They'd been prepared for soldiers. It's Frost Empire territory after all, a fight perhaps, an altercation of some capacity, or an argument at the very least. But no. There'd been no such thing. In fact, at the Youth Program facility, Goku and the others had been startled to find not a single person opposing them. Likely because not a single person remained.

The facility had been abandoned.

Number Thirty-Two

Chapter Fifteen

The Youth Program I

The iron bar gate creaks stubbornly against heaped snow. Above is the octagonal building from the picture, its gothic, haunting presence ever looming as Goku manages to slide through the gap and into a courtyard with untouched snow covering the ground. The white is pillowing and dense, reaching past his calves as he goes. Behind, the gate groans once more as Vegeta wedges himself through next and into the suctioning snow.

Otherwise, the world is silent. No sound. No movement.

Goku looks up in the grey sky. There aren't even birds.

When Vegeta reaches him, Goku noticeably doesn't mention the purpling bruise along his cheek.

"Is Pyrak still… y'know, goin' crazy?" he asks instead.

"I wouldn't be out here if he was, would I? Idiot."

"But is he still on the ship?"

Vegeta stomps ahead. "How would I know? Do I look like his keeper!"

"Keep your voices down," whispers Piccolo from the rear, harsh. "We don't know who might still be around."

"You're supposed to be watching Thirty-Two," Vegeta returns, ironically because he's supposed to be watching Pyrak, which obviously ran its course as evidenced by the bruise.

"Ytvl is with him," Piccolo bites back, pausing to take in the goliath of a building. Goku notices the shiver which runs down his spine. The discomfort.

"I don't like it here," Goku agrees.

"Give me the book-thing," Vegeta demands, snatching the Youth Program reading material. "This is Bone Hall," he tells them after a moment of reading, and laughs to himself, dark, "It's made from Forblee bone, hence its name. They were the original dwellers of this planet before the Frost Empire conquered it." His tongue clicks as he admires the structure. "Well, I can't say I've seen something like this before."

It sets the precedent of what's to come, Goku supposes.

Disturbed, Piccolo says, "It looks deserted."

Goku suffers the whiplash of yet another setback, even though the Youth Program wasn't the answer he'd wanted anyway. Contrary disappointment and relief have his head spin, and from it, a long, sharp breath of air is released. He rubs his eyes.

It's so frustrating. This had seemed like a good lead.

Should they have gone to the Northern branch after all?

"It wasn't attacked," Vegeta says, eying the perimeter.

Piccolo hums. "I wonder why they left…"

The security is – or rather, was – tight. Whilst possible to fly in, it seems inadvisable owing to the turrets pointed towards the sky ready for intrusion. Goku already passed through the assembly of security buildings; the first being a winding, rickety construction taking the entirety of a cliff-linking bridge. It offered what had looked like a cross between a welcoming reception and an office, which had been utterly raided; papers had batted aimlessly about the wind, courtesy of the ajar door, and the drawers had been dismantled, the desk ransacked. Beside it, the chair had capsized, wheel eerily spinning with trespassing snow sat beneath. Administrative devastation.

As he'd proceeded, the next checkpoint had looked much the same. As had the final.

"What happened…?" he'd muttered, alone at the time.

Bone Hall, however, is in better condition. It's a shadowy, medieval style chamber that extends several stories high, with encircling balconies that gesture with angry stone carvings, their points drooping low into alcoves. Windows look out into the snowy yard, and despite the great many of them, the hall refuses brightness, with only the somber glow of yellow wall lamps allowing them to see as they progress. There's an echo when the door slams behind, the wind howls, and yet all else is once more silent, except for their footsteps as they apprehensively delve deeper into the hall's containment.

When Vegeta steps towards the centerpiece of the room (a marble eyesore in the likeness of someone who looks like Frieza) his expression grows dark.

"Cold," he says.

Which, yes, it is, but Goku thinks that goes without saying.

Oh, he must mean King Cold. Goku remembers hearing about him. He was killed by Trunks when Goku had still been trying to make his way back to Earth after defeating Freiza. At the time, everybody had thought Gohan was with him.

The realization for all had been horrific.

By that point, Gohan had been missing for nearly eighteen months whilst Goku was slowly bouncing between space stations. The explosion from Namek had blown him way, way off course, more so than it should have, according to the kind lady aliens who found him half beaten on his ship the days following. They'd patched him up and sent him on his long journey to Earth. To the androids. To Cell. To Chi-Chi.

He's thinking of her more and more these days.

He so often does when he thinks he's close, just before disappointment takes another devastating bite.

"She wasn't wrong back then…" Bulma had told him, utterly broken after realizing Gohan had gone missing under her watch, and after revealing what Chi-Chi had done to her. "I lost Gohan. I lost him on Namek. I should have taken better care of him. It's my fault. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Goku. I am... I…"

Not only had she been so mentally hurt but also physically after Chi-Chi had her way. Bulma had been black and blue and had persuaded herself that she'd deserved it.

It's the first time he'd ever raised his voice at his wife, but never a fist. He would never. But he might as well have because for a long time, she'd resented him too. She'd been angry and sad and lonely, and Goku had been training for the androids. She'd thought he'd chosen Bulma over her, and perhaps in a way he had because he would be at Capsule Corporation day in and day out, learning about how to better operate the ship for when he would head back out into space. If King Kai or Kami couldn't help him then he would go himself. Chi-Chi had supported the search – had wanted to come initially – but she'd also hated with her entire heart what happened to Gohan. She'd blamed everyone. In hate, she'd drowned.

But Bulma is like Goku. She's proactive. She was broken but still would work endlessly into the night all night, and similarly, Goku would train into the night all night, sometimes with Vegeta, sometimes with Piccolo, but usually alone in the gravity chamber. He'd try to help with the ship. He'd comfort her when she broke. He'd talk to her about Vegeta, the man who was going to one day make her a mother, not that'd she'd known at the time, going on and on. She'd hated Vegeta, but not really. She'd wanted him out, but not really. She'd wanted more but was so broken that Goku feared what someone like Vegeta could do to her.

But Goku had realized, one day, after she'd drunkenly broken down and kissed him, that he'd needed to return home to his wife and instead think more about her. That Bulma and Vegeta had needed to figure this out together.

Goku'd been better then. He'd realized he was punishing Chi-Chi for her grief, but it'd been too late, not that he'd known at the time. In their shared sorrow over the next few years, they'd had some final happy times, especially a particular night just before the Cell Games when the world was at a near end and he'd held her a single last time.

"I'm pregnant," she'd told him without a shred of emotion.

It was never going to be a happy ending, was it?

Not without their missing link, not without Gohan. Gohan who would have been an amazing big brother.

The only person he'd told any of this to is currently dead. All his troubles. God, he misses Krillin. He misses him so much. He'd also blamed himself, as did Piccolo, who still does, for Gohan's disappearance.

Gohan is so loved, Goku tries to spin. Just for it to be positive.

Goku rests a hand against the statue, wondering if Gohan ever saw this thing. He tries to imagine him just to his right, tiny hand pressed against the marble.

"They would make me recite my pledge of loyalty to a statue like this each morning," Vegeta says rather vacantly, oblivious to Goku's breaking. "When I was a boy. After Frieza destroyed my planet. After he murdered my father."

"I imagine they do the same here," Piccolo replies somberly.

"No, that was just something Frieza decided for me." There's a wry smirk, it's almost a sneer. "He wanted me to remember who I served. That's the thing. Their cruelty is specifically tailored to the individual. They're practiced like that. They know how to break men… children, soldiers… everyone."

And then, he punches Cold in his stony face, crumbling him until fragments scatter at Vegeta's boots.

"Frost never melts," he mutters, crunching the marble as he walks over it.

There is a pair of long-tread symmetrical stairs opposing either side of the hall, which slowly incline to the next floor, curling subtly into the entryway of polished, ebony doors. Either side, stand more statues, this time of an alien species Goku doesn't recognize. Above them, portraitures. Ugly, unsaturated things that make the place seem even more gaudy. The handles of the doors are ice to the touch, and when they swing open, they creak against the outside wind.

Within this new chamber is a stage room with many, many chairs. Perhaps two hundred. They're large enough to sit species of a bigger size, with tall, archaic backs that suggest that they're supposed to be extravagant. Goku sits on one. It's uncomfortable.

"What do you think this place is for?"

"Announcements, I imagine," Vegeta grumbles. He's on the stage, peering about the podium.

"There are some belongings," Piccolo notices. "On the floor."

Coats – heavy duty ones – are intermittently lounging over tile, fur trimmings and thick, well-woven accessories in abundance. There are some books. Pens, pencils – notebooks. Goku picks up a nearby bag. These are school belongings.

"Think they were in a rush?" he asks.

"Yes," Vegeta responds from the podium, paper in hand. "There was a notice from Hailer. The Youth Program had been ordered to relocate. All abled bodied must relocate, it literally reads."

"Does it say where to?" asks Piccolo.

"Obviously not. And it doesn't say why, either. Before you ask."

Goku groans at the same time Vegeta intakes a sharp breath.

"What is it?" he demands, the frustration biting. What now? How else is this lead going to dry up?

"Nothing," he lies, clearly. "Hopefully."

There's something about this place that has Goku feel isolated from the universe. The blanketing snow swallowing the world outside, perhaps. The dark dungeon encapsulating them. The eerie loneliness. And it's with each step echoes that it reminds Goku how truly alone they are. Supposedly, at least.

Could someone have stayed? Is there someone —anyone— here who could help him find the saiyan the Program bought ten years ago?

What happens next – if Gohan isn't here? Goku wouldn't know what to do. It'd felt so right to follow this lead and so, if this fails… what's next?

Deep down, he knows the dragon balls will not work. Thirty-Two had spat that truth right at him, hadn't he?

"And you? What do you want them for? They did not work for your son then and they will not work for your son this time."

Goku feels the already dry, dusty air grow thinner, and his chest aches on its poison. His throat aches. His heart aches. Why did the universe have to take Gohan? Why did it have to make him so impossible to find? Sweet, lovely, kind Gohan. His Gohan.

"It's still snowing," says the son of his dreams.

Suddenly desperate, Goku staggers over to the window, smashing it just to swallow the bitter oxygen outside. He finds that it is indeed still snowing. Hoarsely and greedily, Goku takes air into his throat, with the memory of thumbs being pressed into his sensitive airway.

A sob leaves him before he realizes he's sad.

Goku's been sad for so long that he hadn't remembered what it was like before.

There are only so many times a man can be disappointed, so many times that he can get up and continue. Is this how she felt? Intoxicated with this misery?

"Get it together, Son," Piccolo says softly. "It's not over yet."

Goku nods, hand to mouth to capture tears which never come. "I want to see him so much," he gets out, "It's all I can ever think about. Him."

Piccolo, for all his stoicism and sarcasm, loved—loves—Gohan about as much as Goku himself does. Despite their history, he's devotedly made it his life goal to find Gohan. Piccolo wants this, too, more than anything, and will continue to follow Goku off this cliff.

"Do you really think he won't remember me?" Goku asks him.

"I don't know."

"What happens… if we never find him?"

"Then, we never find him."

Goku looks up. "But we never stop, right?"

"No, Son. Never."

"Come on." Vegeta is by the door, pretending to be disgusted by the entire thing. "If you two are done with your heart-to-heart, I think I've found where to go next."

When Thirty-Two was last here, he'd signed his graduation waiver, a non-disclosure agreement and the right to the deployment of his number now that he'd graduated. Another Thirty-Two could be initiated should they choose to use the number so readily. But perhaps it's because Thirty-Two still uses the number that they never have. His success is no secret, after all. The Youth Program are proud of him and the apparent favourtism displayed by one Lord Hailer. They invite him back regularly to meet the recruits – to be a guest speaker – to help groom them into the merciless fucking monsters they're destined to be.

Thirty-Two brings his furs around himself just to remind himself that this is who he is now. He is a captain. He is no longer a recruit. He is… he is…

Thirty-Two's back presses against the north-eastern brick wall.

He breathes.

There are 547 bricks in total making up this section. Thirty-Two knows. He remembers having counted them. Having bludgeoned a Crosterian boy against it and splattered his innards up and along it when he'd tried to slip a knife along his throat one night.

Over by the gate is the entrance to the shooting grounds. Thirty-Two sees it. That blackened hole drilled through the sign. That was when Thirty-Two was tasked to demonstrate the firearm to a subsection of recruits three years below. One young cadet shot the Overseer of their group accidentally and was forced to sit naked in the snow for three hours. He got hypothermia and lost a limb. He wouldn't have survived much longer after that.

Thirty-Two wants to go back to the ship. He doesn't want to be here. What would happen if his Overseer was here?

Head down. Eyes front.

"Head down. Eyes front. Yes… That's right. All of you. Head down. Eyes front. Not you, Thirty-Two, I have clean-up duty for you."

Thirty-Two was always tasked with clean-up duty because he'd tried to make a mess many a time before. His messes never stuck.

"—CK YOU!" Thirty-Two next hears Six-Three-Six—Pyrak— roar from the wayside of the ship, his deep voice resounding through the mountains. Ytvl has been trying to simmer Pyrak for the better part of thirty minutes now, to little result. He is still pacing like an oversized cat, up and down, up and down, cleaving a perfect path through the snow, his furs completely soaked. He's snarling to himself, but takes the time to glare at Thirty-Two through narrowed (one blackened and swollen) eyes. Thirty-Two doesn't understand why he's so pent up – why he's bothered at all – with how much he sings and dances about the Youth Program. This is where he peaked.

Ytvl is doing damage control but the arguing would be enough to attract the Frost Empire's spacefleet itself.

It's surprising that nobody's come out to greet them. Perhaps the wanted Prince Vegeta strolling into their camp is enough to keep the Program happy. They wouldn't immediately alert the Empire, despite being Empire operated, as they're still business first and foremost. They'd want to see what profit could be made from the interaction.

"Here," Bulma says upon greeting, shoving a hot drink into his hands.

Thirty-Two stares at it. It's brown and bubbling.

Then, from one of those strange capsule devices, there's a puff of smoke, and then she's in a bubble jacket that makes her appear comically round. A most strange sight in these parts, much like her herself.

"Hot chocolate," she says, for some reason clinking her cup against his. She raises it and takes a sip, staring when he doesn't do the same. "It's not poison."

"I know that."

"I think you'll like it. I added sugar. I guessed you might need a pick-me-up."

Thirty-Two realizes something at that moment. Pyrak and Ytvl are outside, Piccolo, Goku and Vegeta have already entered the facility, that just leaves—

"I'm pretty sure they took one of the balls with them," Bulma says, "So, don't get any funny ideas."

What a predictable turn of events. His shoulders slump with frustration. They'll lower their guard sooner or later, and when they do, Thirty-Two will be ready. Bulma snorts a bubble into her hot chocolate – whatever it is – and spares him a look of amusement.

"Think they'll get information?"

"No," he says, knowing full well he deleted his online files years ago like a responsible captain to be.

"If we let you make your wish, would you share what you know?"

He turns to her, brows raised. It's a good offer should it be real.

There's a small smile. "I haven't told the others yet; in case you're wondering…"

He scoffs, turning away, and in doing so, spots the Research Division's department, where they build the space pods and keep the liquid hydrogen and nitrous oxide. It stands out against the facility's usual traditional architecture; its masculine steel casing broad in comparison to the stonework and the beam of yellow light emitting from the aerodrome beacon standing atop it.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he deceives, and then he sips his chocolate.

It's… it's good. So good.

He squeezes the mug.

And then he sees the spot where a runaway was executed.

Once more, his mouth runs dry.

An hour later, Thirty-Two surveys the horizon.

Goku and the others have been gone a while. They said they were only going to the first checkpoint but clearly something has gone awry. Either, one, they must have been accosted inside and Thirty-Two will have to perform another heroic deed in saving them, or, they've found a way in and are being given the grand tour as suspected buyers. Thirty-Two dislikes both options. He sinks against the ship's casing, imaging Goku walking around, gawking at the impressive training facilities like so many do. He feels ill at the thought.

The truth is entirely more disturbing.

The small group arrives back as the day turns to dusk, three specks against ivory. When they step through the door, Thirty-Two releases the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, watching from his seat on the ship's leaned hood. They're all alive, uninjured too. What happened? Who did they speak to? Why aren't the air sirens alerting to a trespassing ship? Why aren't there armed guards at the ship?

All in due time, Thirty-Two tells himself.

It's interesting that all the three chose to leave for the facility, trusting the remaining well enough not to murder Bulma and make off with the ship. They did take one of the dragon balls as insurance, but Pyrak is unpredictable—as is Thirty-Two, he admits to himself—so it was a gamble, perhaps one staked on the immature trust Goku demonstrates. How desperately he extends to others—for others. It'll be his undoing.

It was probably Thirty-Two's.

As the group reaches the ship, he notices Goku first, with the stacks of folders congregated under his arms. Vegeta carries a further thick pile.

It's involuntary. Thirty-Two slips off the ship. "What are those?" he demands.

Piccolo must have sensed some kind of disturbance in Thirty-Two because he splays a hand over his chest, his dragon ball in the other. "Files," he replies, curtly. "Back off."

"They wouldn't have just given those over," Thirty-Two snaps, cutting a thumb into the namekian's wrist.

"I'm sure not," Vegeta returns dryly, shoving Thirty-Two back himself.

Piccolo further pushes Thirty-Two aside as to gain entry to the ship, barging past him as he goes. Vegeta doesn't break eye contact as he follows, leaving Goku at the rear.

"They're gone," he tells Thirty-Two, who had been seconds away from drowning all three of them in the snow. "There's nobody there," Goku then further adds when Thirty-Two doesn't comprehend the words. Is he misunderstanding the language?

"What?"

"The whole place is empty," Goku elaborates, "They've abandoned it."

"What?" he whispers.

"They're—Wait, Thirty-Two—Hold up!"

But Thirty-Two is already making his way towards the first checkpoint, indifferent to whichever chaperone chooses to follow him into this fucking hellhole. He bypasses the checkpoints, indeed finding them deserted, the trinity of gates chaotic, with furnishings, stationery and paper strewn everywhere. His heart is racing by the time he reaches the black iron bifold, where he presses himself through the gap, nearly tripping over the lumped, grey snow and ice and into the Primary Courtyard. Past the field, he jogs the stairs—two at a time—until he's in Bone Hall.

On reaction, he sneers, breath sharp between his teeth. It looks the same. Dark and dreary and smelling of rot. His pace slows, but his heart doesn't, thumping hard and furiously until Thirty-Two feels the need to lean against the handrail belonging to the stairway. The only thing out of place is the ruptured statue of King Cold. Otherwise… it's as he left it.

Home.

The door opens once more. It's the namekian. Thirty-Two is tempted to kill him, just for something to do with all this vitriolic energy burning him up. Door ajar behind, the wind now speckled with snow, Piccolo stares him down, watching with thinned, hateful eyes that see the darkness within Thirty-Two. When the door slams, Thirty-Two takes a step forward—on reaction—before retreating on his backfoot, his better judgement out-weighing the desire to pick the shackles restraining him, one fighter at a time.

Piccolo watches Thirty-Two's feet. He's prepared for an altercation. But he's no match, especially in Thirty-Two's territory. Nobody can fight in the snow like he can, especially not some water-based, weak lifeform that's managed to be brought down more than once on this voyage.

Deciding him not a threat, Thirty-Two tears his gaze away and makes for the auditorium. It's empty, as stated, with student regalia left deserted between the aisles. The podium holds a single note, suggest that the facility has indeed been abandoned. As he jumps the many chairs, Piccolo closely trails, his cape a white shadow.

What's the point? He's weak. He's nothing compared to Thirty-Two; the strongest, brightest, highest achiever to have ever been enrolled in the Youth Program. In this very facility. The same hell which they've dragged him to; this cruel, evil thing they've done to him.

Thirty-Two leaves the auditorium and climbs a confined switchback staircase, running his now ungloved fingers along the stone, remembering each indent, savouring the hatred and horror and memory of his triumphant existence here. His victories.

"Where are you going?" Piccolo has lost his patience with Thirty-Two's tour. He moves to grab Thirty-Two, only to tumble several steps down when he's punched across the face.

Thirty-Two doesn't know where he's going. Doesn't know why he punched the namekian. Doesn't know why he's here and—Where?—Where have they gone? The Program. Why are they gone? Thirty-Two expected everything and anything but this. They can't have just left. Why would they have just left? Why?

His breath grows hoarse, scaring him.

Where has everyone gone?

His Overseer? Where is Overseer Cace?

Thirty-Two knows where the offices are from here. He's been to them—

He's grabbed, this time without reprieve, and very surprisingly slapped hard across the face. Thirty-Two bounces against the wall, falling where he lands, where he turns and vomits once in a liberating, heavy heave along the stairway. The very little chocolate beverage he'd enjoyed leaks over stone.

Piccolo is above, wiping purple blood from his lip.

Thirty-Two stares as the chocolate parts between his own shaking fingers, his chest rapid as the room grows faraway and muted.

He sits still, growing colder.

"What is your aim?" Piccolo asks after a long time.

Thirty-Two doesn't know. He sits in this tiny, tight staircase, darkened by the lack of candlelight, unsure of what to do, so suddenly overwhelmed that he wants to run and return to his chamber. Room 423, West Wing, Tower Two. He sheds his furs. He vibrates from the chill. He…

Head down.

Eyes front.

God, why is he back here?

How could they bring him here? Why? Thirty-Two was being good. He was cooperating. He…

He stands.

And continues his journey upwards, this time at a slower pace. His steps echo.

Tap, tap, tap, tap…

"Thirty-Two—"

"I think it was an evacuation order," Thirty-Two says quietly, as though nothing just happened.

Piccolo, who is comparatively stoical, also doesn't want to revisit whatever mess was left back at the staircase. "Evacuation?" he parrots, "Why do you say that?"

"The order was Frost issued. The stationery was from Lord Hailer's personal collection, used to avoid data breaches when the online security goes down—which it must be if he'd resorted to using it. The Northern forces must have—" he reaches the top of the tower, to a balcony, which overlooks the entire eastern section of the facility, "—decided the Youth Program is an assert too dangerous for the Southern to hold. But the facility has never abandoned post. Never backed down. Never…"

He breathes forcefully, leaning over the balcony and into the icy grip of a blossoming storm which welcomes the evening.

It's always storming.

"Where have they gone?" Piccolo dares ask.

Thirty-Two doesn't know.

How can they just go? They can't just leave. They can't—not after everything they did to him. They don't get to leave before Thirty-Two does!

"Your ki feels…"

"I know! I know how I feel. You don't need to tell me how monstrous I am. I already know."

Piccolo appraises him. "Why can I feel your energy? Why can the namekians? What is your connection with us?"

"I…I don't know," Thirty-Two says honestly.

"It's unnatural. Like a corpse walking. Like death."

Thirty-Two laughs at that.

Piccolo does not. "What is your connection with the dragon balls?"

The ivory grounds extend for miles, humped with ugly, evil buildings Thirty-Two knows all too well. He recognizes his childhood. The many places he's trained, killed and lived by—the many places he escaped by making a deal with the devil. Captain, indeed.

Thirty-Two returns the question with his own. "And you. Why do you follow Goku around like a lostling?" he says with cruel inflection, focusing on the weapon storage cabin where he'd once watched a boy cut another boy's tongue free with a rapier. "What are your gains? Clearly, this benefits not Goku's son."

"And what makes you say that?" Piccolo challenges, oddly.

Thirty-Two watches him through the reflection of the metal bars, noticing the emotional contortion twist Piccolo's features. It's confusing and sickening and Thirty-Two doesn't have room in his head to unpack anything else right now.

In the wake of a clear, starry night, the wind grows strong. The gust rattles the balcony, and Thirty-Two savours the familiar, painful bite of ice assaulting the tips of his nose and the rosy points of his cheeks. When will Thirty-Two finally be unshackled? How much longer does he need to wait? Why can't the universe give Thirty-Two his wish?

He breathes.

Head down. Eyes front.

Thirty-Two focuses on his ambition, remembering what he must do.

"So, you met Goku on Old Namek?"

Piccolo is surprised by the query. "No, on Earth."

"But you were there, on Namek."

"Yes."

"The day of its explosion?"

"Yes. Why—?"

"And Lord Frieza… Did you meet him?"

"I fought him."

He clasps the metal. "And then you saw the Super Saiyan."

Piccolo goes to say something, only to be interrupted by his own better judgement, whatever that may be. "…So, you do know about that."

"Lord Frieza wanted immortality, but the Super Saiyan stopped him," Thirty-Two continues in a mumble, "They always want immortality."

"Hailer and Cooler? Them, too?"

"Yes."

Behind, Piccolo takes in a deep breath, as though coming to terms with a new mission which needs to be undertaken. But there's no point. Can't he see? Frost never melts. They're already immortal and they don't even know it. As soon as one dies, another reigns on, eviler and crueler than the one previous. There is no point playing a game one can never win. Stupid games win stupid prizes.

And yet, despite knowing it'll mean nothing in the end, Thirty-Two feeds his curiosity.

"Why would a child be on planet Namek? The one Goku lost. Why, in the face of Lord Frieza?"

"Me."

Thirty-Two turns, finally.

Piccolo's expression is hard like a shell, his cape battering about the wind. Intense. Determined. Wounded in a vague way which Thirty-Two would know how to cruelly pick at should his duty as Captain demand it. Thirty-Two has met many suffering men. They think they hide it so well.

Guilt.

Thirty-Two is familiar with the sensation.

"Gohan was there to help me," he concedes. "Which he did, even in the face of Frieza."

The name still has the Program's desired effect take place. A streak of discomfort has Thirty-Two pinch at his brows. "I understand," he says, even though he doesn't.

"We'll do whatever it takes to find him," Piccolo continues, "Whatever you're planning, Thirty-Two, whatever your connection is with the dragon balls and my people, I won't let it get in the way of this."

How inspiring, Thirty-Two thinks dryly, leaning against the frosted wall, staring towards the stars.

Wishes.

Either theirs will be granted, or Thirty-Two's.

It's so easy to forget his ambition when he's here. It's so easy to be pulled under the ship and drown into the icy depths. Thirty-Two must remain strong, he tells himself as he enters back into the sanctuary of the ship. He needs not to let this fucking place get inside his head more than it already is.

The central heating burns after the snow. It's almost too much, even without his lost furs.

And then, Bulma's in front of him before he's able to even divert direction towards his room. Piccolo lets his presence be known, standing tall at his side. A protective measure for Bulma, as though she'd ever be the one he'd choose to murder on this ship.

"Knock it off," she snaps at him, dragging Thirty-Two aside. She rises a finger to Piccolo when he goes to follow. "I'm fine, thanks. Go see Goku. Help him with the files. Go on, shoo."

Piccolo doesn't want to leave Thirty-Two alone with her, but Thirty-Two catches that familiar glimpse of guilt—that hungry desperation for answers—and soon enough, he's already gliding down the hallway like a white bat.

"As predicted, the liquid hydrogen isn't agreeing with the ship," she tells him, encouraging him to walk alongside. "Before it completely ruins the engine's internal components and gifts my ship premature engine failure, I want to do something about it. What sort of fuel do you have locked away here?"

"At the Research Division?"

"Yeah."

"Liquid hydrogen."

"Ugh."

"The space pods do not need high performing fuel. If you're hinting for dark matter, then you will be disappointed."

She pouts, and then she looks over her shoulder to make sure they're alone. Thirty-Two realizes before it's too late and when he turns to leave, she snags him.

"Are you all right?"

He scowls at the sudden change in topic.

"Are you doing okay here?" she elaborates when Thirty-Two doesn't know what to say. "It's just…" She lets loose a gust of breath, finally releasing him. "Pyrak, well… He's been a lot. And when I saw you go into the facility like that…"

"I don't know what you are insinuating."

Bulma stares at him, right at him, into his face, into his eyes, for a long time, looking for something. "They're probably going to ask you to help translate at some point, if and when they find something entirely in Southern," she eventually tells him, "They've found the transfer files."

"Of what?"

"The Transfer Files. For all the kids. Between Program facilities."

Thirty-Two's brow rises. There aren't transfer files. Not online. There never have been.

"The Northern and Southern transfers."

"No such things."

"Well, you tell me because they've been going through them since you've been gone."

Thirty-Two wonders what this could mean. He long since deleted his Frost Empire Captain record, aside from the necessary credentials the Empire and Youth Program require all its graduates to keep, and, ever so careful, he'd also found and erased his Northern record by hacking the online system. But that was after his appointment as Captain. If there was a physical record before that point, Thirty-Two would not have had access to it.

God. It's... It's a race against time.

He tries not to look too fazed by the revelation. Too horrified. Scared.

"Bulma!" they then both hear holler down the halls. "Bulma! Bulma! Where are you!"

It's an excited sound, rich with discovery, but she doesn't break eye contact with Thirty-Two, knowing equally well how the clock is but the inevitable destruction of him.

"Don't look at me like that," he mumbles, "I—."

And then, Goku stumbles into view, glowing with breathless, bright energy.

"We've found him."

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NOTE: DARK CONTENT WARNING FOR FOLLOWING CHAPTERS.

I'm already balls deep into C17 (Youth Program III) so expect C16 (Youth Program II) out relatively soon once I've made sure everything ties together as it should. Big thank you to everyone following and leaving reviews on the chapters! I've had a recent growth of interest on both this site and AO3, so that's amazing! I'm very excited about the next few chapters as I'm about to earn my angst-y AO3 tags. This chapter, we learned a bit about what happened with Goku after the explosion of Namek. As you can see, Goku did NOT go to Yardrat. He cannot use Instant Transmission. He also got a sweet kissy-kiss from Bulma (so God help me, I think they would ship so nicely together here-but alas, Vegeta, you SOB, you are integral to this story). Also, I dig the idea of saiyans in this story being a smash once kind of species. Which means, Goku does not hold feelings for Bulma, so don't expect a love triangle plot line (also fuck that).

Thanks again! Catch you on the next one :')