back. "Hailer and Lord Cooler have announced war upon one another."
It's unsurprising. Thirty-Two stares at the bubbling stew and at the bread that accompanies it.
"I see," Thirty-Two tells the bread diplomatically.
"That's not much of a reaction."
Thirty-Two doesn't have anything else to add, though. What more is there to say? They both knew it was bound to happen, and yet to say such a thing is treasonous. Ytvl may have squandered his connection to the Frost Empire but Thirty-Two may still need it.
The door closes with a click, leaving Thirty-Two suddenly not very hungry at all.
It's not to say that he didn't eat the food.
And that's why his head sits in the basin of the toilet bowl.
He isn't sure what made him vomit this morning (?); whether it'd been the head-spinning dreams or the richness of the food, it's difficult to know.
His theory is that it had been stew, Thirty-Two guess, staring at the remnants swirling down the drain.
The next delivery of food arrives not long thereafter; a combination of three meals to be eaten at whatever leisure Thirty-Two fancies. Ytvl hadn't stayed as long this time, seeming more frustrated than normal when Thirty-Two chooses to ignore him.
Boredom is a form of torture, too, Thirty-Two begins to realize when the next day brings much of the same. He hasn't a book or even anything to tinker with. He did manage to find a pen and some paper in a cupboard. With them, he decides to start doodling the strange, horrific shapes that haunt him in his sleep – what else has he to do? Aside from eat and vomit?
Thirty-Two doesn't eat anything that isn't beige or an obvious vegetable in fear of being hunched over the porcelain throne for hours on end. Which is another type of torture, actually, because… the food is…
Heavenly.
Thirty-Two, a person who loathes mealtimes, has found love in… in whatever cuisine this is.
Today's menu comes with those small white grains and a saturated brown-red sauce coating them. There's meat that looks more than just the usual gristle Thirty-Two is used to seeing, and green vegetables that look like trees. He eats the small trees and some of the white grains, almost sobbing that he can't risk eating the rest.
The slop has ruined his stomach. It's not fair. This is cruel.
Thirty-Two laments this, lying on his "goose feather mattress", when he hears banging outside his room. There are raised voices. He sits up when the doorhandle jostles. Yet, nobody enters, and the muffled shouting continues down the corridor.
Not much else happens that evening (going off of meal cycles; the only way he can measure time), so Thirty-Two tries working out how long they've been travelling and how long it'll take for them to get to Namek. Ytvl has brought four days' worth of meals to his room, plus the two before then, plus however long he was out (two days, three maybe, going off what he knows about sheenks exhaustion). Depending on the ship's speed, they should have…
God. Weeks. Two, if he's lucky.
What will happen out there? Lord Hailer and Lord Cooler are warring. Will Lord Hailer look for him? Has he the time? Thirty-Two knows his tracking chip has been taken. By all accounts, he could be free.
He smiles emptily.
That's not true.
Oh, if only.
Right now, Thirty-Two desperately wishes he had his research. There's a great load of irony with where he's going. Hadn't he always wanted to find his way to New Namek? He'd heard the rumours – the whispers – and now he'd somehow boarded a ship that's taking him there directly, along with the person he'd last been with on his last venture to Namek.
Now, he does laugh.
He laughs himself to sleep.
The questioning had been inevitable. The fact that it hadn't happened yet is a testament to what's going on beyond Thirty-Two's four walls. It's unnerving to have breached them. Has he developed agoraphobia? Or is his usual paranoia simply operating in overdrive? Thirty-Two desperately wants to return to his tiny room with his vomit toilet and the food he cannot eat.
Instead, he's in the foyer. There's a new sofa where the last one once sat, noticeably smoke-damage free. Thirty-Two has been asked to sit down at table used for dining. Dried food hasn't been cleaned properly from its polish, and it sticks to the coating, giving something for Thirty-Two to focus on as the others take their seats.
The television is on, something silently playing in the background. It's a cartoon with bright colours and smiling, happy characters that feel out of place here. Even though it's muted, it seems loud. Everything seems loud after days of empty isolation. On paper, Thirty-Two should have loved the peace from his horrible fucking coworkers, yet the reality hadn't been kind. Thirty-Two had been alone with his thoughts like he'd been as a kid – and he'd hated it.
"Nice holiday?" Pyrak asks scathingly in the Southern language, taking the seat next to him.
"What did I say about not using the Common word?" Ytvl bites out, taking the seat to Thirty-Two's left.
Interesting. They're not interrogating him traditionally, then. Are they trying to appeal to Thirty-Two through idle chatter? Through thinly veiled manipulation? Are they going to try and be his buddies? Come on. Pyrak should know better than that.
"He speaks some Southern," Pyrak says conversationally, "He called me a mean name. Didn't yer, Northerner? It hurt my feelins', it did."
When no-one else joins them, Thirty-Two looks over his shoulder. Where's Goku?
"It's jus' us," Pyrak tells him, "And them cameras up there but don't worry about 'em."
"I see."
Ytvl shakes his head, a look of bewilderment stretching his mouth wide. "I've got to give the Youth Program credit with you," he says, "I bet you wouldn't even blink on your own deathbed."
"Everyone's a bit sociopathic from the program," Pyrak laughs, "Otherwise…" He runs a finger across his neck, "Hey, does anyone want a beer?"
Thirty-Two does not want a beer.
As Pyrak lumbers in aim for a four pack of canned beverages atop a nearby counter, Thirty-Two takes the moment to get his bearings. The room has a modest kitchenette, overlooked by a balcony with more seating options above. The cards are still out on the table, noticeably untouched since last time; Thirty-Two remembers seeing the Four of Hearts face up. There is now a half empty wine bottle, a tattered book and… some photographs? Files, too. He cranes his neck but Pyrak moves to block his view.
Pretending to be unbothered, Thirty-Two rolls his shoulders, turning away. It's nice out here – though it doesn't feel as safe as his tiny, vomit smelling bedroom.
Ytvl accepts a beer and then slides one across to Thirty-Two.
The notion is so ludicrous that Thirty-Two stares back at the television, swallowing his vitriol when Ytvl smirks into his beverage. When the television is switched off, Thirty-Two's forced to look away, disliking seeing his gormless reflection staring back.
Ytvl takes a long drink and then he slams the can down.
"Cilo can win this," he opens with, brazen. "That's the first thing you should know. They're fully equipped in bringing down the Frost Empire as we know it."
"All right," Thirty-Two says tactfully. "If that's what you—"
"Look, this is a discussion," Ytvl intersects, "And for that, we'd need to discuss."
"He thinks yer not a loyalist," Pyrak reveals, cracking open his own can. "I've told 'em you are."
"And you're not?" Thirty-Two questions.
"Fuck Hailer." Spittal flies free in his vehemence. "Fuck those Frost fucking fuckers."
Thirty-Two lowers his eyes. Head down, eyes front.
"I'm not," Ytvl clarifies as though it hadn't been obvious enough since the execution fiasco. "And I know you're not, either."
Then, there's a kicker. Ytvl produces files. He splays the papers across the table; copies of Thirty-Two's case study, books and all the records he's managed to accumulate over the years. Thirty-Two doesn't even need to look at them to know what they are. He raises his chin.
"Literacy," Thirty-Two inflects slowly, "And what of it?"
"Oh, Thirty-Two… Don't be like that."
"Eh, yer never showed this to me!"
"He probably thought you couldn't read," Thirty-Two drawls nastily, feeling himself turn rotten from within. Ytvl seizes his catch, smiling darkly as he pulls a particular piece of paper into view. Thirty-Two takes it begrudgingly when it's offered. "Dragon balls," he repeats, pretending not to feel sick, "So?"
Ytvl grins, pulling out another piece of paper. His fingers rap against the wood of the table. He's enjoying himself.
"What's that one, Thirty-Two?"
"Co-ordinates," he reveals, "But to what."
Ytvl clicks his tongue but the joy in his eyes doesn't vanish. "New Na-mek," he says through happy, white teeth. "I showed these to Bulma – Vegeta's much, much better half – and she'd told me they'd only been a fraction off from the actual destination. Tell us, Thirty-Two, what was your plan? Why were you planning on going to New Namek? Was it for the dragon balls you'd been researching?"
Thirty-Two looks at the co-ordinates, furrowing his brow.
"A fraction by which way?" Thirty-Two mumbles, wondering where he went wrong. He'd been sure his latitude was specific. Was it in measuring the longitude? No, he'd been –
Ytvl barks a joyous sound, slapping the table.
Pyrak is less pleased. "Ah, so, yer were planning on going to Namek?"
Yes. Indeed, Ytvl looks like the cat that got the cream. "That's what I said from the beginning."
"Yes," Thirty-Two admits. "For Lord Hailer."
Then, there's a scoff. "Oh, really! What a load of rubbish."
"Cilo thinks that n' all," Pyrak discloses.
"Shut up," Ytvl snaps.
"They do. Oh, they do."
Thirty-Two doesn't look away when Ytvl leans across the table, arms folded over the sheets of evidence. "Thirty-Two, let's pretend for one moment that you're a loyalist when I know you're not – No, shut up, Pyrak – and let's pretend you are going to New Namek on Hailer's accord. If that's the case then I ask why? I'm familiar with your circumstances of how you fell into the service, and I'm familiar with the protocols that come with attending the Youth Program. You've not had an easy ride, have you? And what do you have to show for it? You're about as high as the ladder allows you to climb. The next best thing is something Hailer won't ever be able to give you—"
"Freedom!" Pyrak cheers, bringing his can down against the table.
"Yes," Ytvl agrees. "Freedom."
Thirty-Two takes a breath and holds it. "Freedom," he parrots, tasting its utopian value. How lovely. "And Cilo will give you both that – this desired freedom?"
"I'm already free," Ytvl says.
"Then, be free. If you're so free then take opportunity in this war to reinvent yourself and start anew – but no, it's not about that, is it?" Thirty-Two's lips twitch darkly. "You've just allowed yourself to be ensnared in another's web of power and control. Do you think you can just walk away from this now?"
Pyrak whistles lowly.
Ytvl leans back. "Everybody has their own motivations – and really, a pessimistic person will only see the worst in every situation. How do you expect to develop change when you're a sullen, little shit."
Thirty-Two looks into the distance. "Like you said… Everybody has their own motivations… And mine coincide with Lord Hailer's."
"You're full of it, Thirty-Two."
"He's indoctrinated," Pyrak says, "I told yer."
"Do you really believe everybody wants what you want?" Thirty-Two asks, low, "This change?"
Ytvl look between Thirty-Two and the polished, grey camera which hovers over them like a raincloud. "We're all self-serving here, even them," he says in the Southern language brokenly, "But," he continues in Common, "Our motivations can also coincide should you allow for it.
"Think it over."
Thirty-Two looks up at the camera, wondering what could be self-serving about the man Thirty-Two would think of on those dark nights.
Though, in his heart, Thirty-Two knows.
"I'll think about it," he says, ultimately.
But Thirty-Two is married to his plans and he won't deviate from them now, not even with Goku returning back from the grave.
When he returns back to his room, Thirty-Two dreams once more, and again, he sketches out his ghosts.
One takes the form of a looming, misshapen being flashing above seven balls.
Another wears an evil smile like that of his brothers.
The last needs to be coloured orange.