Goku sighs, unsure of why that transpired downhill so, so quickly.
"I don't think that went how we wanted it to go, Bulma."
Bulma leans against the counter, sipping her coffee, eyes unfocused.
Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Fourteen
The Obvious Orbit of the Oblivious
Goku lounges across the sofa with the world urging onwards in but a muted replica of itself. Around, the others are talking over the nearby table. In the background, a film plays on the wall mounted television with dramatic flashes of colour, the kettle, which sits beyond in the kitchen, is boiling water ready for the instant ramen Bulma is preparing for supper. It's all so loud, yet not loud at all. The world runs at half speed, and Goku feels his own eyelashes brush against his cheeks ever so slowly as he takes it all in.
He breathes. He stares.
He thinks.
Goku does this a lot. He thinks about Gohan mostly, of course, but also of life onboard the ship, his friends, his home, Chi-Chi… And now, he thinks about the Youth Program, and those who could tell him more of it. Those who are keeping their secrets their own.
Goku lazily trails his gaze across the room to where Pyrak is laughing, his razor-sharp teeth prominent as his mouth splits impossibly wide with malicious joy. He's talking with Ytvl, who responds with a more somber, impatient tone that Pyrak never takes warning from.
At a calculated distance, Thirty-Two is making his rare daily appearance, although has tucked himself away with the ambition of becoming one with the furnishings. The book in his hands is a new one, but Goku has noticed he hasn't turned a page the entire time he's been here. His finger would trace along the textured paper, around and around and around, so absently that Goku thinks Thirty-Two isn't even aware of the habit.
And so suddenly, as if sensing the attention, he meets Goku's gaze.
Goku holds it.
The room becomes ever more distant. Even quieter. Tense.
There's a clink – a bowl is placed in front of Goku, steaming and laden with noodles and bright vegetables. Yet, that heavy obsidian keeps Goku grounded in his haze. Dark and empty and—
"You're welcome," Bulma snaps.
Goku breaks free of the spell. "What?"
"Food. You said you wanted some."
"O-Oh, sorry. Yeah, thanks."
When he looks back, Thirty-Two is staring at his book once more, his fingers no longer on the page but instead reaching into a cup Bulma earlier presented to him. Inside, oddly, are sugar cubes, which Thirty-Two seems to have a penchant for. The suggestion to try Thirty-Two with them had come from Pyrak, Bulma had revealed just this morning after Goku watched Thirty-Two go through at least twenty cubes in a single sitting. She'd seemed rather pleased with herself, and still is, with her now watching Thirty-Two pick at his strange snack, her own ramen cupped in-hand with a smile behind it.
It's weird watching Thirty-Two eat, as he usually does so away from the others. It strips away a distance Goku hadn't known was there. It humanizes him in a way. It makes him real. More than a captain or a number – Goku wants to know his name, wants to know why he spared Goku at the tavern, why he won't speak about the Youth Program, why he helped Bulma, why he's betraying the Frost Empire.
Goku collects his ramen and breathes out a long, drawn-out breath into the steam. He makes a show of eating it just so Bulma doesn't ask him what's wrong again. And when he returns to his room that night, knowing full well that the next day will bring about the dramatics of landing, Goku stares at the tiles above his bed.
As usual, he thinks. And thinks. And thinks.
And what he thinks is: it feels different this time.
With thoughts come dreams, as they so often do. Oh, Goku does dream a lot, mostly about Gohan and the monstrosities his mind cooks up for him to endure. Goku has tortured his son more times than the universe ever could. He's seen it all. He's watched, night after night, as his son mutilated in memory. Yet, the Gohan who lives with him in mind always forgives, just because he is so kind and so, so loving, and he always spares a smile before stepping onward into whatever nightmare Goku dreams as though it's predestined.
Except, as of late, that's not been the case. Goku spends the recent long nights with his son without the horrors chasing.
Gohan is right now nestled between Goku's legs and hiding within strong arms. Perfectly, his head slots into place beneath Goku's chin.
It's how it should be.
When the lake brushes the shore, Gohan leans forward to spread his fingers through the cool blue.
"Is it warm?" Goku asks.
"No," replies Gohan, shivering with a giggle. "Cold like snow."
But the sun above burns brightly, flowers bloom, birds swoop along the glistening stillness of the water, wings at an angle in dance, and Gohan watches all of this with childlike delight. It's spring.
"Time for starting fresh," he mumbles into his son's hair.
"Is that what you want?" Chi-Chi had asked Goku mere days before his victory against Cell. "You think a baby can fix this? You think I want this inside me?"
"It won't be like that," he'd urged.
"And It wasn't," Gohan agrees, looking up, his obsidian eyes eternal.
"That's right… It wasn't" Goku repeats lowly, "It wouldn't have been."
"I would have been a good big brother, right?"
Goku nods, over and over, kissing his son's hair and dragging him closer if possible. Gohan would have been the best. He would have been perfect. In another world, Gohan would have been there, offering to help when Goku inevitably screwed up the words when reading to the baby, or helping him warm up the baby food. Gohan's smart like that. And the baby would have looked like him, too, with little dimples that turn rosy when shy.
"It's just us now," Gohan says, "And it's still snowing."
"I don't know what you mean. The sun's out."
"You're warm, Daddy."
Goku kisses his hair again, and then Gohan looks towards the lake, and as he does, the blue crystalizes into a sprawling pathway of ice, turning whiter the thicker it descends. Above, snowfalls. Dense powder gathers around them, but the cold yields.
"They're together, at least," Gohan affirms. "So are we."
And then, he turns into snow, too.
It's really by chance that Goku even wakes up.
Or perhaps, it's not chance at all and entirely due to the discomfort of a thumb being pressed into his larynx. Goku stills. Immediately, he knows it's Thirty-Two. His eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, settling on Thirty-Two as he easily lifts and presses Goku against the wall.
"It's a goo' thin' I don't sleep naked," Goku rasps.
"Where is it?" Thirty-Two whispers.
"I dunno' what you're—"
"Don't lie to me."
The thumb digs deeper, looking for treasure.
Goku grins forcibly. "And I… thought we… were buds?"
"Where's the ball, Goku?" Thirty-Two doesn't sound desperate but Goku has recognized the recent slips in composure. The fleeting fear Goku notices when he catches him stare. The something more he isn't sharing. The way his thumb runs in absent circles into his throat, around and around and around, like a nervous twitch. "Goku."
Goku rests his palm over Thirty-Two's with assertion. "Release me," he says as firmly as he can.
As a result, Thirty-Two rags a hand through his hair and launches him onto the floor, knee to back. In tones of dark blue, Goku notices his room is no longer the respectably tidy state it once was. The drawers have been pulled out, the desk is a mess, the shelves ransacked – all done with the absence of loud noise. It's impressive.
"You can't find it, huh?" Goku grits out before Thirty-Two has chance to push him again. "What makes you think I'll tell you?"
"I'll spare the others," Thirty-Two says with practiced intonation. "I'll spare you."
Goku breathes a laugh. "C'mon, Thirty-Two… Do you—?"
"I'll kill her last," Thirty-Two whispers into his ear, "I'll make her watch as I ply Vegeta's filthy fucking nails, one by one, free from his fingers. I'll break bones he didn't know he had. I'll make him beg me for death, but not until I perform the Boiler a single last merciless time. And the namekian? He would be thrown through airlock. Despite their plant like molecular structure, they do in fact have lungs, which are known to rupture from the expansion of oxygen when exposed to a vacuum."
"And Pyrak and Ytvl?" Goku goads, "Got any big plans for them? Or is it just fun and games for us Earth folk?"
Thirty-Two has a temper. For the first time, Goku sees it when Thirty-Two spins him around and punches him in the nose. Instantly, it's wet with blood.
"You've not thought this through at all, have you?" Goku realizes. Thirty-Two is an opportunist without real opportunity. He's desperate.
Despite this, Thirty-Two breathes almost without sound, as though he's above air. His expression is hard to make out in the darkness. Goku can only assume it's its usual polished cloud of indifference, but he knows something has cracked beneath its surface.
"If you wanted to do this right," Goku begins slowly, "You would already have killed the others. But you haven't. I can sense them. In their rooms. Safe and very much alive."
Goku thinks back to Bulma's rare display fondness this evening, of when she returned from delivering Thirty-Two a meal to his room last night, still with an air of amusement, and of when just the other day, she and Thirty-Two had been bent over the blueprints of the ship, talking at length for hours about types of metal. He hadn't been so obvious in his enjoyment, but he would return to her – to their conversation – with quiet persistence that kept her there until Vegeta grew tired of monitoring them.
"You like sugar," Goku says when the silence grows painful. "Pyrak told Bulma you'd probably eat it – that it's a treat – because you guys weren't allowed it in the Youth Program. Keh, now that I think of it, it's probably why he kept guzzlin' honey for fun until we ran—umph."
Thirty-Two punches him again, keeping him in place with a decent pin that Goku would need to power up to push through – which, in turn, would destroy the room and defeat the point of storing the dragon ball under the floor paneling.
"You also like bread, and those little muffins for breakfast."
"Been watching me, have you?"
"Yeah, I have."
Thirty-Two clicks his tongue, otherwise silent.
"You're not going to kill me," Goku then says softly. "You're not going to kill them, either. Tell me, what are you going to do with the balls?"
"Summon the dragon."
"From the ship?"
"If I have to do."
Oh, well, the lack of oxygen mustn't faze him, Goku reflects drolly. "And how would you do that?" he asks.
"Do what?"
"Summon the dragon," he parodies, sly.
Thirty-Two senses the tonal shift and repositions his weight, running his thumb back towards Goku's throat. "What are you saying?"
"I don't take you for the type to speak Namekian, Thirty-Two." When the processing time barrels on into seconds and seconds of silence, Goku puts him out of his misery. "There's a password, and only someone who speaks Namekian can bypass it."
"What?"
"I don't think Piccolo will be up for helpin'. Sorry 'bout that."
Thirty-Two recovers momentarily. "And Cilo?"
"I'll tell them that Piccolo doesn't even speak Namekian. That he's from Earth."
"You… You never planned on sharing the balls," Thirty-Two recognizes, "You're playing them."
Goku smirks, and then splutters when two hands squeeze his neck. A knee cuts into his diaphragm, causing him to thirst for air. He buckles, pressing ever harder into the hands strangling him, and for the first time Goku becomes concerned for his life. Thirty-Two's angry, Goku understands. There'd been no growl of warning, no flickering tails – Thirty-Two had gone straight for the jugular, literally. He's as much a beast as Pyrak, as much vicious.
Goku's hands grapple along the wall, along his strewed bedding, along the floor. He gags.
Then, it turns black.
Snowflakes twinkle like stars, carried by the waves of twilight. And below, Gohan is now on the lake, walking ankle-deep through the snow which rests otherwise undisturbed. Goku follows him onto the ice, decidedly standing in each footprint cleaved, chasing the memory, hand reaching.
As he goes, the snowfall builds into a blizzard. Visibility becomes an obstacle itself. His fingers burn blue. His joints ache. The snow is knee-deep now. Then chest-reaching. And then he chokes on it, thumbs deep into his larynx.
He jolts up, gasping.
The room – his room – is perfectly tidy, or about as tidy as Goku usually leaves it every morning, no drawers are disturbed, the shelves are untouched. He looks around, ringing his hand around his throat. It doesn't hurt. When he checks himself in the mirror, he's surprised to find no bruises, redness, or marks of any kind.
Had… had it been a dream?
Goku sluggishly drags himself to breakfast, passing the retired CCTV cameras which would be able to answer his questions had they still been operational. Had Thirty-Two attacked him last night or not? If so, how is Goku all right? Would Thirty-Two have used the senzu beans? He knows where they are. Would he really have gone that far? It would be difficult to assume his usage after what happened with the hijacking – Goku hasn't since checked how many have been used since he'd last used one to heal Thirty-Two's ridiculous self-imposed injuries.
Could Thirty-Two really have been so methodical to have fixed Goku and the room?
Goku remembers the heat of hatred being submerged into his throat.
The anger.
True anger.
If it had happened, then Goku wouldn't have been able to have guess. Thirty-Two is in his usual nook, book to hand. He doesn't acknowledge Goku's entry.
"You look a bit dazed this morning," Ytvl greets, and then he leans in, "You're not getting cold feet about visiting… you know what later, are you?"
"Oh, er, no." Goku shakes his head as though trying to expel the fog accumulated there. "Sorry, I just gotta'—"
From nowhere, Bulma stuffs a banana into his hand. "If you're going over there," she says, gesturing her head to Thirty-Two. "Make sure he eats it, for God's sake. He already turned his nose up at some noodles."
"Sure. Oh, um—."
She's making her way back towards the kitchen. "Don't you think i's weird that he knows how to use chopsticks when Pyrak and Ytvl suck big time at it?"
"Mm..."
"Mm?"
"Ah? Did you say something?"
"Goku," she says quite suddenly, her tone no nonsense. "Do I need to knock your heads together?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look broody, and he's been a shit since he woke up."
"Sorry, I'm just… hey, did you hear anything last night? Did… did anybody go into the office?"
There's a pause of consideration. "Are you all right?" And then, quieter, "have you been having nightmares again? Do you need some of my sleeping pills?"
Goku raises the bananas in thanks, saying nothing to that (again), and makes his way over to Thirty-Two, who continues to pretend that Goku doesn't exist. The banana is tossed atop the book, forcing Thirty-Two's attention.
"Potassium is good for you," Goku tells him. "Helps with muscles and prevents cramping. It also gives you energy. You know, for when you don't get enough sleep…"
Thirty-Two looks up at him, jaw locked, with dark eyes defiantly unyielding. "I appreciate the sentiment," he eventually tells Goku, "however, I slept the entire night through."
"...Is that right?"
"...Yes."
Thirty-Two raises the book.
Goku holds the reading material high so the fluorescent lighting in his room casts through the thin page. He can't read any of it, although Ytvl can, telling him of the propaganda it pushes in name of serving the Frost Empire. Admittedly, Goku thinks the Southern armour looks kind of cool, with their matching super modern, sleek scouters that even make Bulma gush. He can see why impressionable young people sign up. But this booklet isn't for recruiting. It's a buyer's guide for the Youth Program.
The pictures show a sprawling, grey-bricked campus in the depths of a snowy mountain range. Outside, there are young people standing in formation, eyes empty, backs stiff as they look towards the printed logo of the program adorning the front page. Goku's absently reminded of Thirty-Two's faraway stare.
The Northern branch's booklet hadn't been as fancy looking as this one. Ytvl had said the strongest get transferred South – and if Gohan was "recruited", well, he was pretty strong, wasn't he? What's the chance he was sent to the South? Could he be there now? Waiting for Goku? Waiting to be saved?
Goku sighs, and then he turns the page, once more taking in the generous number of pictures. The training facilities seem advanced. And there are libraries with books stacked from floor to ceiling. Projectile weapons have also been listed out with what Ytvl says are numbers printed by their side, and that's not all. Maths appears everywhere throughout the reading. On one page, there are graphs and other statistical data next to an especially strange looking youth program member, arrows pointing to different sections of his body.
Another page is flipped, revealing a naked teenager. More stats appear.
It feels very… cold.
He homes in on the centralized building adorning one page, its octagonal shape and unfriendly, black metal fencing policing its territory. Even from this, Goku can tell it's a prison.
He wonders if it'll be as big as it looks when they get there.
"It would be worse if we did find him there," Piccolo says when Goku shows him the reading. His black nails draw a line over the logo. "If only he was dead then this would be simpler."
It's correct in a dark, terrible way.
"Goku, have you thought about if he doesn't remember you? Or if he is hostile?"
"Why would he be hostile?"
"Ten years is a long time."
Admittedly, Goku has thought about it before. "Even if he hates me, I'm still gonna' bring him home."
"And if he refuses? He won't be a little kid anymore."
"Eh… Why are you being like this, Piccolo? Are you freakin' out or something? You want to bring Gohan home, don't you?"
"Of course, I do!" he snaps, "I wouldn't have assisted in your—"
"Our—"
"Our search if not." He pinches the green knot of skin between his eyes. "Look, it's just something to think about. This Youth Program looks like a brainwashing facility if you ask me, and if Gohan is there then he might not be the same as he once was."
Goku looks away, humming. The implication is clear. He might be like Thirty-Two or Pyrak, or maybe even worse with just how damning Piccolo's talking. Well, whatever the case, Goku will be there for Gohan. Gohan could be a second Vegeta and Goku would make it better – somehow – he has to.
"I wonder what this is for," Bulma says, gesturing to what she'd earlier pointed out as an image of DNA, which looks like a twisted ladder to Goku if anyone would ask him. More numbers appear either side of it, complicating the picture.
"Studding," Ytvl is looking over her shoulder, "It's how they create even more products."
"So, they…"
"Right. They collect samples from their graduates in case their likeness is requested."
Her face pulls. "Eugh. From kids. They—"
Ytvl coughs meaningfully when Pyrak enters the room. The reading is discarded rather quickly.
Naturally, the worries begin to haunt Goku like a noiseless ghost, always lingering but never forceful enough to take all his attention at once. A reflection of fear. Something Goku cannot physically grasp.
This Youth Program place sounds awful, he thinks later, watching a fur dressed Thirty-Two stare out of his window into the abyss. What would it have been like to have been considered a "product"? Not really a person—valued only for the monetary gain you could bring the company, a what as opposed to a who. A weapon. A being without sense of self of conscience.
Goku rubs his throat, tracing his larynx.
That's twice now Thirty-Two chose not to kill Goku.
If it's not due to a sudden assault of conscience, then what? What use does Thirty-Two have for sparing Goku's life? The only reason Goku can come up with is his involvement with Frieza's demise, but even then, hadn't Thirty-Two said that his father was a loyal soldier?
Unless his father isn't. Wasn't. Who knows?
Just as he turns to leave, Pyrak saunters through the door, not noticing him, and unsurprisingly makes a bee-line directly for Thirty-Two. "Oi! Whatcha' doin' all alone like?"
Thirty-Two doesn't even look at him.
"Don't you have some vents to slink about in?"
Oh, Pyrak's in one of those moods of his. They've been growing ever more frequent, much like Thirty-Two's, though he's far better at hiding it. When Pyrak takes a seat opposite Thirty-Two, Goku knows that this is when he should intervene as normally he does. He doesn't. Instead, he watches.
Thirty-Two speaks to him in the Southern language reservedly, and they converse with opposing energies. There isn't any curiousity for Goku, who knows that this is mere repetition of familiar ground trailed before. Pyrak is trying to get a rise, Thirty-Two is trying to be ignorant. The kid and the matches. The inevitable combustion.
One of them, be it Goku or Ytvl, is always there to put out the fire - what would happen if they weren't?
It does make Goku feel pretty old, watching them squabble like this. They're practically still kids, right? How old are they again? Goku can't remember. They're both still relatively fresh from the Youth Program—fresh from the prison. Young and fresh and probably broken from that system.
A short moment later, there's the desired effect —the sapling of altercation— and Pyrak snorts like a bull, pressing closer, heatedly displeased. Here it comes...
Suddenly, a dumpling flies past Goku's nose, splatting against Pyrak's head.
"Knock it off," orders Bulma, "Leave him alone."
Pyrak's brows raise and then he leans in even closer, whispering something into Thirty-Two's ear with a sneering grin. His eyes flit to Bulma.
And then, finally, it happens.
Thirty-Two punches him.
Thirty-Two's cheeks still feel hot from the sexual accusation, but more so than anything else, relief sweeps him with the fresh sting of punching Pyrak down into the ground. Unfortunately, mostly for the ship, the ground doesn't necessarily equate to one floor, and Pyrak is sent jetting down at least three. The low groan from the boiler is prominent. Sparks of electricity hiss.
He stares down, wondering if Pyrak is going to get up quickly from that. It's been a while since Thirty-Two let off some steam, and when it builds up like this, the outbursts are never good.
Goku takes to his left, peering down into the Pyrak shaped hole. He whistles.
"What the hell!" Bulma cries out, "YOU should know better!"
"Like he wasn't askin' for it," Goku says. "I don't think he broke out of the exterior."
No, otherwise they'd all be dead. What a reckless move. Senseless violence. An act of primal, monkey-like behaviour that has no place in Thirty-Two's sense of self. More than disappointment, he's angry with himself for reacting.
"Thirty-Two," Bulma says, as though it's not the first time she'd called his name. There's an unfamiliar manner to how she looks at him. It makes him vaguely uncomfortable, like there is glass in his shoes that cut at him any moment he moves without premeditation. "Thirty-Two… are you all right?"
Thirty-Two takes a step away, and then another and another until he's down the hallway and hidden away in the office Pyrak doesn't know about. He sits, knees to chest, chin to knees, staring at the clock in wait for time to bypass him, watching the hand curve its inevitable journey —its predestined circle— over and over until finally he dares to chance Pyrak's shitty temper. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to be near him. Or any of them.
He stays for quite some time, enjoying the smell of the books adorning the bookshelf. The paper is woody. It makes him feel safe, strangely. When he finally wills himself to take a book for himself, the door gently pushes open.
"I have a question," Bulma says.
Thirty-Two doesn't panic, slipping the book back into its cranny. He rests his fingers against leather, focusing on the texture so he doesn't rip the entire ship apart.
"What's your name?"
Thirty-Two keeps his back to her, a statue. "Why?"
"I don't like calling you by a number."
"You—"
A hand dares impede his space. It rests against his arm, over his furs, light and small and uncalloused. He's so appalled by the action that he doesn't move away, but through his peripheral vision, he watches her, watches as the hand moves vertically up and down his arm in a slow, supposedly comforting manner. It's not comforting at all. It's horrifying, actually.
"What is your name?" asks that voice from his memory, in that artic, carrying whisper.
Thirty-Two remembers opening his mouth and he remembers saying something, though trying to remember exactly what only brings a headache so he doesn't bother, doesn't dare try, instead recalling the sting of a cane across his face for his impertinence.
It took a total of seventy-two days in the pit over the course of three months – a new record at the time – for the message to sink in, for the number to be imprinted in his imprudent, monkey brain.
Thirty-Two. That's his number. His name.
Not G—.
He wants to vomit. Remembering it makes him—.
He shirks her off.
"Don't touch me," he eventually gets out, "Don't think that just—."
"How can you read our language?" she interrupts.
Thirty-Two feels his head twist in confusion.
"The computer. On the day of the hijacking, during the landing and even before then, you were able to read the words on the computer screen—I watched you click your way through all the correct applications."
So suddenly, he loses feeling in his body, all the way along to his fingers. Did that really happen? He hadn't even thought about it. The words had been in the usual common Northern word, right? Thirty-Two, after all these years, wouldn't remember a backwards planet's rudimentary writing system, not when he can barely remember anything else. The black spots of memory – the hazy pitfalls – surely would have long since stolen that knowledge… surely. Right?
Is she lying? She's trying to catch him out, isn't she?
But… The way she's looking at him says otherwise.
And the only reason she'd try to catch him out is if… God, is if she knew. There's no way, though. Thirty-Two hasn't said or done anything that would implicate he was anyone other than a number. She… Did she personally know him—from before? He doesn't remember her. He definitely would remember someone like her… he would.
Thirty-Two realizes he's remained quiet for too long. Her pupils are dilating with thought.
"I don't have recollection of such a thing," he tells her neutrally.
"Well, you did it," she pushes back. "And I don't think it was the first time either. Is your first language really the Southern one?"
He attempts to derail her, to marginal success. "What? Do you think my accent is just a performance? My difficulties a part of the act?"
"Oh, come on. You're fluent," Bulma bats aside, "Aside a few analogies."
It would be a compliment if coming from anyone else at any other time, but from her it's accusing. Thirty-Two struggles with the common Northern language sometimes, which makes tuning out from the idle, useless chatter shared amongst the ship's inhabitants easy. The Southern language is a warm shower after a long day in the tundra; comforting and something he looks forward to returning to. Thirty-Two knows it hasn't always been like that. He may not remember it but there had been a time when he hadn't at all understood the Southern tongue.
He doesn't explain that to her. In fact, he doesn't even want to be near her, but when he reaches the door, she lets it be known that she's not done.
"I know you spared Goku," barrels out of her, "Back at that tavern."
The air in the room weighs him down, turning Thirty-Two's limbs into sludge against the wind. He pushes on.
"I thought you hated him at first," she continues, louder than he'd like. "I didn't—Wait, don't you dare—!"
She grabs him again and this time he reacts, recoiling into the doorframe, snatching himself free.
"Don't touch me!" he shouts at her.
Although she's surprised, she's not scared.
She should be.
Her expression is contemplative, and her hand swings to a still by her side as she considers how best to next approach this. "Thirty-Two," she says after an extended period of time, forcefully as though the name brings great displeasure. "We're going to be landing shortly." It's delicately said, in a tone that he's not heard her use before. "I don't think you'll like where we're going… It's the Youth Program facility."
Before the horror sets in, she takes his arm again. "If you have anything to say, say it now. Is there any reason not to land there? Is there any reason we wouldn't have to continue this ten-year search?"
Thirty-Two should be shocked by her brazenness, but instead, the sick reality of their next destination rattles him. The Youth Program? They're going there? No, they can't. They can't take him. He graduated. Thirty-Two rightfully climbed the ranks! He's a captain now! Look – he's in his furs – a captain!
Head down. Eyes front.
Head down.
Breathe in.
Eyes front.
Breathe out.
She's watching. They're all watching.
The hand reaching out will not be his undoing. Thirty-Two will finish what he set out to do years ago. Nobody will stop him. If they'd wanted to stop him then they should have found him when he'd needed them.
They won't take this away from him.
"Like what?" he says, impressively calm.
Bulma doesn't avert her gaze. "You could put a stop to this… I'm almost sure."
Then why not run along to Vegeta or Goku or that lumbering namekian that follows after them for some reason.
"I'm not sure what you're trying to insinuate, Bulma," Thirty-Two bites out, "Other than a disturbing reality, one which I'm sure has been built off of desperation, exhaustion and a hero complex I needn't involve myself in. I've been genetically tested, and I have no illegal genetics. I am not Northern. I am presumably older than the boy Goku—."
"I knew Goku as a teenager," she says simply, looking him up and down, leaving it at that.
Slowly, she pulls away, drawing the door open.
"Think about what I said," she says just before it clicks shut.
They land an hour later.