Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Twelve
The Biometric Lock
Thirty-Two is surprised that they're leaving so quickly. If it's the space station he thinks it is, the one nearby the Path of Ashes, then the queues can take up to an hour, and a ship of this caliber would take a generous amount of time to refuel. Eyes closed, he doesn't overthink it, still feeling rotten from the interaction with Ytvl and Goku earlier. He turns onto his side with the effort of returning to his fitful rest. The sheenks is, as always, making him tired…
Just as he feels the pull of slumber, something strange happens.
The electric biometric lock on his door buzzes. He rotates, seeing the green light flash.
It's open?
Now, this is new.
Does Goku really think this will entice him out, though? Thirty-Two already told them to go away. He doesn't want to deal with any of their strange behaviours.
Then, the light dies. It buzzes, turns red and that's that.
Until it isn't. Seconds later, it buzzes once more. The green returns.
Thirty-Two stands at this point to investigate.
He tests the door. Indeed, it opens. Outside, the hallways are as bright as ever and empty. The door closes and he ambles back in the direction of the bed. Again, the light blinks red and there's another buzz. It's locked.
When it sounds and turns green again, Thirty-Two decides it must be broken and tries to ignore it, which doesn't work because the cycle continues. Buzz, green, red, buzz… Buzz, green, red, buzz. Thirty-Two counts seven times, the pillow tight over his head. There's a reprieve of silence where Thirty-Two thinks himself momentarily safe until the door buzzes yet again. Green flashes.
It's so sporadic that it feels purposeful.
Thirty-Two marches over to the door and opens it, half expectant to see Pyrak there laughing. There's nobody. Interestingly, the door has stopped buzzing, and when he inspects it, he's not sure how to feel when the electronics seem untampered with.
Then, there's a new noise. Yet, another electronical cry. It's the CCTV opposite his room which is moving, left at first, and then right, repeatedly. How… strange. Oh. Is there something up with the electronics? Could this be Thirty-Two's chance to escape?
The camera stops its dance and Thirty-Two moves left to see if it follows. It doesn't, instead jerking the other way before rotating in a circle, suggesting to Thirty-Two that the movements are purposeful, as though someone is operating the camera. Thirty-Two approaches it for a better a look and the camera is overjoyed – if it could be suggested as much. It nods vigorously.
"Is this camera being operated manually? Up and down for yes."
The camera stops, and then with a decisive motion, nods once more.
"Did you unlock my door?"
Another nod.
"To help me escape?"
This time, it shakes from left to right.
Thirty-Two feels himself grow angry. Are they trying to lure him out of his room? What, by playing games with him? He sneers, retreating back towards his room, reaching for the handle and – it's locked.
"Open the door."
The noise of the camera shaking has his teeth clench.
"I'm not—"
And that's when he hears it, foreign talking, loud and distinctly not belonging to anyone who has been occupying the ship as of late. He listens. Are they Moybians? Tóracks? Perhaps they're Hiihii Centrists because Thirty-Two is struggling to even identify if they're Northern or not. Whatever the case, they're fast approaching.
Thirty-Two spares a last look at the camera. It's pointing towards the vents.
So, that's how it is.
He hoists himself up like last time and shuffles along its familiar path, coming to a halt when three large, blue skinned men walk along the hallway with hungry eyes, excited. They're not in armour or uniform of any kind. Their clothes look to be made from cheap hide, their boots are well used, caked in orange mud and are ratty, and the guns in the holsters are at least three generations behind Thirty-Two's Astra. He doesn't recognize their species, but he does recognize their criminal glee.
Did those dumbasses manage to get the ship hijacked?
So… who's on the other side of the camera? It was Piccolo who was supposed to be watching him, but it would have made sense for him to have been stationed near the entry way as opposed to the surveillance room. Pyrak doesn't have the intelligence or patience to communicate through the electronics, and anyway, he'd probably want to take a crack at the thieves – as would Goku and Vegeta.
Okay. Well, that just leaves Bulma.
That makes sense. She's the only one who's shown any true talent with the ship. If it's not Piccolo, then it's definitely her.
When he reaches the kitchen, he jumps out and immediately retrieves the biggest knife from the drawer. The camera above violently shakes when he takes ahold of the commonly used chef's knife.
Yes. It's definitely Bulma.
"I'm not going around unarmed," he whispers harshly. "No, that one is too small," he adds when the camera gestures to a knife lying on the counter. "Is the surveillance room near the main engine room?"
The camera shakes.
"So, it's on the upper deck? Near the second engine room?"
It nods.
"Wait there."
The vent shaft grows tighter when it goes from horizontal to vertical, taking Thirty-Two longer to shimmy upwards to the next floor than he would have liked, his longs legs a particular issue when the shaft takes a turn. At one point, he worries that he's stuck. Any chance of him returning this way is out of the question, especially when he ends up bending the fine metal joint between one shaft and the next.
He stops above a hallway he's not yet seen. It's dark with red emergency lights flickering over the two opposing doors. In the distance, steam can be heard. Perhaps there's a boiler up here. He must be drawing closer to the second engine room.
"—the belt. The forecast isn't safe enough but fuck me for tryin' to go against Krast," Thirty-Two overhears from below. "I told 'im that we needed to let this ship fuel up to max before we took her. I said we should stop off at First Pass an' take some fuel from a ship round there."
"Krast ain't gonna' listen."
"Never does."
"Mraxux said—hey, did you hear that?"
Thirty-Two steadies himself, holding the walls, the blade between his teeth, but the damage has already been done. The shafts aren't as formidable up here, likely weakened by the steam. It continues to creak even as Thirty-Two distributes his body weight evenly.
"What's that? The silver thing. It ain't sounding too happy."
"An airduct, I th—"
The shaft falls unsymmetrically in a groaning, smooth motion, Thirty-Two along with it, and the collapsed metal crashes, excruciatingly loud like a ship collision. His ears ring from being at the centre of it, his head rattling, but he doesn't waste time, using their confusion against them as to emerge from the cloud of dust, hand encroaching and ready to strike. He doesn't have much power because of the sheenks, but he does have a knife, and with it, he aims for the neck, plunging the steel fatally down the closest man's throat. There's a wet gurgle, a stumble, and finally a rush of blood which spurts abundantly when Thirty-Two buries the blade into where the heart presumably sits. There's no question to whether or not he's dead.
The second one is quicker to react, putting space between him and Thirty-Two, and pulling forth that ancient firearm from its holster, churning and firing it – shot after shot – as Thirty-Two tucks and rolls, momentarily borrowing the corpse as a shield to eat the bullets. When the barrel empties, Thirty-Two launches the knife, managing to slice perfectly into the wrist of his opponent. There's a cry and the gun is released, with Thirty-Two moving to capture it as it bounces along the tiles.
He's kicked across the face for his efforts, and he slides until encountering the wall, sending cracks up along the plaster when he collides with it.
Oh, the guy's pissed. The knife is still implanted in his wrist. His snarls as he inspects it, noticing the knife's point emergent on the other side.
"Who the fuck are you!" he demands, which is a bit rich considering the situation.
Thirty-Two stands, wiping his bloodied nose.
The gun has disappeared and Thirty-Two doesn't like his chances. Without the sheenks, Thirty-Two would have already have snapped his neck. Instead, the man presses the point of his thumb into Thirty-Two's throat, having been able to capture him all too easily.
"How many are there of yer?" asks the man slowly, his breath heavy with halitosis. Thirty-Two doesn't avert his eyes. He presses further into the thumb. "Like that, eh?"
The man leans in, "I got twenty buddies back there," he whispers, "They don't care what yer got down there, only that yer'd be able to keep em warm on this lovely foreign ship. Oh, your face ain't bad, is it?"
Fear.
The implication has Thirty-Two panic, though he refuses to show that, refuses to give this creature anything other than death. It's the first time in a long time Thirty-Two has felt such a deep worry for his own well-being – it's not that this is the first time someone's said such a thing to him, but it's certainly the first time he's felt powerless to stop it.
That's when it starts raining.
Inside.
It's the sprinklers, Thirty-Two realizes. Why—?
The bastard in front of him is just as confused, turning to – ah, Thirty-Two understands. It's more than enough time for Thirty-Two to lean forward and press two well-aimed thumbs directly into the eye sockets. With a wail, Thirty-Two's released and so must use the wall behind as leverage to further cleave his thumbs into the wet, cloying texture of rupturing tissue. One of the eyeballs dangles free in an attempt to flee, the other bleeds out, its iris dying the muddy brown black. He's screaming by the time Thirty-Two's kneeling on his chest, and silent only when the knife is repurposed across his throat.
Thirty-Two stands.
The sprinklers cry their last tears, and when it stops fully, Thirty-Two looks down at his mess. The altercation was loud. The apparent twenty others will have heard it. He doesn't bother moving the bodies, but he does take their guns. After wiping himself free of their blood (an unsettling burgundy), he looks up and towards the nearest camera.
This is where he should thank her.
"Am I close?" he instead asks.
The camera doesn't move. He repeats himself.
Again, nothing.
Thirty-Two wonders if Bulma's been attacked, or perhaps if the water damaged the camera. Yet, when he moves right, it follows him.
"Bulma," he says, slowly and experimentally, as he's never once said it aloud. "Should I re-enter the vent?"
Nothing, aside from the encroaching sound from beyond the room. There are footsteps, many of them, coming at speed in search of their fallen comrades. Thirty-Two looks at these comrades, one with eyes blown wide and the other simply without. Bulma's scared, he realizes. To her, a kind, civilized person, the mutilation of the enemy is not normal.
The camera is addressed once more. "I don't intend to hurt you."
He tries to ignore his impending guests but they're already so close.
"Bulma, the vent or the door?"
The camera doesn't move.
Frustrated, Thirty-Two throws the guns down, and then the knife, which rattles sharply along the wet floor. "You either want my help or not! The vent or the door? Which!"
Then, the camera moves. It points towards neither, and instead the far side of the wall the shadows have entirely consumed. He jogs over, wondering if there's a sliding door he hadn't been able to see earlier. His hands press against smooth paint. Nothing.
Outside, they draw near.
That's when a subsection of wall rotates by its own accord, revealing a claustrophobic, metallic room with space for one. Just as he hears the door go, he jumps into this room, pulling the wall behind him as fast as he can. It'd been close. Even now, he can hear them out there. They're talking. Someone's shouting. A gun fires more than once with the bullets sounding like they're hitting metal. Are they shooting at the vents?
It's in this chaos that the steel wall in front of him slides into the floor, finally revealing what must be the surveillance room. There are screens from the floor to the ceiling, all black and white and very bright in comparison to the dark, windowless space. There's a plush red swivel chair overseeing a complicated keyboard, and behind that, stands Bulma, holding a velvet cushion for protection.
"What happened?" Thirty-Two demands, "Where are the others?"
Bulma is staring at him like he's about to behead her.
"I already said I won't hurt you," he reminds, "We have more pressing issues."
She lowers the cushion. "I have a taser in here!"
Thirty-Two doesn't even know what that is.
"If I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead by now."
There's a step back.
Thirty-Two lets out a gravelly sigh, touching his nose to assess the damage. It's not broken. There isn't swelling but it's still bleeding. It should be fine with rest. He wipes along his sleeve, which is already discoloured.
When he looks up, she flinches.
"…Bulma," he tries, attempting his kindest voice. The one he uses with Nami when he wants a turn with the antigravity snowboard jet. "I will not harm you. There is no benefit to it."
Blue eyes poke over the velvet. "That's hardly reassuring!"
"It's the truth."
"That you won't hurt me?"
Didn't he just say that! "You need to tell me what happened. The men outside know they're not alone now. They will be looking for us."
More like they're looking for him but this drives his point home quicker.
There's a nod, and she rubs along her arms, clearly frightened. "We were refuelling and Vegeta told me to get back on the ship… I did and then there were noises – in the cockpit – which was weird because I'm the only one who goes in there, aside Vegeta and sometimes Goku. But they were outside. I thought it was Pyrak being an asshole again because I didn't recognize what was being said as I got closer, but then I saw these… these blue guys going crazy with my computer. I ran straight to the surveillance room like Vegeta told me to do if, uh, well, if you ever got out."
"They relaunched us."
"Yeah. They hacked the system using some kind of cylinder thing. I can't even access the main computer from up here. The only thing I can do is retrieve the cameras."
"And the locks," he says, remembering the biometric lock bothering him into the hallway.
"Those too, but they won't hold these guys back for longer than a minute. I went through the footage and saw them ambush Piccolo. They totally took him out! What chance do I have against them?" Finally, she looks up at him. "That's when I remembered you."
Thirty-Two breathes out a laugh. It must sound ominous because it startles her into repurposing the cushion again.
"How many are there?"
"I…I counted fourteen. Well, I mean, there are twelve now…"
It's not quite twenty but it's still bad enough. Thirty-Two considers the screens, watching the men scramble themselves throughout the ship in search of their crew slayer. They look well organized. Thirty-Two moves closer to one of the CCTV screens, examining the cylinder Bulma mentioned. It's definitely not homemade, but the commercial brand isn't one Thirty-Two recognizes. Does it use NFC? Infrared?
He taps his fingers along the control panel, thinking.
Destroying it might damage the ship itself if he's not careful.
"What is it?" Bulma asks.
"They're professional ship snatchers," Thirty-Two tells her, "They loiter around non-Frost Empire organized space stations, waiting for irregular customers to ambush. Mm… They're probably working in conjunction with the station."
"It's not like we could have gone to a Frost Empire station!"
"They know that, too. It's also why you wouldn't report them for the hijacking. They're aware you're illegally operating." Thirty-Two scours the multiple screens, looking for the leader. "Turn the sound on for Camera 8."
The speakers aren't as clear as he'd hoped for and he must strain to listen, not that there's much point. Whatever language it is isn't one Thirty-Two is familiar with. They're doing it on purpose as a precaution in case they're being spied on.
"What are they saying?"
"I don't know," Thirty-Two says, "But I think they'll be turning on the cameras soon. They'll either destroy them or hack the system. I'm not sure what sort of materials they're operating with, but you may want to shut down the CCTV system just in case."
Bulma scoffs. "My security system isn't so easily hacked."
"So, the ship left on its own accord, did it?"
"Shut up. They had access to the motherboard so—"
"They're professionals."
"Then, what do we do, smartass!"
Thirty-Two taps Camera 19's screen, the one in the hallway before the office he's not supposed to know about. "I'm going here," he says, "Where the medicine is."
"What? The medic— hang on… Do you mean the senzu beans? How do you know about those? Who—Wait, that's dumb question. That idiot… But why do you need them now? Don't you think we have bigger things going on? You're fine. It was just a little kick across the face. Don't be such a baby."
"It's not that," he says, "I'm going to take the sheenks out."
Her mouth opens, and then closes. Realization strikes.
"Then I can kill them easily," Thirty-Two adds, as to clear it up.
"You did just fine before! You got two of them!"
Thirty-Two raises a brow, leaning against the panel, arms folded. "Yes, and it'd been a walk in the dark."
"Park," Bulma corrects, "If you're going to be sarcastic at least do it right. And you're welcome for the sprinklers, by the way!" She turns and groans into her hands. "You're just going to steal the dragon balls if I let you get your strength back. I'm not letting you into the—hey, hey! Thirty-Two, where do you think you're going?"
"To the office."
"I just said—"
"Be reasonable," Thirty-Two says, pausing by the door. "I'll break the door down, take the beans and remove the sheenks with or without your assistance."
Bulma's cheeks balloon in frustration. "How do I know I can trust you not to do everything I just said!"
"You don't. But the alternative is dying."
_
The office thankfully can be found on the same floor as the surveillance room, which means he doesn't need to re-enter the vents. He does however have to wait for the men to finish their investigation of the room where two bodies lay, which gives more than enough time for Bulma to get the earpiece operational. They test it out, first with Bulma speaking into her mic, and then with the computer itself sending sound clips to see how much the sound bleeds out. It's not too bad, but it would do them well for Bulma not to shout when giving him instructions. The mic Thirty-Two has to speak into isn't as receptive but it's better than nothing.
They wait for the group to reconvene in the cockpit before Thirty-Two chances sneaking out.
"One has just started patrolling the corridor below," Bulma tells him through the earpiece. "Step lightly."
He actually takes his boots off and walks on the balls of his feet. When he reaches the office door, it's without any dramatics. He deals with the murphy door like he saw Goku do the other day and enters, very softly closing the door behind.
The key is on the table, hidden this time by a photograph. It's of Bulma, Vegeta and a small boy who's unmistakably a concoction of the two. They're by a lake and aren't aware of the photographer, sitting in the grass as sunset washes the horizon amber. There's a trace of a smile on Vegeta's face.
"What is it?" Bulma asks him.
Thirty-Two shakes his head and hides the picture in the crack of a drawer.
With the key, he is now able to retrieve the tin of beans. There's the one he's already partially eaten, plus three others. Will just one be enough? He's unsure of their limitations. If he accidentally cuts himself again, will they be able to heal the wound?
"Is there something sharp in here?" he asks quietly, still considering the beans.
"Scissors, somewhere," she replies glumly. "Don't make a mess. I… I don't want to see."
Really, how can Bulma be so sensitive to blood when she's with a guy like Vegeta?
The scissors aren't found but Thirty-Two does come across what Bulma refers to as a 'letter opener', which should do the trick. It's a pretty thing. Ornate. She is vocal about her distaste of his use of it.
"My dad got me that from his last cruise…"
Thirty-Two strips his top and then the pants. It's a good thing he didn't wear the spandex today.
"Tell me when you – Oh, oh God – Thirty-Two! Damn it! You didn't warn – ugh!"
It's much easier to slice himself open with this than the stick. Instead of going for the recently re-sealed sheenks, Thirty-Two attempts to remove the one in his dominant arm first, awkwardly maneuvering the blade as not to too badly damage himself. The sheet emerges after a good few seconds, sullying the carpeted floor when it hits. The one in his left follows suit without any fight whatsoever, but the one deep above his abdomen had been pushed even further back by his initial attempt.
He wetly breathes, gasping as the metal tastes air. He drops slowly against the desk and leans his head back, panting.
His hand is shaking by the time he brings the knife to his dominant wrist. Damage is done almost instantly, and his nerves shoot fire all the way through to his fingertips. He stills, letting the worst of the pain pass before slipping the blade beneath skin once more. His teeth grits when it collides with metal.
Outside the office, he hears voices.
"Don't move," Bulma orders very, very quietly.
The letter opener shivers, warm blood trickling over silver onto the carpet. Thirty-Two controls his breathing, allowing the air out through his nose in timed increments. His eyes hold on the murphy door, unwavering. The beans are on the table. If it comes to it, he may be able to hold his own with just the two pieces of sheenks in his wrist.
The talking becomes shouting. It sounds like an order.
Silence follows.
"They're gone."
Thirty-Two wrenches the sheenks out in one swoop, making quick work of it. The final allows him to use his dominant hand, so the incision is neater, the finding of the sheenks even easier. It lands with the rest, red.
There's no time wasted. Thirty-Two tows himself up against the desk and reaches for one of the beans – it just so happening to be the one he'd already partially eaten – and swallows it without chewing.
The result is immediate.
His body pulses with renewed energy. He's fatigued from the exposure to the sheenks, sure, but far, far more in tune than he'd had been before Thirty-Two's self-imposed surgery. He's going to be tired for some time. Days, perhaps. No longer than a week if he's lucky.
Flexing his wrist, a petite pink ball of energy responds. It's a sight to behold after so long.
"God, you're such a psycho. How are you able to deal with the pain?" Bulma asks as he pockets one of the miracle beans.
"Practice."
"…Okay, well, go do your thing. Get rid of them. Beat 'em up."
Thirty-Two rolls his eyes as he redresses. Beat 'em up. She knows he's going to kill them so why bother with the pretense? How people like to distance themselves from death…
"Most of them are standing around the main computer," she tells him as he ties his boots.
He wipes down the letter opener, then places it on the desk. "How many are patrolling?"
"Two."
That's fine. If they're similar in power equivalence to the couple he just killed then it shouldn't take much effort on his part. Admittedly, he's sluggish, but whilst these guys may be professional ship snatchers, they're not professional soldiers – unlike Thirty-Two, who doesn't even blink when he opens the door, immediately encounters a man, and breaks his neck.
Bulma groans into the earpiece.
Yes. It's nice to be reacquainted with his power.
Soon enough, three men come to find Thirty-Two on the stairs going towards the flightdeck. Bullets are fired from an off-brand Astra, sinking into steel walls and missing Thirty-Two by an embarrassingly wide margin. He slides forward, catches the closest in the throat with an elbow whilst silkily taking the firearm and lodging a bullet in the head of the two meanderers. It jams on the third shot so Thirty-Two has to settle for bludgeoning its original owner across the head with the barrel. When he drops, Thirty-Two fires a sharp blast of energy, leaving charred remains where his head once was.
Eight more.
The original two patrollers must have heard the commotion because they find him next, with one managing to cut a bullet into Thirty-Two's shoulder through sheer luck. He's sporadically firing, panicked clearly as Thirty-Two makes easy work of his associate with a clean, nose crunching assault that won't have him getting back up.
"Stop!" he cries.
Thirty-Two does.
Oh, good. A talker.
"What organization do you work for?" he asks, gun kissing the patroller's temple.
"I-I-I…"
Thirty-Two shoots his arm.
The man whines, bending in two. "M-Merico!"
Oh. Thirty-Two knows it. Has worked with them. They are sometimes commissioned by the Frost Empire, specifically the Southern division, to round up suspicious ships at unregistered space stations or along the North-South territory line. He's seen the stolen ships dismantled for parts, and the passengers trafficked.
"Where are you taking the ship?"
"I don't know!" he says, "I'm new! I don't know anything!"
They're always new. They always don't know anything. Thirty-Two clicks his tongue, repurposing the gun under the patroller's chin, twisting.
"Lord Hailer or Lord Cooler? Who do you work for?"
If possible, the man panics further; perspiration intermingles with the tears, annoying Thirty-Two. Oh, he wasn't crying when he attempted a headshot earlier.
Just as Thirty-Two goes to shoot his other arm, he cries out.
"Lord Cooler! Lord Cooler! We're with Lord Cooler!"
Thirty-Two sighs, and then kills him.
What a waste. This could have been his ticket back to Central. Now that there's a war going on between Lord Hailer and Lord Cooler, that just makes Thirty-Two a target for these lackluster idiots. They would just betray him if Thirty-Two aligned with them.
Oh well. That makes six.
"Are there any others on this floor?" Thirty-Two asks Bulma, hoping she hasn't passed out or something from all the violence. That's all he needs right now… When she doesn't answer, he moves into a more open space in case the signal isn't strong enough. "Bulma, are there any other patrollers?"
Still, silence.
"Bulma?"
For some reason, it unsettles him.
The flightdeck is close, perhaps ten to twenty seconds jog away, but he stills, hand pressing against the earpiece.
"Bulma?"
Fuck. Fuck. There isn't a suggestion of consideration, and Thirty-Two retraces his steps at speed, taking steps in threes and fours, coming across three more men and dealing with them with the remaining ammo from the shitty Astra knockoff. He doesn't break pace, shooting each man cleanly before jumping over their bodies and into the room where the first killings took place.
"Shit," he curses. The wall to the secret door has been utterly ruined, the steel burned away.
He sprints towards the surveillance room, breaking the next door down when it doesn't unlock. The room is empty. The chair is indisposed, all the screens are smashed, and the lights above flicker as though they've been knocked: the sign of a struggle.
Shit.
Considering he's not looking at a corpse, Bulma must have been taken elsewhere, and he hopes, as he runs, that it's the flightdeck because he can't think of anywhere else they'd take her. Because Thirty-Two's never been to the flightdeck he's not sure what to expect aside from the small section of room he saw from the cameras. Some have wide-berthed windows that could be easily cracked from energy blasts and gun shots (should he be fortunate enough to come across another firearm).
When he barrels into the room, he finds that there aren't wide windows. Just the one which looks out into space. There are firearms though, and one is directly pointed at Bulma.
"Not a step closer!" snarls a large, armoured man that's unmistakably the leader of the cohort. Bulma is on the floor, hands over her head as she whimpers. "I'll kill her! I'll fucking do it!"
Thirty-Two notices the door close behind him, two men either side.
"Who the fuck do you think you are!" demands the leader, "Those men were mine!"
"Boss, he don't have a power reading," says one of the men behind, the one with the scouter over his right eye. "I think he's a bot."
"Oh, yeah?" The leader ensnares Bulma by her hair, pulling her high. "Is he one of your security bots, ey, sweetie? Do I have to hack another one of your toys?"
Ah. So, he must have hacked into the security system after all – Bulma should have disconnected it like Thirty-Two had suggested.
"I am Captain Thirty-Two of the Frost Empire," Thirty-Two introduces, stepping closer. "And you made a mistake by seizing my ship today, Merico Snatcher. Unhand her and I'll only kill the fools behind me, sparing you."
There's the sound of boots scuffling from the doorway. They're anxious.
If the leader is much the same, he doesn't show it. "A pup like you, a captain? Aren't you funny? Boys, don't you think he's funny?"
Loyally, the two laugh, but it's uncommitted, weak. Thirty-Two wonders if they've seen the mess he's left out there.
"What division?" asks the leader, clearly playing with him. "North or South? I have to know these things. There's a war out there."
How tricky.
"I'm from the North division," he lies easily, "And I'm very much aware of your contract with Lord Cooler's department of Relations."
"North, you say? I hear a bit of an accent there. You from planet Central? Last I remember that's South."
"I was in the Program, Southern branch," Thirty-Two says, taking another step closer. "Now, how about you stop wasting my time be questioning my credentials and lower your weapon."
"Oh, why didn't you say so! We got us a Youthy, boys! I didn't think I was going to run into school chum all the way out here!" Bulma's swung triumphantly, and the leader plants a victorious, sloppy kiss on her cheek that sends a shiver down Thirty-Two's spine. "I'm a Northern branch graduate! Live in the flesh! A beauty to behold, I know – Ha-ha, oops, that's not me I'm talking about. It's this fine specimen you had cooped up in your security office. What a little treat you saved for yourself! She's a darling! Did you "graduate" the Youth Program too, honey?"
Thirty-Two can't immediately decide if this man is lying or not. He's unhinged enough to be a graduate, if compared to Pyrak. But he's not considerate of his surroundings. Not self-aware. Thirty-Two can say what he wants about Pyrak but to his credit, Pyrak is as disciplined and as well trained as any true graduate. He'd not be reckless enough to allow Thirty-Two to be this close to a prisoner, even if he didn't believe him. He'd exercise caution in the face of uncertainty.
This man isn't doing such a thing. He's arrogant but not entirely unintelligent. He's challenging Thirty-Two's truth about being a Program graduate. Yes… He's trying to out-bluff him.
So, Thirty-Two gives a demonstration of his qualifications, firing an energy blast over the shoulder and into the unsuspecting face of the man to his left. It's powerful enough that the ship rocks with whiplash. He doesn't look behind, but he suspects that he burnt a hole through the wall and perhaps the one behind it.
Shit. He hadn't meant to use that much. What a time for his energy not to co-operate.
"The ship!" Bulma cries out, "Be careful or we'll all – oof!"
She's dropped, and the leader shoots her in the arm, no hesitation.
Bulma doesn't scream but she does bury her head into her good arm, her back shaking.
"Oh, don't cry," coos the leader, "We still need that lovely brain of yours, and then I'm going to fuck you so hard that it pours out of your ears. Would you like to watch, Northern Captain? Or you could join in. I'm not averse to cute little boys, too, y'know. We're all a bit randy onboard."
Thirty-Two bites the inside of his mouth to stop himself from reacting.
Even though Thirty-Two has killed nearly all of them, the threat still feels menacing for a reason he can't place, and Bulma recognizes this when she looks up at him, her eyes wet and fretful.
Throughout all this, he nearly misses a key detail. The leader wants her "brain". Why does this piece of shit need her? They've already successfully hacked both the ship's main computer and its security system.
He chances a look at the computer behind.
"Yes," the leader says, "It's how I know you're full of shit. Why would a supposed captain and his men be tailed by a Frost Empire ship?"
Oh.
They are?
"We're very good at what we do," continues the leader, "But the intricacies of foreign tech need their foreign hand, and I don't see no reason why this lady can't give us a hand in escaping an Empire dog. When they finally—"
So, they won't kill her.
Thirty-Two places his left hand atop his right arm, raising the right. Two fingers point, impelling a bright yellow spiral like a gunshot. It's his most precise attack. It's his favourite, too. And it'd been done at such a speed that the leader hadn't seen it coming, his head still inclined towards the computer when it hits the ground, smoking.
The final man behind is dealt with before he reaches the door, Thirty-Two's hand emergent through the other side of his chest. He drops, too.
But it's not over.
There's now an Empire ship chasing them, and – he, well…
Thirty-Two collapses to the floor, panting, his chest tight and throat closed. Sweat sprinkles from his hairline. Using that attack winded him. He'd been hasty after so much expose to sheenks. But… but he didn't want to risk blowing open the ship with another attack, and he didn't want to risk that brute doing anything to her.
Bulma is already at the computer. He hears her at the keyboard, the keys obnoxiously loud and a pounding force inside of his brain.
"Damn it!" he hears her say. "How the hell did this happen?"
Thirty-Two hauls himself up to assess this new situation, still panting heavily by the time he comes to lean against the control panel.
"Did you do this?" Bulma snaps at him, face white either from anger or blood loss he isn't quite sure.
"Do what?" he questions breathlessly, feeling equally testy. When has he had time to do anything other than save her?
"He was right. There's some big ship following us if they're stupid hacking machine is to be believed." She gives the cylinder a kick, but groans when it proves to be as heavy as it looks. "I-I don't know how to read this popup! Ugh. That stup—"
"The ship is trying to make contact," Thirty-Two says, recognizing the language instantly. It's the Common Digital Communication (or CDW), taught to them in the Program for piloting purposes. "Do you have a hea – Bulma, you must keep your eyes open." He clicks in front of her face when she sways. "Headset."
"Oh… Right. No… Just press this button and pull the mic down from that compartment – no, the other one – yeah, that's right."
He forages through his pocket for the bean he'd earlier stowed. When he passes it to her, he watches her eyes briefly gesture towards his own bullet wound. He'd pull out the fragments to demonstrate the lack of serious injury but that would just make it bleed more. It's nothing to fret over. Old firearms like those can't so much as scratch saiyan bone.
Ugh… There's no reason she should be looking at him like that.
"Thanks," she says before tentatively chewing it. Her face sours, and then brightens with a smile, instantly rejuvenated. "That's amazing! I've never tried one before!"
Thirty-Two presses the red button on the mic's body, and then taps the popup on the screen.
"It's not a touchscreen," she says. "Here."
She uses an old-fashioned mouse to click the popup and, from over her shoulder, Thirty-Two watches as she authenticates communication past the firewall.
"Don't download anything," Thirty-Two advises.
"I know that."
"Do you have an APM?"
"A what?"
"An Alphanumeric Protective Measure."
"Like an antivirus?"
"That's an APM," he says, taking the mouse from her to open the system panel to edit the sound settings, just so background sounds can't so easily be picked up. Thirty-Two once lost a ship when his attackers heard the hum of his projectiles warming up over the speakers. They had retreated faster than Thirty-Two had realized what happened.
Permissions for the use of the camera appear next. Thirty-Two rejects it. Being smothered in blood wouldn't be the best way to present himself to a shark.
"Connected," he receives, opening communication.
"Connected," replies the other end.
"Why are you tailing us!" Bulma instantly shouts into the mic, "How did you find us! How long have you—!"
Thirty-Two drags the mic wayside, resting a palm over it. "Location data," he bites back at her, and then into the mic he says, "What are your motivations?"
"We are requesting a Gam."
Ah, they want to moor the ships together. A meeting between vessels and their captains. Thirty-Two knows the practice.
"So, you're Frost Empire," he says.
"Yes. Are you a Southerner?"
There's no point lying. They can hear it in his voice. "Yes. We are Southern operating. Which Captain's orders are you working under?"
"Captain Luerio II," replies the operator.
Thirty-Two's eyes blow wide with recognition. This is the Southern division. He knows Luerio, has worked with Luerio – shared meetings with him – has served with! This is it! This could be Thirty-Two's ticket off this ship! He had suspected it being a Southern ship (if those idiot snatchers needed Bulma's know-how to be rid of them). But to personally be acquainted with the captain? This is the exact turnaround Thirty-Two needed!
Bulma snatches the mic before he gets chance to reply. "How did you get access to our location data?"
"There is a reported scouter emitting VHF radio signals aboard your ship, and our captain wishes to address it."
Bulma immediately mutes the mic. "What the hell! When did you have time to do that?"
"Do what?" Thirty-Two returns, "The last time I had my scouter was when I had to piece it back together after you broke it—"
"So, it was then!"
"I disallowed the VHF settings on that scouter long before I set foot on this ship. Did you turn it back on?"
"No! I've not been able to break through your shitty security to get online!"
"Then, there's another scouter," Thirty-Two says reasonably.
"I have both Ytvl and Pyraks' scouters locked away in the office. They don't even know about that room. Only Vegeta, me, Piccolo and Go…ku… No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't be that stupid."
Thirty-Two thinks he would be. He'd taken Thirty-Two directly there and gave him a bit of one of his magical beans.
"It 's likely Pyrak's," he says savagely, "It's difficult to disconnect a scouter from the Frost Empire's servers. I had to use a back door approach to even access the code, and even then, all the data was encrypted. It took a DDOS attack from a, at the time, active rebel group, and that's when I saw opportunity to bypass the system. I know Pyrak well enough to say that he does not have such perseverance or commitment to adequately disconnect his scouter."
"Ytvl turned his off pretty quickly…"
Thirty-Two turns to her, shaking his head. "Not quick enough. That's how I tracked him to Central last time."
"Damn it."
"I imagine you'll find Pyrak's scouter either in his assigned room or on his person. It must have pinged the radio tower nearby the space station."
Bulma clicks her tongue. "I imagine you're right."
"You are being ordered to slow down, Operator," comes the voice once more.
Thirty-Two turns on the mic. "I thought you were requesting a Gam," he challenges, "I want to speak with your captain myself. I am also an operat—"
The mic is once again turned off.
Bulma has him by his shirt. "What are you doing! We're not meeting up with those guys!"
He stands on his tiptoes, turning on the mic and holding it far above her tiny reaching arms. "I am a Southern operating captain," continues Thirty-Two, relieved to finally be speaking his usual tongue. "Tell Captain L—Bulma!"
She's ripped the mic free of its socket, sparks flying asunder.
"We have dragon balls on here!" she shouts, swinging the mic directly in way of his head. "Do you really want to hand deliver them to one of those Frost monsters!"
"Yes," Thirty-Two says slowly, "I am a captain of the Frost Empire lest you have forgotten."
"Then why bother saving me back there?" she cries out, "Why bother if you're just going to hand me over to them!"
Thirty-Two falters. What would happen to her? He hadn't planned on revealing the dragon balls to the soldiers onboard – why would he have to? He could just take them and be on his way now that he doesn't have the tracking chip installed. The wishes would be all his. But her – Bulma – what would they do to her? The same as what they do to the rest of the women, he supposes.
"You're not even a loyalist, are you?" she pushes further when he remains silent. "What are you planning? Do you even have a plan? What do you want, Thirty-Two? What's your wish?"
The computer then starts to caw with steady, thrumming beeps that sound especially urgent.
"There's an approaching vessel," Bulma states after a moment, impressively calm. "Their ship."
Thirty-Two glares at her and she holds it, fearless in the face of whatever fate will come to next meet her. She' brave. She's loud and opinionated and complains a lot, but she's damn brave. He'll give her that.
"If you let them onboard then I'm dead, and those dragon balls are going to go to whatever Frost creep you allegedly serve."
Thirty-Two closes his eyes, the skin pinching just above.
"We already know you aren't a loyalist so just help us! Do that and we'll help you!"
"I am a loyalist."
"No, you're not!" she snaps over the computer's cries, "You're a slave, Thirty-Two! You're just a number that means fuck all to Hailer and Cooler – and you know it! That's why you don't subscribe to this Empire bullshit! That's why you saved me just now! That's why you've been researching the dragon balls, and that's why you want to make your mysterious wish – whatever it is! Don't think I don't know what you feel – I see it every day in Vegeta – the utter vehemence you have for the entire organization, and the disgust you have for anyone even associated with it!"
"I am no—"
"And just now, back then, you were afraid – you were afraid for me – like a decent person," she says, daring enough to take him by the arm, "You saved me even though you could have just taken the balls and ran."
It hadn't even crossed his mind – and now that it has, he's even more confused. He pulls himself free, taking a long breath in, holding it until his chest chokes on the shudders.
Head down. Eyes front.
"God… I… Look if you do allow them on this ship then I want you to kill me first," Bulma says after a pause. "At least you can give me that."
Thirty-Two raps his fingers along the control panel, staring over the many keys.
"I won't go with them," she adds, "I won't. No. I'd rather die."
"Shut up. I get it."
He grits his teeth. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He glances up at the screen and then out the window into the dark pit. There is the telling of a storm. Asteroids surf on by. Small ones rain against the glass. It'll be tricky to navigate soon enough, and with a ship trailing after them…
"You don't have offensive capabilities onboard, do you?" he murmurs, "Your battery power is too low. And I bet there aren't even projectiles… The only option is to flee.."
He hears her breathe out a shaky breath. There's a laugh, all airy and ballooned with relief. "I knew it. You stubborn bastard…" Her hand appears next to his, jabbing an analog stick forward before pressing a series of buttons that has the ship accelerate forwards at a much faster rate. "I don't have any weapons, no. We'll have to outfly them. What can you tell me about this asteroid belt we're now entering?"
Thirty-Two looks at the coordinates, recognizing them.
"The Path of Ashes," she elaborates.
"It's a regular trade route," Thirty-Two says slowly, retrieving the information as his memory allows it, "But the route closes when the belt is too active, depending on the season. You shouldn't take it at speed."
"I don't think we have a choice."
Thirty-Two stares at the dangling mic, unease swilling in the base of his stomach. He wants to be sick.
"There's no turning back now," Bulma says with a wry smirk. "I hope you're a quick learner."
She gives him a run down of the controls, appointing him as her copilot for when the inevitable difficulties of both outrunning a Frost Empire ship and hundreds of asteroids becomes perilous. It's a simple enough set up. User friendly by most accounts when compared to Nami's experiments. As she's demonstrating where to find the energy reserves, another incoming communication request flashes on the screen.
He's not the only one who's curious. Bulma doesn't even think about it. She opens it and shouts into the broken mic Thirty-Two busies himself with reconnecting. An electric shock later, her voice echoes a series of colourful expletives.
"—and I'll tell you another thing—!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Bulma, it's us!" It's Goku. Even through the faraway static, Thirty-Two recognizes the voice. He turns the volume higher. "Where are the guys that stole the ship? Are they with you? Are you okay?"
Thirty-Two spares a look at the leader's body slide along the tiles as the ship picks up speed. They're kind of with them.
"We've got a bigger problem," Bulma says, "Where are you? Are you on a ship?"
"We're like ten minutes behind you. Bulma—"
There's a shift of movement.
"What is it? What problem?" Vegeta can be heard next, "Kakarot, tell Pyrak to take this piece of junk delivery ship into the entry port for the belt. According to the primary radar, they've already entered the orbit."
Thirty-Two leans across to the mic. "The belt is storming. Take the route to the First Pass and wait there."
"What the hell are YOU doing out! Bulma, what were you thinking! He—"
"I was thinking that I like to live, bonehead!"
"Thirty-Two," Ytvl says, comparatively calmer, relieved possibly, "Status update."
"Two onboard. Tailed by a Frost Empire ship," he replies, "The ship operating is without damage. 31% fuel. Battery ability is lower-average and there is no energy weaponry onboard. There is no projectile weaponry. There is no sound frequency weaponry. The Doppler radar is operating without delay."
"Was contact made?"
"Request for Gam."
"They tracked us through one of your scouters!" Bulma adds heatedly, "One of you idiots got pinged!"
"Ship model of pursuer?"
Thirty-Two sucks a lemon. "Likely an FK-3445."
Expectedly, Ytvl sounds incredibly self-satisfied. "Oh, really? That's a Southern division brand ship, right? I'm sure you're quite familiar. Don't you wish to welcome them onboard? One loyalist to another?" Thirty-Two's simmering silence encourages the bastard to pause his gloating. "Who's the operating captain?"
"Captain Luerio II," he spits.
"The old geezer?"
"Yes."
"He's hands-off. You're right to ride out the belt. I doubt he'll be able to match your piloting."
"Luerio?" Thirty-Two hears Pyrak ask in the background. "Oh, but he'll be packin'."
"Packing?" Bulma mouths in confusion.
"Energy artillery," Thirty-Two tells her, watching as the pinprick representing their ship grows larger on the approach. The signal will drop soon enough. "We're going to go deeper into the belt. We'll see you at the First Pass."
"Bulma, get an EMU for him. He'll be your cannon," Ytvl suggests, making Thirty-Two's lip pull. "Thirty-Two, do you know where the shipyard outlook is at the Pass?"
"Yes. Wait there for us. I'm disconnecting now. We need to descend."
"Safe tr-krrrrrrr."
He turns the sound off, and then the main lights to better watch out for oncoming energy attacks. Bulma's already preparing the extravehicular mobility unit, otherwise known as a spacesuit, and already, the idea of having to go out there to deal with the ship fills him with dread. His Spiral Shooter attack drained him when he used it earlier, and he knows that deploying more energy will be just as damning for his body.
"You can use Goku's suit," Bulma says, "You're about the same height."
Thirty-Two takes it and steps into the suit unhappily, keeping the gloves off as he maneuvers the ship around a family of asteroids cantering towards them. He refuses the helmet until he absolutely must go outside. Bulma zips him up from the back and attaches an oxygen tank. It's a perfect fit.
The following Frost Empire ship is not the newest model but it's one of the fastest on the market for its size. Thirty-Two has operated it himself many a time, knowing its strengths – and weaknesses.
"It'll list if we cause it to take too sharp a turn," Thirty-Two reveals, "How would this ship cope?"
Bulma hums from behind as she attaches a carabiner hook to the suit. "Poorly, probably. It's a heavy ship made for long voyages."
"Can it take a hit?"
"From an odd asteroid? Yes. Energy? No."
Thirty-Two snatches the helmet.
That's when the first wave of energy passes by the ship, illuminating dark blue walls an ominous green. It's of course silent. It wouldn't have been had it hit the ship.
"Get some weaponry…" he mutters, displeased with his fate. He strides towards the door and subsequently the airlock, tightening the helmet into place. A chain made of the same metal once used to tie him up follows from the carabiner hook.
Bulma returns to the control panel as the door opens. "Attach the hook to the—"
"I'm familiar with the procedure."
She says something else but the door closes, sealing him and the air within a small metal room. He attaches himself to the hook by the door and jumps through the necessary hurdles in order for the ship to allow the outside door to open. When he presses the enlarged red button, the air pressure from the room vomits him outwards into the clutches of space, the speed of the ship dragging him before he's able to mount the outer casing. He batters against steel.
"There should be a ladder to your left, is what I said before you bolted out," Bulma says through the forgotten earpiece. He's surprised it still works, and more surprised that she'd been able to access the hacked security system so quickly. "The roof has a flat section with an indent you can stand in."
He'd reply if he could, but he can't reach the earpiece from within the helmet.
"The suit has a built-in mic, idiot," she says when his hand reaches up on instinct, "And a camera. Smiiile."
Thirty-Two climbs the ladder and quickly finds the indent, just in time for another wave of green to soar their way. It is impressively dodged.
"Thirty-Two!"
"I see it."
An asteroid the size of the ship itself is directly in their line of travel – but not for long. Thirty-Two cleaves it in two before sending out two smaller blasts to detonate the halves. Rocks fly wildly in every direction. He hopes the blowback doesn't push the ship off course.
"Did any hit you? Are you okay?"
Thirty-Two was spared the debris luckily. "Bring the ship higher," he tells her, "There are too many."
"The asteroids are larger up there."
"The smaller ones are more difficult to manage."
"But accelerating direction will cause those guys following to close the gap."
Yes, Thirty-Two is counting on it. "Their long-distance range is better than mine. Bring us higher. Trust me."
The ship climbs through the storm, asteroids coming into nail-bitingly close contact. Thirty-Two dodges several and blasts those he can't, deciding his best cause of action is to lower himself into the cove until they've reached a good height. When the ship levels out, Thirty-Two emerges, noticing that indeed the Frost Empire ship has caught up. They're firing another green energy blast. Oh! It's actually one of Nami's designs, Thirty-Two realizes with a sense or irony. The Triple Firer. It's low on energy consumption for such an intense weapon, which is what makes it so popular. The energy blast itself is very dense… so with the right rebuttal, Thirty-Two should be able to counter it.
As the green glows, he waits.
"Thirty-Two!"
It's another asteroid. This time, it's even bigger.
Thirty-Two cries out after releasing the blast, his pink energy shattering the misshapen sphere into millions of pieces. It'd needed to be hotter than usual.
On the other hand, the one needed to counter the Triple Firer requires size and force. Thirty-Two falls to his knee upon releasing the pearly globe, his hands twitching from launching it against the momentum of the moving ship. Green and pink meet near the ship, doing as planned, with the whiplash of the explosion launching the ship forward at record speed. Thirty-Two spins, ready for the onslaught of asteroids. He's winded after taking down five and panting by the time he reaches double digits, but continue they do, with Bulma doing an admittedly decent job in avoiding the busiest pockets of rocks.
He slips against the handrailing, suddenly dizzy.
"Think you can do that again?" Bulma asks.
No.
"Yes."
The Pass can't be too far from here, surely…
He hopes she doesn't get lost in the storm, but he hopes just as much that he doesn't throw up in the helmet.
"They're back," Bulma says when the following ship climbs the horizon. "Should I slow down?"
"N-N…Not yet."
Several more explosions light the void as fireworks, scattering the ash of the asteroids like a warm shower on a cold night. Fire shouldn't be able to exist in space. There is no oxygen. But the power of energy is different for within each blast of ki is the sensation of life, and Thirty-Two throws his to the wind (metaphorically because there is also no wind in space) when an enormous asteroid falls towards the ship.
He heaves his energy, low from his knees once more, with stitches of pain that keep him from standing.
"Brace yourself!"
The detonation is catastrophic. Thirty-Two covers himself as the molten rainfall tests the resistance of the suit, and even the ship, which is shaking beneath as it sails unevenly the currents of the storm. Behind him, the handrail snaps and Thirty-Two barely catches himself when shaken from the indent, his body flailing like a flag as the ship pushes onwards.
From this angle, it's easy to see how close the following ship has managed to creep.
Green energy blossoms.
This time, Thirty-Two doesn't delay. If he uses the blowback from the attack like a launchpad again then he'll end up passing out trying to take out the asteroids. They need to go slower. They need to dodge as opposed to push through.
For that, Thirty-Two needs to get rid of that ship.
"Slow down."
"Then we'll be too close."
"The moment I release my energy, accelerate forwards. Got it? Watch the camera."
"Right."
Thirty-Two decides that doing this one-handed probably isn't the best method, and so hoists himself back into the indent. His eyes close. A breath is taken. This is going to feel awful.
The thing with Thirty-Two's energy is that he's had a few instances of accidental mass destruction. It's nothing to worry too much about – or so he likes to tell himself – because he can control it better now. The last time he blew someone up was ages ago really. Like, well over a year ago.
"You have a rotten temper," his Overseer would say, "You should learn how to harness that."
He did.
Thirty-Two knows how to access the heat of his fury – the might of his uncooperative energy – and it's by feeling, by allowing himself to ache of reliving moments of his wretched, lonely fucking life that he's able to will his energy to destroy.
He grits his teeth, panting through them.
Lord Hailer appears first, then his horrid Overseer. Pyrak. The countless soldiers who Thirty-Two has seen fuck their way through their victims.
Unfamiliar heat prickles at his eyes, his head twitches.
Over and over, images – memories – resurface until the same sickliness he feels in his nightmares has him want to groan. The nausea has his world spin. The dark is encompassing. The blooming green but a distant star.
He's going to…
God, he's… like vomit…
Thirty-Two rises like the sun, the red, electric energy above desperately wild in his hands.
Then, Goku's face appears.
Something snaps.
His bones feel like they have shattered within his skin, his heart a rock in his throat as he collapses in on himself. The energy flies.
The Frost Empire ship never stood a chance, being all consumed by the goliath red sphere before exploding. Bulma did as told and the ship races against the detonation, cleverly maneuvering through the asteroids as the storm continues its performance. Thirty-Two can't destroy anymore however, and the ship takes some hits, though none too serious with the largest of the asteroids long since past.
Thirty-Two heaves oxygen on all fours. He counts backwards. He flexes and unflexes his fingers. He simmers. The rage slowly withers. He breathes.
"Talk about overkill," he hears Bulma joke nervously.
It's a victorious sound.
He rests his head in his arms.
And laughs.
_
The rest of the journey is without any drama. Thirty-Two manages to drag himself back to the airlock after five minutes of persuading his legs to work, and when he reaches it, he instantly leans his back against the wall. Air filters into the room and the helmet is off the first chance he gets. When the door opens, Bulma's stood there, a stupid grin on her face.
"That wasn't so bad, huh?" He stares at her, and smirks. "By the way," she adds, "You're moving the bodies. There's no way I'm dealing with them."
He tidies his mess as "asked" and a short time later, Thirty-Two puts them in the airlock and releases them into the vacuum. It's not the most respectful body disposal method but it's their own undoing. They've all done worse, Thirty-Two's sure. Besides, they were lucky. Many others have been killed this way, not just disposed of, with their blood boiling and their lungs bursting. It isn't a nice way to go. At least Thirty-Two gave these guys a quick death.
The asteroids thin out by the time they approach the First Pass, only recognized due to the lighthouse atop a tiny plutonian in the distance. There, a manmade structure sits.
"We did it," Bulma says in a very quiet voice. She's smiling. "Thirty-Two, we're going to see the others again…"
Thirty-Two is controlling the ship as Bulma gazes greedily out of the window, her hands against the glass. He thinks she's crying. Her shoulders are shaking and she's quieter than usual, which would normally be a blessing but now just makes him feel awkward. She must have been more scared than she let on, then.
In the parking lot of the shipyard outlook, one lone delivery ship waits. Thirty-Two lowers the craft next to it, spotting the small group already making way for this vessel.
Bulma is next to him, wiping her face dry as he uses the mouse to click the "MANUALLY OPEN MAIN DOORS" tab on the screen. There's a hiss and the metallic wail of the door hitting cement, but oddly, she doesn't move, instead staring at the screen, and then at him.
It's a curious look.
"Bulma!"
But then, the spell is broken, and she turns, those tears returning as she rushes towards Vegeta and into his arms. Thirty-Two turns away, his face immediately hot. They're talking quietly to each other in hushed, fast whispering that makes the moment all the more intimate — and uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He stalks out of the flightdeck, bumping into Ytvl at the door.
"The Youth Program always delivers," he says, smirking as he takes Thirty-Two by the shoulder, "Even in the ways of treachery of the Empire. Are you ready to be honest with me now?"
Thirty-Two sobers from his previous embarrassment all too fast. "What happened to your principles about dealing with minors?" he hisses very, very quietly. "Don't touch me."
Ytvl's smile dies. "Thirty-Two, I—"
"You did it!" Goku cheers, bounding through the door, "I knew you guys would be fine! Vegeta was panicking like crazy but I said that he should have some faith. That you're not a loyalist. That Bulma would be okay."
It nearly wasn't.
"You're pale," Ytvl says, "You should sit down."
Thirty-Two tries his best to glare but he can't quite manage it, the world around growing increasingly darker like a long, looming tunnel that runs endlessly. He moves to lean against the wall. His head bounces against the metal when he trips over his own feet.
"Heh, I got you," he hears Goku say, "Up you go."
Oh. Goku runs like a heater, like the sun in the form of a man. After being cold for so long, it isn't so bad.
"Let's get him to bed," Ytvl suggests.
"Maybe we should take him to the medical bay."
"It's exhaustion from sheenks exposure. There's just a light gunshot wound and some minor injuries. Nothing terrible. He needs to sleep it off."
"All right."
The bed he's deposited onto feels familiar. It smells of the shower gel he uses and is surrounded by the things he's called his own over the last however many days. The covers are soft. The room isn't freezing or dry. It's… it's comfortable.
The two are talking but it sounds faraway. He has to strain to hear.
"—ku," Ytvl says lowly, in the dark, "We did find a lead with your son, but… it isn't good news."
It's so quiet that Thirty-Two thinks he may have already fallen asleep, but then…
"What is it?"
"Let's go to the living area. I think we're overdue a talk…"
"Yeah."
Thirty-Two wants to sit up. He wants to know what will be said. But still, despite everything, more than anything, his body yearns for rest. Just as the lull of the day carries him away, Thirty-Two hears something by the door beep over and over. He doesn't know now but, in the morning, he'll wake to find something peculiar about his door. The biometric lock, which had awoken him the day previous, would no longer keep his world entrapped. The door would open and Goku will be the first he sees, hand open and trusting.
"Thank you," he'll say, squeezing Thirty-Two's hand.
It'll be warm.