Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Twenty
The Wait for Liquid Hydrogen
In the solitude, he knows he's sleeping.
It's in the silence of his dreams where he stands at the edge of his usual vast, yawning void. It stretches out before him, an endless expanse of darkness that seems to swallow everything in its path. With each step he takes over air, the ground beneath him, even though it does not exist, crumbles away, sending him tumbling into the abyss. As he falls, he can feel the cold grip of despair tightening around his heart, squeezing the air from his lungs. Panic rises within him, clawing at his mind as he struggles to find something, anything, to hold onto.
With each passing moment, Thirty-Two feels himself being consumed; his thoughts are drowned out by the deafening silence. He reaches out, desperately grasping for a lifeline that isn't there, but his fingers find nothing but empty air.
And so, he continues to fall, lost in the endless expanse.
"YOU ARE UNWORTHY."
When Thirty-Two wakes, he finds his throat dry and his head still hurting. He also wants to vomit. After not suffering his nightmares for so long, their unwelcome vengeance makes Thirty-Two all the more aware of his situation—how alone he is—and despite rarely feeling scared, he feels as much. This is now unchartered territory. His wish will be made. His fear represents the possibility of it being jeopardized.
He swallows the bile burning his throat—but only for so long. For when he emerges from his private room and into the shared, filthy squalor of a bathroom in the hostel, immediately, Thirty-Two purges his stomach. He heaves until there is nothing left.
Someone takes the stall next to him. Whatever they say to Thirty-Two is in a language he doesn't know, but it doesn't sound unkind. He hums back, resting his head against the plastic divider. His chest burns. His head throbs. He hurts. Thirty-Two breathes a single deep breath and then flushes the toilet, watching what little food he ate swivel down the drain.
By the time he makes his way down to the hostel foyer, the nausea has mostly subsided but he does have to steady himself along the filth layered walls as he takes the stairs. The foyer is as compact, dark and damp as his room, which is no surprise considering the low price paid for the night. Equally as bacterially infested is the man running the reception; a creature of a wide berth who barely fits in the groove beneath stairs and behind the desk, what with his elongated gut and slimy, pink tail which emerges from under the rotted wood. When he notices Thirty-Two, stubbly teeth showcase.
"Mornen'," he greets, his putrid breath a green smog between them. "Anuver night?"
Thirty-Two hopes not.
"Were you able to receive the fuel?" Thirty-Two counters, knowing instantly it not to be the case when the receptionist's smile stretches further at the prospect of further exploiting Thirty-Two for petty cash.
"Not yet. Gev us anuver day. Liquid hydrogen ain't so easy ter come by these days, what wiv the war."
Thirty-Two had paid him generously for the fuel, and what he believes to be generously for the room considering the three inches of mold above his bed. The number of currency cards he stole from the facility collectively has been able to get him this far into his journey, but they're steadily being depleted with each stop-off. The space stations Thirty-Two has had to visit aren't cheap, mostly because they are not recognized as Frost Empire authentic stations, something which makes them an attractive prospect to those on the run—like Thirty-Two. The people who work on them know they can exploit such visitors.
"Bit young fer all this, ain'tcher?" comments the receptionist, though he doesn't so much as reconsider swiping the currency card to issue another night. "I wonder what yer did ter be avoiding the Empire."
"Maybe I just don't want to be caught up in the war," Thirty-Two says, as he has many a time now.
"Well, I can't say yer dumb. Lord Cooler ain't takin' no prisoners. A southvern' boy like you wouldn't stand no chance, so yer doin' right by keepin' yer head down. I'll let yer know when I get that liquid hydrogen."
Thirty-Two imagines that could be days from now just to keep him paying. Travel has reduced since the throes of war hit the sector. Perhaps Thirty-Two could have bargained him down to half the price, or even a third, Frost Empire station or not.
He's been travelling for a week now, back to towards planet Namek. He still remembers the coordinates, but his biggest adversary is the logistics. Namek is still days away, a week nearly. In his spacepod, he's barely put any distance between him and the Youth Program at all. He's still in the South.
Well, he's now advancing into central territory, so that's at least something. But that just brings other contending factors to deal with, namely the ferocious, bloody warring between the significantly located planets and ships. Not only is he avoiding Lord Cooler, but also Lord Hailer, who would surely punish Thirty-Two for his absenteeism. Thirty-Two had wanted his time off to achieve what he's now already set into motion—he needn't be in Lord Hailer's good books anymore. Yes, avoidance is best.
Interestingly enough, he's already been reported as dead. Thirty-Two knows this because he saw his face appear on the News one day. It'd been reported from Lord Cooler's intelligence that Captain Thirty-Two had been executed in a private service by one of their own leading captains, a true Frost Empire captain and not one of those savage southerners who would kill your family and rape your wife.
A true Frost Empire captain, indeed…
"Do as I say and you will survive this," Ytvl had harshly whispered back at the Youth Program, moments after the bombings and the subsequent death of Pyrak.
Thirty-Two had just buried Goku in the debris. He'd just watched Bulma die. He'd just... with Pyrak… he hadn't meant to. It'd been his temper. It's always his temper.
Ytvl had been as filthy and bloodied as him, and no less intense. He'd dragged Thirty-Two back by the knot of his hair when he'd attempted to flee. "They will find and kill you if you run—do you want that, you idiot boy!"
At no point would Thirty-Two accept Ytvl referring to him as such, especially after everything. He'd turned around and punched him in the face, breaking teeth in a sloppy swing and slipping into ash as a result. Ytvl had managed to catch him again, this time curling a fist of his own into Thirty-Two's gut. It'd winded him.
From his earlier explosive fit of fury, Thirty-Two had grown weary. Fighting back against Ytvl hadn't been as simple as it should have been. When Thirty-Two had heard the encroaching crunch of boots, he'd known that Ytvl had planned on trading Thirty-Two's life for his own—the price of his betrayal. What kind of lies would he spin? How would he persuade his old comrades that he had never gone rogue?
Or perhaps, he never had gone rogue. This is something Thirty-Two had later contemplated when such men never so much as contested him upon their reunion.
A streak of fear had cut through Thirty-Two in that moment. He'd wanted to look back to where he hid Goku, just to make sure he'd still been submerged under rubble.
"I took the dragon balls," he'd revealed quickly as the soldiers began to arrive.
"What?"
"Yours had been hidden atop the wardrobe. I took it last night after drugging you. That's why you felt dazed this morning."
He'd turned to Thirty-Two, horrified. "You… You… Why are you telling me this?"
"I planned on summoning the dragon today," he'd lied, knowing that Goku had never revealed the necessity of a password to Ytvl. "I would rather die than give them to you or Lord Cooler."
Ytvl had looked like he was trying to figure out a puzzle most difficult—and then, the soldiers had arrived.
"Captain Ytvl," one had breathed with such awe—such respect—that Thirty-Two had known then and there that there would be no such point telling his own tale of events to manipulate the situation. True to his reputation, Captain Ytvl had been admired.
Instantly, Ytvl had taken advantage of this. "Take me to your leading captain," he'd ordered.
And just like that, loyally, he had been received.
"Captains," had met a familiar voice upon being hauled to the captain's dock of the ship. Astra to head in thanks to a knee-knocking, inexperienced soldier, Thirty-Two had stood to bear witness to the woman captain he had met weeks ago—the one who had offered to teach him the Boiler.
"Tapi," Ytvl had greeted, on both of their behalves because Thirty-Two had said nothing. Instead, Thirty-Two had eyed his perimeters; he'd looked for weak hinges in the doors, and stupid, empty expressions of guards who would be easy to kill. The one with the astra to his temple had been shaking.
"I bet there's quite the story here," she'd said, his crow's feet making her eyes appear smaller through a haze of amusement. "Both of you have been considered either missing or dead. Ytvl, Lord Cooler still feels the sting of your betrayal."
"I never—."
"Of course not," Captain Tapi dismisses. "Don't waste your breath persuading me otherwise, Captain. It is Lord Cooler who you must speak with."
A flash of fear—of shame, too, perhaps—had crossed Ytvl's eyes.
"And then we have you," she'd continued, arms curled over one another as her firm, piercing gaze held Thirty-Two down. "How do you present yourself, Captain?"
"Just kill me and have done with it," Thirty-Two had said.
"You know how impossible that is. There is protocol."
Torture. Couldn't they just shave a day or two off and just slit his throat? Why waste time when they knew that he'd never give up his information.
"Tapi, he is underage," Ytvl had quickly betrayed. "If anything, we don't torture children."
Thirty-Two had felt himself redden with both fury and embarrassment, but before he had the time to respond, Captain Tapi had already waved both of them away.
"That may have been true under your leadership, Ytvl, but not mine. I serve the Frost Empire and not only when it suits me. Whatever age Captain Thirty-Two is, I find it irrelevant. He is a respected captain of the Empire and I shall treat him as such, repercussion or reward. He has earned his fate."
"This isn't the way!" Ytvl had snapped, looking ridiculously uncouth compared to the pristine, tidy figure of Captain Tapi. There'd been a long line of red dripping from his mouth from where Thirty-Two had punched him.
"War has made monsters of us all," she'd said, and then turned away, leaving Thirty-Two to be hauled to the dark depths of the torture room where he'd eventually be killed.
It hadn't been the last time he'd seen Ytvl.
He'd been there at Thirty-Two's death, back in his red spandex and Northern uniform, the Frost Empire logo over his heart. Frost never melts. As Thirty-Two hung from his torturer's cross, he'd impassively stared him down, his eyes clouded, as the torturer—a colossal, uncompromising woman—had plied his fingernails free. Thirty-Two hadn't made a sound just to let Ytvl know how little this all affected him.
"That's enough," Ytvl had eventually said before ordering her away, just for the moment.
Thirty-Two had breathed a steady breath as Ytvl approached, the latter flying up to reach his height on the cross. But really, Thirty-Two had been exhausted. He hadn't slept for days, hadn't eaten or drank anything for even longer than that; he had just wanted the inevitable death over and done with by that point.
"Thirty-Two," Ytvl had said into his ear, "Where are the dragon balls?"
"…"
"Please, Thirty-Two…"
"Enjoying your status?" Thirty-Two had spat. "I… see Lord C-Cooler has forgiven you."
There had been a long pause.
"There'd been nothing to forgive," he'd replied tartly, previous sympathy drained of him. "I am loyal to my lord. I am Frost Empire."
"I know… I've always known…"
Again, another practiced pause. "Well… By presenting him with Pyrak's body and the promise of yours, Lord Cooler has come to understand my loyalty. Vegeta will be next should he not already be dead."
"…And?"
"And what?"
"And who else?"
Ytvl had stared at Thirty-Two for a long time. "Everyone else is dead," he'd then said purposefully, slowly. "As you will be, unless you tell of the dragon balls' location. Perhaps then, I will be able to organize a position for you. A role in the North."
"Y-You know me well enough by now to know how this will end. I would rather s-swallow my tongue than join Lord Cooler, or you for the matter."
"Thirty-T—."
"No. I w-won't—."
"Gohan," Ytvl had hissed, leaning in, "This is the best offer you'll get. This is how you can survive this."
"…You've read my files," Thirty-Two had whispered furiously after a brief hold of shock, "S-So you should know damn well I don't care about surviving any of this."
An hour later, Thirty-Two had been ordered dead.
"The balls had been a distraction, hadn't they?" Ytvl had asked with finality. "Did you ever take them, really?"
Thirty-Two had accepted the blade, arms wide, at least enjoying the confliction running across Ytvl's features a single last time.
Today, however, Thirty-Two wonders where Ytvl is now, after all, the ship had been attacked after Thirty-Two had been killed. Potentially, Ytvl is dead, although Thirty-Two doubts it if only for the slithering, slimy ability to survive any politically hostile climate.
Ironically enough, it's that evening, as Thirty-Two passes by the central crossing, where an enormous screen sits embedded into the metro station's building, and on such a screen, Ytvl can be seen standing side by side against Lord Cooler as he presents to the camera.
Thirty-Two bites into a sweetened bread roll, unable to taste it as he listens to the usual propagandistic rhetoric.
Some others on the street have stopped to watch, but with this being a non-Frost Empire supporting territory, nobody has bothered with the façade of support. Complaints sound the same in every language.
"They'll be comin' fer us next," says a wrinkled, sorry-looking man to Thirty-Two's right. He's of the same species as the receptionist, only much older. "We can't stay neutral forever. What yer lookin' at, boy? Don't be starin' like yer some hooligan wantin' ter take a bite outta' me. I wonder what yer face will look like when yer conscripted? That'll make a man outta' yer."
"Frost never melts," booms Lord Cooler from the screen. "And winter is fated for all, and a harsh one it shall be unless you choose correctly where to stow your allegiance. Should it be with my brother, Hailer the Cruel, then consider your fate sealed. You are dead men walking."
The screen starts to fade to black all so dramatically and Lord Cooler and an obedient Ytvl turn to leave. "Frost never melts" is written across the screen in their usual selection of languages, but it is now followed by "Praise be, Lord Cooler".
Thirty-Two takes another bite, wondering if Lord Hailer will have a television debut, doubting it if only because he knows how much Lord Hailer likes to weaponize mystery. The less he speaks, the more powerful he seems.
"Is that what you do?" Pyrak had once goaded, "Try to impress Lord Hailer with yer copy-cat act?"
The rest of the bread roll is binned.
Again, Thirty-Two jostles awake. This time, it is not the haunting of the voice and its typical depreciation, but instead, it's the equally common wrenching of his stomach.
Guilt, he recognizes it as.
Pyrak's death has been a ghostly shadow throughout his days.
Thirty-Two hates how much he thinks about him. His death feels like an end to something, though Thirty-Two doesn't quite know what, and for some reason, he has a particular feeling about the incident he can't quite categorize. Not that Thirty-Two so often sits down to organize his feelings. That's dangerous. But this… this seems non-negotiable in how his mind refuses to let him forget about the hand he had in Pyrak's death. He thought he might feel a bittersweet joy to killing him. Pyrak had been inconceivably awful, after all. Evil, one might say.
Thirty-Two hates killing but to wipe the universe of evil is a good thing.
This is the same line he'd fed himself about killing Vegeta. So, why does he only now feel so retched?
Does Thirty-Two still want to kill Vegeta?
In the dark, he palms the capsule holding the dragon balls. It's always within arm's reach.
He'd… tolerated Bulma well enough, and she would have been sad—devastated, really—if he'd killed Vegeta back then.
Kind, strong-headed Bulma and her intelligent approach to life.
Her son lost a mother because of Thirty-Two, he next realizes, recalling the picture of her, the boy and Vegeta looking about as content as any family can. She'd died trying to bring Thirty-Two home, and all he did was get her killed.
He falls asleep with the capsule in hand, not really knowing the answer to his question.
Being by himself is quiet.
Thirty-Two still isn't quite used to it. He's always enjoyed the solemnity of solitude—it means he's safe. That's why, despite his terrors, the nighttime is his favourite part of the day. Everybody else is asleep—he can finally lower his guard enough to truly rest. He can sit and stare into the night sky without being questioned, he can read by dim light for hours should he wish, with no distractions, and he'd be safe from the physicality of obnoxious, arrogant soldiers. Together, alone.
Although, he wishes he had his scouter—but they'd taken that when apprehending him. So soon that he'd finally been reunited with his precious device, so soon it was taken. How often he would be scolded in the Youth Program for tinkering with it. He found a way to export reading files onto it so he'd be able to read his books when on a boring, tireless patrol. It'd come about because of that one time he'd been reprimanded for bringing a physical book.
It's then that he realizes that he could read all day if he wanted to—right now, should he so choose. Nobody is here to stop him. He could eat fists full of sugar, too. Nobody from the stomatology division can reach him. Within reason, he could do whatever he liked.
Whatever he liked… But, what does he like?
Um.
Well, Thirty-Two likes reading (though, he has no books right now) and he also likes eating sweet food. And engineering, too, he supposes, though he's never had as much chance to explore that as much as he would have liked.
He twists the capsule, unsure how to proceed. The receptionist promised him that he would receive the liquid hydrogen tomorrow, so that gives him an entire day to do whatever he likes.
He can't rightly just sit here all day and eat, right?
Well, he could.
This excites Thirty-Two for some reason. He dares himself a laugh at the idea. Nobody would care here if Thirty-Two went out and bought a cake thrice the size of himself and ate it in one sitting. Sure, whilst the cake may revisit him the following morning after one of his upset stomachs, it would at least taste good in the moment. It's childish, Thirty-Two understands, but he can't help but feel gleefully naughty. Frosting. He's always been curious about frosting. Would it be like a sweet cloud like the other boys at the Program said it would? Thirty-Two always thought it might be heavier than that, comparable to mashed potato, only saccharine like candy.
The only candies he remembers being allowed had been tiny, gelatinous square curiousities the colour of disgruntled cabbage. They'd been handed out in celebration of Frost Empire Anniversary's Eve, and all the recruits at the Program had been joyous at the prospect of a sweet treat. Thirty-Two had enjoyed his bag-full well enough, somewhat regretting eating them however when the others started trading them for other goods on a makeshift black market. Three candies could get you a comic book. Four got you a caffeine powder not entirely dissimilar to coffee. Ten meant someone might take your chore duties for the week. Thirty-Two had forgone all this opportunity and ate the entire lot in one sitting.
To be given choice over the sweets, Thirty-Two wonders if it'd been a test—to see how each individual would react upon being given something they wanted. He wonders if he passed. They were never given that many candies again.
They were never given choice again.
Even now, Thirty-Two doesn't know what to do with a day-off. In the past, he'd sleep or study about the dragon balls and planet Namek. Rest days are rare, precious things, like diamonds. What do you really do with a diamond other than admire it?
As such, Thirty-Two doesn't know what to do now, on the day of rest before he continues his journey to kill himself.
He leans against the windowpane, watching the ships come and go, doing so as the day evolved into night and the night into early morning, at which point Thirty-Two falls asleep still without so much as enjoying a grain of sugar.
The receptionist is most disappointed to reveal a lack of liquid hydrogen the following morning. Really, the next day, he swears, he will hand over "four-no!-five, yes, five" canisters of fuel. Thirty-Two, with clenched fists and practiced patience, breathes out a purposeful, slow breath before leaving the hostel for breakfast, knowing full well that the greasy bastard is rinsing him for all he has. But options are limited. Should Thirty-Two put up too much of a fuss, the wrong sort of attention would follow him, and it's with a lowered head that Thirty-Two would likely to ultimately arrive at Namek with.
Being discovered by the Frost Empire is not ideal, but it's being discovered by Goku and the others again that sends a spasm of dread down to his toes. He wonders what they're doing now. If they're confused about Thirty-Two's body disappearing. If they looked for him. Perhaps, they believed others to have infiltrated the ship and stole the body.
Thirty-Two bites his sweet bread, tearing its flesh and letting it hang between his lips akin to a lingering thought.
They must be looking for the dragon balls, Thirty-Two decides. Would they want to return to Namek?
Dryly, the bread is swallowed. God, he hopes that they don't consider Namek.
"OUR CHILDREN, OUR FUTURE! OUR CHILDREN, OUR FUTURE! OUR CHILDREN, OUR…"
Thirty-Two notices that, in the hustle and bustle of the morning crowds containing the streets, there is a prominent group of perhaps twenty to thirty people gathered around an official looking building that may be a trading centre. They are shouting, slogans mostly, as they wave large, wagging signs that nearly strike passerby pedestrians. Thirty-Two only narrowly avoids being hit by some slimy creature that presents as female if her girlish frock is anything to go by, her made-up jowls flamboyant in rage as she chants, over and over.
Protestors, he summarizes.
Thirty-Two has had to break up his fair share of protests. This is done by killing the orchestral conductor of the little display, and if that doesn't work, then by killing them one by one until the last of the able-bodied accept their fate and return to their medial, unfulfilling jobs. He'd once been assigned protestor duty with Pyrak when first arriving at Central, and he'd watched with unhappy attention as Pyrak picked them off, specifically leaving the oldest in the group until last because he knew they'd have to be killed anyway. The frail, ageing populous are the least useful. Their wise input is unwelcome. When the only thing they can offer is their intelligence then they have no purpose at all—for the Empire do not want their people to think, only serve.
Education is always under surveillance. Controlled. The Frost Empire cannot have people too smart, can they? That would chance a coup. With programs like the Youth Program, something mandated by the Empire, the future looks to be bleak—nobody will be able to contest them, for they will not be intellectual—or perceptive—enough. They will know no different. How would one describe the colour red if they only grew up in a world of red?
"You! Do you want to be conscripted?" suddenly demands one of the protestors, picket poised dangerously towards Thirty-Two. It seems that there is only one correct answer. Even though Thirty-Two is already a prominent figure in the Frost army, he shakes his head. "Then join the movement, boy! Save your soul! DOWN WITH THE FROST EMPIRE!"
It's the one time he really wishes he was in uniform—just to be left alone. Instead of spandex, armour and his furs, Thirty-Two is in a simple pair of harem pants, a dark jumper and his usual Frost Empire boots. The boots are fashionable. Everybody wears them. Nobody would guess him Frost serving. For what they know, he's just a regular civilian.
"Use your voice!"
And then something is shoved towards him.
"You're the future!"
Thirty-Two stares at the picket in his hand dumbly.
The sign reads: I DESERVE TO LIVE.
He remembers quite vividly the grotesque vulnerability of Lord Hailer's dark, pointed fingers withdrawing from the depth of his own chest. A bubble of blood had ejected, and then another, until a fountain spewed forth and he'd dropped to his knees and died.
"Tell no person," Lord Hailer had ordered once Thirty-Two had awoken. Thirty-Two recalls how he'd wiped Thirty-Two's blood clean from his hand on a napkin, as though it was a minor inconvenience. He'd seemed so disinterested, but that couldn't have been true because he hadn't sent him away. "And for your silence," he'd continued lowly, "I will spare you a torturous existence. You will live a comfortable life, as much as any distinguished officer."
He'd been young and so very intimidated, and thankful in some ways; Lord Hailer or Lord Cooler discovering the immortality had been his biggest fear, and in one flash of a moment, it'd come to pass and Thirty-Two would suffer nothing for it.
"My lord," he'd gasped in reverence. In shock, too.
"Make no mistake, child, should one word reach my brother's ears then I will make you yearn ever more for death. You do not belong to the Empire. You belong to me."
"Yes, my lord."
"Let it be said… When you graduate the program, I will enlist you."
"Yes, my lord."
"So, never try to escape, Thirty-Two."
He'd looked up at his inevitable, weighted under the cool, icy eyes of Frost.
"Should you follow my instruction," Lord Hailer had ultimately begun, "I shall assist your ambition to one day die. But until then… you will follow me."
"…Yes, my lord."
From them on, Thirty-Two had been assisted with the acquisition of testosteroids to urge him closer to graduation quicker. His overseer had always assumed it Thirty-Two's responsibility, but that was fine because Thirty-Two had always hated the Program more than even the Frost Empire. Still does.
He wonders where they are now…
The Youth Program is as eternal as Frost itself—it will not melt so easily, they will not die. They will be back…
Right?
They wouldn't have left Thirty-Two behind? After everything, they wouldn't just go—right? Thirty-Two is who he is because of them. They don't just get to go. He'd been their very best. Whatever that means.
Thirty-Two shivers, staring over the crowded streets. He's sitting on a tiled rooftop which slants in the direction of the main square. It's a big roof, and on it he's alone. Below, the people talk amongst themselves, enthusiastically expressing themselves through an array of emotion, whether that be sad or happy or even angry. In the bustle, one young person laughs as his friend mimics the elderly man in front, silent at this distance, but surely loud with barking laughter if Thirty-Two were to stand by his side.
He rests his head on his knees, his arms wrapped around them like a bow, still watching. The protestors from earlier also approach the young person; presenting him with a picket like they had done Thirty-Two, but except instead of minutely accepting it, the young person uses it to immediately smack his friend until they both crumple into laughter.
As an alternative of lamenting on how quickly the young person would die if he actually was conscripted, Thirty-Two watches the two friends chase each other around with the picket. They're both smiling. They're touching each other. Laughing.
Thirty-Two suddenly can't stand it. He eyes the tiles.
It really is a big roof.
Perhaps… in another world, Thirty-Two would have…
He coughs.
His cheeks heat in embarrassment at the trailing thought.
Perhaps, he forces himself to think, in another world, Thirty-Two possibly, maybe, potentially, would have even had friends—people his own age. People he might have laughed or shared unreserved jokes with whilst grinning a wide, toothy smile.
He squeezes his knees at the betrayal of thought—because Thirty-Two knows he doesn't deserve the luxury of such comforts—not for the crimes he's committed against humanity, and not when he, with his own hands, butchered so many and ruined life after life until only devastation was left in his wake.
Thirty-Two is good at that—killing.
He's very good at it, actually.
So good that the pedestal he's been placed on for the deed is so high that no others from the Program could contend. And those who also showed a talent for the "art" (like Pyrak) were never exactly preferable company. He'd let them know as such. In the refined corridors of the facility, he'd walk alone.
Always alone.
Well… not always.
As much as he doesn't want to think about Goku, he does.
He hadn't planned on having any moments spare to think, and now that he does, it is a raw, excruciating experience which dilutes the moment. It hurts his stomach, and he twitches his hands, painfully unable to stop himself from doing so from the anxiety of recalling any moment from aboard the Capsule Corporation ship.
The longer he's left alone, the more he thinks. Reflects. Recalls.
Thirty-Two is an accomplished captain with a mind for problem solving, but there isn't a problem to be solved. This is about patience. This is about just existing.
All he has to do is wait…
Thirty-Two rocks himself, watching from his tower.
The next day is spent entirely in bed.
So is the next day.
That final night, the nightmares startle him into a state of panic until a line of vomit cuts from the bed to the door. He remains awake, cleaning his shame until dawn breaks.
He breakfasts on his final sweet bread roll, which he eats as he makes his way to the reception, already setting himself up for the routine of usual disappointment befitting the creature at the desk.
But, then…
"As promised," the receptionist says, gesturing to the canisters of concentrated liquid hydrogen atop the counter. Thirty-Two couldn't be more pleased, and he paces up to it, hands quick to run over the smooth bodies of the canisters. "An' I even get yer an air freshener fer yer little spacepod. On the house fer all yer patron'edge."
Yes, he'd already noticed the felt-lined decorative piece that's surely supposed to smell of wild berries if the design is anything to by. He stares at it; half tempted to staple it to the receptionist's greasy nose. Because of him, Thirty-Two is down to his last currency card and he'll have to stop off at least two more space stations before he reaches Namek.
There is a pause until—ultimately—Thirty-Two collects the canisters. Something about this feels strange. Anticlimactic, almost. Like his empty, fleeting stay here never even happened. So suddenly, he's back on the road.
"Aren't yer a strong'en! G'bye!"
Thirty-Two awkwardly maneuvers himself through the cluster of shoddy woodwork with his canisters, falling into the daylight and the current of pedestrians surging towards the station. He pushes into the opposite direction, slipping down an alleyway that he found to be a shortcut to the shipyard. His pod was parked in Section 16b, down in the dungeons of the parking facility; the cheapest and most solitary cranny he would be able to leave his ship. Upon reaching the underground, he quickly finds the ship in its confined corner, puts down his canisters and kneels down to punch in the unlock code on its shell.
It beeps contentedly. There is a hiss, the door lifts at leisure, and Thirty-Two gets to feeding it the desired fuel.
That's when he hears it—at the first glug of replenishment—footsteps.
His instinct has him stand to full attention.
"Captain," greets the shadows, notably in the Southern tongue.
These shadows swell in size, spreading to perhaps ten or eleven distinctive men. A full dispatch unit. Thirty-Two recognizes the formation. At the front, the speaker approaches with apprehensive step. He's a captain if the furs are anything to go by, but not one Thirty-Two recognizes. With war at the forefront of the political climate, it isn't unusually to have a reshuffle of power. Captains come and go.
He seems to know Thirty-Two however because he comes to a stop ten feet away.
"We have been ordered to retrieve you."
Thirty-Two looks about the room. Shaky astras are in gesture of him.
"There are others outside," continues the captain uneasily. He doesn't want any difficulties, which goes to tell Thirty-Two that he may be expecting them. Do they consider him a traitor? A military deserter?
Thirty-Two glances quickly towards the exit. The flittering of his eyes is enough to spook the captain, who clears his throat and takes yet another step forward. It would be possible to kill all these men. To escape with his pod. This captain seems inappropriately appointed—he's green, and scares easy. One stray astra bullet would—.
"Lord Hailer is awaiting us."
That voice.
It's like those cold, mechanical fingers are goring his chest cavern once more. He doesn't move. His military boots want him to remain regimented in stationary compliance. Schooling his expression, Thirty-Two swallows that thrill of fear. It hadn't been the captain to speak.
Overseer Cace.
"Thirty-Two…" he continues, now appearing languidly, like shore against the sand, as he slowly advances from the unit of men once concealing him. "Do not be difficult." It's said so quietly that it may not have been said at all. A warning. Thirty-Two recognizes the tone.
Thirty-Two chances a glance at his spacepod—.
"Is that really your best option?"
His gaze averts. The floor. He looks at it, shoulders tense.
"Yes… That's right. Head down…. Eyes front."
It's suddenly quite difficult to breathe, although Thirty-Two must be managing it because he watches his chest rise and fall in a practiced, steady rhythm. Soon enough, boots appear barely a fraction away.
The backhand across his face isn't supposed to hurt, but to shame. Thirty-Two's head tilts and remains there.
"Enough foolishness, Thirty-Two."
And then, against his will, Thirty-Two nods, just the once, slowly and stiffly like unoiled machinery.
"You loitered too long," Overseer Cace murmurs, close. "The hostel keeper reported you to the authorities due to your... similarities to an apparently deceased captain. Perhaps you underestimated your own prestige. Whilst the plebeians may not recognize you, our most loyal do."
The receptionist is a plant, Thirty-Two realizes—and one who had managed to keep Thirty-Two here for days, under the guise of providing him fuel, and just long enough for these bastards to appear.
"You were the one unable to kill Prince Vegeta."
Thirty-Two grits his teeth, furious with himself.
"And at this, you failed, live on air. Failed yourself. Failed your lord. And, most importantly, failed the Program."
He closes his eyes.
"And now, you hide yourself, without your microchip, away, in a hole as such as this." After a thick swell of time, Overseer Cace hums. It's a long, dull sound that persists at the back of his throat. Thirty-Two hates the depth of it. Hates how stupid it makes him feel. "Yes, Thirty-Two, let us hope Lord Hailer finds it in his heart to forgive your failures."
Thirty-Two suddenly feels desperate to be forgiven even though he is not sorry. And worse yet, he feels the desire to be praised, just because he knows that means they will leave him alone—at least for some time. Shamefully, his head dips.
The Overseer's hand rests atop it.
As quick as it came about, no longer is Thirty-Two alone.