Thirty-Two's head is bowed in disgrace, his body bent in half as he kneels at the foot of Lord Hailer's throne. The floor is his fixture and he eyes it with devotion as the hollow vacancy of the chamber offers little to be focused on, aside this floor, and of course his own budding fear of what's to come. It is in this pose he remains for bloated minutes, listening to the low and almost non-existent breathing of his lord above.
Outside, a spacecraft passes by.
Thirty-Two's knee threatens to wobble—but he's better trained than that. It is starting to numb and sweet tingling grows vines down his thigh.
"Stand," orders Lord Hailer softly.
He does, a whip of ache taking his left when he rises to attention. At first, Thirty-Two believes Lord Hailer notices this, what with how his icy blue gaze traces lower, so intense. But then, it rises and holds on Thirty-Two's midsection, on the dark, crumpled jumper gathered above his harm pants—on his lack of uniform.
"That is all."
Upon being dismissed, Thirty-Two leaves the chamber, alone, with no further guards present, and stands beyond the door, silent and admittedly shaky, and so very unsure of where to take himself next—aside the uniform dispatchers.
Very slowly, he turns to leave—but that's when, quite suddenly, one of Lord Hailer's assistants appears to burst ajar the door. Red cheeked, splutters of ragged breath dilute his words.
"My lord!" he cries, "My utmost apologies—it's just—."
Thirty-Two sees it when Lord Hailer stands, displeased.
Interrupting their lordship, especially following a disciplinary is most unwise.
The assistant persists—it must be important. Thirty-Two stills when Lord Hailer's hand rises towards him. There's an audible gulp from the assistant, and he steps back as Lord Hailer approaches. "Sir, it's just…"
As if words could never be enough, the assistant calls forth the screen to descend from the ceiling.
When it flicks to life, Thirty-Two's exposure shatters. His foot slips and he stumbles an entire length forward, but it's not noticed because of Lord Hailer's own devotion to the screen. Blue eyes are hardened with a rarely seen intensity; he's leaned forward, deathly still.
"—will not let this continue anymore!" announces the voice through the crack of the door, from the screen. "Cooler and Hailer need to be stopped—even if I have to do it myself. If I was able to defeat Freiza, then I can do the same again. It's my personal responsibility to serve justice—as the super saiyan who needs to finish the job he started!"
The whirring of golden light is the sun behind clouds, wrapping around Goku.
His hand rises in gesture of the camera.
"I'm coming for you."
Then, the screen shuts off.
Number Thirty-Two
Chapter Twenty-One
The Transfigured
Four weeks later
As if atop a flag mast, Thirty-Two's furs ripple patriotically, grey in a sky equally as such. A gust carrying sleet blusters by, and against it, Thirty-Two's boots crunch over snow and towards the training unit he's been chief in overseeing. They are new recruits, selected from an amalgamation of volunteers and conscripts from a distant jurisdiction where the Southern tongue is not their own. Thirty-Two's efficiency with the Common word had been stipulated the reason why this role befell him, even though he's bad at managing a ragtag bunch of idiots, and the recruits have done nothing but complain the moment Thirty-Two turns away.
"He's exhausted!" protests one recruit when Thirty-Two comes to a stop at the collective.
They're gathered around a lump of a boy who has collapsed during his weight training. A lazy, spoilt conscript with no discipline. He'd mistaken Thirty-Two for one of his fellow recruits last week—thinking it funny to attempt to trip him as he walked—and Thirty-Two had come to dislike him since then, commonly pushing him to such a point where he crumples into a pitiful puddle of piss.
It's petty, but encouraged. At least one recruit per unit dies in training, and Thirty-Two doesn't mind it being this one. Eggs need to be broken to make the omelet and all that.
"Get up," Thirty-Two orders.
The boy pants, phlegmy, winded, and whining like a train cutting the distance.
"Get up, Glellork," encourages the first recruit, "You don't want to end up like Vallery, do you? Get the fuck up!"
If anything, Glellork whines harder. Vallery had been killed in the firing training last week, so Thrity-Two heard. She'd been gunned down for missing every single target for three days straight. The leading marksmen had been lenient enough—Thirty-Two doesn't know what these recruits had expected. Even if the girl had been menstruating, that is no excuse for poor performance. The enemy will not care about the trivialities of a stomachache.
And certainly, they will not care if you are a fat, tired dumpling.
Thirty-Two brings out his astra, cocking it. Immediately, Glellork makes another high-pitched cry, and around, the recruits shout at him to stand, order him to move. The first pulls at his arm. They demand he pushes himself—and the weighted sacks around his wrists—up.
When the gun takes aim, some move back, but others grow even more vocal. They urge Glellork to move, and Thirty-Two waves his astra towards them when they try to drag him up themselves. Instantly, they disperse.
All, except one.
"C'mon!" barks the first recruit, a must-be friend of Glellork. He's not bad for a conscript; strong, commanding—but ultimately, too willful for his own good. Motlet is his name. "Get up! Please! Captain, look, he's moving! Just… Just give him a moment! Wait, no!"
Thirty-Two shoots him.
No, not the lump, but the friend, Motlet, who drops to the ground, holding the thigh where the bullet protruded. He's groaning, clearly not used to pain.
"Get up," Thirty-Two orders again. He repurposes the astra over Motlet's shoulder this time. "Or I will shoot again."
At this, Glellork finally lifts his head, his eyes sparkling with deplorable self-pity. He looks towards the other boy, whose chest is reminiscent of a rabbit's, one caught in the jaws of a predator. The spectating recruits are silent with fear, and Glellork looks to them, too, perhaps for help, although nobody is cheering him on anymore.
There is a last muffled cry, and then, finally, Glellork, under unsteady limbs, manages to push himself to his feet. He wobbles. The weights are unbalanced and so he stands with a strange lean, but most importantly, he is up.
Thirty-Two lowers his weapon.
"You're all dismissed," Thirty-Two tells them.
Only the injured party, who remains in the snow, bleeding out and swallowing quick, panicked gulps of air, bow their heads. Thirty-Two watches as they all turn to leave. Glellork abandons his weights and rushes to Motlet's side, hurling him up and in amble of the nearest medical bay.
Finally alone in the courtyard, Thirty-Two lets loose a slow, uneven breath.
The hope that he doesn't pull any recruit duty for the rest of the week is minimal. The fools test his patience more than any other job around here, with their yet to be broken spirits and trusting, stupid natures. How they casually help one another—he'll have to stamp that out of them, just like the Youth Program had done with him.
He looks to his new astra and its famished, blood thirsty sheen. It has not yet taken a single life since being issued to him, only maimed. Thirty-Two is concerned that this will be noticed by higher ups. Since his return, it's just, well… Thirty-Two has somehow found himself unable to follow through. Back then, there'd been no good reason not to kill both of those recruits. They'll die before their training is complete, for opposing reasons, so why bother extend their suffering? Why hadn't he just shot them dead and be done with it?
He slots the astra back into its holster, unable to so much as hold it for a second longer, before turning his gaze up to the early evening's offerings. Stars.
"I don't know what you're up to, but you don't have to do anything you don't want to, y'know," Goku had gently advised weeks ago, before everything went to hell, "You could just come along with us. Join us on Earth after, like Vegeta did. You could start again."
The vacant hope tastes bitter and he denies himself even the fantasy of it. Even the stars do not appease him tonight, and instead signify the empty, burning balls of gas that they are. It is important to serve reality. To remain vigilant when distractions threaten the course of action.
Thirty-Two rests his palm against his arm, against the unnatural bulge of skin where the capsule is submerged under tissue. When opportunity strikes, he will be ready to cut it free. To make his ambition a reality. So far, he has waited years for his wish—a little longer will have to suffice.
In the chaos of war, Thirty-Two feels assured that the time will find him, and he will be able to either escape to Namek or find a namekian and summon the dragon. He'll rip apart said namekian, limb by limb, should it come to it. This stupid dragon is emerging from these blasted fucking rocks.
He thinks about his ambitions most nights, but not all. Warring is wildly busy work, and Thirty-Two often finds himself working double shifts until late and into the next day. His assignments have been sporadic. Some days, he is with the new recruits (something dreaded by both parties), others, he can be found monitoring the construction, administrative, health care or engineering personnel in case of a terrorist attack. He's prevented four such attacks this week alone. Yesterday, after overseeing the production of an artillery attachment, he'd fallen asleep at Nami's desk for a solid three hours—and then after that, he'd been requested for patrol duty in the nearby hamlet.
"You can do a bit of everything, can't you?"
Now back in the lab, on a rare break, Thirty-Two laughs tiredly, watching Nami work at his craft. Thirty-Two himself is curled up in the large, padded computer chair with his furs draped around aching shoulders.
His eyes are closed. "It doesn't mean I'm good at everything."
There's a gruff chuckle and Thirty-Two opens one eye to watch Nami's back bounce as he leans over his workbench. "You could have fooled me. They've got you doing all sorts of nonsense. Maybe you should consider some weaponized incompetence. My missus tells me it's my shining talent."
"She's clearly never seen you reassemble a gas operated assault rifle in less than a minute."
"Hardly matters. She thinks they're useless."
"Assault rifles? They do have terrible blowback."
"Aye, aye. You sound like her."
Thirty-Two leans back against the encompassing chair, exhausted. He yawns. "I still like them, though."
"Because you have fine taste," Nami tells him, clearly bolstering himself, but it's in a mocking, humourous baritone that Thirty-Two enjoys. He turns around and wags his wrench wisely. "They have a great volume of fire and you appreciate that. We men appreciate power over the common sense of logistics!"
Thirty-Two snorts, smothering his amusement with the furs. "Don't lump me in with you."
"Keh… Hey, you really do look beat, kid. Why don't you go have a proper lie down if you're tired?"
The truth of the matter is that Thirty-Two feels comfortable here. A dark, empty room with nothing but his own thoughts sounds unpleasant—here at least, Thirty-Two can be distracted. Talked to sleep. Lulled by the presence of something or someone other than his inner monologue.
He feels himself dropping… His head lowering… Dipping, nodding…
Then, the compulsive viewing of the Empire has the mounted TV screen crackle with loud, hissing static. The signal isn't the best down here due to the Faraday cage being active, so Thirty-Two is surprised enough to groggily raise his head. Compulsive viewing has become the norm in recent weeks—and it's so often with the same face gracing the screen.
"It's my personal responsibility to serve justice," announces the regularly looped voice the Frost Empire has been subjected to for weeks. It sounds distorted now. Unlike him. Thirty-Two has been able to tune out the characteristics that connect the voice and the man he buried in the rubble. There's another crackle. "As the super s-s-saiyan who needs to finish the job he st-st-started!"
Nami sighs and Thirty-Two forces his eyes closed, his brows furrowing.
"The enemy of the Frost D-Dynasty has taken a stand," Lord Hailer's recording drawls. "From every angle, evil befalls our ambitions to take r-r-righteous hold of the universe. The eyes watch from—."
"Every crevice and every shadow," mouths Thirty-Two in sync, burying his head. How many times do they need to play this a day?
"Just r-remember," finishes Lord Hailer, before the voice contorts into his, Goku's, "I'm coming for you."
Thirty-Two catches the last glimpse of orange before the screen fades to black.
"Sai-yans," Nami mumbles in broken Common tongue, "Super saiyans, whatever they are… What else is going to crawl out of the woodwork? A herd of Sélts? Gorphians?"
Sélts are a race of infanticide cannibals. Thirty-Two actually isn't sure what a Gorphian is, but considering they've been lumped alongside two other detestable groups, he assumes them not to be exactly upstanding. Like most well-to-do Frost Empire servants, Nami is not keen on whoever he's told not to be keen on—especially those who threaten to shake up the system and his steady income.
"It's probably in due to the saiyan cull," continues Nami, "An action brings about a reaction and all that. A Saiyan uprising isn't surprising considering their history. What, an uprising of all six or seven of them left. Heh."
Thirty-Two hums.
"While I don't generally agree with racial genocide, for some, there are exceptions."
For whatever reason, Thirty-Two feels a nerve twitch at that. "Have you ever met one?" he bites out.
"Blimey! A saiyan? No, 'course not. I wouldn't be around that sort." There's a guttural sound of amusement and the wrench rests against the bench momentarily. "I have a woman and child. I wouldn't dare mess around with illegals. Besides, I'm never let out of my basement—other than to take in the shipments and get chewed out by the manager. Keh."
Thirty-Two lets out a weak laugh.
Oddly, Nami doesn't return back to his work, instead rapping his wrench against his arm in rhythm, investigative in stare. Thirty-Two sits up a little at the invasion, wondering if Nami sensed his barbarian genetics. Just as Thirty-Two goes to say something, Nami beats him to it, a strange glint to his expression.
"Just say it, Nami."
Nami laughs good-naturedly, caught out. "Since you got back," he repeats, purposeful, "You seem different."
Thirty-Two immediately bristles, wondering how best to both argue back and pretend he doesn't care about this ridiculous accusation.
A hand is held up before he can attempt either. "You don't have to say," Nami continues, turning around, as if showing he is not looking for a skirmish, "I was worried about you, travelling, MIA, alone. I thought you'd…" He coughs, and Thirty-Two hears the confrontation of metal against metal. There's a pause. "But it's quite the opposite, actually. You seemed to have found something out there, and whatever it was looks to have done you some good."
All at once, the rest of Thirty-Two's good mood swirls down the gutter.
"I found nothing good out there," he lies.
"Mmm…I don't know about that. You seem more…" He thinks over his words. "Open."
Vulnerable, he means.
Weak. Exposed. Pathetic.
Thirty-Two squeezes his furs around his shoulders. His will to contest Nami can't compare to the hurricane happening inside his body.
"I'm sorry."
Thirty-Two jostles, unsure if Nami apologizing for making him feel sick with discomfort or for saying anything in the first place. It so turns out, it's neither.
"…For what?" Thirty-Two forces out, knowing the subject won't be dropped.
"You're a good kid." Nami's gruff voice sounds overstuffed. The wrench halts, clanging against the bench in wait for its master, whose head now dips over it. "You must have gone through… a lot out there, and even before that. Really…You deserved so much better... than what you've gone through. With the… Program. I know you don't think so, but if anyone is worthy of happiness, it's you, kid."
Silence conflates the atmosphere, and Thirty-Two's raw wounds ache once more, worse than the vulnerability. He leans back, the moment too much to handle—Nami isn't supposed to say things like this. He's supposed to be safe ground. A place for Thirty-Two to escape to—and a person not invested in Thirty-Two's openness. The wheels on the chair take Thirty-Two further back, and he allows it, slowly circling to a stop. Above, the ceiling is bright with corporate lighting, and Thirty-Two stares into it, thinking of the sun and how warm it felt on his hands.
The truth of the matter is that Thirty-Two wouldn't even know what to do with happiness if he found it.
There is a difference between happiness and contentedness; hedonic thrills will never overthrow a steady, healthy line of contentedness. Not that he is familiar with either. But Thirty-Two isn't entirely nihilistic. Even in the dark, there is light. Stars are in the sky, after all, and Thirty-Two appreciates them on the rare occasions he can.
The chair stops spinning.
"Thank you," he then whispers, even if he doesn't necessarily agree with Nami's sentiment. The open wound stings but he forces himself to be, well, appreciative.
Opposite, the screen's vacancy reflects back very little at all.
Swift fly the days. As Thirty-Two exhausts himself through menial, unambitious work shifts, the lump hidden beneath his arm becomes a subdued pressure that carries him forward. He anxiously strokes it each night, wondering when to expect Lord Hailer's enactment.
Thirty-Two isn't deluded enough to persuade himself that he will go unpunished for his unapproved voyage. When Lord Hailer is good and ready, the punishment will let itself be known.
How horrific should Thirty-Two expect it to be? Will it be physical? Lord Hailer once reduced a soldier to only the two digits per hand for a similar crime. Kindly, the soldier had been allowed to choose which fingers to keep. A different soldier had been stripped of his tongue. Another, his manhood. Thirty-Two worries that his immortality might encourage a dismembered limb to grow back—it's always a gamble. His tail has returned twice already.
There's always the chance that Lord Hailer might inflict psychological punishment. But… Thirty-Two is at a bit of a loss. He hasn't any close people Lord Hailer can kill, and he hasn't any assets, connections or ambitions that could be exploited. Sure, Thirty-Two enjoys the occasional visit with Nami and some of the other researchers, but the Frost Empire is low on senior Research Division members as it is, like they're low on workers across the board. They wouldn't execute Nami to prove a point, surely.
Just in case, Thirty-Two will break from visiting so often.
Now in bed, he lies, staring at the ceiling, as he has done for the last three hours.
His testosteroids sometimes make him unwell before bed, and those good old, dependable nightmares continue strong since Thirty-Two's reunion with the Empire. However, it's the testosteroids which have been especially disagreeable. Since his stint of not taking them during his travels, his body has adapted to a life without. He wonders if his body has built an intolerance to them. The newly gained weight around his face stubbornly refuses to leave. He looks younger.
Self-consciously, Thirty-Two rubs his cheeks. Fat. It's all so fat.
It should be fine, he convinces himself. Overseer Cace promised that if Thirty-Two cooperates then he'll never have to return to the Youth Program. It doesn't matter what he looks like. Thirty-Two just has to do as he's told.
Overseer Cace knows well. He's always—whilst horrible—known what's best for Thirty-Two. He'll make sure he stays in Lord Hailer's good books. Punishment or no, Lord Hailer will not throw away Thirty-Two when he is the key to immortality. It will be in his meeting tomorrow that perhaps Overseer Cace may reveal some insight.
Dread wakes him several times in the night, pressuring him to give in, to remain awake and queasy, and so deeply frustrated that the only success he finds is in counting all the tiles above his bed.
There are one-thousand-eight hundred-and-eight.
The next day, in his bundle of furs, Thirty-Two watches Goku's looped speech on the television screen. It overlooks the terrace and is used so often for propaganda and announcements these days that it's never turned off. These are trying times, after all. Passerby soldiers pay no mind to it, of course, from having heard Goku speak countless times by now. As crowds streak past Thirty-Two, he watches, desperately attempting to suppress the same emotion he feels whenever he sees the clip.
Rage.
How dare Goku throw this all away? How dare he position himself so dangerously—after everything Thirty-Two did to spare him! He'd told him to return to his planet! He'd spared him the torturous soldiers who stole away Thirty-Two! And for what? For Goku's stupidity to throw himself dead centre of all of this bullshit!
"I'm coming for you," Goku says in his speech, looking directly at Thirty-Two.
'I'm in this until the end,' Goku says between the lines.
Thirty-Two always felt that Goku held no personal ill will towards either Lord Hailer or Lord Cooler, aside from the usual common sense hatred of tyrannical monsters. He would not hunt them down. He is no vigilante. Killing Frieza had never been the ambition of their trip to Namek, a fact corroborated by Piccolo back at the Youth Program. Goku's natural instincts likely led him to serve justice—but this is different.
Now, Goku is seeking the Frost lords out… or so it appears.
Thirty-Two knows Goku knows. About him. About the immortality—to at least some degree, because he's still hell bent on finding Thirty-Two, on sending a message to say that he will not be sent away. To say that even Thirty-Two's rejection of him will not be enough.
He has ousted himself to join Thirty-Two's world.
The realization makes Thirty-Two's chest hurt a little. There's something there that he doesn't recognize, something that makes him uncomfortable and want to hide in his room until the feeling dissolves away. How often has his chest hurt in the last couple of months?
Why? Why won't Goku just go home? Can't he see that his son doesn't exist anymore? Goku yearns for a memory. Not him. Not Thirty-Two. He wants his child back, the untarnished, non-murderous innocent who has yet to become a monster. His child is dead! Why can't he accept that? Thirty-Two has no family. Thirty-Two is Youth Program. Is a product. Thirty-Two wants for no father, thank you very much. He in fact does not want. Like a good product should.
Repurposed, he makes way for the training courtyard where he is expected to have the recruits be able to adequately defend themselves against bigger opponents. An unrealistic expectation considering they wouldn't be able to defend themselves against smaller opponents, or opponents of any regard, really.
"Oh, he's in a bad mood," Thirty-Two overhears when he reaches the poorly congregated unit.
They're at least lined up this time, but as usual, their overtly poor posture is prominent, and it's with the stealth of rummaging bulls that they whisper amongst themselves.
Thirty-Two stands before them, waiting for their lack of discipline to stop being an eyesore. Slowly, the group reorganizes themselves into something presentable—but for some reason, there is still something off about the unit.
Eight, nine, ten, eleven…
The space next to Glellork is empty. It's where the talented loudmouth would normally stand, the one who rushed to Glellork's aid a few days ago.
"Glellork, where is Motlet?"
Silence.
"Glellork."
There's a sniffle from the lump and his eyes are harder than Thirty-Two remembers.
"Dead, then," Thirty-Two summarizes. He must have pushed back a little too hard in another Captain's training session.
"Shooting range," informs one of the others—out of turn.
God. They're just not getting this.
Reactively, Thirty-Two takes out his astra and fires, maiming the recruit in the arm. The boy slumps to the floor, at least quiet as the blood drains into the snow.
"I'll ask for input should I need it. I believe I was speaking to Glellork.
"Now, partner up with another recruit. The objective from today's session is to defend against larger, stronger opponents—which involves avoiding their punching range. Using mobility is key. Not to meet them in direct confrontat—what is it, Glellork?"
"My partner is… uh…" He eyes the recruit bleeding out.
Well, that's unfortunate.
Thirty-Two folds him arms, and then turns to the boy, droll. "Congratulations, you've just achieved your first victory."
Whether it's the recruits or Thirty-Two who are more relieved at the end of the session, it remains a mystery. Though, it is a short-lived reprieve for Thirty-Two, as he is expected in the most northern wing of the grounds midday.
As always, the door is unlocked.
"You are in a precarious position," Overseer Cace tells him upon his entry. He doesn't look towards Thirty-Two, his hands firm behind his back as he approaches the window. Overseer Cace has his own temporary office with a pleasant view of the Observation tower, along with enormous, comfortable sofas that Thirty-Two never sits on. "Lord Hailer recognizes your patience, but still concerns himself with your devotion. You are devoted, are you not?"
Thirty-Two nods.
"I see."
Overseer Cace admires the sweep of snow outside, faraway thoughts carrying him elsewhere, perhaps back to the Youth Program, where he prospers. Thirty-Two knows that Overseer Cace has been asked to keep watch over him, to make sure he does not escape again. Not that it had been a choice the first time. But no matter the truth, the fabrication that Thirty-Two had murdered Pyrak and then fled became fact to the gossiping, easily frightened servants of the Frost Empire.
Overseer Cace knows that not be the case, however. Pyrak's betrayal must not be revealed. The Youth Program does not foster criminals.
"This morning, Cilo's men destroyed three Frost Empire vessels this week in the central zone," Overseer Cace then informs him, "Two of which were Southern. A commander by the name of Lya takes responsibility. Do you recognize the name?"
"The woman who held me prisoner," Thirty-Two tells him.
"Yes, I remembered as much." Overseer Cace's hand presses against the glass, caressing it as he admires the world beyond. "She has been reported to be in the company of both Vegeta and the Super Saiyan."
Thirty-Two remains silent.
"You say you crossed paths with Vegeta—but you did not mention the Super Saiyan."
"We met very briefly at the Green Snow Tavern, and I lodged several bullets into him and left him for dead. I had not known who he was at the time."
"You shot him and he survived?" Overseer Cace sounds bewildered even though he's probably never exhibited such emotion in his life. He hums, rolling his lips. "I see."
A creeping panic rises from Thirty-Two's toes upwards—his knees turn to stone. "I brought in Captain Ytvl, executed a rebel aggressor and had the tavern ransacked, sir, I—."
"Are you panicking, Thirty-Two?" hisses Overseer Cace quite suddenly, spinning. "To rush into excuses is always a sign of weakness."
Head down. Eyes front.
"Have you entirely lost your noble servitude? Your pride?"
Head down. Eyes front.
"The Frost Empire will bring upon salvation—and you are one if its leading vessels. Carriers of might and justice. Vessels do not lie. Do not deceive. They serve!"
Head down.
"You have been blessed!"
Eyes front.
"So, show gratitude through integrity."
"Yes, Overseer."
"Your weakness has brought dishonor onto our Program. It is time for you to right your wrongs."
Thirty-Two's shoulders stiffen, and this seems to please the overseer. A hand rests atop of Thirty-Two's dark, drawn-back hair, and the Overseer strokes it, slowly, all the way to the bottom, past the shoulders.
"Restore what is right," he finishes in a whisper, resting his hand atop his arm, giving it a firm squeeze. It stays there. "You're a good son of the Frost Empire, aren't you?"
"Yes," Thirty-Two replies dutifully.
"A child of the Program, too. Oh, you must have been frightened when you heard of the Program's bombing."
"No," he denies, mumbling. "The Program is like Frost."
"It never melts."
Thirty-Two nods.
"You'll be rewarded," Overseer Cace continues, livelier, "I know what you want, Thirty-Two. I can promise that you will receive it should you serve your rightful duty with unwavering, faithful devotion. It would be like going to sleep after a long day, I'm sure. It would be sweet. An earned release after fulfilling your life purpose. Isn't that beautiful, Thirty-Two?"
"Yes, sir."
The hand withdraws. He has been appeased.
"I want you to remember our conversation when the time finds you. Whilst you may not be ready to talk of the Super Saiyan yet, I know you will perform expectedly when asked of you by our gracious lord."
Then, as though no such conversation just took place, Overseer Cace returns to his viewpoint, admiring the eternal white beyond.
Contrarily, following the meeting with Overseer Cace, the refectory is chaotic with boisterous chatter. Soldiers walk together, some laughing, others morose with physical, aggressive shove-offs, some are loud simply for the joy of it. There is a spectrum of emotion, so visually and audibly assaulting that Thirty-Two regrets the moment of entry. It's full to the brim today, likely due to the blizzard cancelling outside training. A ridiculous notion. Snowstorms come and go. In the Program, they'd be expected to push through, even under the threat of hypothermia.
Sour, he accepts his slop and takes his usual spot in the corner, near the window.
As always, after speaking with Overseer Cace, Thirty-Two feels weary, as though all colour was just drained from the world. The snowstorm outside is an appropriate visual for that. Thirty-Two basks in the negativity, satiating himself on it.
"I heard that Lord Cooler managed to take Planet Frost N. 56 for his own," Thirty-Two soon eavesdrops on passerby soldiers, which is terrible news if true. It means he should expect a summoning for a captain's meeting later this week. Great. More work.
Soldiers have been gossiping in packs, their eyes wild and hungry for any snippets of information that could sustain them, and even around the table nearest to Thirty-Two's own, five young recruits loudly discuss menial hearsay. What use is speculation? Why don't they just wait for official notices?
Frustrated with it all, Thirty-Two prods at his food with his cutlery. The brown jiggles, displeased. The stomatology division still refuses to lift his ban on sugar. What he would do for a sweet bread or even just one sugar cube. He runs his finger in an idle circle in a continuous motion, imaging the bowl he'd cherry-pick his sugar cubes from. He remembers the vista of space passing him by. Bulma and Vegeta arguing in the background on low heat, Piccolo's silent presence, turning pages as Goku reads his files…
"C-C-Captain."
Thirty-Two's gaze rises. Oh, it's the lump.
"Glellork."
"Am I… permitted to…?" He gestures to the table. "It's j-just," he begins when Thirty-Two's lip begins to curl, "There are no other places."
It's not a rule not to sit with a Captain, but it's socially implied. Recruits sit together. Certified soldiers sit together. Captains sit together. And if a captain doesn't want to sit with the captains, he sits alone.
Glellork is an idiot so takes a seat anyway, diagonally across from Thirty-Two and at the furthest point of the table he can, keeping his focus on his mountain of food. Unlike Thirty-Two, he's been allowed sweets, having chosen biscuits, processed jellies and even a berry tart, which is ridiculous because widthwise he's already twice the size of Thirty-Two.
Jealously, Thirty-Two stabs at the (what might be referred to as a) vegetable on his tray. He stares out of the window, watching the gale bluster by. Weeks ago, he'd been eating little cakes filled with dried fruits and jam.
He'd not been here.
"Uh."
Thirty-Two groans inwardly, sensing that Glellork may be a talker.
"I don't care about easing your social anxiety," Thirty-Two informs him.
"R-right. Sorry."
Twenty torturous minutes into an uncomfortable dining experience, Thirty-Two receives a message on his scouter, requesting his presence in one of the tucked away meeting rooms on the west side of the facility. It takes him a while to see the message because it doesn't immediately alert him to a summoning like his last one would. The blasted thing isn't as good as its predecessor, mostly because it hasn't been illegally deconstructed and reconstructed to suit Thirty-Two's nefarious needs (like breaking past the Frost Empire firewall onto the unregulated servers). Even if he wanted to contact the outside world, he wouldn't be able to.
Food forgotten, he grumbles his way to the west wing, coiling upwards along the stairs as the wind shakes the tower. Whatever they want him for must be confidential if they're using the desolate, rarely used chamber atop the tower in the cupola. The last time he was summoned here was last year when they found one of Lord Cooler's spies in the same private quarters Thirty-Two resides in. He'd lived two doors down. A quiet man of Melian decent, who'd never so much as said a word to Thirty-Two, and for that fact alone, Thirty-Two hadn't minded him. Thirty-Two couldn't give much information about him other than he didn't return home roaring drunk like the neighbour between them would. That'd been that, the melian had been quietly destroyed and the quarters two doors down received a new inhabitant—who regrettably became the drinking buddy of the first loudmouth drunk. Sometimes, Thirty-Two wonders if he could pin any evidence on his neighbours to save himself from stumbling into beer cans in their adjoining corridor at two in the morning.
The meeting room draws quiet when he reaches the open door.
It's the same committee he'd met last time, he acknowledges, moving forwards, but they're not alone. On the Red Cedar conference table, sitting as a centerpiece is the decapitated, frozen in anguish, head of the Cilo woman, Lya. Immediately, Thirty-Two remembers his conversation with Oversee Cace. He doesn't pay too much mind to the gore, sitting when gestured to do so by the captain leading the session.
Another gale of wind rattles the tower, howling.
"Do you recognize this person?" asks the captain, not even bothering to look up, reading through the inhumane amount of paperwork spread across the table.
"Yes."
There is a humming chorus from the jury of meeting members. Pens scratch along paper. Rogue beeps from scouters and computers fill the silence.
"In what capacity, Captain Thirty-Two, did you know this person?"
"Professionally, I suppose."
"Would you call it a positive or negative relationship?"
"Considering she issued the order to have me tortured and then executed, I wouldn't exactly call us friends."
Finally, the captain looks up. He doesn't look impressed with Thirty-Two's dryness. He removes his glasses and cleans them, eying Thirty-Two with distaste.
"Negative," Thirty-Two says after a stretch of silence, "Obviously."
"Obviously," the captain returns. "In custody, did you happen to notice any other prisoners that may have stood out to you for one reason or another?"
"I saw no other prisoners."
"Other Cilo workers?"
"Captain Ytvl before it was revealed that he was a double agent—or triple, rather."
"Any others?"
"Nameless, faceless men."
"Anyone else who you may recognize now?"
"The Super Saiyan," Thirty-Two offers purposefully. "If you knew he was there then why ask me? Vegeta, too, as I already reported to Lord Hailer himself. Many of my findings are confidential, as you well know, Captain."
There is murmuring around the table. Some are uneasy with Thirty-Two and Lord Hailer's closer than usual working relationship, and rarely is Thirty-Two cross-examined in such a manner as this.
The captain wizens up. "Was it this woman, Lya, who oversaw your imprisonment for its entirety?"
Thirty-Two looks towards the severed head, focusing on how the blood sits on ghost-white lips. "No," he eventually tells honestly, "Captain Ytvl took a leading role, also."
"Who, according to your previous report, you had in your own custody before Lya and her men captured and imprisoned you."
"If that's what the report says," Thirty-Two says tersely. Are they trying to build a case against him? "Why am I here, Captain?"
The captain looks Thirty-Two up and down, beholding him as though he might be muck on the bottom of his shoes—which would unlikely be the case because this pencil pusher looks like he's never set foot outside an office in his life.
"All this happened due to Captain Pyrak's apparent betrayal."
"There is nothing apparent about it."
A flick of a page is followed by a hum and the captain consults one of the papers laid in front. "According to your Youth Program records and Captaincy records, you outrank Pyrak in every combat category, weaponry assessment, assignment ranking, commander feedback report, and intelligence test. It is somewhat hard to believe, Captain Thirty-Two, that he managed to pull a fast one on you when such findings suggest its improbability."
"Then take it up with Lord Hailer."
The captain holds a steely gaze on Thirty-Two, his moustache twitching with displeasure.
"Tell him you believe me to have been working with her," Thirty-Two says calmly, gesturing to the severed head. "Because that is what you are suggesting, Captain."
Without breaking eye contact, the captain reshuffles his files and pulls out a specific piece of printer paper. It's glossy with premium ink and slides gracefully across the Red Cedar like a knife through butter. Thirty-Two collects it, steady.
"No, Captain," the captain sneers, "I'm suggesting that you were working with the Super Saiyan."
Printed in full colour, from surveillance footage, at the space station with the bar and its age wave, Thirty-Two stands in silent and static conversation with Goku. He isn't distressed. There is no astra pointed at his head. There are no bindings.
Goku is smiling.
Instead of fear of being caught out, Thirty-Two feels… heavy.
He'd been dismissed shortly following.
His excuse for his being with the Super Saiyan is in fact a half-truth, in the fact that he'd been under sheenks. It's a difficult point to disprove because no testing can now prove otherwise—but suspicion remains amongst the meeting board. It'll only be so long until they make their connections and be able to substantiate that Thirty-Two hadn't been entirely unwilling during his imprisonment. And whilst Lord Hailer would be unsurprised that Thirty-Two has no fondness for the Frost Empire, he would question Thirty-Two's interest in Goku—the Super Saiyan—when Thirty-Two himself is a saiyan.
Would he figure out the truth?
Has he already?
Nauseous. Thirty-Two feels nauseous as he stares at the photograph of himself and Goku.
For some reason, Thirty-Two left the meeting room with the picture in hand, as though it were an extension of his own arm and unable to be parted from his fingers. He clasps it tightly, sliding down the wall, now in the privacy of his own chamber with his knees tuck loyally under his chin.
Why did Goku reveal himself? Why couldn't he have just returned to Earth like Thirty-Two told him to?
And what happened with the woman, Lya? How did she die? Was there a battle? Did Goku fight? Is he alive?
Why did they show Thirty-Two Lya's head? Is this a test?
Thirty-Two breathes hard through his nose, fingering the swell of flesh where the capsule dwells beneath. Being tangled in Frost Empire politics will only deviate him—Thirty-Two must focus on his ambition—he needs to find a namekian who knows the password and a nice, quiet piece of solitude to summon the dragon. With Lord Hailer's punishment and the meeting board enclosing in on him, Thirty-Two feels as though his lungs are being slowly squeezed. He closes his eyes and manifests his dream compliant, expedient namekian.
Should one not turn up then his other option is to tell Lord Hailer of Namek's location.
Is that a price worth paying?
Would Thirty-Two buy his own blood with theirs?
As the days draw on, Thirty-Two promises himself that the next night will be the night he destroys the photograph.
"Lord Hailer forfeited his central positioning to strengthen his hold over Lord Cooler's seized Fruit of Might orchard," Nami swears to him, arms folded, as the screen unfolds with carnage on one of the prime space stations. He's leaning against his workbench, smoking one of his tobacco sticks as he watches. Rings of smoke bloom from its end, blowing into Thirty-Two's face and choking him with its fumes. "I guarantee he sent a weaker platoon there."
"Probably," Thirty-Two agrees when one of the soldiers is messily decapitated onscreen.
"Any word on when or where they'll send you?"
"Not yet."
"Mmm…" He stumps the stick out, releasing smoke through his teeth. "It's a bit of a waste keeping you here, babysitting the recruits, don't you think?"
"Do you want me to go, Researcher?" Thirty-Two asks, wry.
"'Course not, but it feels inevitable at this stage. Lord Hailer isn't known for his patience, is he? Word's that he's been asking more about them bombs I was telling you about."
Thirty-Two rubs his eyes, tired of it all. "I imagine I'll probably be overseeing that air campaign," he murmurs. He wonders if Lord Hailer kept Thirty-Two away from the warring because of the North's claim in killing him—the fact that Ytvl and Captain Tapi both witnessed Thirty-Two's corpse may be a cause for concern.
"I think you're right. Not many captains have much interest in what we've got going on in the labs,—he'll probably want the one who does to have some part in the fireworks."
"Mmm."
"On your next visit, whenever that is, I'll introduce you to the chemical munitions in full so you have a clearer understanding of what to expect during the nuclear reaction."
What an awful time that'll be, Thirty-Two thinks instantly, for the first time finding the idea of visiting the Research Division unappealing. He's been avoiding Nami somewhat as it is, what with the looming threat over his life by association with Thirty-Two. It's been nearly ten days, and in those ten days, Thirty-Two has not once been summoned for either a meeting with the meeting board or Lord Hailer.
"Don't be a stranger, Captain," Nami says when Thirty-Two slinks out of the lab, in direction of the medical ward.
During his monthly servicing, the examining doctor confirms Thirty-Two's anxieties. He's indeed gained a higher fat index, which the doctor praises when Thirty-Two steps off the scale. As Thirty-Two reapplies his furs bad-temperedly, the doctor gives his usual unsolicited advice to eat more, to rest more, to sleep more, to drink more water instead of caffeinated beverages; to, in a nutshell, do all the things that Thirty-Two hasn't any time for.
"How's the new chip?" the doctor asks as he types Thirty-Two's examination details into the database. "Any headaches?"
"Only for the first week," Thirty-Two shares, palming where there was an incision at the nape of his neck. This microchip is buried even deeper this time.
"Nausea?"
Yes, but that won't related to the tracking chip.
"No."
"Good because you've been scheduled for your vaccination boosters. The ACC set. Typhoid, too."
Thirty-Two's brows rise. Such contagions are not prevalent in the South which means Lord Hailer really is planning on sending him northwards. The air campaigns await him, or maybe the civil unrest in one of the central space stations. Lord Hailer has recently overtaken a set of katchin mines so he may even send Thirty-Two to oversee its acquisition. Really, it could be any number ordeals.
For whatever reason, Thirty-Two detests getting injections. Watching the pinprick of a syringe bury itself in his veins somehow is more unbearable than ripping his own flesh apart in search of sheenks.
After, the doctor clicks his tongue, applying a bandage as Thirty-Two pretends not to notice his own discomfort.
"Best of luck out there, Captain," the doctor says ominously when Thirty-Two takes his leave.
Before being presented on the frontlines, Thirty-Two must today once again tend to his other duties, namely, the idiots that have been keeping him the most tied up. His recruits are unable to ever present themselves accordingly, almost to a humorous effect, and they are huddled outside the courtyard.
Glellork is on the floor, the toes of a fellow recruit cutting deeply into his side. He's curled himself into a ball, looking like a sad beetle. There's a sob and he winces, opening his eyes to see Thirty-Two above. The assaulting recruit has a bullet imbedded in his foot for his troubles.
"C-Captain?"
"Get up, Glellork," Thirty-Two says with resignation.
They all run laps for two hours in the blizzard because Thirty-Two can't be bothered teaching them anything. The injured one hops awkwardly but still manages to be faster than the lump.
And for some reason, Glellork has been sitting with Thirty-Two ever since that first day. He doesn't say anything and Thirty-Two doesn't want to cause a scene so he doesn't say anything. One evening serving, however, Glellork becomes brave.
"Goodbye, Captain!" he calls out rather quickly before ambling off as quickly as he's able to. In his wake, on Thirty-Two's plate quite suddenly appears a tart. Thirty-Two stares at the berry filling in bewilderment, and then after the recruit who's managed to knock over two food trays on his way out.
Thirty-Two makes Glellork run double laps during his next session.
The next meal, Glellork gives him his sugared biscuits.
He's given extra chore duties as a result.
It all proves too much when, a day later, Thirty-Two orders Glellork to return to his seat when a jelly is abandoned. "Why?" Thirty-Two demands, "do you keep giving me your desserts?"
"I… well… I just thought… you always seem…"
"Bribery does not work."
"No! I just… um, your food looks sad and so…" Glellork gestures to the jelly.
Thirty-Two glares at it. "Are you mocking me?"
"N-No! C-Captain, I… well, I… You aren't allowed sweets, are you?"
"If you know that then why do you keep giving me yours?"
Glellork rubs at his arm awkwardly. "Jus' trying to be nice, I guess."
Thirty-Two stares at him before releasing a long, unhappy breath, rubbing the space between his eyes. "I see."
"I-I don't want any special treatment so don't worry! I am trying my best, even though I'm not very good and all… Other captains would've sent me to my death by now."
At that, Thirty-Two's astra feels protuberant in its holster.
"That goes without saying," Thirty-Two mutters, unsure of what else to say.
Silence passes and Glellork is unable not to blubber out his truth.
"My mum thinks I already have. Died, that is. I know she does. She said goodbye to me as though I was walking directly into my own grave on Deployment Day. Even before then, my dad stripped my inheritance after my conscription. They've never had much faith in me but… but it still hurt a bit. I'm not stupid, y'know. Even I know… that I won't survive long out here, so I'm counting every day I see as a blessing, even after losing Motlet—he was my cousin—I knew I had to try. Motlet said I always have to give it my best, no matter what… He was… just such a good guy. And now he's dead…
"…I… I'm appreciative of being alive, and I… I'm appreciate your patience, Captain, and your kindness in allowing me to live this long."
Glellork excuses himself shortly thereafter, leaving Thirty-Two to his jelly.
It's sweet.
Work comes to a halt for many when the public executions roll around. It's a bi-monthly affair and is frequented by the highest serving soldiers, captains and officials. Whilst Thirty-Two knows how to avoid them, it isn't always wise to do so. He has been invited to the destroying of six soldiers and three civilians to have been found with 25% or more Saiyan genetic coding. Each one is to be executed through lethal injection, and if that doesn't work, they'd be shot point blank.
Thirty-Two stands with his fellow captains, watching as a feeble, elderly man takes his last breath. He hasn't a tail. He hasn't even the dark hair of Thirty-Two's people. He is—or rather, was—a learned man with a penchant for reading, much like Thirty-Two. The screamer is the last to go, falling silent and into a forever sleep when the needle withdraws from her neck. She hadn't even known she had saiyan blood.
His attendance would mean something to Lord Hailer, Thirty-Two understands. He would be watching on the television to see who is the most devout—and Thirty-Two must appear as much.
He investigates the buzzing, flying cameras, wondering who else could be watching.
Overseer Cace is at least pleased with his appearance at the executions, rewarding Thirty-Two with his absence for the next couple of weeks.
"You are no more immortal than the Youth Program, Thirty-Two. Even when you one day die, the memory of your actions will live on as a snowflake in an eternal storm. Even death will not be the end."
It must, he prays, watching Overseer Cace board his ship. That's all he has left.
Overseer Cace turns to him a single time, nodding.
Head down. Eyes front.
Even though Thirty-Two is no closer to summoning the dragon, something about all this feels final.
The next morning, Thirty-Two receives his summoning from Lord Hailer.
It finds him when he's out with the recruits, as usual punishing Glellork for being last with an extra lap around the barracks. The other recruits are lying in a huddle of exhausted, sweaty limbs, breaking from the martial arts training. Without malice, Thirty-Two watches Glellork trundle around the track. He accepts the message on his scouter.
The summoning isn't to be on Central. That's the biggest surprise. Whatever torturous penalty Thirty-Two must pay will be done on Lord Hailer's leading ship, the Icier Cruiser.
The ship is famously a favourite vessel of Lord Hailer, being named for his long dead grandfather, the originator of the Southern branch. Thirty-Two has been on the Icier Cruiser four times. He'd voyaged on it most recently when accompanying Lord Hailer to the North, when he was issued the execution order for Vegeta. The Icier Cruiser had also housed him for the duration of two Captain seminars in the East last year, and before then, the first and most memorable time he'd be on had been following his graduation from the Program. From one prison to another, Thirty-Two had realized that the Frost Empire would be but another cage. He dislikes the ship. Not just because of that, or its design or history, not that he thinks much of those either. As it stands, the ship is irrefutably Lord Hailer's personal space—the closest he has to a home—and being aboard feels like dining with the devil.
Thirty-Two removes his scouter and rubs his eyes where a headache is blooming.
"Go on, fatty!" one of the recruits shout out.
"Boing! Boing! Boing!"
"He's big, he's round, he bounces off the ground—he's Glellork!"
"Quick! I'ma' getcha'!" Another shouts, and then changes his accent to parody the one so often looping the propaganda reels. "I'm coming for you."
Thirty-Two hits him with the butt of his astra.
God.
Conscripts are a nightmare.
He then makes the entire group do another circuit on their knees, through the snow and sludge and whatever else the recruits track about on their boots. After, when he tells them that he will be heading northwards and no longer will be able to oversee them, Thirty-Two notices their silent glee as they stand in formation. His eyeline falls on Glellork at the back, who doesn't hide his dejection.
When he dismisses them, the recruits disperse, aside for Glellork who Thirty-Two asked to remain behind.
"Captain?"
"I've applied for your transfer."
His mouth hangs dumbly. "To a different unit?"
"To a different department," Thirty-Two says, "You are not equipped for the physicality of front-line work. Your highest marks are in shooting and piloting—."
"The Research Division don't take on conscripts! They told me—ah, uh, sorry, Captain, please continue."
Measured, Thirty-Two sighs. "I have connections in the Research Department, and they said they would accept you under recommendation."
"Your recommendation?!"
"Who else?" he bites out, "Researcher Nami will be your reporting officer. His scouter ID and your new itinerary will be sent out to you tonight or tomorrow afternoon at the latest. The communicative language is Southern and they require it to a high-level proficiency to work in the labs."
"I've…I've been studying! I'm already at SL Level 4!" Glellork can hardly believe it. His hands cover his mouth, tears sprouting over fingers. "I… I… Captain, this is great! I—."
"Enough."
"Sir… I… To do this..."
"It's done, Glellork. Collect your things."
"Captain—."
Thirty-Two turns on his heel, towards the Icier Cruiser.
"Thank you!"
For a long time, Thirty-Two stares at his assigned quarters, wondering if he'll be allowed to return to it once again. He has burned his study materials just in case somebody comes snooping—although people already have. There is nothing too conspicuous amongst Thirty-Two's belongings but it's a better look to keep his reading Frost Empire approved.
His furs and scouter are collected, and then he leaves for the North.
Just in case he's frisked, he burns the photograph. Fire burns the sun and Thirty-Two is no happier for it.
The Icier Cruiser is working at full capacity. It'd taken Thirty-Two a week to reach her in one of the pods, with the ship being docked in North-Central territory, and even though the sleep has done him good, Thirty-Two feels worse for the journey. He wakes in the docking port with an especially grumpy looking, overworked worker hoisting him out of the pod. The customary room keypad code is given to him for where he would be expected to lay his head at the end of night.
"Should you manage to keep it," sneers the worker. "You're expected at the twentieth hour in Frost Hall, prompt."
"Got it."
"A layout of the ship has been forwarded to your—." Another pod lands, and he rushes towards it in a sprint. "You know the drill!"
After Thirty-Two checks into his room on the upper deck, he showers, changes and sits at his desk for the next hour, scraping his hair back, over and over, eyes fixated on the complimentary bottle of water. When the television flicks to life, relaying Goku's speech again, Thirty-Two next fixates on that, on the orange and the blue—on the impossibility of Thirty-Two's embarrassing wants.
"I'm coming for you."
The screen goes blank.
There is a strange emptiness when alone in the silence. A feeling of wanting something he doesn't quite understand.
Really, Thirty-Two doesn't even understand himself anymore. He doesn't understand why he always feels so frightened whenever he sees Goku's face being plastered across the universe.
Goku has ruined his own life, although Thirty-Two knows it was really him who did the ruining. He'd dragged him into this mess. He'd been the one recruited into the Program.
Maybe with the first wish Thirty-Two will ask the dragon for Goku to forget Thirty-Two's existence so he can be allowed some happiness. Then, he'll be free of the burden of trying to rescue somebody who could want nothing less. Yes, he decides. That's a good idea. The second wish will be for the universe to forget all about Goku and his association with Lord Frieza. And the third will be for Thirty-Two.
Out of instinct, he wants to touch the capsule embedded in his arm, but worries the room may be bugged. Instead, he closes his eyes and dissociates from it all—just for a rest. The Youth Program and the Frost Empire may be able to control everything else, but at least Thirty-Two has his mind. And within it, he envisions his own personal victory. His wish. Justice.
Thirty-Two won't hurt anyone anymore.
He won't be disgusting. Or unjust. A monster. All the things he hears the voice whisper to him.
Standing, quite promptly, Thirty-Two forces himself to remain focused.
His attendance at the dining quarters will be expected. Yes. He must go. Food. They like him to eat their food. So, he drags himself there and forces himself to stomach a starchy pale plate of vegetables. Captains that have been serving at the frontline dine alongside him, customarily pretending that Thirty-Two doesn't exist as is the usual protocol. Too hot to handle, too cold to deal with; Thirty-Two exists in his own vacuum even outside the South.
His utensil scrapes his tray, his attention drawn when the television flashes to life with Goku's face. He recalls the burning of the photograph, and becomes annoyed when his gut fills with dread. With decayed hope.
Goku's false promises sting for no good reason.
What would he know, anyway?
There is no escape from Frost.
"I'm coming for you."
What a liar.
Thirty-Two stands, discards the rest of his food and walks towards his fate.
It's not a good sign when Overseer Cace is the first person Thirty-Two encounters outside Frost Hall. He's by the window as so often he finds himself, his hands perched behind, pinching into the crooked small of his back. Overseer Cace masks himself with a thin smile that gives away nothing of what he is thinking; a cool glaze clouding cruel intention, Thirty-Two understands.
"Do you know where we are, Thirty-Two?" he asks when Thirty-Two obediently comes to a stop at the window. He allows himself a glance through it and into the black hollow nothingness of space.
"The North-Central boarder, Overseer."
Overseer Cace hums. "Correct, of course."
Thirty-Two knows it isn't time for him to enter Frost Hall otherwise Overseer Cace would have instructed as such. He waits for the overseer to next speak as the sense of foreboding about him signals that he is yet done with what he has to say to Thirty-Two.
"Do you know what is in the North?" he eventually rewards Thirty-Two with, turning to him. "Or who, rather."
"Lord Cooler," Thirty-Two off-hands.
Overseer Cace studies Thirty-Two. It wasn't the answer he wanted. "Who else?"
"Cilo?"
"Who, not what."
"The Cilo leadership division."
"Who else?"
"…Vegeta and the Super Saiyan," Thirty-Two ultimately offers, almost as a question.
"The Super Saiyan," Overseer Cace repeats. "Yes, I do think so."
Thirty-Two looks to the door, suddenly rather terrified that he's about to open it and be forced to face Goku, either dead or alive. Did they catch him? How, if so? What happened? The Lya woman died—what is going on out there? What's happened? Where is Goku?
There is a sad crooning noise from Overseer Cace that sounds robotic. It startles Thirty-Two's heart into an erratic panic—this faux sympathy is performed to be cruel. It means Overseer Cace knows something. The way he rests his hand against Thirty-Two's arm is as suffocating as any sheenks-lined cell.
"So, it's true," Overseer Cace says, and then the hand slips away, as if to echo his distancing disappointment in something Thirty-Two doesn't understand.
Because of this, Thirty-Two's heart is between his tonsils, his palms sweat, his knees won't cooperate, but still, Overseer Cace gently gestures him towards the door.
"Open it."
Please, he prays, for Goku not to be on the other side.
He's not.
Instead, Frost Hall is barren in its impressive size with its curved glass outlook, ornate with a stone long since extinct. It's grey and shiny, cold by not only temperature, but the distinct feeling it instills in those who enter it. Tall ceilings with lunging, chiseled carvings frame the centerpiece—a raised platform housing a throne—which attracts the eyeline forward, luring Thirty-Two to only focus on the intimidating silhouette of Lord Hailer.
Thirty-Two approaches and falls onto one knee, his head low, his eyes front.
"My lord," he greets.
"My lord," Overseer Cace echoes, although he does not bow.
"Captain Thirty-Two," Lord Hailer receives, "Rise."
As Thirty-Two stands, he notices an approaching servant with Lord Hailer's usual favourite red wine. He hopes it's the first or second as opposed to the eighth or ninth—it really does make all the difference to his lordship's mood.
Lord Hailer takes a drink from his glass. He eyes the crystal, fingering its delicacy. "Why do you think you have been summoned here today, Captain?"
"I do not presume, my lord," answers Thirty-Two wisely.
Overseer Cace is no longer by his side. He is by Lord Hailer's and appears impassive at Thirty-Two's well-trained response.
"Very good," Lord Hailer praises, and then he looks to Overseer Cace, amusement straining his features. "He is a testament to your facility, is he not, Overseer?"
Overseer Cace remains silent.
Lord Hailer takes another sip, and together, with Overseer Cace, they examine Thirty-Two as though he were in a petri dish.
"You are an intelligent person. I will allow you to use this intelligence. Why do you think you are here, Thirty-Two?"
Thirty-Two looks between the two. "Punishment," he eventually offers.
Lord Hailer drains his wine. "I see."
Overseer Cace still doesn't say anything, but he does take Lord Hailer's empty glass and throws it with full force at Thirty-Two's head, who is wise enough not to dodge it. It smashes, cutting above Thirty-Two's eyebrow and making him smell tangy.
"You feel the guilt of the good you did not do," Overseer Cace says calmly. "You know you were not enough."
"Yes, sir."
Lord Hailer stands, and at first, Thirty-Two is concerned that he will assault Thirty-Two himself. He doesn't, and instead glides over to the viewpoint of Frost Hall. It's a prominent balcony, protruding at the ship's furthest point, allowing for a scenic view unavailable to most. Thirty-Two can make out some stars from this side, and a nearby planet.
"Join me, Thirty-Two," says Lord Hailer, "I wish to share some knowledge."
There are several steps which lead up to this viewpoint, and each of them feel like a mountain of their own. When he reaches the precipice, he attempts to bow again but is caught by his elbow.
"Do you see that planet there?" questions Lord Hailer, his hand a vice around Thirty-Two's flesh.
"Yes, my lord."
"That is a planet Earth."
Thirty-Two restrains himself from visibly reacting. He tries not to tense up. Tries not to hold his breath or to gasp or choke on his own fear. This is the planet Goku lives on. This is the planet Bulma is from. Where she has a son.
"This is your planet, Thirty-Two," continues Lord Hailer conversationally. "This is where you were born, and this is where your people originate. It took some weeks to discover its whereabouts. I was determined, though, even with the war between myself and that insidious, traitorous brother of mine."
Thirty-Two stares at the planet, perplexed. His people?
The hold tightens to a painful degree. "I see. You were unaware of your heritage. You thought yourself a full-blooded filthy monkey."
He's not a full-blooded saiyan? He's part… earthling? Like Bulma? His mother… is she…? Was…?
"You should be pleased, Thirty-Two. You should be relieved. Tell me of your relief that you are not a full monkey, Captain."
Thirty-Two can only stare at the blue and green planet in the distance, feeling a tug towards it as though a chain had been wrapped around his chest. Then, more than a simple tug, Thirty-Two feels Lord Hailer's claws cleave blood from his arm.
"I am relieved," he responds as neutrally as he's able.
"It is a nice planet, too, this Earth."
Thirty-Two stares at it in horrified silence.
"A closed planet," Lord Hailer explains, "They know nothing of the Frost Empire, or even of the use of energy. They are weak and stupid. They are people with no value. There is no sheenks to mine and there are no significant political advantages in holding it."
Lord Hailer withdraws his hand, wiping the blood along Thirty-Two's uniform.
"But it is the Super Saiyan's home," he says lightly. "Where he bedded a local and sired you."
Thirty-Two freezes. He can only watch as Lord Hailer continues his monologue, each drop of blood trickling from his arm to the stone a storm of sound in the background.
"Your failure in executing the Super Saiyan at the Green Snow Tavern all those moons ago weakened your resolve, or perhaps, you were unable to commit the act of righteousness because of said lack of resolve. It hardly matters. You will not be the first nor the last to struggle to cut family connection, Thirty-Two.
"Nothing rattled you. I had once said such a thing, hadn't I? Yet, you seem so pale, so shaken, and at such a simple order, too. Your traitorous voyage throughout the stars has dismantled you, Captain. You have transfigured yourself without the Frost Empire in mind. But, worry for nought."
There is a click of the fingers. More wine appears. He is enjoying himself.
When a second glass appears, Thirty-Two stares at it, his mind so jumbled he can hardly comprehend the instruction to take it from the tray.
"My lord?" he rasps.
"This is a celebration, not a punishment," Lord Hailer says, raising his glass before then turning back to his view of planet Earth.
"I… don't understand."
"I will continue to assist your goal in bringing about your death and you will assist mine in disabling my own. Your duty shall continue as usual, Captain. Let us celebrate our alliance and celebrate your breaking of the chains to such a primitive ancestry. Drink, Thirty-Two. Let us share in our merriment."
Thirty-Two brings the glass to his lips, tasting nothing.
"Yes, let us raise our glass to the purging of planet Earth."
He turns to Lord Hailer, nearly dropping the wine.
"A son of the Super Saiyan no more, but instead a son of the South. This is who will lead the brigade. Who will bring down Earth."
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Bit later than anticipated but I've been travelling and moving homes (again, this time closer into the city-it's normal to move this much, I promise). I want to apologize for the grammatical errors roaming about. I've not had much chance at all to edit as much as I'd like on this one, but it's longer than usual so I hope you forgive me, haha! Next chapter will likely be out next month. I'm going to India at the end of July and I'm not taking my laptop so I won't have much chance to write-I'm going to try and get a head start on it this week, though! I'd like this story finished before the end of the year... an originally doable feat until I realized it might end up being a tad longer than anticipated. Let's see!
Thank you so so so much for all the feedback! I read every comment and they always give me the kick up the arse I need to write, teehee.
See you on the next one.