Number Thirty-Two
The fire crackles, spits, and crunches, consuming all greedily, her deep smoldering offering ashes as it climbs. Despite the darkness it feeds on, the heat is welcomed, kissing Goku's face. On the other side of these flames, he sees dark eyes—so similar, very, in fact, to his own—watching.
Chapter Seventeen
The Youth Program III
Xt453sKh00-219-C-34,092
It's the one constant that's followed Thirty-Two throughout his entire career at the Youth Program. Any time he's found himself in a hospital bed, the Pit, a regeneration tank, or solitary confinement, the tag attached would always read his serial number. He remembered it before he was six and forgot it before he was seven because of the brain damage, but it came back—it always does.
He'd received his permanent number (Thirty-Two) only after being submitted to the Southern division by Doctor Morsh, the director of the Northern branch, being known as Zero-Nine-Two during his time there. It was in respect to the last three digits of his serial number, and perhaps would have stuck had he not been transferred out.
In the South, Overseer Cace had been his sponsor, and he'd been the one to give Thirty-Two his permanent number. The sick fuck had requested Thirty-Two's transfer the moment he heard what Thirty-Two had done to his last Overseer.
An average sized average looking man, but standing taller and brighter than anyone else, Overseer Cace had been revered. Perhaps still is. Thirty-Two tries not to dwell on his memories of him—of what cruel, agonizing pain he would have loved to have inflict upon the bastard. The meticulous person he is, Overseer Cace cherry-picks his recruits, wanting and getting only the select few who showed themselves to be especially dangerous. Thirty-Two had arrived to the Southern division already with such a reputation, in due to being one of the cherry-picked few, in being selected from a different division.
He'd been the one to wipe Thirty-Two's record anew—to cleanse the stain the record that once quoted him as a saiyan. Now that Thirty-Two is able to reflect, he wonders if Overseer Cace knew, even back then, that the Saiyan people would be outlawed. It wouldn't surprise him. Overseer Cace has a close collaborative relationship with Lord Hailer, after all. In fact, it was for Lord Hailer that he'd groomed Thirty-Two into the soldier he is today.
Lord Cace lives and breathes for the Frost Empire. Cut him and he will bleed for his service.
"Head down, eyes front," Overseer Cace would order his line of Youth Program recruits, impassive, as he would leisurely stroll by, step by step by step, analyzing each of his chosen soldiers. He'd always come to stop at Thirty-Two. His most wrought battle.
Thirty-Two used to meet his gaze, stubborn and intent on murdering him, too, until submission smothered hope and he was beaten by the world around him. By the time Thirty-Two was ten, he was everything Overseer Cace desired.
"You're wanted for Astra demonstration in the shooting range for the younger recruits," Overseer Cace would sometimes tell Thirty-Two. He'd happily oblige in showing off his projects in front of the other overseers.
Thirty-Two was and still is good with projectile weaponry, and this is because he likes not using his own energy, which can impel bipolar, disastrous results. In contrast, the metal of a weapon always feels nice in his hands. A comfortable weight. He likes relying on something that isn't himself, just so he doesn't feel lonely out there.
Perhaps that's why, when he does use his energy, his favourite attack is that of which resembles a bullet being fired. His spiraling beam, its yellow, almost golden, burst of dizzying light—so different to his usual fiery coloured ki—feels natural to wield. It's an attack which feels his own, precious in a way Thirty-Two doesn't understand, and one that he so rarely deploys to do Lord Hailer's bidding. It's his own. He doesn't remember who taught it him. He doesn't remember learning it. Only, that he did, and that it's his thread of connection to something before.
He'd given up everything else. His body, his beliefs, his memories…
His name.
To hear Goku say it the other day had overwhelmed him. Sickened him to a deep, untouched level that took Thirty-Two back to the days of initiation. They'd beat him until he either agreed with their rhetoric or was concussed into sleep. They'd beat him until there was nothing else to beat.
He suffered mild seizures until the age of nine, when the beatings came to a subsequent stop, when finally, Thirty-Two had reached a point of no return and murdered his Northern Overseer, sentencing him to Overseer Cace's mercy. By then, the seizures had taken so much from Thirty-Two's long-term memory that he could have forgotten that he wasn't even Youth Program born, that he was ever an outsider with a life before all this.
It was during an arduous study session, one blustering day during the Nothern winter, that Thirty-Two opened a book to see Vegeta's face staring back up at him. It was an ugly picture of a hateful, cruel man in his early twenties, armoured and forefront of an army, his boot atop a man's head, that had Thirty-Two remember something unpleasant. He'd met this man. He'd had an altercation with him.
Vegeta, Prince of the Saiyan people.
He'd remembered fighting him, fighting alongside him briefly, meeting Lord Frieza…
Thirty-Two had grown interested enough to consult the archives, even daring enough to break into the restricted section when the librarian fell asleep. It'd not been difficult to drug her, and nobody had suspected him because of his high ranking within the Program. They'd blamed a usual troublemaker, whipped and stripped him, whilst Thirty-Two had read Vegeta's record from the comfort of his own room in the West wing of Tower Two.
It'd been a bit of a harrowing read. Vegeta had committed heinous crimes, not only against the Frost Empire, but against humanity itself. An evil creature, Thirty-Two had decided. A foul example of the beasts which call themselves saiyans.
What horrible things. Saiyans.
Thirty-Two is a saiyan, he recognizes, but never has he taken gratification in the wrongs he commits for the fact that he recognizes that they're indeed wrongs. He finds it hard to relate to this race of barbarians. He hates fighting. He hates killing. He hates violence.
But, damn, is he good at it.
Thirty-Two has killed staff at the Program, other recruits, civilians, soldiers, marauders, thieves—many and any who he has been ordered against. Some for the sake of protecting himself. Others for the sake of the Frost Empire. He cannot emphasize it enough; if the Saiyan people are good at one thing, it's violence. And he is, unfortunately, a saiyan.
Thirty-Two can't remember much about the planet he was raised on, only that the star above had been beautiful. The green around buoyant. Heaven in comparison to the facility.
What one aspect he can recall clearly is the kind, addictive warmth of a saiyan—a being famed for said violence—and the pain of missing him, the pain of missing his father.
It'd never left him. This ache. Thirty-Two had warned the guards upon first being captured that his father would come and save him, that they'd be sorry for crossing him. But his father had never come for him, never saved him, and even with how much faith Thirty-Two would have, it was never going to have a happy ending.
Thirty-Two had first tried to take his life at eight.
It'd happened the night he killed his Northern Overseer.
The vicious woman she was, she'd always smiled as Thirty-Two was beaten, leaning against the wall, leg over the other, as he'd chewed through his own lip to contain his cries. She'd liked it when he'd cried. Cooed at him. Laughed. Joked. Stroked his hair. When she'd tried to stroke something else, he'd ripped her throat out.
Of course, his suicide attempt hadn't been successful.
Thirty-Two had woken up in a hospital bed, his usual nightmare shaking him.
He's unworthy. Ungodly. Unjust.
Unloved.
Why couldn't the seizures have taken his father? Why couldn't they have beaten him until he remembered nothing at all? Thirty-Two would have loved to have been a true husk. He would have loved to have nothing at all. Instead, he would sit there, in the darkness, staring out of his barred sheenks-lined window, waiting for orange—as bright as the sun—to bring in the new day.
Hope had ruined him into nothing. The Program could not take hope, but his father could. Had.
Thirty-Two had grieved one night and had accepted it the next. He'd accepted his number. He'd utterly given up, but from the ashes, a new ambition had been born, one for which he would need the fabled dragon balls.
And now, he has them.
Thirty-Two currently watches, through the flames, Goku—his once hope—struggle in his own suffering. He won't be struggling soon. Like Thirty-Two, he will give up when he learns the truth, and by then, it'll be too late.
It's time to go.
In face of the flames eating the crèche, Thirty-Two turns towards in ambition of the Research Division. He'd wanted to go this morning before the others woke up, but Goku rose so early, disturbing Thirty-Two just as he was readying himself to leave.
Stepping into a puddle, cried from the fire, Thirty-Two pauses when Bulma blocks his view—again.
"You'll be back, right?"
It's too much to deal with her. "Yes," he says, impatient, stepping aside her, nearly walking directly into Pyrak, who'd seemed to have been waiting for him.
"I'll watch yer boyfriend, sweetheart," he tells her.
Thirty-Two shoves him aside, making way for the tower, and unsurprisingly, Pyrak, Piccolo and Vegeta follow, unable to let him go so easily.
Finally, he turns a shoulder, spotting Goku's outline blur with the heat, and then, as he goes, the stone walls of the Research Division, which overcome him.
Xt453sKh00-219-C-34,092
A long, uninspiring code that's been left to Goku to connect to the possible thousands of codes here in the archive room—or hall, more like—for it stretches for the entire length of Bone Hall and even further. It's a labyrinth of bookshelves and cupboards, all unsaturated in colour except for the occasional red folder that breaks up the monotony. Ytvl is already rifling through them, presumably looking for the best place for the group to start their search.
There is a large computer centering the room, with an encircling keyboard and a swivel chair. That's where Bulma has placed herself, along with that strange alien cylinder that'd been used to hack the Capsule Corp. ship a short while back. She's plugging it in, and immediately, the computer chimes to life when sensing it, casting the dismal room an inorganic shade of blue.
"You work fast," Ytvl compliments, coming to stand by her side at the computer.
"It wasn't easy, but I managed to figure out how to get this thing to work," she says, "The hard part was converting the language. First, I had to convert it to the Northern tongue through online drivers, and then Vegeta helped to translate it again into our Earth language. We both input an entire vocabulary together."
"Glad to see he's earning his keep," Ytvl comments drily.
"Will it convert the Southern language, too?" Goku asks.
"Brokenly." She grimaces. "It's imperfect. Vegeta could only translate so many words in such a short time, and between languages; some words, expressions, and meanings just don't translate well. We'll have to see how it reacts when it loads." There's a strange expression she adopts, eyes unfocused. "We might not even need the computer in the end."
"What makes you say that?"
She hums, adding nothing else, leaving Goku to his search. Ytvl helps Goku remember the strange squiggles making up the numbers just so he knows what he's looking for in the files. They narrowed it down to only about ten bookcases after twenty minutes, which would fill Goku with satisfaction if the bookcases weren't about twelve feet tall and six feet wide each.
"I didn't expect so much bureaucracy," Goku mumbles, thumbing through individual files.
"It's the sad reality of people finding that nobody speaks about," Ytvl says from the other side of a neighbouring bookcase. "It's all paperwork. You can't beat everything up, Goku."
"Wouldn't that be easier?"
Ytvl snorts, already halfway through a section. He's much more efficient at this than Goku. "So, have you thought about what happens after this, after you find your kid?"
"I'll take him home," Goku replies easily.
"And then what?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you said you'd help Cilo."
Goku purses his lips. "Well, yeah, I guess."
Ytvl pauses. "That's the deal. You remember, right? We'll help you find Gohan and you'll help us bring down Hailer and Lord Cooler."
"Lord Cooler," Goku repeats, giving one file a firm flick away, "Why do you still call him that? He's not been your lord for a while now."
"It's habit."
"And you've not spoken with Lya in ages, either."
"She's a busy woman."
"Have you guys had a fight or somethin'?"
Ytvl lays his hands out flatly on the shelf. "If you must know, she isn't best pleased with me for detouring to the Youth Program."
"Oh."
"And," Ytvl allows, "They still want to execute Thirty-Two upon my return. Broadcasting his death would give power to our cause, what with him being one of Hailer's lead captains."
"Oh."
There's a grimace. "Yeah, oh. I'm trying to dissuade her. But kid or not, she isn't budging much on it."
Goku momentarily pauses, too, leaning against the wood, breathing in the musty scent of paper when he sighs. "Is this you tryin' to persuade me to help Cilo? To protect Thirty-Two?" Frustrated, he checks another file and then slaps it down. "He's only eighteen, right? They can't punish him—he barely just got out of this hell hole of a pla—What? What is it?"
Ytvl looks sideways, pointedly.
"Are you tryin' to manipulate me again?" Goku snaps, dragging three files out at once. "Don't you think this is kinda' a bad time?"
"We think he's younger," Ytvl rallies regardless, "The night you saw me in his room. I'd confronted him about it, and he'd tried to lie, and well, you caught me in a bit of a compromised position. I'd been symptom checking him for abusing testosteroids, a hormone induced drug, which presents itself as bold, thickened stretch marks that form when the body is forced to grow at speed."
"And?" Goku squeaks.
"He had them. Very much so."
"Did you tell Lya?" Goku lets out after a beat. "You can't… You can't execute a kid!"
"I'd suggested the possibility of his abuse when she'd ordered him to be brought back to headquarters. But… Goku, we're at war."
Goku heaves in dust, furious. What sort of people would willingly murder… God, wait, that means Thirty-Two really is a child, right? A child-child. Not just a fresh-faced adult. How old is he? Why isn't he still attending the Youth Program?
The information is winding.
"You're saying that if I don't work with you guys, you won't spare him? Is that it?"
"No, I'm not saying anything. And you said you want to help anyway—."
"Then, I don't get what you want!"
"You have influence, Goku! Use it! That's what I want," Ytvl barks out, dragging an armful of files out onto the floor. "You need to think about the bigger picture! You started this with Frieza, so finish it. There are other Gohans out there. Other children who are suffering. Did you not see the ones dead in the crèche? Was that not enough?"
Goku silently fumes. He came for Gohan. That's his focus. And as he reminds himself of the fact, over and over, his fists ball, trying to force the sad, lonely bundles from his mind—trying to force Thirty-Two from his mind.
God. What a mess. It's all awful.
Silently, they check each of the serial codes, managing to go through a third of the inhabitants of the bookcase before interrupted by Bulma, her forehead a nest of wrinkles, as though she'd been concentrating for a long while.
She's managed to get the computer to cooperate with their search—and in a language even Goku can read! So, that's great. The files are momentarily disregarded to check out the computer, to see what happens when he puts in a random serial number. When completed, the face of a young, male soldier appears on the large floor to ceiling screen. The information is mostly legible. Age. Sex. Description. Though, some words haven't translated very well—like his species name, which appear as squiggles and dots.
Regardless, it's more than enough. This will be super helpful with translation when they find Gohan's file.
"You're amazing," he tells Bulma.
Hands on hips, she admires her handiwork.
That's when they hear the explosion.
In the opposing tower—the apparent Research division—the walls have ruptured, debris spewing forth as dusty rainfall, bricks detonating. From within the chaos, a body surges down into the snow beyond viewpoint, hiding between buildings.
Goku leans, looking through the cobweb-lined window. "Pyrak," he notices, sighing.
Another silhouette emerges from the tower, jumping the many floors to the ground.
"I'll go," Ytvl says, "Pyrak's clearly yanked too hard on the cat's tail."
Goku can't sense Thirty-Two, but if he could, he's sure it wouldn't be a nice feeling. Maybe he should go help—Thirty-Two has been close to breaking point for a while now—Vegeta and Piccolo aren't exactly the best at dealing with a crisis...
He's not the only one to think this.
Bulma next turns to follow Ytvl down the stairs when another groan of a building collapsing sounds out. She raises a hand to Goku when he tries to join.
"Seriously, don't," she warns, "I think you might make it worse right now."
A frown drags at his face. "What's that supposed to mean?"
But she's gone, her footsteps a swansong down the winding staircase. He thinks about denying her, mostly because he doesn't like being told what he can and can't do, but also because he worries that Thirty-Two and Pyrak might try and rip each other apart given the chance and she could get hurt.
Instead, Goku continues where he and Ytvl left off, sorting through the many scattered files. There isn't any further destruction of property—so that's a good sign, right? He considers going down himself when Bulme doesn't immediately return. With Piccolo, Vegeta and Ytvl, Goku doubts that Pyrak and Thirty-Two will be able to cause much damage between them.
Still, it doesn't stop him from speeding up his process. Goku scours the numbers faster, straining to recognize the strange shapes, over and over, through black and white, in the tiny, condensed font that swallows up so many pages.
This isn't how he expected to find Gohan. It feels anticlimactic. It's supposed to be in a cloud of fire and smoke that he'd emerge and take his son to safety—for some reason, naively, Goku likes to think of it as a grand moment destined to happen. The pinnacle point of his existence. His why. The peak of his pathos.
"You defeated Cell less than a day ago," Krillin had complained when the battle had been fresh, "You can't be serious about shooting off into space this soon."
"I helped Earth," Goku had said, "I've done my bit here. I need to get back to my son."
"Goku—."
"He's all alone out there," he'd interrupted, irritated, "Don't you want him home?"
"Yes. Of course! Don't say that! But… I'm thinking of Chi-Chi. You know, your wife. You said it yourself that she's been kind of funny. That she's been talkin' funny. Don't you remember what happened last time?"
"It won't be like that."
It was, though.
"I can't have another baby," she'd whispered, sitting on the toilet, underwear around her ankles, at three in the morning. The pregnancy test had revealed something great. Something horrifying. "Goku," she'd said, "Not until Gohan's home."
"Don't worry, Chi. I'm not gonna' give up on him."
"But I can't be alone again. Please… Please, no… Not again, Goku. Don't go."
But what had she expected? What else could he have done? Leave Gohan up there? Why didn't she want to look for Gohan, too? Why was she so scared of everything?
"Grief affects people differently," her father, Ox, had consoled privately, "When her mother died, I couldn't even look at my beautiful baby girl for months. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. It… It nearly did me in."
The warning signs were all there.
He just didn't heed them.
"They say it's genetic," Ox had admitted, "I'm scared for her. Keep an eye on her, Goku."
When people lose hope, they lose a part of themselves. They lose a love for life.
Or—simply—they lose their life.
Goku breathes out, shakily, remembering her in that bathtub, blue and cold and fully clothed. Nobody should be in the bath fully clothed.
Her hand had rested on her stomach.
But in his hands, finally…
Xt453sKh00-219-C-34,092
He jumps to his feet, slipping on strewn papers and over to the computer, to input the little symbols from the top right of the paper.
That's when, outside, the world burns bright white with heat. Like thunder, a rumble rips along the land. He turns to the window, then notices the ships above fly ahead. Something small and metallic falls from one of them and seconds later, yet another explosion follows. The building shakes. Windows shatter. The room rumbles, shakes and moans. Goku holds onto the computer as fire spills into the room, desperate.
It's an attack; the reason the facility had been deserted.
No. No! Not now! Not when he's so close.
Goku finishes inputting the symbols and he sends it through.
The computer buffers and everything starts to burn from the snow, and inside, the room crumbles, collapsing in on itself as Goku attempts to push back the ceiling with his own energy.
This is why the Program left, Goku realizes. This attack was bound to happen. They'd evacuated—just like Thirty-Two said they wo—.
It loads. The file shows a single picture.
Dark eyes—grey-black—stare back, vacant.
Familiar.
His own eyes widen. "You—."
And then, the building collapses.
Earlier
Thirty-Two liked the Research division back when he'd been attending the Program, and walking these sanitized, white halls reminds him of his sanctum when the soldier section became too much—too hostile—and he'd need a reprieve. That's probably why he hides away with Nami in his little laboratory to this day, away from the world, back on planet Central. Being in a hideaway made entirely out of books makes Thirty-Two feel safe. Libraries, laboratories, workshops, and garages; these are the places not for warriors. Soldiers seldom visit the mechanic, and fighters have no need to go into the labs. In these places, he's left alone. In these places, he can focus on something aside from his rotting, awful role in the Frost Empire.
As he walks, so intimately familiar, he lets his attention run liberally, fondly almost, through the cracks of open doors and into rooms known. It's funny how Bulma is the one he… dislikes least out of the group when he's always taken a liking to scholars. At the start, the people in this building had been too frightened to let Thirty-Two in on their work, but after a time, they'd invite him over and show him their latest designs. They'd let Thirty-Two test drive their ships. They'd teach him how to hack and code and use all the devices Overseer Cace said soldiers don't need to know how to use.
"Really… You are wasted as a captain, kid," Nami had once said, watching Thirty-Two illegally pull apart his Astra and remodel it.
But Thirty-Two does his own job well, too. Everything he's ever been tasked with at this fucking place has been achieved, almost easily. Thirty-Two is strong. Thirty-Two is smart. He is resourceful. He is cunning.
And he has a mind his own.
"It's rare to have someone so difficult to break," Overseer Cace had whispered into his ear, "But the harder the break, the more they break, the more they break, the more there is to work with."
Thirty-Two had sat in the dirt, knees to chest, thinking of the circle of death he'd left in his wake. The choices he'd had to make—to spare the children or the parents—and of course, in the end, Overseer Cace had the rest Boiled. Had Thirty-Two killed them all like asked the first time, there would have been less suffering. Children wouldn't have had to watch Mummy burn, and younglings wouldn't have had to pop into a spill of gore.
It's a nightmare that regularly follows Thirty-Two through the dark. A demon on his chest, whispering hateful truths into his ears. There's so much for the demon to whisper. So many ills.
"Thirty-Two is your number," Overseer Cace had reminded him, as he would, many a time, "Numbers do not feel guilt. They do not feel anything at all. Numbers are free."
Number Thirty-Two isn't a killer. He is a soldier. A weapon and that is all. Thirty-Two would come to like the logic. He would find comfort in his anonymity—in his lack of self. The person from his life before is dead. Whatever evils Thirty-Two commits cannot harm what is already dead—it cannot harm a memory.
He'd learn the hard way in the South how worthless he truly is. Whilst he'd had that evil woman push him to his first suicide attempt, it was in the snowy tundra where Thirty-Two had realized how futile life was.
"What attempt is this now, Thirty-Two?" Overseer Cace would be the looming shadow by the feet of his bed. "When will you realize your own greatness?"
It'd not come with a single moment of horror, but instead because of many small evils, building day after day, tiring Thirty-Two, wearing him down, that he'd slowly given in. He'd woken up one morning, attended his line up, did basic training and then, when asked, slaughtered three boys who'd tried to escape the facility that morning. He'd not complained. He'd not contested it.
And Overseer Cace had praised him as much as he's able to.
He'd nodded once, and left him alone for the day.
From then on, time moved on nearly seamlessly.
Train, learn, eat, sleep, repeat.
Thirty-Two had found his pace. He'd grown faster than the others. He'd become… noticed.
Pyrak had been a couple years ahead of Thirty-Two, and he'd always boasted impressive marks, but nothing compared to Thirty-Two, who'd broken every record set before him. Embarrassingly, Pyrak had made it his mission to dethrone Thirty-Two, in due to his petty jealousy of Thirty-Two's growing reputation in the Program. He'd try to pick fights and rile him up—but what could he ever have done to even make a dent? After everything? Thirty-Two had already been broken before Pyrak had gotten around to playing with him.
There had been one thing which would bother Thirty-Two, however, and that was Pyrak's cruelties with other recruits. He'd been a, for a lack of a better word, a bully. He'd torment children, some much, much younger, taking them to the edge and back just to earn the laughs of his surrounding "friends". Thirty-Two had hated the entire bunch of swaggering, enlarged bastards. He'd hated watching them beat the most vulnerable children. He'd hated watching them use rodents for target practice. He'd hated how they'd break and enter the Research division and vandalize it just because they could.
But more so, Thirty-Two had hated walking into Bone Hall to be redirected, by Overseer Cace, to a custodial closet to find one of them, hanging by a noose. A note had been left but Thirty-Two hadn't read it. He'd just put it in the hole with the body.
"There's some big meeting on Central this week," one of the researchers had whispered to him that night, "A rebellion group managed to hijack one of the armoured ships. They could be the big change. They might be the ones to take down the Frost Empire."
Not long after, Thirty-Two had watched a nameless captain use the Boiler on the leader of that rebel group. So many more had followed. He'd stood and watched and quietly mourned the people and their movement, knowing, however, that Frost doesn't melt.
"Thirty-Two isn't like the other soldiers," the researchers would whisper amongst themselves. And soon enough, the soldiers would say the same.
Overseer Cace, of course, would find out.
"D'yer remember this place?" Pyrak asks, snapping Thirty-Two back to reality, back to a hole he'd rather forget about. The bastard claps his monstrous hand against the blackened wall. "Whoa, they never even cleaned yer mess."
"They weren't allowed," Thirty-Two mutters, moving them along.
"Awh, don't be like that. Let's tell our guests about it."
"I don't have any interest," Piccolo says sharply.
Vegeta agrees. "Keep going."
But Pyrak is determined to rub Thirty-Two's nose in his punishment. "He's jus' bein' shy," Pyrak tells his audience. "Isn't this where you executed the junior researchers?"
"You know it is."
When Pyrak wraps an arm around Thirty-Two's neck in a fast, fluid motion that has Thirty-Two vibrate on reaction. He digs his fingers into Pyrak's mammoth sized arm, but the brute doesn't relent, instead locking in tighter.
"Yer buddies, right?" he simpers, "That must've been real sad. Did yer cry?"
"Knock it off," Piccolo barks.
"Don't be silly, namekian. Thirty-Two never cries 'cause he's a robot," he continues, as if he'd been engaged, hauling Thirty-Two closer. "Did yer leak a wee bit of oil? I bet they leaked more than a bit of oil, eh? I heard one of 'em shit themselves."
It hadn't been the researchers' fault that they'd been so closely watched. With Thirty-Two frequenting the labs as much as he had, the higher-ups were bound to be involved. The learned men that the researchers were, the fear was that they'd implant their ideas into Thirty-Two—redirect his greatness, perhaps.
But Thirty-Two has never been short of his own ideas. He doesn't need people to tell him how evil the Frost Empire is.
When he'd shot each of them, point blank, even after they begged otherwise, he knew he'd have to distance himself even further. Nobody can help him. Only Thirty-Two will be able to control the narrative of his future, should he want one beyond that of the Program, Empire or the greedy clutches of Lord Hailer.
"Immortality," Lord Hailer had said thoughtfully, swirling the red in his wine glass. "What my little brother failed at achieving. In doing so… what would that make me? …That's a question, Thirty-Two. Go on. What would that make me?"
Thirty-Two had been on one knee, only twelve, and so small in comparison to what he has now grown into. He'd looked up.
"Just... unkillable," he'd returned.
Lord Hailer had leaned against his hand, smirking.
"Yes," he'd told Overseer Cace, "I see your interest."
"He's as powerful as any graduate," Overseer Cace had gloated, "But too young to employ into your service currently."
"Well, there are medical—albeit unlawful—ambiguities which could assist him to an early graduation."
Thirty-Two had been so excited to leave this place that he found himself eager for the prospect of serving Lord Hailer, although that'd been at a betrayal of his own moral standing. It had him readily accept any drug to help speed up the process. Anything to be out of here. To be away from the Program.
He'd looked up at the stars that night and wished for freedom.
"Should you want this," Overseer Cace had said in the dead of night that night amongst the stars, "Then this will fall on your head should you be discovered. It is for you to take responsibility over your legalities. Consider your documentation. Consider your genetic standing. Lord Cooler would do anything to usurp Lord Hailer."
So, Thirty-Two worked at cleaning up his digital files, long since giving up on anybody from his previous life trying to find him.
...But apparently, he'd missed one key file; his transfer.
And now... Goku will be upon the truth soon enough, maybe even knowing already.
The burns from Thirty-Two's Astra have forever marred the walls here in the Research division as a memoir. It's a reminder of us and them—do not associate with the soldiers, it mourns.
Pyrak still has a boisterous arm around his neck. His breathing is shallow, his eyes dilated as he gazes at Thirty-Two's handiwork.
"If you want to kill them," he then mutters lowly into Thirty-Two's ear, using the Southern language, "I'll…I'll help yer do it. Yeah. I can see in yer eyes that you wanna' recreate yer carnage. You wanna' paint the walls black and red again."
Thirty-Two stills.
"Don't think I don't know what yer doing," he continues, "We don't have dark matter here. Even I know that."
"So, you've been humouring me?"
"I'm here to watch you finally Boil Vegeta into oblivion."
Piccolo's patience with the situation finally snaps, and he pulls back Pyrak himself. "Talk so we can understand!" he berates, "And lay off of him."
"Want me to kill the green bean? I'll do it."
Thirty-Two scowls. "And then what? You think Cilo will welcome you back once you've had your fill of murder? They want these people alive, don't they?"
"I'll tell 'em they died on the trip."
"And what do you tell Goku?"
"I'll tell him he can take a turn of fucking the woman after I'm done."
"You're unhinged."
"Ooh? You don't wanna' share yer girlf—?"
Piccolo shoves Pyrak further back. "Are you deaf, still drunk or just stupid? I said stop."
"I'll turn Bulma inside-out," Pyrak purrs, leaning in close to Piccolo, disturbing him. "I'll fuck her until there's a me shaped groove in her belly. Think Vegeta will be a good daddy to my ba—?"
Vegeta steps in next, clearly understanding the context of the conversation to some capacity— because he looks furious. He shoves Thirty-Two aside (as though he's the problem) and stands about as tall as Thirty-Two has yet seen him. If Thirty-Two could sense energy then he's sure it would feel about as icy as the weather outside.
"Go ahead," Vegeta snarls, "Continue. I dare you."
A vein cuts along Piccolo's forehead, and he tries to stand between them. "Vegeta... It's not worth it."
"I don't want to hear my name or hers in this bipolar fuck's mouth a moment longer!"
"Aw, yer feelins' hurt, Princie?" Pyrak laughs. "Yer wouldn't have lasted a day at the Program 'ere with your heart on yer sleeve like that! You're as soft and pampered as they said you were, eh?"
"What did you say!"
"Oh, don't be like that. You were Frieza's lil' fuck-puppet—Just like Thirty-Two here is Hailer's." Thirty-Two bites the inside of his gum so no to say something he'd regret. "Oh, look at 'im. Who can say no to that pretty face?"
Pyrak's breathing hard through a pained grin. Whatever attack of chaos he's suffering right now doesn't seem to be diminishing, his chest is heaving, his eyes wide. What is wrong with him? When Vegeta moves forward to apprehend the panting idiot, Piccolo pulls him back, aligning with Thirty-Two's belief that something is in fact amiss.
"Go get some air," Piccolo suggests.
"I don't need fuckin' air, yer plant."
Vegeta snatches himself free. "You're obviously having an episode of some kind!"
An episode? Of what? Why would Pyrak be triggered by the Youth Program facility—the place he peaked.
"What's tha' look for?" Pyrak sneers, turning on Thirty-Two once more. "Think yer better than me? Jus' 'cause yer sucked lizard cock, just 'cause yer broke a few records—just 'cause yer don't go about slaughtering little girls like I did. That it?"
"Pyrak, go get some air—."
"I don't need no air!" he shouts, "I'm not the one who has problems! Thirty-Two's the one who kept tryin' to off himself. He's the one too pious for this fuckin' place!"
Thirty-Two grows hot incredibly fast. How does Pyrak know about that?
"I ain't stupid," he says, "I saw yer in the hospital ward, day in, day out. I saw the paperwork. I saw—."
"Be quiet," Thirty-Two warns.
"I saw Overseer Cace," he spits, regardless. "He didn't want me for some reason, but you, well, you had to be doing something to appease him."
"Pyrak—."
"That's why you tried hanging yourse—."
"I said shut up," he repeats, voice raised, knuckles curled. "Nobody is interested in your senseless bullshit!"
"Is that why you pop them pills?" Pyrak coos. "Yer happy pills? They stopping you from—."
"Not everybody can saturate in their own fucking evil!" Thirty-Two bites back, fist against wall. The building shakes. "Not everyone is you."
"Me?" Pyrak breathes in, incredulous. "What fuckin' dissonance! You like to think you're better than all of us, don't yer? God. It must be real cold up on tha' pedestal yer put yourself up on."
Piccolo's back at it. "Pyrak—."
"Be quiet, namekian," he says, stalking ever closer to Thirty-Two. "You. You're so full'a crap. You've done as much evil as the rest of us."
Thirty-Two rolls his shoulders back. "I never enjoyed it like you."
"Oh, I'm sure yer victims appreciate yer penance. What? 'It was just another day at work?' I'm sure if yer jus' explained that to them as you slaughtered 'em then yer'd have been fine. Oh, woe is Thirty-Two, he won't even choose a name. Poor Thirty-Two, he don't wanna' live no more. Poor Thirty-Two, he's been chosen as Hailer's latest lackey. Oh, what a lamb. He doesn't want to kill—not really—he just—."
"You take gratification—."
"Yes, I do! Otherwise, I'd be you—miserable!"
"And your way is better?" Livid, Thirty-Two laughs, just the once, "You refuse to be miserable even though you purged your own home! And you talk about dissonance!"
Immediately, Pyrak's incensed. "What did you just—? How the fuck did you—?"
Piccolo moves but he knows he hasn't the power to stop them. "Vegeta, do something."
"Absolutely not," he says.
Pyrak tosses Piccolo aside like a rag doll, coming toe-to-toe with Thirty-Two, his chest still vibrating, his throat heavy with phlegm. "You think yer so fuckin' smart, don't yer?"
Thirty-Two doesn't move.
"You arrogant little fuck," Pyrak continues, now in the Southern language, his word a fluid stream of vehemence. "Don't think yer the only one watching. The only one keepin' tabs. Don't think I didn't see what you did after your studdin'. What you did to your samples."
Like deflated balloons, Thirty-Two's lungs empty.
"Think you got to 'em all, did ye?" he simpers, head tilted, "Poor Thirty-Two don't want no babies, does he? He's so full of hate for himself. Boohoo."
"What did you do!"
"I tipped off the studding group before-hand that you might try n' do something. That you might destroy all them swimmers, jus' like you were goin' round destroying yer file data."
Thirty-Two feels sick. He recalls the process of collection; the small, dark waiting room which he'd been asked to sit in for hours before he was told to empty himself into a sample tube. Studding is the final step before graduation. Without offering his seed, he would not have been allowed to graduate the Program. And God, he needed to graduate.
But to imagine more saiyans out there—no, Thirty-Two couldn't allow it. Wouldn't allow it. He refuses to procreate. He will not cause any more damage than he already has in his own life. Never mind through another's.
He'd waited until late that very same night, snuck in, hacked the online system, and replaced his own sample with another's. He'd then destroyed his own.
There's so little he can control. This is the one thing he has. His body has and will always be his own. His… His sexual autonomy. It's his.
When he looks up at Pyrak, he realizes that—now—he doesn't even have this.
A cool wave washes over him, momentarily calm. The eye of the storm. The bird gliding through the wind. The ocean brushing the shore. Then, immediate rage.
Thirty-Two punches him.
So hard that it sentences him through the plastering. Then, the brick and steel and directly outside.
This is where he would stop if he could.
If he could.
A swirl of energy encapsulates him, filling him with light-headed frenzy, and he follows Pyrak through the rubble, through the collapsing wall, and into the white grasp of the snow. By the time Pyrak has regained himself, Thirty-Two lands on him, crossing another fist against his face. Pyrak's reactions are slow. He is all muscle and no technique, unable to dislodge Thirty-Two, and as a result, suffers yet another blow to the mirroring side of his face. Teeth are displaced in a bloody spray.
Pyrak takes a final hit just to give himself time to form momentum, which he achieves, carving a heel into the ground, and managing to shove Thirty-Two back with a throw. Because he's so big, Thirty-Two flies like paper, cutting the wind when he spins, kicking Pyrak squarely in the jaw.
There is no reprieve. No mercy.
Pyrak is pushed off-balance, and he slips on the ice, giving Thirty-Two chance to punch him again.
And again.
And again.
"Knock it off!" Piccolo shouts, but Thirty-Two won't be dissuaded. He won't be stopped.
What the fuck does the namekian think he's doing?
Thirty-Two feels his back prickle when Piccolo grabs him, his energy his natural defense. Ki, surging like millions of needles, spit, sending him back with a shock. Pink electricity sizzles.
It's never good when this happens.
Thirty-Two breathes wetly, landing atop Pyrak's chest, knees pinned either side into the sludge. Pyrak has propped himself up on his elbows, grinning, partially toothless, still panting like a dog. Before Thirty-Two manages another punch, he spits a long, string of bloody saliva directly into Thirty-Two's eyes. It's not enough to distract Thirty-Two however, and he grounds his knuckles directly into Pyrak's nose.
There's a crunch.
"Thirty-Two!" absently, Thirty-Two hears being called. It's Ytvl, and he's flying towards them. "Thirty-Two! Stop!"
Thirty-Two feels his body react. A jet of red ki slams Ytvl backwards, condemning him towards the burnt-out crèche. Perhaps the energy reignited the flames because there's a flash of light, and then heat which floods forward.
"Thirty-Two!" Piccolo tries again, avoiding a red jet, but not Thirty-Two's fist when he turns around and punches him, too. He splutters into the snow, heaving and winded.
Pyrak's laughing. They are garbled, incomprehensible sounds which make Thirty-Two all the more infuriated. How dare he find any of this funny? How dare he smirk like that!
Thirty-Two charges his erratic energy forward, burying it into Pyrak's concaved chest.
It's then, he registers that this light has nothing to do with him, that it has everything to do with the ships soaring above, dropping chemical bombs. And despite this, Thirty-Two can't bring himself to care.
"Stop!" Thirty-Two now hears Vegeta yell, and when he draws close, Thirty-Two lets loose a roar of energy which is supposed to throw him back. It doesn't. Thirty-Two spins when forced, the whiplash of his own energy disjointing him right into Vegeta and into the subsequent fist awaiting him. "Can't you see what's happening! Above!"
Burn. Fuck everyone. Everything and anyone—it can all burn!
Thirty-Two tastes fresh blood, whether it's his or Pyrak's, he doesn't know, but it's the only thing he can focus on. The world dips into a soundless, slow rendition of itself—Vegeta's lips are moving but Thirty-Two can't hear anything.
Can't breathe.
Can't…
All he can hear is that bastard laughing. Lord Hailer laughing. The Overseer laughing.
Pyrak's slowly sitting up—so slowly—like a broken puppet, one string movement at a time.
"So, you're Thirty-Two?" Pyrak had greeted, many a moon ago, "I saw yer talkin' to that researcher girl earlier."
"…Researcher Bellie?"
"Oh, that's 'er name?" He'd whistled, so innocent. "Well, Thirty-Two, I'm real sorry to say that she found 'erself dead jus' now. I warned her not to cross into the minefield but yer know how them researchers are. Seekin' knowledge 'n all that."
Thirty-two has seen Pyrak kill so many. Tortured so many. Played with so many—including him. Why? Why did only the worst get to survive? It's not fair! Why can't Thirty-Two be one of the good ones?
Fire ruptures into his throat, and he doesn't know if he wants to vomit or scream or just rip Pyrak in two. He clenches Vegeta's ensuing fist, crushing it like paper, feeling the bones splinter.
Vegeta hisses at first, and then yells, powering up in a quick burst of yellow light.
No, not yellow.
Golden.
God. Thirty-Two nearly trips. He feels his knees weaken, but if anything, his head fills more, so much so that his thoughts want to burst from his ears. His own burning electricity reminds him of back then—of Namek, of the planet in its last breaths. Green skies and green grass and golden energy that swallowed it all. He'd been ordered to take someone—a namekian—away, far away from Frieza and the Super Saiyan of legend.
Thirty-Two takes initial the hit well, dodging the second attack narrowly, before being able to draw back into a skid. He's shaking. Even with the fire and ki and bombings, he's cold. Thirty-Two's never cold. He's Frost.
"Head down," Overseer Cace would say, dangerously close. "Eyes front."
Never up. Never up at the stars.
Thirty-Two only has one wish now. He doesn't want for anything else. Doesn't deserve it. Like Pyrak, he's rotten. Like the saiyans. Like Vegeta…
Around, the world catches light, the fumes of chemical flames taking ahold of the facility and her secrets. Lord Cooler is here to torch Thirty-Two's childhood.
But not him.
Ytvl, Piccolo and Vegeta organize a perfect triangle around him.
"Thirty-Two…" Ytvl says, "Stand down."
Thirty-Two shakily pivots, his electric energy still hissing, spitting like a pan over a stove. Red licks carry up high, highlighting him to the entire fucking world. They won't defeat him. They can't.
He'd planned on trapping them in a sheenks lined cell.
Instead, he breathes, manic. His chest is so tight that the muscles might rip. He refuses to be stuck—to be caught—to deal with them. Him. To be forced to walk aside these people whilst evil inhibits him.
"Look above," Piccolo says, holding the wound Thirty-Two inflicted, "You're not unintelligent, Thirty-Two. You—."
Thirty-Two brings two fingers to his forehead, the energy circulating there.
"What—?" Piccolo breathes, suddenly struck, "How—?"
And then, as quickly as he'd started, Thirty-Two deploys the beam. The line barely misses the namekian, only having hit the building behind because Vegeta had managed to drag Piccolo sideways. There's an explosion. A galactic dust cloud follows, breathing out at the same time another bomb drops, complicating the battleground.
The engines of hoovering ships wail, the fire crackles, the whooshing of energy—it's all too much.
Thirty-Two threads fingers through his hair.
Then, in the dust, a hand grabs his boot.
"H-Hell gave us the world as stubble to the sword," Pyark says, splayed in the dirt, chin a deep red, mouth oozing.
"I'm not you," Thirty-Two seethes.
Pyrak grins.
"I'm not!"
Thirty-Two's rage is reignited, and he gives him a swift kick in the jaw. As Pyrak tumbles, Thirty-Two prepares another spiral attack. He'll send this fucker to the Hell he speaks of. He—!
"Gohan!"
He falters.
His hand wavers, a web of electric crackling at his fingertips. His chest heaves a final breath, and through the fog of dust, Bulma stands, hands to knees, bent in two.
"G-Gohan," she rasps, "Stop it."
Thirty-Two stumbles a step back, struck. Behind, another bomb drops, his world slowly closing in on him, the truth closing in on him, them—these people—closing in on him. The dust clouds part to show that she's not alone, that the others are here to spectate his break.
Angry for an audience, his energy crackles, spitting towards them.
Vegeta makes an incredulous noise, yanking Bulma back, but she fights back, shouting at him, inaudible to Thirty-Two because of a nearby explosion. When Vegeta looks back at him with a deep, unwavering expression that's investigative, Thirty-Two averts his gaze, his eyeline falling directly in line with Piccolo's.
It's awful. The knowing horror. The disgust. Piccolo moves on instinct towards Thirty-Two, but Ytvl clearly thinks better of it. He holds him back, his reaction impassive.
"Gohan," Piccolo mouths incredulously.
So overwhelmed with it all, Thirty-Two refuses to look at any of them. Except for her.
It's a kind look she gives him, full of gentle patience.
"Gohan…"
Nobody stops her from approaching this time.
Her hand extends.
"Goh—."
And then, a bomb drops directly overhead, killing her instantly.
Goku splutters, rolling onto his side and then onto his knees, bile burning the back of his throat and then his nostrils. Acidic vomit spills out, the flavour reminiscent of chemical residue. Whatever evil was dropped from the sky has taken Goku's body for its own, implanting the devil within. He aches with heat.
But… But he doesn't have time for this.
He…
Gohan…
Goku looks up, clouded ash is a haze around what was once the facility. Only rubble rests, clumped in devastating hills, the familiar peak of Bone Hall the only thing he can recognize in the destruction. He scours the grounds, forcing himself up, coughing and spitting sick up as he struggles to remain balanced on his feet. There's a crash of rockery as Goku falls against the leaned wall of what was once a building.
His entire body burns from whatever chemical doused him in the explosion—but more so, it exhausts him. He needs rest—but more importantly, he needs…
He collapses when his footing is tricked by a false floor of steel. Into a ditch Goku slips, rubble raining down as insult, pebbles toppling last, blinding him as he looks up into the grey, dour day. It's difficult to sense. It's difficult to navigate—God, he feels awful.
Then, he hears it.
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
Boots come to a halt atop Goku's hole. There's a beep of a scouter.
Momentarily, all turns dark when Thirty-Two appears atop, a silhouette before the light of day.
No… No, not Thirty-Two.
He's never been Thirty-Two.
Goku tries reaching up, fingers splaying in hope.
"Gohan," Goku manages. "Go…han—you—!"
When Thirty-Two's pictures—hundreds of them—flashed up on the screen back in the archive room, Goku found himself unable to question it even through the initial shock. It'd been under his nose the entire time. The truth. Dark eyes had been watching him, and he'd been watching them.
"Gohan…"
The tavern. Goku realizes why he was spared. Not only is this person his son, he knows it. Remembers him.
Beyond, there's the sound of more bombings, more ships… Goku hears voices. Thirty-Tw—Gohan does, too, and the shadow representing him turns, staring into the distance as Goku grows ever wearier.
The voices grow louder.
"G…han…"
Gohan is injured, perhaps not as badly as Goku, but he's panting, and the angle he holds himself at isn't natural—although, it's difficult to see with everything growing distant and dark, so dark.
He jostles awake for a sweet moment when a hand grabs his own.
"Go home," Gohan whispers, gravelly.
And then, he throws him back down into the dirt, Goku's head hitting the floor with such vigour that he immediately blacks out.
Instead of snow, Goku dreams of raining fire.
Gohan, not the child version but instead the unhappy, quiet young man he's grown into, stares up at the orange, allowing them both to drown in it.
He turns.
The fire crackles, spits, and crunches, consuming all greedily, her deep smoldering offering ashes as it climbs. Despite the darkness it feeds on, the heat is welcomed, kissing Goku's face. On the other side of these flames, he sees dark eyes—so similar, very, in fact, to his own—watching.